Meet Mr. Thing

Facebook Follies

noreply@blogger.com (nowlookyhere) — Wed, 28 Jan 2009 05:14:00 +0000

Dude! I forget to write a blog because I'm always so busy typing senseless ideas out on Facebook. It seems like anything not worth saying is still worth updating: "I just rocked some wicked chili!" "I can't find my Ween CD!" "I can feel a weird draft coming from the ceiling - I think it's a ghost!" There is never any timely consolation for my desperate friend-treaties, and old friends who do finally get back to me are not really any more interesting, or interested, than I am. We're all out here just living our lives. BORING! Everyone involved realizes what an enormous time-sink it is, living vicariously through each other, and yet most of us cannot seem to leave it long enough to break orbit. It sucks - literally. On the other hand, I do have a lot of friends not watching me try to shimmy my way away from the screen tonight, so that's something. isn't it?

Help Keep Michelle Kwan in Kwanzaa

noreply@blogger.com (nowlookyhere) — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 17:38:00 +0000

Jesus! What is it about separation of church and state that some people have so much trouble with? Is the government knocking down the doors of your place of worship and ripping the word Christ out of your Bibles, hymnals, sermons, and mouths? If Christians are so worried about secularism overtaking their precious arbitrary holiday, then go tell all the children the truth about Santa Claus! Tear up or lock away your credit cards from early October through late January, recycle your ornaments and stockings, and celebrate the birthday of your Savior in a way that he would find appropriate and blessed (with two syllables)! The spirit of the First Amendment was to protect religious freedom for EVERYONE, not just for Christians. Of course, nowhere does it explicitly say "separation of church and state" in the Constitution, as nowhere in the Bible does it explicitly say "celebrate My birthday on December the 25th of every year by spending exorbitant amounts of money on each other, in order to prove how much you love me - and while your at it , be sure and legislate your beliefs, not just about my birthday, but about EVERYTHING, onto society as a whole, and suppress the rights of all minorities whenever you get a chance." The imbalance of this set of attitudes is self-evident, and I'm f***ing tired of the religious right continuing to insist on the absoluteness of their point of view. Spiritual awareness is a personal journey, but religion has turned it into a May Day parade.

Metaphor Overdose

noreply@blogger.com (nowlookyhere) — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 21:18:00 +0000

I'm digging a little deeper into my psyche today than I had planned when my feet first hit the floor. Something about the way the ground feels this morning is inciting an emotional riot, and what started as a few weepy moments of happiness last night as Obama was declared the victor, has morphed into a bit more of a flood. I'm not crying anymore (save for the reprise earlier when I heard a replay of his acceptance speech), but I have made some headway towards alienating anyone or anything within a hundred foot radius of my mouth. I guess there's not really a selective emotional filter for me - since I, Obama-like, keep my emotions under an iron manhole cover almost always, when I lift the cover, everything that's been festering there swooshes out like a vapor.

I'm searching for a bridle to steer this ungodly snorting, crack-addicted vapor of self-expression into a corral. But there's no corral, just open plains. I read about places on earth that are so flat that the expanse of sky creates a kind of vertigo; an imbalance where points of reference are reduced to something less than this or that; not necessarily up or down, left or right, or even right or wrong. Maybe the prospect of a slingshot off of the gravity of the last eight years has disoriented me. The whole world changed in an historically profound way last night, and I may just be experiencing a personal cleansing that goes along with such a change. I feel myself shaking off a kind of grimy layer, and there's a lot of crap coming to the surface. I mean, how many non sequiturs and sloppy metaphors can I pack into one blog, anyway? I'm obviously clearing out the attic. All I know is, I need to get my sea-legs on, cause this is gonna be a ride I wanna be on.

Shaken, Not Stirring

noreply@blogger.com (nowlookyhere) — Wed, 22 Oct 2008 00:47:00 +0000

Just one thing - take care when mixing friendship and business. It's OK to become friendly with a business associate, but always keep business between friends as strictly professional and sterile as possible. I learned this the mildly difficult way. I took a business deal with a friend for granted, assuming more than was mine to assume. As a result of this transgression, and its consequences, I have decided that all future business dealings will end up on paper - whether transacted with a stranger, a moderate acquaintance, or a dear friend. There is no allowance for error or assumption in these cases, and a truckload of frustration and heartache can be avoided. You would have thought I'd have learned my lesson after the whole lawsuit thingy, which you don't know about. Just know that it was the same lesson then, learned but unheeded.

What Is Love, Anyway?

noreply@blogger.com (nowlookyhere) — Wed, 15 Oct 2008 16:42:00 +0000

Seth Godin writes a great marketing blog called, appropriately enough, Seth's Blog. Despite its declared subject matter, it is still more than tangentially relevant to my everyday life. The struggle to happily wed art and commerce is addressed in today's post, titled Maybe you can't make money doing what you love. I'm always hungry to commiserate with other artists, and I 'm glad to know I'm not the only one who loses the muse whenever money is involved. I don't know if it's the pressure of being exposed as a fraud that makes me clamp up, or the (pre-)realization that clients frequently want something with which they're already familiar. I've got to stop all this pre-realizing. Subverting, or more to the point, getting past my own expectations is what art+commerce is all about for me. I struggle on...

Plan A

noreply@blogger.com (nowlookyhere) — Tue, 30 Sep 2008 02:42:00 +0000

Just an introductory note to mention my intention.

I'm going to begin using this blog as a process journal, with highlights of my concurrent music and design projects. The music project will consist of ongoing session and writing notes, possibly to include rough mix samples, and culminating in a digital EP release in the first quarter of 2009. The design project is the incubation and development of a furniture company, with an initial limited edition set of furniture and accessory pieces to be released for sale to the public, later in 2009. I will try to be diligent about keeping these notes coming - but I'm doing it for myself, not for you. Whoever you are.

Did I Just Say That Out Loud?

noreply@blogger.com (nowlookyhere) — Fri, 23 May 2008 16:10:00 +0000

I was just reminded by an old friend, who has been obtusely referenced in a previous post, and who shall remain nameless for my own protection, that I have a blog. What has recently struck me (as recently, in fact, as about two minutes ago) is that my mommy could find a link to this on my company website, and read it as easily as anyone could. I don't mind my mom knowing that I have thoughts, or that I can express myself purposely, if not somewhat eloquently. She invested heavily in the rigor and voracity of my education, and probably expects that I should be able to type out a sentence with, you know, proper syntax and verbiage and whatnot. What occurs to me is that she might not be "at one" with some of my past endeavors, here recounted. Should I be given pause to regret tapping away segments of my history in public? I find little solace in the fact that, in all likelihood, no one on the planet (save my anonymous friend) has come within a rat's pink asshair (sorry, Mom) of knowing that my blog even exists. The fact is, the spirit of the information is out there, no doubt giving my mom a funny tickling sensation in the back of her brain. Should I panic? Should I attempt a preemptive volley? Or should I squint, grit my teeth, and hope she never finds me here? Look, I say. Maybe it would be better if she knew who I really was. She's strong, and she'll not think less of me, knowing what a perv and lush I once was. Besides, that's not me anymore. I'm happily married, life is great - I've been redeemed. It will probably enrich our relationship if she knows what I've been through. It might even give her a project, you know, with daily prayers for the continued sustainment of my mortal soul. It could be that she's already in on all my little "secrets", and her prayers are the only reason I can still draw a breath into this wretched frame. In any case, I think I've just relieved myself of this fleeting guilt through the very act of writing about it, and have therefore also justified my candor. I have chosen to be public with my thoughts, and I think that as long as no one reads this, I can and should be as honest as possible.

My Religion

noreply@blogger.com (nowlookyhere) — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 16:27:00 +0000

I saw a report recently on the effects of stress on cortisol levels - which helps to regulate things like blood pressure and weight. People who have higher levels of personal and professional control have lower overall stress, and therefore lower production of cortisol. This post isn't about cortisol, it's about stress relief, satisfaction, and happiness.

I have personally experienced periods of high stress, as have we all. I can say unequivocally that lower stress is more fun, but that's not always within our realm of control. The idea is to balance stressful situations with things that, to paraphrase a recent cancer survivor I know, make large and meaningful deposits in the "health bank". There will be times that we need to make a withdrawl, and just like in personal finance, there needs to be a positive balance on the books. Karma operates the same way, although I think we should be careful of drawing on karmic deposits, because bad karma has a much higher exchange rate than good karma.

I try to spend lots of quality time with my wife and dog, my friends, my vocations, and my hobbies. These are things that, for me, provide valuable investments in my mental, emotional, and physical health, in both tangible and nebulous ways. I also try to not worry about things, because it's just life. The adventure continues until it doesn't, and as long as I know I'm doing my best, then it's up to the universe to keep to its natural laws. I always feel like the give and take between me and the universe behaves (mostly) according to these laws, and I also find them easy to obey.

So, take advantage of spring fever, go outside, and breathe in life. Exhale poor spirits, invest in good vibes, and prolong the feeling of universal balance. It's my religion, and it's better for me than getting a good beatdown every Sunday morning.

No Regrets

noreply@blogger.com (nowlookyhere) — Tue, 04 Dec 2007 03:59:00 +0000

I just got an email from my oldest friend. I've known him since 1979, when we were both vying for first chair bragging rights in the Arkansas High School All-State Choir. Neither of us made first chair, a delicious fact that could not have been lost on Brian what's-his-name, with his soft feathered hair and his proportionately stuffed terrycloth v-neck, who definitely didn't deserve first chair but found a way to steal it anyway. We two were obnoxiously entitled and nostril deep in our egos. As it was, we were too competetive to take much public notice of each other then, but as fate has a way of stirring the lumps together, we ended up as college roomates.

Our friendship was predicated on blind trust, bad habits, despair, and the joys of music, radio, and theatre. We were extroverts, and we jestered for attention in a number of indelicate ways. Without combing the details, we've been in and out of each other's lives for going on 30 years now. To my mother, he was always the miscreant, and to his mother, I was. In truth (bless our mothers' blissful ignorance), we were far worse than any paranoid fiction they might have imagined. We were roommates no fewer than six times, and that's if you don't count couch diving in between. We worked together, road-tripped together, and partied HARD together. We wrote plays (we developed a compulsion for tag-typing dialogue, which actually worked pretty well). We even had a college radio call-in show called Mr. Trivia. We spent a full work week, every week, in the tiny production room at KUCA, cutting and cranking out reel after reel of inspired script comedy. Every Friday night, we would transmit our spewings directly into the airwaves over a small football-field sized area of Conway, Arkansas. We asked questions from a dog-eared trivia book, nervously bantered with our third man (a 9th year senior who had taken us under his wing), and broadcast our recorded comedy skits. We had a few regular listeners, some of which were unfortunate minors. We gave away gift certificates to local restaurants for correctly answered questions, and we merrily slaughtered every rule in the FCC manual. The year of Mr. Trivia was the year I decided to quit my music degree.

During the next couple of decades, our mateship was cemented. I could literally write a giant fat book about everything we did together, and how it has manifested in my successes and failures. I have alternately loved and despised him; no doubt the same is true for him. We now live in different states, and our communication is spotty, but we are still always there for each other. We have both been blessed with truly amazing partners, and have both found our way to our own brand of adulthood. He has remained professionally active in music and theatre, and he just started his new job as Drama instructor for Jacksonville High School back in central Arkansas.

So, cut to this week, when I was included in a mass email from his desk. He recounted with beaming pride that his reader's theater team had won 1st Place in a regional speech competetion. As I read the post, I was immediately transported back to my junior year in high school. I had gotten a late start in the theatre arts, but was lucky enough to attend a school that had a great pool of talent in the faculty and in the student body. I was happily planted in the reader's theater group, only (no doubt) for my ability to project vocally. For those of you who don't know, reader's theater is like choir for drama students. It's a group sport - kinetic, out-loud, loads of laughs, and a great trust builder. Speech competitions are big fun, but are also inherently laden with stress. Most of the stress comes from the debate team, and most of the fun comes from the reader's theater groups. That year, we had a winning team, and a great teacher. So, when my friend recounted that he responded with an involuntary shout as his team was called to the stage, I instantly relived that joy with him. But I also relived all our years of common fears and doubts, and all those insecure, liquor and drug-fueled late night conversations we had about Our Lives and Where We Would End Up. In my eyes, my friend has always had enough talent and vim to make his gifted team's victory seem mundane; even expected. But I am lucky enough to know from whence that joy comes, and I now wish to join my oldest, best friend in a great round "Huzzah!"

I love you, Bob.

No. 1

noreply@blogger.com (nowlookyhere) — Sat, 17 Nov 2007 18:01:00 +0000

This weblog isn't (necessarily) a personal journey, a purging of ideas, a bleeding of valves, or anything more than a cloud of mess. It will certainly be some of the following: a realtime measure of advancing mental fuzz; a shot in the arm to more quickly advancing repetitive stress injury in my hands; the electronic equivalent of morning pages; a virtual dovetail of my disparate interests; a way to mark my different moods pertaining to (mostly) design and music, and undoubtedly other junk which I can't even begin to predict, or may not yet even understand.

Some reference background: I was born singing. I taught myself to play piano by ear, and once I had learned ear training, it was an easier jump to guitar. I sang in choirs, got a half of a music education degree in the early 80's, and subsequently mired my gift in a haze of alcohol and pot smoke for a couple of decades. I learned photography, graphics and illustration, and theatrical design. (I once lived in the attached residence of a small dinner theatre in Little Rock, where I designed and stage managed, and did some untoward things that are known to few, and shall not be revealed here, probably.) I moved from my hometown of North Little Rock, Arkansas to Atlanta, Georgia in 1992. There awaited my destiny - only in order to find it, I had to dig through a pile of distractions that included more jobs in music than I ever had back home, a bunch of girls, a bunch of restaraunt jobs, a couple of near-death experiences, and a few star encounters. The biggest star in my sky became my great love, Debbie. After eight years in the Atl, I followed my star and her Siamese cat, Blue, to the mountains of Colorado. I eloped to Italy, just in time for 9/11. (Wheee!) Having never focused intently on becoming a really great musician, I lost a lot of my musical junk in a pile of other stuff. I began to treat myself to the backlit indulgences of graphic design, and eventually pushed through a degree in Industrial Design. I am currently building a furniture company, and concurrently learning how to be an entreprenuer. I am many things, not the least of which is this - a know-it-all hipster doofus with a BA.

So - these are some of the things about which I may spout: art, design, music, books, travel, dogs & cats, and husband-ness. It will be inconsistent, but it will mean something to me. I will make no attempt to protect the guilty or innocent, except for my family, my wife Debbie, and my great 2nd best friend, Darby (Australian Shepherd). She's here right now, no doubt dreaming of a time when I will finish typing, and take her to the p-a-r-k for some F-r-i-s-b-e-e. I am now of a mind to follow dreams, so here I go.