I sometimes forget what it feels like to be alive. Actually, this happens to me a lot. I’m not really even sure how someone can forget something that monumental. But I do. I really do.

Perhaps its the combination of being overly sensitive and adaptable — not in the sense that renders me any credit, but rather the fact that I developed a defense mechanism to cope with being constantly hurt. Instead of being perpetually damaged, I somewhere learned how to make myself numb. The problem is, if you get good enough at turning off the emotional faucet, you’ll begin to forget…ever so slowly…where the shut off valve even is. And you’ll forget how to turn it back on.

I search for things in my life that help me remember. From point to point, I seek items that teach me…no, help me relearn what it is to be alive. Music keeps my heartbeat alive, helping the blood flow through my veins. Art and design, when good enough to penetrate my learned defenses, help me feel refreshed. Photos help me remember what I felt, not what I saw. I may even crack a smile from time to time. Certain albums, certain paintings, certain books awaken inside me something that I knew was there, but forgot how to remember it even existed. It’s as if I have no emotional short term memory, and everything I experienced and cherished once, is forgotten as soon as the experience is over.

So from song to song and print to print I hop. I feed and I exist soley on the energy generated inside me from these things. And when I get weary of it all, I just stand. Motionless. Without direction and without purpose, I let the weeks pass over me like standing on a hill in a snowstorm. There is movement around me, that much I can detect. But there is no movement inside me. And that makes the paralysis worse.

Years of knowing this has gotten me little progress. I have yet to find what it will take to cure myself, to learn how to let the emotional process be automatic and lasting. All I’ve learned is how to cope better, with certain albums, photographers and special friends.

Learning how to feel all over again, without knowing what it was that made you forget in the first place, is not an easy task. And as my close friends move further away, I’m thankful for being left with my music, my art and my wife.

But please don’t let me forget again. Don’t let me give way to the numbness. I don’t want to forget what it feels like to be alive.

As I grow older, it seems as if the bands that I listen to get younger (much like the quote from Dazed and Confused, but with a twist). And until today, I had no idea why.

Technically, I never really gave it much thought. And honestly, it’s not as if it’s some earth-shattering revelation or anything. But it makes sense that it all comes back to money and record companies. It always does.

I was playing with Google Video yesterday and ended up watching a Holister video of a Fall Out Boy in-store performance. Yes, Holister is what caused the mighty Apple of Gravity to knock some sense into me.

The way I figure it, record companies are simply out to make as much money as possible. And how do they do this? By getting as much product on the streets, with as little overhead as possible, right? Well in order to do this, they find hard-working bands that are willing (and have been for years) to drive their own vans, keep the same gear, have their free-loading friends as a road crew, etc. Pretty much the entire “emo” and punk scenes thrives on this. They are road dogs, hungry for life, and willing to drive all over tarnation to play gigs.

In come the record companies, swooping in to pay a pittance for record production and road costs, and placing them strategically in in-store appearances, on Abercrombie CDs that are played and sold in malls, give the band some swag. The teens eat it up, and the bands are getting their music out. Everyone’s happy. So what’s the catch?

In order for these bands to be marketable to the largest purveying group of music consumers (teens), they have to *be* teens themselves. Or at least slightly older. They have to be accessible in their appeal, not too old to be sexually attractive all the while still fueling the “hey they’re our age! I could do that too!” machine. An appearance on the OC and a cut on the PacSun compilation and you’re golden.

So instead of finding truly talented bands, regardless of age or “sound niche,” the recording companies find the style of music that’s hot at the moment, then scramble to fill the market with a million clones, and placing product in as many places as possible. <*cough* current "hip-hop" *cough*>

And all the while, I just thought that all the bands worthy of contracts were young kids.

Oh someone shoot me with a dose of reality more often.

Though this week’s installment is slightly less enthusiastic due to this terrible gut-ravaging plague that I contracted, here goes:

1. Orange Kit-Kats - Normally I’m not down for remixed candy (leave a classic alone, damn you!), but the orange Kit Kats are mind-numbingly fantastic. I’d eat an entire palette if I had the chance. And that’s saying a lot for a guy who’s not much into candy.
2. Sunrises when it’s freezing - Yea, random. But pretty much the only thing that can erase the pain of 1) going to work and 2) sub-freezing temperatures is the sight of a nice sunrise. Somehow it makes it just bearable enough to continue living…err, driving to work.
3. A good hooded sweatshirt - Nothing in this world can replace the emotional and physical comfort of a good quality hooded sweatshirt. A veritable Swiss Army knife of your closet, and yet I have yet to find a nice thick one since I no longer fit into any of my other favorite ones.
4. The Daily Show - Though I’m not much for politics (and the show is irreverantly biased), Jon Stewert is an absolute comic genius. Almost makes paying for cable worth it. Almost.
5. This photo - Eliot captures the most palpable expressions, and this shot is no exception.

Over and out. Time to get back to feeling better.

“I wouldn’t be caught dead in that place. Not me. I’m not like that.”

Really?

After becoming aware of my own male-ness around the age of 12, I’ve since been bombarded with all the same stereotypes and assumptions that every other guy has. I’m not special in that regard. I’ve had the same cape of testosterone draped over my shoulders, and the same “stock qualities” assigned to me in sweeping generalities.

Here’s the deal: I can’t stand the stereotypical, canned assumptions that guys are macho, unrestrained in appetites and poor listeners (to name a few). While the full array could rival any child’s Christmas wish list in length, let’s stop there for brevity’s sake.

But worse than being hit over the head with the mantra of “oh, well he’s a guy…”is the men who actively reject it, for pompous grandstanding, for feathery displays to attract the females. Lost yet?

There are men out there, that even if left in a room by themselves, would *not* seek out a strip club, avoid an emotionally rich conversation, or talk about feelings/fashion/fears/etc. They don’t care much about sports, competition or aggression. They are still normal, healthy guys, but at the core, they are like this, and not swayed by any external audience. Likely, though, you’ve never met this guy. And if you have, you don’t know it because he won’t *tell* you any of this flat out.

Most men that lay claim to this persona, however, are fakes. Yes, fakes. They are the college suitemates that say they don’t believe in hooking up, and will go so far as to enroll in a feminism class to prove it (or rather to later say “hey, I took a course in feminist literature, ok?!”). They are the co-workers that righteously proclaim that they respect women too much to go to a strip club, or the friend of a friend that will vehemently deny being “like the rest of those guys.” They are the buddies who say they are “comfortable with their masculinity enough to buy facial moisturizer!” And they are the strangers that honestly think that liking to cook means they are “definitely metrosexual.”

In reality, though, these are the same men that will announce to you their intentions, their rationale and their motives. They will tell you their MOs so that you are aware of their “sensitivity” and lack of male chauvinism. In an attempt to be more attractive and desirable, they assume the persona of, well, a gay man. Or maybe a more “feminine” and sensitive man. I honestly think that over the past ten years, the equation has become: gay men = attractive to straight females = successful role models for straight guys who can’t hack it on their own. Metrosexuality was created by consumer culture to make it ok for straight dudes to talk about their yoga classes in the boardrooms and their love of shoes on a date…all the while, waving their “And I’m OK with it!” flag.

What this has done for the other half, the men who are truly into things deemed stereotypically “not manly,” is that it has watered down the genuineness and originality. Men who decades ago would have been called cultured or true romantics (in the truest sense of the word), men who would have been seen as refreshingly different are now commonplace. Finding a guy who “loves architecture” is as easy as finding the nearest Starbucks. And just like bands who “sell out,” it’s not cool to like something anymore once it’s hit TRL. I’m anticipating a backlash on male sensitivity. Just wait.

When the bottom falls out, though, you cannot change who you really are. Those same men that claim to be Senor Sensitivity and “not like the other guys” will show true colors some day. And in the mean time, those men who aren’t dressing up as cloned emo hipsters or GQ models — they probably have a lucky partner by now.

So to those guys out there trying to be someone that they’re not: don’t ruin it for the rest by faking it. Enough damage is already done.

Second installment. I honestly am surprised that I haven’t forgotten all about this yet. Give it time.

1. Rage Against the Machine - Their first album. For years they got me through the seas of teen angst with polisocial indignation. Now, the album still just kicks ass. I truly miss their presence on the ever-bloated music scene.
2. David Nightingale - hands down one of the best digital photographers out there today, in my opinion. Not afraid to use Photoshop, and equally deadly with a lens, the man is an idol.
3. Sweaters. That’s it, just sweaters. I wish that all year was appropriate sweater weather. The fact that I look dumb in shorts doesn’t hurt this.
4. Adium - A great multi-client instant messanger tool for OSX. Closest thing to Trillian that I’ve found. Let’s me pull in my multiple AOL accounts, along with my MSN and Jabber sessions.
5. Doc Martens - Rockin’ it like it’s 1994, I still wear both my brown and black steeltoes. This might just be the first fashion thing from my “younger years” that I stubbornly refuse to give up as I get older. My kids likely will mock me for this someday.

As I sit here on a cross-country train bound for Dublin for the return leg of our honeymoon, I’m uncharacteristically at a loss for words. Sure I could ramble onwards, as I sadly do sometimes, but I fear nothing I might say could truly express what the trip has meant to me.

Surreal. Yes, that’s the best word that I can use to describe the entire process. Surreal…not real. Or at least not sinking in. As if magically transported to another world, we’ve spent the past nine days exploring a world that only my mind’s eye could unfairly try and dream up. I’ve chatted with old men at country gas stations, driven through fairytale landscapes, walked the hills of ancient islands and sipped coffee in famous and forgotten towns alike. I’ve retraced my family lineage back to the early 1800s and spoken with cemetery caretakers that knew my kinfolk. I’ve prayed in churches and walked roads that my grandfathers knew by heart long ago. And yet sitting here, watching the Irish landscape pass by in shades of misty green and muted orange, I still falter for the right words to pin it all down.

Perhaps that’s just it, though. Perhaps I’m not supposed to be able to capture it in words. I relinquished myself early on, freeing myself from attempting to capture the photographs of a lifetime, as I knew that I would be distressed about it. Yet here I am trying to package and bind the past week and a half into an appropriately intense few paragraphs. So for the sake of preservation, for brevity and most importantly for sanctity, I shall for once hold my tongue.

I’m sure that the stories and the memories that have been written on my heart will eventually find there way into writing. All in their own time, I suppose.

Originally written on October 26, 2005.

I never thought I’d see the day where I’d find stamp design compelling or the copy on the back of the adhesive sheets to be worthy of chuckling out loud. I guess marriage changes you into a slipper-wearing, mumbling and muttering old man. When I hit the stage where I call out, “WHERE’S MY ASPERCREME?!?” someone needs to stop me. And then park me in front of “The Price Is Right”, with my Reader’s Digest, travel version of Connect Four! and that other game with golf tees that they have at The Cracker Barrel.

So anyway, Saturday I picked up two booklets of stamps, and was happy to find a Jim Henson series. Henson has always been my idol, and the Muppets a significantly formative part of my childhood.

Sam the Eagle (not my favorite Muppet as a child) means more to me as an adult, having watched the distinguished Evening News gentleman, the faces of the nation, solemn with the gravity of their own responsibilities and duties. As a child, I did not see the human parallels and parodies, but today the juxtiposition of the “serious talking head” figure and his quote on the back of his stamp is hilarious:

I am humbled and honored to be on a stamp issued by this great nation. Out of respect for the US Postal Service and yours truly, please do not put me on a letter with any of these other weirdoes.

Partiotically Yours,
Sam the Eagle

I’m sure he meant no disprespect to Beaker, The Swedish Chef, or the rest of the gang.

Ok, so the title makes no sense. But I am going to attempt to start something new: a collective list of five things that have made me happy this week. Perhaps it’s from reading too much about positive psychology in the past two weeks. Or maybe it’s the coffee talking. But here goes for our first installment, the red carpet premiere, the pilot and whatever other metaphors I can’t think of but you can:

This week, I love…

1. The art done by Bask In Your Thought Crimes
2. The police officer at J. Graham Brown Elementary School. Every morning on my way to work, this woman is the happiest person in the world. Whether she loves directing traffic in the morning I’m not sure, but she’s the first smiling person I see each day.
3. These cutting boards are beautiful. Yes, I just called cutting boards beautiful.
4. Technology. Yea, a sweeping one…but hey. I love that I can carry a small chunk of my music collection, have it tabulate my listening habits, have my photo collection on hand with my cell phone talking to my laptop all plugged into any stereo system I have at hand. God bless technology.
5. Ghostwriter, the TV show from the early ’90s. By proxy, I also [heart] PBS.

That’s it for this week.

I am just like every other hipster, every other designer and every other soccer mom on the planet now. I have an ipod.

And damnit, I love it. My wife is the greatest wife in all of wifedom.