On A First Full Day in London

Yesterday was a pretty wonderful day. It being my first full day with Julia, I was planning on spending most of it in bed. For various reasons (not the least of which being my overall excitement) we decided that we should venture out into the world instead. We agreed that it was ok to splurge and go out for breakfast on our first day together. I had a coffee and Julia ordered cranberry (spelled "cramburry" on the menu). Julia said the coffee made my breath smell like I was a "grownup." She kissed me.

My "Full English Breakfast" arrived on a fairly plain large white plate. It was quite full indeed. From right to left the items were as follows: baked beans, a sausage, two halves of heavily buttered (and lightly toasted) bread on top of a piece of undercooked bacon, a handful of mushrooms, two triangular hash browns, half of a tomato that was pan fried on its flat side, and a fried egg. It was delicious.

After breakfast we walked back down Gipsy Hill (Julia's street, and the title of my next song) to the train station. We headed to Oxford street to find a case for her cellphone, a three prong adapter, and a new pair of boots for me. The only thing we ended up buying was the power adapter.

We checked out the side streets and a shop called John (something-or-other) shoes. I can't remember the full name. A gentleman with a white pencil thin mustache greeted us. The shop was full of some amazing footwear. I had a wonderful conversation with the man. He was John, as it turns out. Our discussion began after I had said that the Americans have no culture with a wink to Julia. He disagreed. He seemed to ignore the playful nature of my comment. I have to be careful with that out here. He defended the Americans as if I weren't a part of the culture. The conversation played on tangents from there. He explained to me how to keep my boots for a long time by using cedar inserts and alternating days. He explained to me how Steve McQueen was the epitome of cool. He told me about the two weeks a year that he spends in Florida with his buddy. And then we discussed circadian rhythms and how Melatonin is illegal in England. After introducing myself and Julia we headed on our way. Julia was awestruck and seemed a bit nervous. She couldn't believe I had just held this conversation with a stranger. It made us smile.

We had a couple of cocktails at the Slug and Lettuce. For some reason my Bloody Mary was made with cucumbers and, what tasted like, a whole lime. It was pretty awful. Julia crinkled her nose, furrowed her brow and covered her mouth when she tried it. I switched to Sauvignon Blanc after that. With a nice little buzz, we headed to Hamley's toy shop.

This particular shop had been around for 250 years. It was huge. It felt like Willy Wonka's factory was on crack. The employees of the shop were all wild eyed with an infected and chaotic sense of capitalism. The two guys selling remote control helicopters were singing a silly song at each other. The guy with the three glowing balls on a string was doing laps around the third floor speaking like he was selling an age defying tonic from the back of a horse drawn cart hundreds of years ago. The girls dressed as pirates at the front door were giving away stickers and, I think, were selling foam rubber swords. Julia was surprised to find that I knew of Paddington Bear and his marmalade sandwiches. The whole scene must have seemed magical to all the children. Its easy to hide all the strings amid so much mayhem. But, I guess, Disney's done it for years, right?

We had some nachos and a bottle of wine at a pub in Kingly Court a few blocks away. Julia started to feel ill. It got to the point where we had to leave. We rushed home as fast as we could. I was glad to have the opportunity to take care of my girl. I feel as if it validates me. I ventured out on my own to pick up some Chinese takeaway for our dinner. She had given me her credit card to use for the food. At the closest Chinese takeaway place, the Indian delivery guy sitting in the corner complimented me on my mustache. I was glad to see Julia when she answered the door to her flat. She looked lovely and comfortable in her pajamas and was starting to feel a bit better. We watched an episode of Friends leaving over half of the food for later and went to bed. It was a good day.

An E-mail to my Mom

Hey Ma,

Made it in to Heathrow and Julia's place just fine. Flights were OK, long and cramped. But I'm a pretty good traveller, so it was almost without incident. Julia is wonderful. I was pretty tired after almost 2 days with little to no sleep. So we got in, made a cocktail, then went to bed. It was lovely. She cried out of happiness.

Her flat is great. A little kitchen with a mini fridge (I guess that's pretty standard for over here) and a washer/dryer under the opposite counter. A living room that gets sun in the evenings and the bedroom gets sun through the trees in the morning. All of the houses are older than anything we've got in America. There's vines growing outside of her bedroom window, which overlooks the backyard, which she calls a garden. Apparently, there's a mangy London fox that resides there. She's seen it twice in two days.

We're just getting up and going now. I am excited and jet lagged, so I'm just doing everything in my power to not be annoying. Julia's in the shower now. I'm in next and then its off to my first day in London. The world is at our fingertips and now all we have to do is reach a little further and take hold of what we want, right?

Love you,

Corey

On the 7:30 Train to London

My train ride may as well have been directed by Tim Burton. The ghosts of trees slid by me on the dusty plexi windows before I got into the city. Their silhouettes strobed the setting sun into the car. It feels like I'm in the backseat of my parents car again. Coming back from a day at the amusement park, I would follow the waves of telephone wires and feeling the sun sporatically strike my face just the same. The future of my voyage looks as if the whole of the San Francisco was swallowed up by a tidal wave, now reeling in adolescent defiance of the iron horses that guard the shores of Oakland. The walls of the mouth of the tunnel arrive and I am plunged into the darkness, save the lights that infect everything with their jaundice hue. I am on my way to the airport.

The Bart, moaning like a heartbroken banshee, comes out of the tunnels that run under the streets of San Francisco into a dense fog. The eerie glow of streetlamps and station lights color everything yellow on this gray backdrop. At least the London weather won't be a shock to my system.

On Following Worms

I took a sensation and perception class in college and one of my assignments was to conduct a study of my choosing. It could be anything. The purpose of the assignment was to get us budding young college students to know the form and practice of observational science implicitly. Mine had to do with heat "preference" of earthworms, night crawlers specifically. I chose this study because I was in South Carolina where bait shops are abundant, earthworms have a very basic sensory system, and I hadn't been able to find this study in any of my searchings to date.

I set up a "course" with low grit sandpaper as the floor. Cardboard walls ran the length of the corridor. Before I introduced hot or cold to either of the ends of the track I had the worms crawl around to leave their scent in a non-biased pattern. This would limit the influence of the worms on each other. I set up a warming fan on one end of the course and a fan blowing over ice on the other. My hypothesis was that the worms would choose the warmth over the cold based on the evolutionary need to keep body temperature higher in order to maintain homeostasis. It was just a guess more than anything. Everything is a guess more than anything.

The worms moved decidedly in neither direction. The study was not statistically relevant. The interesting part was that worms are not communal animals by any means, even still they tended to travel in groups of 4 or more in any given direction. They could "smell" each other on the track and assumed that the path most taken was the easiest or best way to go.

I have too often let myself be told what to enjoy. This is a pattern that has continued to plague my musical ear among various other facets of my overall enjoyment of the world. Being true to myself often means ignoring the infectious opinions of others. This is no easy feat. The strong personalities with which I tend to associate are difficult to ingest with that precious, and necessary, grain of salt.

An ego can turn any doubt of its authority into a slap in its pasteboard face. Every question becomes the murder of trust. Opinions should be largely unapologetic. I tend to lean towards optimism in almost every situation. In my experience people often take a ceaselessly positive attitude in a couple of different ways. Some tend to find it a refreshing break from this pessimistic world. This group tends to take pleasure in the simple beauties of the everyday. These are, also, the people who tend to enjoy my company for the long run. The rest generally consider the "silver liners" as simple of mind. They believe that in order to be enlightened, one must be cynical of the world around them.

Questioning one's existence is human. It promotes an enlightened self preservation. The pretentious questioning of benign actions is a different thing entirely. Self fulfillment comes from an true understanding of the world around you. An open eye sees better than one that is closed. The same theory applies to the minds eye. Not to sound all hippy-dippy, but if you are open to the new experiences that the worlds of others may offer, you will find yourself more fulfilled.

All minds are simple. "All digital circuits are made from analog parts" (from a fortune cookie). The intricate web of the synapses in the brain is all point to point hard wiring. The sequences involving emotional response and general cognition are what makes it complex. Overcomplicating things is an unavoidable waste.

If I were to conduct another study in the same vein as the earthworm study, I would pursue the source of a worm's natural inclination to take the "road most travelled." With this new experiment, my new hypothesis would be that even the simple circuitry of an earthworms sensory compulsion would have the propensity of following the path most taken. Is simple better? Is following the destiny for everyone. How does one break the cycle? More importantly, how does one convince others to break this cycle at the same time? I'd like to think that we are more civilized than worms, wouldn't you?

On Right Now and What Will Be

I'm sipping my cup of coffee after a long day on my feet in my boots. My lower back aches from the hard book that I tuck into the back of my pants during my shift. This holds all the necessary receipts and cash that I will use on my shift. It also serves to force my posture to maintain and keep my attention and alertness. My father is on his way to pick me up. He's hesitant to come into the city for reasons unknown. I guess he's nervous because he has yet to pack for his trip with my younger brother to Maui.

My brother's flight gets in an hour from now. The reason I was able to talk my father into seeing me for the first time in two months was so that he could get his amp back out of my rehearsal space. This accomplishes two things. One, he can have his amp back without worrying about it while I'm on my trip to London, which begins in three days. And two, I get to see my younger brother for a grand total of twenty minutes from the time we meet him with his bag at the terminal to when my father drops me off a train ride away from where I'm staying tonight.

My reflection on the events reveal I'm really just glad to see my younger brother before I head off on this great adventure. There's a whole lot going on. Some things are going down. I'm going to find out what's up. A reason for all of it is just around the corner. I can feel the importance of now in every breath drawn into my lungs.

On Quitting

I'm losing my smoking habit and finding my skin feels like warm chainmail. I'm quitting for myself, but, of course a lovely young woman has her hand in my attempt to shed this self inflicted curse. Addiction snuck up on me years ago. Even still, I marvel at its subtle hold over me.

I have never thought of myself as a smoker. I haven't made a point to quit before largely due to this fact. Whenever I would reach for a cigarette, the part of my brain that should protect me against the undeniable threat of cancer is shut down by a hardwired chemical dependence. Smoking seemed romantic to me. Logic wasn't ever present enough to kill the desire. So it goes.

I'm working on ignoring the inhalant urge until I train my body not to feel the need based on environmental cues. Let's say an existential question has been directed my way. How am I supposed to express deep thought and honest consideration during the dramatic pause in conversation without a pull from our pure as poison antihero, the cigarette? I suppose I'll just have to take to furrowing my brow while twisting my mustache with my thumb and pointer finger.

Quitting has been the ultimate test of self control. Like training for a marathon it takes constant focus and attention. In this case, the marathon is represented by the rest of your life and the prize is just a longer race with less uphill battles and no guarantee of less pain. The finish line is certain death regardless of the path.

Along side the constant attention required to tend this lush garden of want lay the physiological effects of withdrawal. I am on edge and tired without the chemically induced normal. My body recognizes this feeling as a general hunger. When I don't eat as much as I should I experience similar pangs of misdirected angst. My voracious appetite is effectively a jackhammer of greed amplified exponentially with the now vacant castle of stimulus where prince nicotine used to reside.

Which one of my "last" smokes is it going to be that dooms me? If I knew, I'm sure I'd avoid that one. The fact is, it takes quite a lot to do damage to our fragile, but evolutionarily resilient, bodies. Sadly, one more smoke is never just that, until it is. As a rule, the only time I'll quit anything is if it is absolutely necessary and the gain will outweigh both the loss and peripheral damages. By all accounts this one should be worth it. It better be.

On True's Bracelet

I was recently able to visit the last of my Grandparents for the first time in 3 or more years. Since I last left my Grandmother on my Mother's side she has fallen deeper into a state of Alzheimer's induced insanity. She has been bedridden after falling and breaking her hip a month ago. She is recovering nicely, so she says. She is no longer in pain but is a captive of the horizontal. She remains either in her bed or cart when they need to move her.

Three of her four children were there to see her through the initial surgery and following couple of days after her fall. If any good came out of it, it reconnected a part of the family that has been a bit neglectful of each other for a while now, as it goes sometimes. It turns out that families need each other after all.

I finally mustered the courage to go and visit her at the Alzheimer's facility on my own. I was hesitant for a few reasons. One, I hadn't seen her in a while and was scared that her degradation would be frightening. Two, I didn't know the full protocol as far as visiting someone in her facility. And Three, I wasn't sure if I'd be recognized as my father or at all, for that matter. I hold a tremendous resemblance to him and I don't know what kind of terms my father and her were on when last they had the pleasure of each others company.

I walked through the front door of this sunny boardinghouse for the mentally aged, stuffed the car keys in my back pocket and signed myself in as there to see Truly Patton, my grandmother. I stood in the "reception area" waiting for anyone to be around who knew what I was doing there. Robin, one of the owners, came around the corner. She was on the phone with her mother, the other owner. Rolling her eyes in frustration she got off the phone and exclaimed, "I don't even know why I call her, a simple question turns into a 10 minute conversation." My response is a smile and then the question of whether or not its alright to see "Gram." "Gram" is how I've always known my mother's mother. She will always be "Gram" to me.

Robin shows me to her room and announces my presence. Gram has been napping all morning in her bed with the metal safety bars preventing her rolling off in the night. She is wearing the t-shirt that my uncle had given her with her with the picture of his family printed large on the front. Its nice that she knows her family loves her.

She told me that "Pop," my grandfather who hasn't been of this earth for over 5 years, has been giving her problems, but looks good. Its good to hear. Apparently, in the twists and turns of her mind, he has fallen a couple of times, hurt his eye once, and always ends up being ok according to the doctors from which he reports back. She sees many of the members of the family that have long been deceased. She tangles the past with the events of today but is very present and coherent in our conversation.

I clean her glasses for her with the tail of my shirt. I tell her that I was worried that she wouldn't recognize me. She laughs at me. Its kinda cute, really. I show her the heirloom bracelet that I wear on my right wrist. In a wave of recognition that seems to pass over her eyes like dawn's morning light she immediately says, "Oh, that was mom's. Daddy made it for her. It's so wonderful for you to have that."

From somewhere in the muddled synapses of her deteriorating brain she was able to pull the memory of the bracelet. My heart is warmed from around my wrist.

As the story goes, my Great-Grandfather, Bob, was diagnosed with tuberculosis at a fairly young age. Back then it was common practice to send the afflicted to a sanatorium, a place where the fresh air and isolation was to mend particular diseases. His was in the mountains of North Carolina. He had been married to my great grandmother for some time and had to leave her and their two children behind in the hopes that he could get better. His wife's name was Truman, but everyone called her True.

Bob participated in the metal working that was offered as one of many activities used to keep patients occupied. He beautifully inscribed "True" into the silver on the bracelet that I now wear. He forged it in 1928 for True and she wore it until the day she died. My Mother found it amongst my Grandmothers things while moving her up from North Carolina to Maryland to be within cares' reach. My Mother gave it to me. It fits perfectly and I take it off as rarely as possible. I hope to pass it on to my child one day.

On the Umwelt through a Metaphor

A squirrel stops in the middle of a road after he scrambles after a bit of a nut that the October wind has tossed from a tree. Meanwhile the dry, fallen leaves crunch under the tires of a car turning the corner 50 yards away. The vehicle is on a path, unvarying.

The squirrel is nearly to the double yellow line dividing the road. It sits on its haunches chewing the shell off of the morsel it has discovered. The cold black rubber of the car's tire is on course to unceremoniously relieve this rodent of its mortal coil. Impending death is noticed only in time for the squirrel to make a move in a single direction. Will the squirrel forge further across the street unknown or retrace its steps?

It has already come so far. The terrain which is familiar is behind it. Our hero will choose this path to avoid the tire it recognizes as a threat. The other tire, which will flatten the squirrel instantaneously, could have been avoided if the squirrel had a larger awareness of its surroundings. If the squirrel possessed on observational knowledge of the basic structure of a car and an innate understanding of vector forces as applied to the car's movement, then it could have easily avoided its untimely death. The squirrel will never be aware that it could have saved its own life.

The big picture is the only picture. Anything that exists can only experience a piece of it at a time. We as humans limit this in many ways. We've built values that are imaginary. Socio-economic structures strangle this idea. Ignorance is the only constraint we should posses. We are condemned by the shackles of our mind to only embrace that which we know.

Experience builds fear. Fear is a construct of evolution that has been perverted by the imagination. Humans, with with the use of our pre-frontal lobe, have applied fear of experiences unknown to prediction. It is to be noted and evaluated, not deified. Embracing fear is a crucial part of a full life experience.

The umwelt, or environment of an organism based on its perception, is only limited by the organism itself. Its physiological constraints limit its awareness to that which lies around it. We are able to understand and calculate so much more than so many other organisms. We were built to do so. To not take the necessary steps forward in order to broaden our experience would be folly. We are designed to have an ever-expansive umwelt. One that we can pass on to generations. The expansion of ones umwelt is the second most delightful purpose of man.

On My Flight Back to MD

The cotton candy clouds, beyond the wing, beyond the window, beyond the striking girl with the canary yellow hair, were all beyond me this morning. I had almost missed my flight, after two hours of sleep, after an hour of packing, after 30 minutes of My Crowned Jewels, after she got me off from 8 hours in the future, after she called in sick to work. She knows how to make me happy, and she does.

I frantically fell asleep this morning and awoke the same. I was forty seven minutes later than I would have liked to be when I finally heard the familiar Doogie Howser M.D. theme song, my alarm. Becoming conscious in such an arresting way made the insecurity of airport security a formidable opponent to my general optimism. No matter where I tried to look the time was blinding. It was, without a doubt, the brightest thing in my field of vision in any direction. I swung my legs off of the couch and stumbled sleepily across the carpeted garage floor grabbing a towel before the doorknob. It was too early for the sun, it was too early for me.

I knew I needed to wake My Old Friend up to take him up on the ride he had promised. I showered with little courtesy for the serenity of the house, so as to wake him up without making him feel like it was on purpose. We didn't mention this on the ride out, but I think it was appreciated. I was up and out the door in 15 minutes. I was at the airport a half an hour after that. I was pulling away from the gate 30 minutes after that. I was writing these words in my head just after we broke the cloud layer. I'm on my way back east for a wedding, and for myself.

On a Night with Old Friends (part b)

A wine bar in the heart of the Castro district was to be our curious meeting place. After a walk up and around a wrong-way hill for a while, we made our right-way down to the bar. The two of us scored a great people watching seat at the front. The cool breeze came through the open window off of the street. There was room enough for a third. He was to show up halfway through my first drink. I sat in our self created oasis of heterosexuality with these two gentlemen while sipping a light, crisp and fruit forward New Zealand Sauv Blanc. My second glass was of lesser quality, but the man behind the bar knew one of my friends, so the pour was heavy.

Two, coupled, naked gentlemen out on a walk proudly passed our perch. They seemed to be getting a lot of attention from the flaming hordes prancing about the neighborhood on a Friday night. We may have all taken note of this spectacle but the conversation didn't miss a beat. Our desensitization to the wild urban happenings of San Francisco is sometimes astonishing to my better judgement. I was halfway through my second glass. The weight of it, and all of its' new friends in my belly, hit me suddenly right between the eyes, rendering me diplopic.

I continued to rediscover two friends who I had long forgotten to miss. For whichever reason of convenience that struck them, both were fantastic drummers before they decided to opt out. They both say they miss the facet of them that they formerly so wholeheartedly commit to the tubs. I plan to be a part of the retrieval.

One of them had a spliff that his former girlfriend had rolled before leaving him for the East coast. We smoked it, fairly unceremoniously, and he saved the last bit for later. He felt he had driven her away. It turns out, it was an airline pilot who was behind the wheel and her idiom, and certain bio-sociological urges, that put her in the seat. Women can create and destroy many a security in a young mans life.

Sometimes it takes the shattering of a heart to find where all the pieces truly lie. Mine has become a callused calico tapestry pinned up between the wants and needs of a romantic mind.

On a Night with Old Friends (part 1)

I met up with a fellow of mine to see the new music school he had recently opened for the "used up" youth to revitalize the spirit of rock and roll within. The facilities, although in their infancy had a certain undeniable magic to them. An office building with the hints of a soul, imagine that? After I got to see each practice room and the 1000 seat theater that was at his disposal, I congratulated him and we went to the Irish Bank.

There was a vacant booth that looked like it could have been a gutted confessional. There was a sewing desk between the worn velvet benches on either side. We discussed being in love and the power that it holds over us. We discussed where we were headed in the general sense that applies to those of us who take the opportunity of fate as an adventure undeniable. As it stands, we will have to do nothing short of our best to endure and hopefully persevere long enough to look back with the smile of a man who knows he went "all in" on himself. After a beer, a shot of whiskey, and a vodka tonic for me, we headed down Castro way to meet up with another friend of ours who had texted us regarding his impending whereabouts....

TO BE CONCLUDED... STAY TUNED!!!!

On Dangerous Driving: With Corey

Don't dare try to eat Peanut M&Ms. They'll slip betwixt your fingers and get caught in your AIDS quilt of a scarf that's draped over your lap. It's dangerous. Don't do it.

On the Basement of My Former House

Down the narrow wooden staircase and into the basement/garage was our storage area where things we had forgotten we had went to die. There were many tools, a lawnmower, a motorcycle, the washer dryer, suitcases, clothes that nobody wore. There was also an impressive pile of sand under a mass of odds and ends that accumulated courtesy of the mice that lived in the walls, and occasionally in the open air when the house was quiet enough.

The downstairs residence was generally musty and dank. The Butcher, who worked early, when he did, would show up at home with pounds of bacon, sausage, or whatever was about to turn at the shop that day. He looked like Santa Clause at 25. He sounded like Seth Rogan through a bullhorn. The only difference is, I've always been able to mute Mr. Rogan, if I so pleased. If he didn't have to work he would be in some mesh shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt on the couch with the curtains closed on the world watching hours of himself playing video games or hours of television. Plates spattered and marred with grease from charred animal carcass would occupy the coffee table next to him. To keep them company were empty 40oz malt liquor bottles, beer cans, or partially consumed plastic bottles of whiskey. His hair would be greasy. His pasty white arms would be exposed to the world of the living room. He would be glossily coping with something from his own vault of issues. He was a typical "mass-hole" from the Boston area and we shared a couple of tins of mustache wax for a time.

Next to the Massachusetts meat man lived a musician/songwriter who was a self starter and probably the most motivated person in the house outside of the leaseholder. In the past 6 months, He recorded his first solo album in his room in the basement. He fixed up the motorcycle that his boss had given him and got his motorcycle license. He put up a professional website, with the help of the Peruvian's girlfriend, to promote his music. He is the manager of a hostel. He has the propensity to grow a beard in an instant. He has been nothing short of a great of mine. He would motivate me to run when I didn't posses the will. But he wouldn't wait for me if I was hesitant. He was tirelessly supportive and has known my drummer for most of their lives. If I weren't in the right place at the right time I may have never been through all of the wonderful experiences, and some of the bad, that fill my past with experience.

I was kicked out over text message. I was playing guitar too late in my room after many a drink and a few too many j's. Outside of my usual, and often too powerful, inner stream of guilt, it was without warning. I wasn't expected to be out for over a month after the initial mention of my eviction. I was out in 4 days.

On Living with Groovy in My Former House

My drummer lived on the main floor in a sun room off of the kitchen and the vestigial dining room. His savage mane of hair and reasonably trimmed beard growing around his broken glasses seemingly defiant of his day to day. He kept himself busy with going to work at Guitar Center, practicing his drums, and wearing holes through his single pair of jeans, one shirt, or through his sole pair of boots.

He has been my rock in the band. He is reliable and usually more level-headed than I. After long days that finished with rehearsals we would ride home together on the 5 bus out to the Richmond. We would hope that there would be nobody occupying the living room so that we could have a moment of peace after these long days. I would roll us a cone while he put the meatballs in the oven and added spices to a sauce. We would eat and smoke in front of the TV. Relaxation was distorted by our anticipation of the impending onslaught of drunken revelry what could arrive at any moment.

Courtesy was on a sliding scale in our house. Tolerance was just as fluid. Just before my time was up at the house he finally got a curtain for the segmented glass door that made his privacy public to the living room. He lived as if he's ready to leave at any moment but tended to embrace change with the speed and willingness of a glacier. He still does. I appreciate his apprehension even to this day. It balances my overzealous nature.

On the Top Floor of My Former House

I was kicked out of my house a couple of months ago. At the time, I was living with 5 other people in a house in Richmond District of San Francisco. My room was small, but comfortable. I couldn't really have dates for breakfast on account of my Twin bed and the 5 other animals with whom I lived. couldn't be trusted not to ruin any or all labido that I had built up all evening. Any woman that slept over was comfortable, or at least tolerant of my situation. My housemates were all guys, all down for a good time, and all characters.

I shared the wall next to my bed with the leaseholder and my friend. He would, based on the width and acoustic absorbtion of that fatefull wall, be the one who kicked me out of the house. He is one of the most physically clever men I've ever met. Towards the end of my residence, I was in the habit of smoking irresponsible amounts of drugs that he would sell to me at a "discounted" rate. This may Across the hall from me lived the Peruvian. To this day, I'm not sure if he was legally in the states. He kept to himself for the most part and I could hear his girl giggling and moaning from time to time through the door. It always made me smile.

This article had to be split up among three posts due to length. I decided to go from top to bottom, floor by floor.

On the Gravitron.

I am a part of a spoiled generation. We are taught to yearn for that which we "deserve." If we don't get it, we blame anyone but ourselves. Instant gratification is a way of life. We watch characters, whom we seemingly admire, in high definition on low profile, flat screen televisions that we pretend own outright. In actuality, the items by which we identify ourselves' are owned by faceless lenders who bleed us until we are drained on a mortician's table. Even then, our children will inherit these mistakes and the interest in tow. Perhaps one day we will make and effort to identify our worth based on more than the watches on our wrists, the emblems on the chests of our button downs, or the cars that we drive. Who is really behind the wheel? Are we even grateful for the things we truly possess?

This world is a travelling carnival. Let all of us, who allow ourselves to be told how we should live, be on board the open air Gravitron. Centrifugal forces are holding our arms against the walls whilst the carnie, in charge of the good time, smokes his cigarette safely on the ground below, all the while, his finger caressing the curves of the big red STOP button. He wont have ever been told when to depress it and bring the ride to a halt. He is drunk with the only true sense of power that he will ever know.

The passengers lay upright, just inches from the freedom beyond the brightly painted grate behind the torn and worn cushions holding only the illusion of comfort. The hard earned quarters, nickels, and dimes of the riders land at the feet of passers by, grabbing the innocents' attention and, in turn, drawing them into the groaning screams of a tragically neglected machine. All the while, the cheeks of the passengers pressed back to their ears, forcing saliva out of the corners of their wide toothy sneers. Without going into the physics involved in virtual forces and a body's natural inclination to travel in a single direction, one cannot live within these constraints for very long. We will develop what is referred to as learned helplessness in these situations.

If and when we are let off of the Gravitron it takes time to find our feet. The repetitive spinning will be worked into our very being. I feel I am just getting back on solid ground.

On American Dreaming

I woke up in the next door neighbor's back yard. My eyes opened to the sky with the back of my skull on an area rug. My legs, still wrapped in skinny jeans, lay nearly lifeless under a blanket. One of my Paolo pig skin leather boots was lazily untied. I only discovered today that the sun had burned the cheap Irish skin on my forehead. This wasn't my neighbors' yard, It was a friend's neighbor, it was overlooking the Pacific and it was the fourth of July.

Everyone who has been in the presence of the ocean has a connection to it. My connection started early and was reinforced by the beaches of Hawaii. Our family was stationed there from the years when I was two and three years old.

I pursued my interest of the sea as far as spending three weeks working for the collections and quarantine department of the Bermuda Aquarium and starting my college career as a marine biology major. In my ideal future, at the time, I was to live on my boat with my wife and child. I was to discover the origins of life on this planet deep within the hydrothermal vents at the bottom of the Pacific (according to my calculations, anyway). I was to have the ocean as my backyard, my playground, and my livelyhood. I would breathe in it's vopor and it would breathe life into me.

I felt alive, albeit still a little drunk, when I woke on this year's Independence Day.

On "Piss Alley," and living Rock and Roll.

I am the lead singer in The Attack Plan. Tonight's rehearsal ended and after turning off all of the amps, unplugging the Christmas lights and setting the alarm, I lit a smoke and stepped out the door. The dead end alley air, full of a urea and the smell of bodies that haven't been washed properly in far to long is refreshing compared to the muggy heat of our noisy three hour worked studio space which lacks sufficient ventilation. My face feels swollen, achy and hot from smoke inhalation, the heat, and exerting myself singing and playing the Rock and Roll that I love so dearly. Our show on Friday will go as well as our individual moods shall dictate, as is the way with most things. I will play well and I will have fun.

Inspiration struck as I took a step toward my transportation home, the borrowed American truck with the giant apple in a wheelbarrow emblem on each door. My left foot met the pavement after a quarter of an inch of unexpected light resistance. Assuming it was some manner of feces and not being surprised, or alarmed in any way, I calmly stopped and turned to examine further. I found it oddly pleasant to discover that it was merely a mass of cigarette butts, a condom, the heel of a loaf of bread and some plain ol' city dirt. I'm sure, beyond what I could see with my naked eye, that the lot was infected with some strain of flesh eating disease as well. I unlock the passenger side door, put my bag in, flicked my cigarette through the chain link fence, exhale and climb into the drivers seat.

Tonight I was able to get home early enough to not feel the pang of guilt usuall associated with lazily deciding what I can and will accomplish before my time of slumber. I decided to write about one of my favorite places on Earth. I showed our rehearsal space to Julia after knowing her for two days. She appreciated it appropriately.

Future burns bright.

I stand in the driveway looking at the stars. It's an adolescent beleif that you can be an individual and be going on to greater things. It may be unrealistic to assume that all people have the propencitiy to profoundly affect a vast socio-economic array for the rest of time. But, I would like to. I have never been able to let go of that feeling. I would get a typical "stable" job and be in bed early, work out more, and eat better, but instead, have decided that this journey is more than just the breaths I take. Money doesn't come as easily as anyone would like. Work is how you afford to live. Life is how you learn to love. And, as clearly as I can see, love is the only reason to work for life.

One of many co-workers/characters/friends

The after work late night excursions with coworkers may be the best part of my job. Food and beverage workers may rival small countries in their decadent consumption of booze and a few controlled substances. My coworker and friend was in the armed forces as a bomb specialist and may have one of the quickest wits on the planet. I think we get along well based on a mutual respect for one another. This is why anyone gets along, I suppose. The race to decode and disarm each others sense of humor is too tempting a challenge to ignore. He is too tall for as much as he drinks and slumps against the bar with the curve of the moon in his back when he's not dancing over the hardwood floors of "Fiddlers" like a wounded vulture preparing itself for its last meal. He refers to his arms in the way a body builder would. He's dubbed those wiry things, "The Captain & Tennille." I'm sure he'll be featured on this blog in lo-fi audio very soon, so I wanted any reader out there to have a little bit of him to which you could refer.

An introduction

The last of my grandparents may be on her deathbed, in Maryland. Everything I have worked so hard to build in this San Franciscan life may be under the very same sheets. I believe I may have met a woman that suits my idiom more perfectly than any other, but, as it goes, she lives in London. She is there right now. My older brother is leaving the American military that he so cherishes. He has just adopted a dog and moved into a new place in San Diego. My 17 year old brother is just starting his true-love life and has had my teenage antics as a keystone in his ideologies. He is in Annapolis. My father is married to a woman who won't let me past the threshold of her house in Oakland, unless I apologize to her for being frustrated one time long ago. (they are both in Oregon at a Shakespeare festival. Oh, and I'm not ever going to step foot in their house) I am a passionate man who wears a baseball cap to work where I serve deep fried "Cajun" food to unsophisticated tourists who abuse plausible deniability when it comes to customary American standards in gratuity. This is my family and they are a very large part of where I am, even if they aren't here with me. I am a Musician. I am trying to be a man as well.

I write these words as an outlet, a self expression, and hopefully they hold sentiments that may light upon the heart of anyone who feels lost or alone, is full of life in a life left lifeless, or who feels as though they've been broken and glued back together with some pieces in the wrong place or missing entirely. And with that I present to you, The Excitable Boy.