Aching for an Audience

Kevin picked up the phone and called Walter the minute he read his ad in the Classifieds section of the local newspaper.

Quiet, non-smoking widower seeks tenant for second bedroom of fourth floor walkup on tree-lined block. No central air, but bedrooms have window A/C units. Keep to yourself and we won’t have any problems. $800/month.

Despite the air conditioning situation and the offer’s mildly standoffish tone, the affordable rent and amazing location seemed perfect for the aspiring young musician.

The two met at Walter’s front door the very next day.

The old man stood perfectly straight and pressed his shoulders back sharply as if standing at attention before going into battle. He glared down at his potential housemate with a wrinkled brow that appeared to be permanently plastered on his face from years of scowling.

“Kevin?” He grunted and stuck out a huge hand. “Walter.”

The greeting was accompanied by a piercing stare and a conspicuous visual survey of the items that his new roommate had brought along. “What the hell do you plan on doing with that?” the old man asked gruffly as he pointed to the acoustic guitar case in front of him.

“I’m a musician, sir.” Kevin answered respectfully. “I’ll be playing around town.”

“Not in here, you wont.” Walter protested. “This is my home, not a damned concert hall. I don’t want that thing played in here.” He moved within inches of the young man’s face and grimaced. “Do you think you can handle that?”

“Yes sir.” Kevin replied fearfully.

“Good. Now, come on in.”

He followed the old man passed the spotless living room’s seventies-era recliner and sofa, over to the narrow hallway where a tiny bathroom divided two small bedrooms.

“Yours is here and mine is over there,” Walter said as he pointed at the door across from where the two men stood. “Stay out of my room, no showers after eleven, and keep the noise to a minimum. Here is your key.” The old man grabbed Kevin’s hand and firmly placed the cold metal into his palm. “Do you think you can handle that?

“Yes sir. No problem.” The young man replied with a smile.

Walter looked at his new boarder suspiciously and grunted. “I certainly hope so.”

After a few weeks, Kevin adjusted to life in the city and managed to get some gigs nearby. He went to his temping job in the daytime and played open mics at night. The shows kept him out late, but he had become quite good at stealthily entering and exiting the apartment without waking Walter.

As time moved on, the old man seemed to become mildly interested in his roommate’s musical endeavors. He would ask things in passing like, “what exactly do you play?” or “do people actually come watch you?” Kevin invited him to a set and even offered to play him a song one day before work, but Walter refused. He said he wasn’t that interested, but was glad that his tenant had something to keep him occupied. Aside from the occasional morning chitchat, the two rarely crossed paths.

On one particularly hot afternoon, Kevin got off work a few hours early and headed home. Despite the midday hour of his arrival, he quietly slid his key into the lock and slowly opened the door. There, on the couch, in nothing but his underwear and playing a perfect rendition of, “Stairway to Heaven,” on Kevin’s guitar, sat Walter.

Time stood still as the two stared at each other awkwardly. A light breeze from the open windows provided the only movement in the apartment for a short eternity.

“Hey,” Kevin managed to say softly as he stared at the ground. “That sounded really good.”

“Thanks.” Walter exhaled, his eyes glued to the instrument’s frets. “I guess I have some explaining to do, huh?” Despite the embarrassment he surely felt, Walter proudly stood straight up, placed the guitar against the wall and marched into his room.

When he returned, the old man sat on the sofa in freshly pressed khaki pants and a navy blue cardigan. He placed his hands on his lap and told Kevin to have a seat.

“Okay, son. Let me tell you a story.”

His face began to soften.

“I played guitar for about twenty years. Truth be told, it’s what I did for a living.” Walter’s eyes twinkled as a smile slowly raised the wrinkled corners of his mouth. “I was in different bands that toured the country and one of them even opened for Zeppelin once.”

Kevin couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“I met my wife at that very show.” The old man sighed and rested his hands on his chest near his heart. “She was so beautiful. I met her outside that venue and I just knew she was the one.”

The perpetual scowl that his tenant had come to know so well was almost completely gone.

“I invited her to join me on the road and, to my surprise, she accepted. Now, that doesn’t mean that she was some groupie slut, you understand?” Walter’s face tightened again briefly, but relaxed when the young man nodded in agreement.

“We were so in love,” he continued. “I was already beginning to feel old and burnt out before we met, but she reignited my passion for music. The lights and the large crowds all seemed to disappear around her as I played on stage. She was the only audience I needed.”

He quietly chuckled to himself and continued to reminisce. “She made me play for her all the time. I’d serenade her here in the living room, out in the park, over the phone…” His smile gently faded and his eyes began to water. “In her hospital room those final months… You know, no matter how bad she got, she still smiled every time I picked the damned thing up.” The old man closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“I’m really sorry, Walter.” Kevin said sympathetically.

Walter nodded and exhaled. “After she was gone, I just couldn’t play anymore. It felt like a forced, joyless effort. It… hurt too much.”

He paused for a moment, cleared his throat, and then met Kevin’s eyes with his own. “I apologize for using your guitar without asking, but it had been so long and I just wanted to see what would happen.”

“No, no, no,” the astonished young musician protested, “anytime you want to play, please feel free. You’re amazing!” He picked up the instrument and placed it back in the old man’s lap. “Maybe you and I could even jam sometime.”

Walter leaned back on the sofa and began playing a beautiful melody – her favorite song. For the first time in a long time, feelings of comfort and solace replaced heartbreak and loss as his fingers glided delicately along the fret board. Each note gracefully danced around the tiny apartment and floated out the open windows. The old man smiled and returned his attention to his new audience.

“You want to jam with me?” he asked as he continued to play.

Kevin grinned and nodded enthusiastically.

“Do you think you can handle that?”

The Fire

It has been too long. I’ll bet you thought this blog was dead, huh? I’ve actually spent the past month losing my mind and participating in the incredibly insane, yet undoubtedly fulfilling NaNoWriMo event. The good news is that I’ve been writing like a madman. The bad news (depending on how you look at it, I guess) is that the project I’ve been working on will take a really long time to be released.

However, amidst a November full of novel-focused literary recklessness, I still had to come up with another short story for Backbeat Magazine (an awesome problem to have, by the way – no complaints here). The deadline for the second entry kind of snuck up on me because I’d been forcing my way through NaNoWriMo, but, after quickly writing and hating a couple of other short stories over a day or two, I came up with something that I think is pretty entertaining.

I’m looking forward to sharing more ideas with you in the coming months and, as always, I appreciate you reading. Also, I have to apologize for the inconsistency of the appearance of these blog posts. I've tried messing with the layout of these entries a dozen times, but the alignment constantly comes out weird when I copy and paste out of Word. Thanks for bearing with it.

Enjoy!

The Fire

I was seventeen years old when I burned my house down.

If you lived here at that time, I’m sure that you read all about it. Its true that we lost everything and, yes, I was severely punished, but I’ll never forget the moment of bizarre fascination and awe that I shared with over a hundred people on my front lawn that night. None of us said anything. We just stood there, mesmerized, as the wail of the fire truck sirens grew louder and louder. There was something strangely satisfying about watching my childhood home disintegrate before my very eyes – I can’t really explain it. By morning, it was all destroyed. The insurance adjuster later told my dad that it was what they call in the industry, “a total loss.” From my point of view, however, it was the perfect ending to an incredible night.

I was born and raised in that house. My forced piano lessons began taking place in the extra bedroom that was just off the kitchen when I was six years old. The asshole instructor that my Julliard alum father enlisted to teach me would show up twice a week expecting to hear perfect renditions of, “Moonlight Sonata,” and, “Clair de Lune.” She, per my father’s insistence, demanded technically precise and proficient performances every month.

All I wanted to do was play the guitar.

By the time I was twelve, I could burn through several Mozart, Chopin, and Beethoven pieces blindfolded. In fact, I actually did that at a recital once to show my father that I was, as he liked to say, “taking advantage of the musical gift I had been given.” He complimented my technique, but couldn’t resist informing me that my performance was, “a little too showy.” Despite his mixed reviews, I figured adhering to his musical expectations would serve as leverage for me to get my first electric guitar. It worked. He told me that I could “play that thing” in my free time as long as my piano playing didn’t suffer.

I played it every day.

When I was fourteen, I joined a punk band. The first few songs we wrote were horrendous. We played power chords over and over through shitty amps, but we didn’t care. It was loud, it was raw, and I loved every minute of it. It felt good to abandon the rigid form of expression to which I had been forcefully accustomed. There was no sheet music or needle-nosed, musical know-it-all peering over my shoulder as I recklessly shredded.

We began playing around town and actually developed a following over the next couple of years. I constantly had to sneak out of the house to go play shows. My piano playing was beginning to slip, but my father’s career was starting to take off and, thankfully, he hadn’t noticed.

The day that he was invited to perform a concert with the New York Philharmonic, I was ecstatic. It meant that I could stay home and put on a “concert” of my own while he was miles away. He was hesitant to leave me home alone, but I assured him that I would spend my time studying and trying to master his old book of Bach preludes. He smiled and said that he expected to hear them when he got back the following week. I returned a sincere smile because I had mastered that book the year before and could easily play any of those pieces from memory.

He left on Thursday and said that he would be returning on Monday.

The turnout was unbelievable. Friends, friends of friends, and complete strangers were crammed into every inch of our ranch style home. I don’t know how that many people fit in my house, but they did. The crowd drank, chatted, and watched in anticipation as we began to set up in the living room.

Over the previous year, our band had become increasingly adventurous with our stage show. We were constantly breaking things, hurting ourselves as we thrashed around, and even getting into fights. We were young and embraced our youth by putting on the loudest and wildest show in town every time we played. The latest addition to the “Oh shit” moments of our performances was lighting our drummer’s cymbals on fire. During the set, I would spray lighter fluid in a circular motion on the top of the gold discs and ignite them with a cheap Bic. The desired result was a steady flame around the edges followed by a vertical fireball of at least three feet when the cymbals were struck. We made club owners nervous, but we knew what we were doing.

Or so we thought…

That night, during our best show to date, I was completely swept up in the frenzied energy of the crowd and accidentally went overboard with the lighter fluid. When the song demanded intense cymbal hits, the fireballs shot up, as usual, but a couple of smaller fireballs that leapt onto the floor near my amp went completely unnoticed. As we launched into the bridge of that closing song, coincidently titled, “Fire Fight,” my amplifier crackled, the drummer stopped playing, and the crowd began pushing and shoving - more out of panic than typical slamming. I turned around to see my amp, along with the floor-to-ceiling oak entertainment center behind it, completely engulfed in flames.

There are no words.

The growing fire was still small enough to allow everyone to get out safely, but just big enough to prevent us from putting it out. In a moment of collective consciousness, the crowd actually settled down and began to march out in a slow orderly fashion. It was as if they were quietly leaving a funeral while I, the dearly departed for whom they would surely be mourning upon my father’s return, unplugged my guitar and followed suit.

I thought about his piano as I walked outside and inspected my unscathed guitar. The thought of the disfigured ivory, snapping wires, and smoldering wood in that little room off the kitchen made me smile. It was surely cosmic justice for the years of my forced appreciation for that instrument – his instrument.

Despite the life changing repercussions that loomed on the horizon, I joyfully basked in the orange-yellow glow that radiated from the rubble that was once my house. When the firemen asked me what happened, I didn’t lie. I simply smiled and told them that I had burned the place down doing what I loved to do.

My father received rave reviews that weekend. I’m sure you read all about it. People still say that it was one of the most memorable concerts of his entire career. That piece in The Times makes me laugh to this day. The reporter decided to use a sports idiom to explain the incredible level on which my father played. She said that my dad “nailed every note of the perfect performance with poise, precision, and passion. To put it quite simply… he was on fire.”

Ritual

It never fails.

Its late on a Friday night, several hours after work, and you find yourself standing in front of a stage at a local music venue that reeks of stale cigarettes. The band you are watching - the band before yours - is loudly blasting through their last song while you nervously nod your head and tap your foot on the beer soaked floor. You’ve enjoyed the band’s set, but are now focused on absorbing their energy in order to play a good show.

That’s when it starts.

Your inner monologue of self-doubt begins describing all of the horrible and embarrassing things that are going to happen tonight: the broken guitar strings, wrong notes, equipment failures, forgotten lyrics, and the number of times your voice will undoubtedly crack when you take the stage. The voice in your head tells you that you are no good and everyone is going to think that your music is mediocre at best. Relentlessly, it informs you that you are just pretending to be a musician and nobody here wants to listen to your songs. It’s wearing you down.

The saboteur inside continues to bang his negative drum by pointing out that you don’t fit the profile for this type of artistic expression. You don’t even look like a musician. You’re standing there, wearing what could best be described as; “business casual,” while everybody else appears to fit in perfectly. They huddle together in their painted-on jeans, perfectly wrinkled vintage button ups, thick black glasses, strategically mussed hair, cool tattoos, and ironic mustaches - appearances that say, ‘unlike you, I belong here.”

The band on stage finishes their set and tells everyone to, “stick around” for your band. A torrent of adrenaline wildly courses through your body.

Your stomach quivers as you wrestle your amp onto the stage. Your hands tremble just enough to give you away as you tune your guitars. Closing your eyes, you briefly run a mental checklist of everything you needed to bring to the show. You are positive that you have forgotten something.

“Two vocals,” you tell the sound guy as he passes by with a microphone and a web of cables clutched to his chest. He grunts a confirmation of understanding and it’s obvious that, after the five bands before yours, he is ready to go home.

You look up from your guitar and notice that the crowd is focused on the bar. The clinking glasses and loud conversations confirm that they couldn’t be less interested in what’s happening on stage as the thump, thump, thump, of the kick drum is sound checked. You swallow hard and barely spit out, “Check,” into your microphone while the silhouette behind the soundboard at the back of the room adjusts the levels.

Okay guys, we’re ready whenever you are…

Settling into your usual spot on stage, you take a deep breath and look at your band mates as your nerves hit their peak. You smile and nod to tell the others, “I’m ready,” then focus on the neck of your guitar. The music that has been pumping through the PA is turned all the way down and the crowd turns in your direction. You’ve reached the point of no return. It is time to ignore the nagging paranoia and insecurity that’s plagued you since you walked in the door and play your music.

As you strum through the introduction of your set and step up to sing your first line, something happens. The fear and self-doubt that you previously manufactured melts away as your voice booms through the tall speakers on either side of the stage. Surprisingly, it is clear, on key, and doesn’t waiver. As your lyrics pour out of you, a strange confidence grabs hold. You suddenly remember all the times that you played and sang your heart out in your bedroom as a kid. Back then you were dying to sonically share your thoughts and feelings with anyone that would listen. You were dreaming of this moment…

The entire band comes together perfectly on the downbeat of the first chorus and you immediately let go. You let go of everything: pride, heartache, judgment, fear, anxiety... all of it is destined to be left on the stage before the night is over. You are miles away from the insecure wallflower that showed up at the club an hour earlier. As you acknowledge this transformation, the atmosphere of the room changes and the crowd slowly begins inching forward.

People sporadically emerge from somewhere beyond the bright lights and reveal their faces as the intensity of your playing increases. You make eye contact with them while you sing and play even harder, inciting a two-way communication. The people that you assumed would write you off for petty reasons are completely engaged in the discussion. Like you, they are aching to feel something. You jump, you dance, you scream at the ceiling and they are right there with you. You are no longer just sonic decoration in some bar. You are a contagious force of musical intensity.

The longer you play, the more you realize that you do belong here. Clothes, cliques, and politics are irrelevant when compared to what truly brings all of you together. The nodding heads and dancing bodies collectively disregard ego for a few short moments as the band on stage - your band - is playing its heart out. Everyone in the place is linked by a passion for this age-old art form and addicted to the meaningful feelings it can invoke. Music, as demonstrated by this moment, is a powerful equalizer.

Before you know it, the show is over. You’ve struck your last chord, sung your last line, connected beautifully with the crowd, and its time to pack up and head home. You are a trembling, sweaty mess. Your shirt is soaked and your legs are shaky. At some point during the set, you cut your cuticles on your guitar strings as you wildly played with no regard for pick/string accuracy. You smile at the little pink flecks of blood splattered on the pickups as you place the guitar into its case.

You go on this intrinsic journey of self-discovery every time you play, but each trip feels more intense than the last. These moments teach you profound truths about yourself, this scene, and the universal power of music – lessons that shed light on what music can do to us.

Tomorrow you will go back to work wishing you had the ability to conjure this feeling at a moment’s notice. The dramatic and revealing nature of the whole process makes you laugh as you tear down the rest of your equipment. You’ve played long enough to know that this shouldn’t happen every time, but acknowledge and appreciate the fact that this same ritual will undoubtedly unfold again at your next show.

It never fails.

A New Record

This was my submission for Writers Weekly Fall 24 Hour Short Story Contest:

A New Record

It was time to go.

The move would provide a fresh start in the quaint, middle-of-nowhere out in Butler County. The nearest city, Cedar Falls, was half an hour away and a far cry from being considered a booming metropolis. It was time for the city boy, Avery Barnes, to escape to the country. The big cities had way too many temptations, too many old demons, too much for him to handle. At that point in his life, moving would be the best thing to do.

Molly Schnaebel grew up in Butler County. She was a beautiful, well-liked woman in her mid-twenties. The little farm community that she called home near the edge of New Hartford, Iowa was the perfect place to raise a family.

Molly’s husband worked for the railroad. Late one night, when she was nearing the end of her third trimester with their daughter, she received a telephone call. Her husband, Ray Schnaebel, had an accident at work. By sunrise, she had become a widow.

Avery encountered his next-door neighbor a few times and he could tell that she did not like him. She was a single mother and, at first, he figured she was just stressed. He knew that infants were a handful. On several occasions he would be sitting on his porch when she drove up to her house and he’d offer to help carry groceries or get the door for her. He constantly offered to help around the house, run errands, and even to babysit sweet, little Julia a few times, but Molly would just give him a strange look and hurry up her front steps.

That wasn’t the only time he got strange looks. Eventually, everyone in town began pointing and whispering as he walked past.

When Ray died, the town rallied around Molly. She and Julia were brought to every church function, farmer’s market, and charity 5K that the town put together. They embraced the young widow. They listened to her. They looked out for her. They helped her raise Baby Julia. They were a tight-knit town of good folks that would do anything for those girls. And that’s why they snubbed Avery Barnes.

After months of cold shoulders, whispers, and odd glances, Avery became a shut-in and began collecting new hobbies. He desperately needed distraction. He wanted to be anonymous, not vilified. Alone in his old farmhouse, he started researching various arts and crafts in order to keep his idle hands busy.

Avery was the type of guy that would start up a project and quit halfway through. Anytime he became marginally good at one thing, he moved on to something else - a byproduct of perpetual loneliness. He couldn’t share his work with anybody. No one was there to say, ‘Wow, that looks great,” or “How did you do that?”

His house became a graveyard of nearly finished model planes and cars, half-empty jars of acrylic paint, paintbrushes, canvases, and used how-to books on just about everything. Each morning he would kick his way through various projects as he crossed the living room to the kitchen.

Feeling the need for fresh air, Avery tried on an outdoor hobby: Gardening. He had a large lot behind his house and plenty of room to grow whatever he wanted. The county held a big Fall Festival every year that included the crowning of a “Pumpkin King,” an honor bestowed upon the man that produced the largest pumpkin of the season. Avery Barnes vowed to be that man. He was determined to pass that familiar point of mediocrity. He was determined to show them all up with a new record.

His moment was so close, he could taste it. Weeks of obsessive tending and gentle turning ensured him a Pumpkin King coronation the following weekend. His chest puffed with impending pride as he fantasized about the envious stares of the townspeople, especially Molly, who always looked through him, not at him.

A cold wind blew as he admired his prize specimen under a darkening, autumn sky. As bright, painted leaves rained on his crop, he instinctively turned his head toward the sound of a crying baby. Near the back of his field, under the old Maple, Molly Schnaebel was shielding a bundle from the wind and staring. Avery waved, “hello,” but she quickly turned and waved her free hand off to her left – as if she was signaling someone out of sight. Naively, he ignored the odd gesture and returned his focus to the patch. He smiled as he proudly looked down at his massive, prize-worthy pumpkin.

Thunder clapped loudly nearby, a distinct whiz sound came from behind, and his knees instantly weakened. Julia cried in the distance as Avery fell to the ground and watched the red splatter hit his last, unfinished project.

Everyone in town knew. Molly had told all of them. She said he seemed overly eager to “help” and the way he looked at Julia made her uneasy. She had a sneaking suspicion that plugging that city boy’s name into the appropriate online search field would generate a glaring red square right over his house on the website map. She was right.

Maybe it happened when he was a kid. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as the horrible things she imagined while rocking Julia to sleep night after night. Either way, Avery’s name was on the list. Molly had already lost a husband and she was not going to let anything happen to her daughter. The townspeople knew what to do. Molly belonged there and he didn’t. They were a tight-knit group that took care of their own. He wasn’t welcome and he’d ignored the many hints he’d been given.

The following weekend, after the men of the town loaded it onto a pickup truck and delivered it to the large, commercial scale at the Fall Festival, Butler County crowned its first ever, “Pumpkin Queen.” Molly Schnaebel’s pumpkin, the largest in county history, weighed over seven hundred pounds.

Hiatus

It happened again. It happens all the time. Another band, disbanded. Its unclear if this is truly permanent or if the members are taking time to reevaluate their intentions, motives, and musical directions. Sometimes we need time off just to breathe, evaluate, and grow. I'm told that is when great things really have the potential to begin happening: during the breaks in the continuity of a work, series, or action. Either way, the band and I are in a temporary void of time and space waiting to see what happens.

I was in a band that was signed once. We were a three-piece band - guitar, bass, and drums - and were constructing a bright future ahead. The three of us formed when I was still pretty young, but things seemed to take off rather quickly. I got the impression that people were weirded out by the fact that we got a record deal so soon. They weren't jealous, per se, but a lot of them said we were way too young to know what we were getting into. "Getting signed changes bands," is what they would tell me before I jumped into the contract.

Within a year of being signed and embarking on our first tour, the bass player and I started seeing things differently. "Seeing things differently" is putting it mildly. More accurately, our band imploded. I just couldn't play or sing those songs in that band anymore, none of us could. The two of us began to fight all the time. It had to be tough on our drummer. The poor guy had nothing to do with it. The bass player and I just weren't feeling what we were writing and had grown tired of the music we performed night after night. It wasn't solely the bassist's fault, as people I know tend to say in my defense, we were both to blame. We had practiced and written together for a little over four years prior to being signed, but for some reason the spark just wasn't there anymore. It couldn't be forced for the wrong reasons anymore. The lawyers were summoned and all the paperwork was drawn up correctly, and we moved on in our own directions. Funny enough, the two of them were picked up by another singer songwriter and re-signed less than a year later while I was struggling to cultivate my solo act. It hurt, but I was glad that they were happy. Splitting up was the best thing to do - in the long run. From that point on I vowed to play alone and only entertain the thought of being in a band again if I was approached by the right people. I would be picky and critical, not settling for anything less than a group that I could play with into my golden years.

A little over eight months ago I saw a flyer in a local mom and pop record store. The wrinkled piece of paper stapled to the wall said, "Guitarist/Singer wanted to front four-piece band." I read on and liked their influences and the direction that they would be going. I was a little hesitant because the bass player was headstrong and seemed to be the one in charge - like my previous band experience. She and I were actually friends a few years back while I was soloing in dive bars and playing open mics.We kept in touch, somewhat, over the years but I never had any intention of playing with her because she had a full band at the time and I was still reeling from my band splitting. The truth was that I was already familiar with all of the players in her group. She had told me about them in the past, but we had never formally been introduced. They had history. In fact, they were almost signed and ready to take off when tensions flared between the band's two principal members - you guessed it - the singer and the bass player. Their then singer/guitarist began to act unappreciative and even bothered by the drummer and bassist's presence. She tried to put up with it as long as she could and push the band forward because of the years they put in together, but she was just too unhappy and could not continue like that. They all left him. It was almost the same as my situation, but not quite. The band broke up, but the second guitarist and keyboard player still jam with the booted guitarist/singer on the weekends.

Given all this drama in their history and all the baggage in mine, I was hesitant to jump into a project like this. They had been screwed over before and the bassist made it clear to me that they wanted someone that was in it for the long haul. They were not looking to be a backing group for some prima donna front man that would jump ship after playing a few gigs and gaining notoriety in the local scene. They were a package deal and needed someone to commit. I was thrown by the bassists directness, but also intrigued and charmed by the fact that she didn't hold anything back. She knew what she wanted the project to be and, if I was serious enough, we could take over the world.

The two of us jammed alone at first and I was floored by the intensity of our music. I couldn't believe how synchronized we were. We fit so naturally that I would have been crazy not to do everything I could to join her. If I improvised a riff, she would be right there with me and vice-versa. We read each other's movements almost telepathically and constantly created melodies that had the potential to break hearts and move mountains. A lot of times, these jam sessions were completely without spoken words. It was the music that told the stories. Don't get me wrong, we talked and laughed and had a good time frequently, but when we played; we played. It was perfect. It was what I had been holding out for all that time. I wasn't settling. This was it.

After a couple of months, the bass player told me that she felt that I was a good fit and it was time for me to jam with the whole band. I went to their practice space, plugged in my guitar, and stepped up to the microphone. As we played, the bassist and drummer looked at me with a smile of approval while the other guitarist and keyboard player seemed a little unsure. Despite their uncertainty though, we all launched into song after song embracing the sounds that our effort manifested. It felt so good to be playing in a group again. I enjoyed playing as a solo for act for the past three years, but this was heaven on earth. Sure, I'd gotten into a jam session with other people here or there since the last band, but nothing as serious and promising as this appeared to be. All my concerns and hesitation about taking the leap again vanished as we played and sang into the night.

We practiced for a few weeks in their little practice space and then things became exciting, yet surprisingly comfortable. We all clicked. Sure, the guitarist and keyboard player still had their weekend jam sessions with the singer from their first band (that was never going to change), but they didn't hold anything against me. When we played, none of that previous drama mattered. It was all about the music and we appeared to be on our way. The songs were coming along and the group mindset was getting tighter and tighter.

One day, out of the blue, I got a call from a promoter/booking agent that heard my solo stuff and really wanted to set up a small mini-tour through Chicago and then in various clubs in New York. "Just for a few weeks," he said, "nothing too big. I know you are working on that band project, but this solo trip could really help you figure out what is best for you. Your experience on the road will probably benefit the band in the long run as well. Then after that, maybe you could look at something on the West Coast." He went on to explain that I would play a few small venues in each city and, in my free time, I would get to look around, network, and explore as much as I wanted. I talked to the band about it and they were all behind me. The bass player even told me that it would do me some good and that she was proud that I was willing to take on the challenge. We left things open and decided to see where things would go...

The tour went great. Both cities are truly gems of this country and I was constantly amazed throughout the journey. I met a bunch of cool people, took in a lot of art exhibitions, walked for miles in the shadows of wondrous architecture, and played some amazing shows. All the while though, I missed the band and it became clear that that was the project for me. I had struck out on my own only to find that jamming with them was what I really wanted to do with my life. It felt great to know what I wanted. I called the bassist and told her about my recent epiphany. She was really excited and couldn't wait for me to get back so we could start writing some more songs. Throughout the tour people were slapping me on the back and saying how wonderful I was, how proud they were of my solo tour, and how much they admired what I was doing. In my mind though I kept thinking, "If you like what I'm doing now, just wait until you see what my band is going to do. We're going to blow your minds. We will be seen as THE band."

The five of us jammed for a solid month when I got back from the solo trip. It was great. The music was coming along and everyday we became closer as a group. While I was away, people were beginning to talk about us. A buzz was being created and, from where I stood, we had everything we needed to be signed within the next few years. I constantly daydreamed about our future as a unit. The five of us were a well-oiled musical machine. The guitar player and keyboardist were still playing with their former singer in a side-project, but any skepticism about me and my intentions were completely gone. I had proven myself. They were completely on board with the way thing were progressing. I would never ask for them to divide loyalties or pick sides, but they made it so I never had to. It wasn't a competition with their former band mate and side project. The five of us were a good band and that was that. Things were going great and there was no doubt that they were going to get even better. Until the phone rang again.

The promoter that booked the Chicago/New York mini-tour called and said that he had booked the six week tour on the West Coast. I remembered that I had agreed to that before the last little tour and told him that I would commit to it, but this would the last time that I would hit the road by myself. Any future outings would be with the band and my solo career was done. Even though he meant it as a comfort and was telling me what I needed to hear, I felt a nervous flutter of anxiety in my stomach when he said, "You got it. No other solo tours after this. I promise."

The day before I left, I actually got into a fight with the bass player. I was running around trying to tie up loose ends before the tour and completely forgot about our practice. I messed up. She never said it outright, but it seemed to me that she thought I was going to blow off the band and pursue a perpetual solo gig. I met with her a few hours before my flight and assured her (and the drummer) that this was the longest I would be gone, but I would return and the band would be my highest priority moving forward. They both understood and threw their support behind me. The other two members were headed to practice for their side-project, but wished me well and said that they would be ready to rock when I got back.

This tour is completely different from the last. Sure, I've gotten to meet really cool people, seen and played some great shows, and walked on some of the coolest streets in California, but something has been a little off. I feel it in my bones. I had had this feeling before, but not for years and certainly not this intense...

While on the road, I constantly checked in with band to let them know that, while I was having fun and trying to squeeze all I could out of the tour, they were on my mind and I would be back before they knew it. I overdid it. In my zeal to confirm my intentions of returning and continuing with the band, I ended up coming off as needy and clingy. I had become the prima donna front man that they were avoiding. They probably thought that I expected them to drop what they were doing every time I called. They might have thought I was under the impression that they were waiting by the phone the whole time I was on the road. That wasn't what I was thinking at all. I was just worried about the band's future because of the fight and meeting we had when I left. At one point, I let my insecurities and anxiety get the best of me, and I convinced myself that they got a new singer or reformed with their original line up. I called, emailed, and sent text messages all the time - non-stop; too much. Eventually, after being bothered by the barrage of correspondence, the bass player grew detached and cold. Clearly something was up.

One night a couple weeks ago I received an email that changed everything, The tour, the band, our plans, everything. The message basically said that the band talked it over and came to the conclusion that we all needed a break. More specifically, they needed a break from me. It wasn't anything I did or didn't do, they just had to focus on their own issues. It was time to focus on separate projects. I should focus on my solo stuff and they would work on the things that they had written while I was gone. It turned out that the bass player had some songs she had written and was taking over the singing duties in my absence. She had written a bunch of stuff in between me and the last guitar player/singer, but had never gotten to try any of it out with the band before I arrived. With me being gone, she was able to rediscover those songs and really get a chance to flesh them out. She had never given herself time to run through them in between this band and her last. It turned out that they were pretty good and deserved a little more attention.

She made it clear that the decision wasn't anything against me. They all made sure to tell me how great a musician I was and how it was hard for them to come to that conclusion etc... Despite the comforting words and their attempts at long distance consolation, I was hurt. I hurt really fucking badly. This time was way harder than the last. At least in my last band, the feeling was mutual. We quit because none of us had anything left to give. This time I couldn't have my way because they were never given a chance to breath, evaluate, or grow after their last band broke up. Despite my seemingly terminal sadness, I understood. We have to give ourselves time between projects. If you have been in a band for a long time, that process can take a while. And, unlike me, they never had that time. Hell, I still had lyrics and songs about the break up of MY last band and that was years ago. Sometimes we need to exorcise those demons and redefine ourselves before we can move on to the next thing. This decision appeared to be an attempt to do just that. A chance for them to figure themselves out before taking anyone else on. I couldn't have my way and it hurt, but I definitely understood.

The night before last, I was sitting in the back of a club after a show avoiding everybody when I wrote my "poor me" thoughts on a napkin - well, more like eight napkins. Although it had been almost two weeks since the email, I was in a spiral of self pity and despair and needed to purge myself of my thoughts. It was just a rant about how I was feeling and I didn't think I would put it anywhere, but sharing it in this capacity may serve as a form of therapy or future inspiration moving forward...

My head is about to explode.

Everyone says to stop what you are doing, be still, relax, or, my favorite, “Don’t think about it.” Are you kidding me? Humans are rebellious by nature. Would it be better for them to tell me to keep thinking about it and not function like a regular person? Maybe. At least then my natural instinct to rebel and go against the grain would protect me from the slothful waste of space that I have become over the last couple of weeks.

Sure, I’ve gone for walks that have lasted hours, played shows, taken lots of pictures, and written a bunch of things, but my mind seems to be doing all of that on autopilot. A detached numbness has taken over my senses that I can’t quite explain. Take my vision, for example, its like I’m looking through an opaque filter of reality that doesn’t quite allow the complete vibrancy of everything around me to penetrate my retinas. Why?

I shouldn’t be this affected. I shouldn’t feel so far down. In fact, I should be ecstatic about this turn of events. I’m twenty-eight years old and I am free to do whatever I want. I am bound by nothing – literally. No bills, no house, no family, no obligation whatsoever. I have a degree, a good resume, a little musical talent, and a recent set of travel adventures under my belt that many people will never get a chance to experience. I can literally go anywhere in the world. Well, almost anywhere. I realize that complaining about this set of circumstances is a laughable offense considering all the true hurt and loss in the world. Many people have way harder things to deal with than not getting their way. I know that I have a good thing going on my own and I am grateful. I really am. But, I just can’t help myself. Despite a high level of independence and a seemingly open ticket to the world, I can only focus on the one place I cannot be.

Believe me, I do understand that it will pass and that nothing lasts forever. Some people tell me things like, “Hey, you’ve been through worse," and, "You’ll be fine.” Well, I understand and appreciate that. I do. They may even be right. The problem is with the, “been through worse,” portion of that statement. The level of difficulty one has with a situation is completely subjective. My “worst” is obviously not the same as yours or theirs. Now, that is not to say that this most recent event is my “worst,” but it is pretty damn close.

“Live and learn,” right? “Time heals all wounds?” Isn’t that what most people tell you in these situations? I believe that. I really do. I just wish my brain would accept that as the truth and speed up the process for my senses. I want to see the fullness of the colors around me and taste my food again. Maybe when I get back everything will balance itself into normalcy. Maybe at that point I can get my bearings and pick myself up before I make next move. Maybe she'll ask me for an informal jam session - like when we first started. Yeah, that sounds right. Either way, I’ll be out of this fog soon enough. Soon enough, I’ll be back on track and ready to take over the world...

Obviously, I was at the bottom looking up that night. I still feel that way now and then, throughout the day. But, hey, sometimes the greatest bands in the world aren't heard by everybody. Did I believe with all of my heart that I was done looking for bands and this one was set to "make it?" Absolutely. Am I worn down and tired from being on the road and having what feels like an infinite chasm placed between myself and my band mates? Of course. Does this mean that I will hang it up, collapse into myself and stop creating, writing, or playing music? Hell no!

The "breaks in the continuity of a work, series or action," or the times spent in between things, are what make us real: The time that could potentially bring out the best in us. The best songs and stories tend to be written after you've given your guitar, voice, or pen some time to rest. When we exercise we rip our muscles and break everything down to a crumbled pulp. The benefits are reaped in that time of rebuilding after a workout when we lie on the couch resting and recuperating. We have to give ourselves time to breathe, evaluate, and grow.

With that in mind, I will end this solo West Coast tour next week and put my guitar and pen down for a short while. I will embrace this break in the continuity of my work, series, and action because I know that one day, with or without the band that I really believe in and ache to be a part of, I will continue to make beautiful music, the colors of my world will be bright, and the food within that world will be delicious.

The 30 Day Novel

I swore when I started this blog that I would not write about writing. In my mind, short stories about authors with writers' block, struggling playwrights, and the plight of fighting to create the great American novel are played out and to be avoided at all costs. How boring and self absorbed is that? How many times has that been done and how could I possibly come up with a fresh take on those old cliches. A person that loves to write telling a story or giving some sort of commentary on the craft of which he is just barely scraping the surface - give me a break. That is not my goal in posting this entry about writing - although it is about writing. With that in mind, I'd like to (somewhat hypocritically) share a writing-centric blog post with you. So, without further ado, I give you my plan for a future writing project.

If you have been following my entries, here or elsewhere, then chances are that you are already aware of my current status as a jobless and, technically, homeless traveller. It has been quite a fulfilling experience to explore different cities while working on improving my writing and storytelling abilities. I have to face facts though. At some point, I am going to have to find home and settle into a regular life. I'll have to go to school, and/or get a job, move into my own place again, pay bills, blah, blah, blah... Those are just realities of life that everyone has to deal with and I am no exception. However, it is not time to do that just yet.

Going against conventional wisdom and falling directly in line with my recharged passion for writing, I have decided to sign up for National Write a Novel Month. Yes, you read that correctly. It is exactly what you think it is: A finished novel in thirty days. According to the website, the goal is to crank out a full length novel of at least 50,000 words within the month of November. My last blog, a travel memoir that will be turned into a book eventually, is over 53,000. Since I have a natural penchant for long-winded-ness, the word count of this endeavor does not concern me. The fact that it will most likely be a terribly weak story because of the time frame, however, terrifies me. But, that's the point; to generate as much material as possible within a short window.

I have been writing non-stop for the last few months and I think this challenge will be a fun and fulfilling exercise of creative stress. I am very fortunate to have supportive friends and family that have expressed their willingness to spare a couch or a bed until school, or other writing opportunities spring up in January. So, will I have to surrender this vagabond, beard-growing existence of creativity and exploration? Sure, but not until after I have a novel under my belt.

Here's a portion of the email they sent me when I signed up so you can get an idea of what I'll be doing. If you have the time or the desire to do it also, please let me know and we can compare notes as we chip away at the wonderfully insane task of writing a novel within 30 days.

Before you head off to begin training those typing fingers, we wanted to offer a few bits of advice. You'll find many great tips in the forums, and we'll be sending pep talks directly to your inbox during November. But for now, here's a quick overview of the three-and-a-half things we wish we had known for our first NaNoWriMo.

1) It's okay to not know what you're doing. Really. You've read a lot of novels, so you're completely up to the challenge of writing one. If you feel more comfortable outlining your story ahead of time, do so. But it's also fine to just wing it. Write every day, and a book-worthy story will appear, even if you're not sure what that story might be right now.

2) Do not edit as you go. Editing is for December. Think of November as an experiment in pure output. Even if it's hard at first, leave ugly prose and poorly written passages on the page to be cleaned up later. Your inner editor will be very grumpy about this, but your inner editor is a nitpicky jerk who foolishly believes that it is possible to write a brilliant first draft if you write it slowly enough. It isn't. Every book you've ever loved started out as a beautifully flawed first draft. In November, embrace imperfection and see where it takes you.

3) Tell everyone you know that you're writing a novel in November. This will pay big dividends in Week Two, when the only thing keeping you from quitting is the fear of looking pathetic in front of all the people who've had to hear about your novel for the past month. Seriously. Email them now about your awesome new book. The looming specter of personal humiliation is a very reliable muse.

3.5) There will be times you'll want to quit during November. This is okay. Everyone who wins NaNoWriMo wanted to quit at some point in November. Stick it out. See it through. Week Two can be hard. Week Three is much better. Week Four will make you want to yodel.

And we're talking the good kind of yodeling here.

With great well wishes on the noveling month ahead,

The NaNoWriMo Team

Let's do this!

Inner Piece

As of today, I have been in California for a month. A few days prior to my departure from Texas in August, I found myself in a discussion with my uncle, my mother, and her boyfriend Jules about some serious topic that needed to be changed. In order to lighten the mood and shift the tone of our late night patio conversation, I blurted out, "Favorite candy: Go!" Although I was the one that posed the topic, and was genuinely curious about everyone's choice, I can only remember my answer to the spontaneously presented inquiry. My answer? Without a doubt, the best candy known to man, hands down, unmatched and without equal comes in the orange bag with yellow writing that is filled with magical morsels of peanut butter protected by yellow, brown, and orange thin candy shells: Reese's Pieces.

Ever since I was little boy, I have been a huge fan of the candy that is often mistakenly referred to as Reese-ees Piece-ees. Many people will probably remember when they were everywhere thanks to ET and Eliott sharing them on the silver screen in the Eighties, but nowadays they seem to be less ubiquitous. My mother, who has a future gift filing system in her brain, decided to put my little patio praise session of the peanut butter treat into the folder marked with my name. The day before my trip she showed up at her house with an industrial-sized orange bag and advised me to take it with me to California. Afraid of my addictive personality and the complex I have developed about sugar-related weight gain, I asked her to keep the bag at home and put the contents in a glass jar so that handfuls of pieces could be grabbed by various house guests in the future - namely, me. I was sure that if that bag ended up in my suitcase, then all of those lovely little pieces would have been consumed in the first week of my 6-8 week sabbatical resulting in a combination of bliss and fat kid self-loathing. Mom graciously held onto the bag without being offended and I left for Laguna the next day; Reese's Piece-less.

Within the first few days, I found myself rabidly patrolling the Orange County gas stations for my favorite candy. Kicking myself as I handed over a couple dollars for a very small, 220 calorie bag of my favorite treat, I couldn't help but laugh at myself. I could have taken that huge bag and rationed out little Ziploc baggies for myself, but no, that would have been too logical. Instead I found myself spending money that I should have been saving to go toward more important things. The little bag lasted me a good two hours. I only took out two pieces at a time and held them in my mouth until the thin candy shells melted and that rich, peanut buttery goodness was set free from its sugary confinement. It took everything I had not too speed-chew the peanut butter and dump the whole bag into my mouth. I justified the caloric intake by only enjoying them while I was walking around town. Despite the fact that I was clearly taking in more calories then I was expending, the "walk while you Reese," rationale seemed to justify my indulgence. Can you imagine if I had that huge bag my Mom offered? I would have been walking all day, everyday.

Fast forward to two weeks ago. I arrived in the Koreatown area of Los Angeles to stay with my friend Matt. There are a few dollar stores and run-down corner bodegas near his apartment, but none of them, I repeat, none of them carry Reese's Pieces. They all have Reese's Cups, Reese's cookies, (which I had never seen before), and some Reese's version of the Nutty Bar, but not one store within a four mile radius carries my candy. I would have settled for a dollar store knock-off, but no dice. Even the grocery stores in other neighborhoods that we patronized seemed to have decided to drop the item from their confection inventories. What is going on here? All I wanted was a small bag of deliciousness with which I could stretch my enjoyment of the best candy ever made over an hour long - or longer - stroll through the dicey neighborhoods near Downtown LA in which I am staying. Is that too much too ask? Apparently it is too much. I knew I should have taken that bag from Mom.

Had I been doomed to suffer savage sweets withdrawal in the City of Angels? Would I have to wait another two to three weeks to get my fix? Would I have to leave the city in order to get a hold of that damn candy? The answer, my friends, was "yes." However, I would not need to go all the way back to Laguna, or God forbid, wait till I got all the way home to satisfy my craving. No, I just had to go on a road trip with Matt and his girlfriend to the Hoover Dam, which included a pit stop in the nearby town of Upland, in order to keep from getting cold sweats, hallucinating, and mumbling "pieces...not cups" through trembling and drooling lips as I stared ahead in catatonic state.

It was about eleven this morning when Matt decided to fill up Melissa's SUV on our way to Nevada. We were out near the 'burbs somewhere and happened to spot a mega-gas station from the freeway. We were obviously outside of LA because the building, driveway, and gas pumps didn't have an inch thick brownish-yellow grime on them. This place looked brand new with its twenty different gas pumps, clean white asphalt, and half-mile walk to the large convenience store building. All I wanted at that point was a Coke Zero, but, as has become a California tradition at gas stations, I cruised by the candy aisle. "Resse's Cups, Reese's Nutty Bar thing...Holy shit!" I cheerfully yelped. On the bottom row, near the sugary rejects of the convenience store world were the little orange bags that I had seen in Laguna. The young lady mopping the floor nearby flinched at the bearded crazy man shouting in the candy aisle and exchanged a worried glance with her co-worker behind the counter. I smiled and held up the bag as if to say, "see, they do exist," and made my way to the cashier. The young lady behind the counter was very sweet and, surprisingly, unfazed by my bizarre exclamation. I stood in front of her with an air of pride as if I had captured the elusive animal known around these parts to be,"just a myth." I had bagged the big fish that got away from all the local fisherman. This pocket-sized, orange bag that cost me $1.60 was my white whale. As she counted my change, I started to wonder if I should grab a few bags to play it safe. However, as if the last couple weeks of frantic searching and failing to find the candy never existed, I convinced myself that one bag was enough and that I would have plenty waiting for me in Texas.

I triumphantly showed Matt and Melissa my acquisition and hopped in the backseat of the Jeep. I carefully placed the bag into the cup holder and tried to pretend that it wasn't there. And then something really strange happened. Now that I had the candy, I didn't want it. Well, to be more honest, my intense want of it decreased substantially. Feeling a little philosophical, I began to wonder if my desire for the candy was amplified by their lack of availability. Don't get me wrong, I love the pieces, but at that moment I wasn't ready to fist fight some street toughs for a handful like I would have a week prior. At this point I could take them or leave them. Was the real thrill in the chase and not in the actual peanut butter consumption? Did I truly only want the things I couldn't have while simultaneously under-appreciating the things that I do have? Haven't we all experienced this one way or another? Staring at the small bag in the cup holder, I pondered this very deep line of questioning for a moment....

My intense exploration of that life lesson lasted all of about five minutes. Once I had the first two pieces in my mouth and the shells melted away it was over. I tried to space out the time between each trip into the bag, and the number of candies I would pop into my mouth, but I had eaten them all within about ten minutes. Its funny and sad how self-control and an addictive personality can be brought together in a strenuous tug of war because some Willy Wonka type-genius at the Hershey company one day had a great idea.

As of this writing, I'm back in LA and miles away from my favorite confection. This puts me back at square one. I should have learned my lesson and stocked up in Upland, but I didn't. I figured writing about it would somehow soften the blow of my making the same mistake twice, but it hasn't. It's been less than twenty-four hours and I'm already kicking myself for abandoning a potential RP Reserve. Again!

So, what's the lesson? What's the moral of this story? That is completely up to you. There are probably a lot of things that can be taken from this tale. I think recounting this experience has provided me with a few good things: some personal insight, a nice writing session, and a bit of a chuckle at my own expense. However, one thing it has not provided is the thing that I probably need most: The handful of Reese's Pieces that I am desperately craving.

Sid

Sid didn’t care about anything anymore. The fact that he was staring at a Texas beach with a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of cheap whiskey in the other after a night of binge drinking three hours away was proof of that. The black watercolor melting point where the ocean met the sky in front of him looked like a promising and somehow romantic resting place. A full moon overhead illuminated the whitewater caps of the small waves as he sipped from the half-empty bottle. His shoes were carelessly thrown somewhere between his beat up Honda and the shoreline and he was feeling the cool water lightly kiss the top of his feet below the cuff of his rolled up jeans. He knew that going into the ocean at night was dangerous, but as you already guessed, he didn't care.

Earlier that night, Sid started his Friday ritual at one of his favorite neighborhood bars after having taken down a fifth of vodka at home to warm up. He never drank vodka in public, but rarely started a night out without it. The place wasn’t anything special. It was, in fact, particularly unspectacular, which was why he liked it. He could sit at the bar, flirt with the cute bartenders and waitresses, strike up conversations with other "solo" drinkers, and diligently hammer away at the crumbling condition of his twenty-five year old liver and lungs. He burned through half a pack of cigarettes and four pints of imported beer within his first hour. Having secured a spot in that area between “cool buzz” and "all out drunk," he picked up his cell phone and called her. She had changed her number a long time ago, but Sid felt a strange, masochistic comfort in calling it up and hearing the recording tell him that the number he dialed was no longer in service. He ordered a couple of whiskey shots and another pint. The brown liquor in the small shot glass didn’t really taste like anything by then, but he smiled as it went down because it reminded him that he had an unopened whiskey bottle in his car outside - just in case. He threw both shots back in quick succession, lit another cigarette, and smiled at the pretty blond behind the counter as he began sipping his cold beer. She flashed him what he considered to be a patronizing smile and turned her attention back to the martini she was making. The bartenders were used to his presence as a regular and considered him to be harmless because he never started fights, yelled, or came onto them in a threatening way. He was just some lonely, unspectacular guy that could handle his booze.

Bored and reaching the point that he would describe as “sorta drunk,” he called up some friends, none of which answered, and began convincing himself that they all hated him. He was sure that they had grown tired of his shit. At first, they probably thought his routine was somehow charming and would be enticed by the drinks he would always insist on buying, but after a while, his constant moaning and rambling about her began to wear them down. He was sure of it. She wasn't all he talked about, though. He’d ramble about anything to anyone who would listen. In any case, it was obvious to him that they had all had enough. He put his phone in his pocket and lit another cigarette. It was 12:30 on Friday night and he was completely alone in a crowded dive. He pretended to send text messages to people so that it would look like someone might be meeting him, but he was pretty sure that anybody who looked his way knew that no one was coming. At one point he glanced up at the television mounted in the corner over the pool tables just in time to see that Navy Seals ad that he really liked. You know the one that shows a moonlit beach where the waves come in and, all of a sudden, everything is dark except for the moon and when the scene lights back up there are these footprints on the ground that get washed away by the next wave? He liked that part. Seeing those footprints washed away struck him somehow. Those guys were badasses. They snuck in, completed their mission, and covered their tracks. There was no evidence that they had even been there. They may as well have been ghosts.

That was all it took. Three hours on the road and a half bottle of imitation Jack Daniels later, he was staggering in the sand and yelling gibberish at the stars. It was pretty incredible that he made it that far without getting pulled over or losing control of the car. He was well past "drunk" when he made it to the beach. He had nearly fallen out of the car when he opened the door and he pitched his shoes somewhere into the darkness because he figured he wouldn’t need them anyway.

A few wobbly moments later, he tossed his cigarette into the wind and noticed a figure that seemed to be in similar clothing with a bottle in his hand, making his way out into the surf. Sid lifted the bottle of whiskey over his head and poured half of its remaining contents all over himself as he watched the man in between the small breaking waves do the same. What were the odds of another guy having his exact same idea at that moment? It was nearly four in the morning on a secluded Texas beach,"why would anyone be out here," he thought. He couldn’t make sense of what was happening. The figure disappeared into the darkness. Sid's eyelids were getting heavy and the whiskey started tasting salty. He thought about what she would say about all this as he looked back at his beat up Honda on the beach and proposed a drunken toast. He gurgled out some indistinguishable words and took one more man-sized drink.

The tide stealthily rushed in beneath the moonlight and Sid’s footprints disappeared.

Mr. Six

You’ve seen him. I know that you have seen him. He is the face of American amusement; the one that determines how much fun you are having by using some sort of nonsensical “flag system" of measurement. He drives a red and white, retro-style charter bus and loves late-nineties electronica. He could easily pass for Freddy Krueger’s unburned and sharply dressed, yet still terrifying older brother. His mouth gapes widely and his eyes bulge out of his skull as he spontaneously breaks into spastic dance moves and convulsive gyrations in a furious effort to encourage us to collect more flags i.e. to have more fun. He was laid to rest in 2005. We thought he was gone, but we were sorely mistaken. In the spring of this year he joined the ranks of notorious villains such as: Jason Voorhees, Michael Myers, and the previously mentioned Freddy Krueger by returning from the dead stronger, more determined, and more...evil.

Who would have thought that the song, “We Like to Party,” a one-time popular dance track by the Vengaboys, would raise my neck hairs and instill a creepy unrest inside me comparable to being awakened by the musical themes of scary movies like, “The Exorcist” or “Halloween,” mysteriously blasting out of my stereo in the middle of the night? It is a threat: A declaration of impending doom. When presented as it was originally intended for release in 1998, the lyrics to this song tell the listener that “The Vengabus” is coming and everybody’s jumping. The choice to use this particular piece of music (albeit instrumentally), with its promise of exciting party transportation and enjoyable communal exercise, works well as a sugarcoated method of misdirection that is used to distract us from knowing what is really happening and who is really coming. While the ironically upbeat dance track falsely assures me that I will be having a good time, “You-know-who’s,” face practically pops out of my television screen and forces its way into the depths of my subconscious. He is coming and I’m scared. I am, in fact, terrified. My very soul depends on my ability to have fun. Not only do I have to have fun; it has to be six flags of fun. Or else…

Who unleashed this beast? Who are the diabolical geniuses that gave this specter the keys to our living rooms? Whoever they are, they have figured it out. When it comes to deciding the appropriate place for my amusement, I have been scared straight. Nothing could encourage me to line up and pay exorbitant amounts of money on roller coasters, fried food, theater shows, and carnival games that promise the possibility of cheap prizes more than a creepy old man in a tux with thick black glasses and caked on make-up wildly dancing across the screen in front of me. Even now, I’m concerned that my flag level could be dipping below his standard. Such an event could only yield a disastrous and horrifying outcome.

I know you have seen him. He is the man whose first and middle names are surely the same as his last. He is evil. He is coming. He likes to party.

The Rachael Coincidence

How many stories have you read, true or otherwise, that start out saying that what you are about to read is absolutely true? I’ve read a bunch of those kinds of stories and I typically want to believe them, but it can be difficult. The situations don’t have to be completely outlandish, but sometimes the coincidence factor may be a bit too convenient – like the timing of an occurrence was altered just a bit to make for a better read. Writers can ultimately create anything they want in their stories, so the onus is on the reader to decide if what they are reading is really accurate: Unless the author has a witness.

What you are about to read is absolutely true.

I’m sitting in a house that is fifteen minutes from Laguna’s main beach on a Thursday afternoon. The front door is open and an occasional breeze hits my leg as I stare at the laptop in front of me. Wes is on the brown leather love seat about five feet to my right. He is pricing used vehicles on his laptop and intermittently looking up at the Carl Sagan documentary that is playing on the wall-mounted plasma screen television directly across from us. I am in the red pleather chair under the wet bar next to the kitchen doorway and writing an overdue chapter for my previous blog – soon to be book. Throughout that particular story I frequently mention my girlfriend and how much I love and miss her, but I never explained how we met. The rough version of the, “How We Met,” chapter begins with me describing the terrible condition I was in and the tragedies that befell me prior to that amazing event. It takes me about fifteen minutes or so to get through the introduction and then I start explaining the moment that I first saw Rachael. I could write about her all day, but I‘ve only just begun describing that first glance. Butterflies.

The scenario playing in my brain is highly romanticized and reminds me of one of our favorite movies: The Royal Tenenbaums. You know that scene where Gwyneth Paltrow gets off the Greenline bus and that Nico song, “These Days” starts playing while everything is in Wes Anderson-trademark slow motion? She and Luke Wilson look at each other as she walks toward him and everything about the sequence conjures feelings of true love. That’s what I’m thinking/daydreaming about when Wes strikes up the shuffle function on his I-tunes. Which song starts playing? You guessed it.

See? It doesn’t have to be an unbelievable premise. Coincidences occur all the time and can serve as entertaining stories. I’m just glad I had a witness.

What is this?

My goal is to set up an easily accessible collection of the various writing projects and random ideas that pop into my head on a regular basis. Some might say that it is more organic to keep things in a physical journal or notebook. The pen meeting paper is the way that “real” writers do it. Unfortunately, my handwriting is awful. That being said, I want this blog to serve as a place where I can create, store, and display the things that I write: A personal anthology to be shared with anyone that is interested.

According to an online dictionary, an anthology is, “A collection of selected literary pieces or passages of works of art or music." There are many anthologies out there that are strung together thematically. The literary pieces on this site; however, will not be in any order and will not necessarily relate to each other in any way. The common denominator of these seemingly unorganized works will be the author that brought them into existence. This is my stream of literary consciousness: my sounding board. This is a place for short stories, rants, observations, and ideas. This is a creative exercise that will constantly be in progress. This is “Sloanthology.”