One Off

A Call for Pen Pals

Matt — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 04:49:06 +0000

Hey blog friends,

As I have mentioned in previous blog posts, I have been very keenly affected with an affliction that I’m calling penophilia. (Which, while only one letter away from pedophilia, is really something completely different.) I have become infatuated with fountain pens, inks, and paper. I have been writing 2-3 letters a week, and I want to write more! I am looking for some pen pals to write good, old-fashioned longhand letters on paper and send them through the mail. Just think of it as retro email.

If you’re interested in doing some mailing back and forth, let me know in the comments below. You don’t have to be someone I know if real life (yet.) If you’d like to get in on the cellulose correspondence, I’m game. It’ll be fun!*

*May not actually be fun, unless you’re a total geek like me and enjoy doing things that most other people believe sound like the height of tedium.

The Bliss of Ignorance

Matt — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 04:22:13 +0000

“We are drowning in information but starved for knowledge.” – John Naisbitt

It was late in the summer of 2012—a standard weekday. My car, which smelled faintly of wet dog and stale fast food, was winding along the lakefront road which I travel each day on my way to work. The radio, into which I have only programmed a single station, was tuned to that very station: NPR.

Almost immediately after pulling out of my apartment complex, the Morning Edition hosts began what was just another in an endless series of stories about the current state of the 2012 Presidential election. During the 15 minute drive to my office, I heard what Romney’s and Obama’s debates over immigration, women’s rights, same-sex marriage, the economy, taxes, health care, and gun rights. I heard a rehashing of President Obama’s first term in office. I heard the opinions of average men and women on the street. I heard polling numbers. I heard state-by-state forecasts of election results. I heard pundits pontificating on what each candidate needed to do in order to win some small segment of the voting population.

I heard a lot of information during that short trip. None of it was new. And certainly none of it was news. Just information. Loads and loads of worthless information.

About three minutes before arriving to work, I heard a particularly ignorant citizen make some comment about the sorry state of the country, or health care, or the free-loading nature of the poor (I don’t remember the specific slight), and I lost my temper. I released a guttural scream, slammed my hands against the steering wheel, then shut off the radio. At that moment, I vowed that I wouldn’t turn on the news again until after the election was over. Turns out: I still haven’t turned the news back on, and it’s been nearly a year.

There was once a time when I truly believed that to expose myself to the wider world of information was a valiant pursuit—that the sheer act of absorbing information would make me more enlightened, more intelligent, more worldly. I believed that the increase in information would make me more tolerant of others, more global in my perspective. And so, imagining myself as some well-read, thoughtful scholar of the world, I devoured information.

Sometimes, the gluttony was purposeful. Others, it was simply happenstance. I would seek out news sites. I subscribed to blogs. I clicked on nearly every article that a Facebook friend or Twitter follower would place on their feed. I read stories about natural childbirth, gay rights, health care, corporate malfeasance, costume and prop making, audiobooks, religion, law, police brutality, poverty, hipster culture, finance, investing, business strategy, politics, and gun control. I read about the wars overseas, and the difficult lives of those on the Saharan subcontinent. I listened to science podcasts, personal finance podcasts, cooking podcasts. I devoured audiobooks on the science of the brain, the processed food industry, and the power of introverts in an extroverted world. I poured over every article about each newly developed technology or new product release.

I truly feasted upon the information of the world. I loved the idea that I could talk knowledgably about a wide variety of topics. With the exception of sports, I can probably carry on at least a surface level conversation about even the most obscure of topics. Because I felt it was my duty as a human to ingest as much of the world’s information as humanly possible. That is, after all, what makes an intelligent, wise, and well-rounded individual, isn’t it?

It wasn’t until just recently, however, that I was able to put my finger on why my pursuit of information was so frustrating to me. Most of the information I had gathered was without a point or frame of reference. It was worthless.

We live in an information age. We are surrounded by information, bombarded by information. As we just saw during this previous week, we have information shoved down our throats 24 hours a day by CNN, MSNBC, and Fox “News.” We have articles cluttering up the internet on the evils of gluten, the danger of having a hospital birth, or the trend of people getting married later and later in life. Never mind whether or not all, or even some, of that information is accurate—it’s information, and that’s all that matters.

But does all of this information, constantly filling our brains, our time, or our lives, actually do us any good? Does that fact that several of my co-workers spent the majority of one day this week streaming live news coverage of the manhunt for the Boston bombers make any difference? What good were the millions of tweets saying “My thoughts are with the people of Boston?” It’s a nice thought, but do you think the people of Boston really know or care that the thoughts of a 34-year-old project manager in Redmond, WA are with them?

I can tell you what temperatures basil plants require before you can safely plant them outdoors. I can tell which brands of paper work best with various fountain pen inks. I can explain what an expander and a gate can do in audio recording. I can teach you how to post-process photos. I understand how to edit your hosts file on your computer. I could walk you, step by step, through what led up to the financial meltdown in 2007 and 2008. I could explain to you that ½ a cup of store-bought spaghetti sauce has the same amount of sugar as 3 Oreo cookies.

What I can’t do is tell you the date of my parents’ anniversary. I couldn’t tell you the birthdays of my nieces and nephew. I couldn’t even tell you the names of 85% of my neighbors. I couldn’t tell you the last time I spoke with some of my dearest friends from earlier in my life.

When I instituted my NPR blackout back in 2012, I spent a lot of time worrying that I was going to become ignorant by missing out on the important events of the world at large. Instead, I had become completely ignorant of the world around me. I was so engrossed by the failure of our congress to act like adults and compromise that I never bothered to realize if my co-workers or neighbors were struggling. I worked so hard at becoming global that I had completely forgotten about local: the sphere in which my efforts actually had the potential to do some good in this world.

The information age is, in many ways, a miraculous age. It is astonishing—the sheer breadth and depth of information that each person has at his or her fingertips. But despite this information, we are not becoming more knowledgeable. And we are certainly not becoming more civilized. A simple scroll through the YouTube comments section of almost any video is enough to demonstrate that. And I would argue that it’s not making us any happier. The age of the social network is not connecting us to people in more personal or intimate ways. Would watching the 24 hour coverage of the Boston bombing help my sister, a stay-at-home mom with a 1-year-old and a special needs 6-year-old, in any way? Would it help her be a better mother, wife, or person in general? Or would it, instead, make her sad, unsettled, and frustrated that the world seems to be falling apart, and there’s nothing she could do about it?

I have come to realize that there is a very big difference between seeking information and seeking knowledge. And I think it’s time we start focusing a little less on the former and a little more on the latter. Information is a pre-requisite to knowledge; you can’t receive knowledge without the informational building blocks. However, information for information’s sake is worthless. Knowledge grants perspective and inspires action, while information simply informs.

These days, I don’t watch the news. I don’t go seeking out tech websites, or news feeds. I never listen to NPR. I don’t know (or care) what the federal government is up to at the moment about our budget or debt ceiling. And it’s been fascinating how much my perspective has shifted. For instance, while the Boston bombing was a sad event in which a few people lost their lives, on that same day in Iraq, 27 people were killed and hundreds more injured in a whole variety of explosions across the country. Knowing this information doesn’t help me in any way. Frankly, I’d prefer not to know. I couldn’t have stopped either event, I can’t do anything to fix either event, and so all I can do is live under the false impression that the whole world is going to hell, when really, these sorts of events go on around the world, and have for centuries. Knowing all the bad things that have always happened doesn’t mean that they’re happening more often. It simply means that you know about it.

So, rather than spend my day glued to the television, watching minute by minute as CNN reporters kept giving us bad information in the name of being the first to deliver news, I helped a neighbor carry a heavy piece of furniture. I wrote a letter to my grandmother who lives in a nursing home in Ohio, and I chatted with a friend who had a rough day of her own.

I don’t say this to toot my own horn, but to prove a point: had I chosen to rush home, flip on the TV, and watch CNN’s coverage of the bombing manhunt, I would have gathered more information about a part of the world 3500 miles away, for which I could do nothing. I would have been able to discuss the situation with my co-workers the next day. But instead, I actually tried to make a small impact on the portion of the world in which I can have some impact.

And to me, that’s knowledge. Information is just information. But knowledge is information that you can use. And if that means that I remain a little more ignorant of the greater world, that’s okay. I’d rather try to make a difference where trying will, in fact, make a difference.

A Love Letter To Seattle: 6 Years Later

Matt — Tue, 26 Mar 2013 05:44:50 +0000

On March 25^th, 2007, at 8:30PM, I pulled my nine-month-old Honda Civic to a stop on the corner of 12^th Ave and 62^nd street in the University District of Seattle. I creakily climbed out of the front bucket seat, stretched, and then reached into the back seat to snap the leash onto the collar of my six-month-old Golden Retriever puppy, who has just spent the last 14 hours wired like a cocaine junky, panting, and drooling on my shoulder. Early that morning, my roommate, Tom, and I had finished packing the last few of our things into the U-Haul Truck, and had driven the mind-numbing journey through Utah, Idaho, Oregon, and Washington to arrive at his old, and my new, home.

It was only my second time in Seattle. The first had been a few scant weeks earlier, when he and I had made the drive from Provo to Seattle so I could visit the area and determine whether or not I wanted to move there. To be fair, my first impression of the place was not particularly favorable. It was early March, which meant that it rained the entire time I was here. The city seemed old and cramped, particularly when compared to the wide-open spaces and always-new construction of the expanding megalopolis of the Wasatch Valley.

Nevertheless, Tom was going to be moving out of Utah and returning to Seattle in a few weeks. (This move would prove to be very beneficial for him, as shortly after returning to Seattle, he got married, and now has two children). I was in a strange place in my life. I had stopped teaching voice at BYU, I had retired from performing after realizing that I wasn’t able to handle the lifestyle of an actor. (I can handle constant rejection, criticism, and scrutiny…but only if I’m well paid for the abuse.) I had blown my gasket at a friend and boss with whom I had started a company, quitting in as melodramatic and disrespectful a manner as I could conjure. I was broke, I had declared bankruptcy only one year earlier, and I was really, really unhappy. I knew I needed a change, and I figured that perhaps a move to Seattle would be as good a change as any.

(Plus there was the matter of some ludicrously misplaced affection on my part, but we’re glossing over that part of the story these days…)

When I arrived in Seattle, I had no job. I had no prospects. I had no money. I was living in the spare bedroom of Tom’s parents’ house. They were complete and total saints, allowing me to eat their food, and even paying for the storage unit that I couldn’t afford. They let me bring a puppy into their house. They even bought me a vacuum cleaner when I moved into my brand new apartment in Redmond, on the shore of Lake Sammamish.

As of today, I have spent six years in the Greater Seattle area. It is the longest I have ever continuously lived in a single location since the day I graduated High School back in 1996. And more importantly, it is home.

I have grown to love Seattle. I love the craftsman architecture. I love the water. I love the greenery. I love the never-ending flowers. I love the dog park, and Pike Place market, and my tap class, and the malls, and the movie theaters. I love the technology industry and the high standard of living that it provides.

But most of all, I love the people. In my six years here, I haven’t made any super-close friends. (Quite on the contrary…I’ve managed to mangle a couple of formerly-close friendships. But that’s another post.) But despite the fact that I haven’t met my soul mate, I have met a lot of truly wonderful, truly open, and truly accepting people. Despite living in an apartment complex with a high turnover rate, I feel as though I have found a community, a neighborhood. I know most of my neighbors. I enjoy my co-workers greatly. And most importantly, I feel accepted.

That feeling of acceptance is something that I don’t know that I had ever felt, anywhere else I have ever lived. Part of it is because of the person I became when I moved to Seattle. But a large part of it is also the people whose casual and unconcerned attitude about others’ choices granted me the courage to become that person. The pace of this place has helped to shape my personality, my passions, and my outlook.

I love having a place where everyone wants to come to visit, instead of a place that people feel like they have to come to visit. I love being in a place where there is almost never snow, and where the summers are so glorious they truly exist in a sphere beyond explanation. I love the fact that I can see greenery year round, that flowers sprout up spontaneously on every corner, and that the Rhododendron bushes are more like Rhododendron trees. (Seriously…it’s crazy.)

I love sitting on the dock as the sun sets, watching the herons and bald eagles floating lazily over the lake then taking a short 5-minute drive to a posh dine-in movie theater or fine dining restaurant. I love wandering the paths of the Marymoor dog park with the best golden retriever alive, and watching the model airplanes performing acrobatics in the distance.

I love that I work with people who came here from France, India, China, Japan, Vietnam, Russia, and Texas. (Seriously, though…Texas really is another country.) I love that everyone here has a dog, and more importantly, they all realize that dogs shouldn’t just be thrown on a chain out in the back yard.

I love the sometimes-infuriating nanny state that thinks it’s okay for gays to marry and for people to smoke marijuana, but who have outlawed trans fats and plastic silverware. I love Pike Place market, where I can go to feed my pen obsession, my flower obsession, and my fried lumps of dough obsession.

Seattle, more than any place I have ever lived is where I belong. And, with the possible exception of New York City, it is the only place I could ever imagine choosing to live for the rest of my life. I am grateful every day that, back in January of 2007, Tom finally had enough and decided to move back to Seattle. I’m grateful that, even though I really didn’t like Seattle the first time I came, that I came anyway. I’m grateful that I went through the hard times and the loneliness. I’m grateful I found a place that would foster the courage and acceptance I needed to be myself. And more than anything else, I am grateful that I found a place I can proudly call my home.

Wells of Knowledge

Matt — Wed, 20 Mar 2013 06:14:14 +0000

“Well, I should not have thought it strange
That growing causes growing pains
‘Cause the more we learn, the more we know
We don’t know anything.”

-From the song “Reaching” by Carolyn Arends

A month ago, I wandered my way through the massive crowds at the Pike Place market on a Saturday afternoon in an effort to find one little stand. It’s a stand I had been to several times before, and it’s right in the middle of the market, surrounded by the random assortment of things you can only find at an outdoor(ish) market like Pike Place. It was the booth of the Market Penmaker, and I was on a mission. I wanted a fountain pen.

I spent 15 minutes perusing the pens, and found the one that I wanted. I paid a fair bit of money for the very pretty writing utensil, and took it home, wondering what I was going to do with this $80 pen I had just purchased. Other than look at it and wonder why I had purchased an $80 pen when I never write anything by hand, that is. Eventually, I started journaling and letter-writing (which I have chronicled here in my hilariously titled—if I say so myself—blog post, Diary-uh. Ah, poop jokes. They never get old.)

The writing desk I have set up in my room…all thanks to the pens.

After a week or so, though, I was starting to find myself disappointed in the pen. It was beautiful, but I was having problems writing with it. It would work really well for the first 3-4 minutes I was writing, but then the ink would stop flowing. It would skip for the first stroke or two of the pen, leaving no ink on the paper at all. I was getting frustrated. Any pen that cost that much money should work a little better, I thought.

So, I went online, and what I found astonished me. I wanted to get a fountain pen because my dad is a big fan of them, and they have always intrigued me. I like the old-timey vibe I get from them. And let’s be honest: I just like nice things. But when I started searching for information about why my pen might be misbehaving, I stumbled into this entire world of fountain pen people. I felt like Christopher Columbus, discovering a new world…that a whole bunch of people already knew about. The depth of the knowledge around fountain pens was astonishing, and I was sucked in almost immediately.

Different pen types, different filling mechanisms, different nib widths, materials, and formats, different inks in every color of the rainbow, and different kinds of papers. The amount of time, thought, and money that some people put into using their pens is staggering and, quite frankly, fascinating. I stumbled across http://inknouveau.com, a blog about fountain pens, with dozens (if not hundreds) of hours of video reviews of everything from $300 pens to $5 notebooks, and everything in between. I spent hours and hours on that site and others, pouring over videos, reviews, and products. I found myself lusting after, longing for these writing utensils that, two weeks previously, I had never give more than just a passing thought.

Over the next two weeks, I ended up purchasing another pen, two new fine-point nibs, a converter that allows me to fill my pen from an inkwell instead of using cartridges, a large bottle of ink, four pads of Clairefontaine writing paper for letters (along with the matching envelopes), and two journals/notebooks, one from Rhodia and the other from Quo Vadis. My curiosity has not even remotely been sated, but my pocketbook will not allow further exploration at this point.

While I realize that geeking out about fountain pens, of all things, speaks volumes about the nature of my personality, the main reason I tell this story is not because I want to share my new-found habit of fountain pens and writing, but because I have recently been struck by an epiphany about the nature of the world in which we live.

I bought a fountain pen because they intrigue me, and because in many ways, I want to be just like my dad. But once I took one step into this unfamiliar world, I discovered a chasm of knowledge and experience, both far deeper and wider than I ever expected for a writing utensil that has barely changed in the last 150 years.

The epiphany, however, was a realization about how common the experience of discovering a whole new world of knowledge can be. It has happened to me several times in just the last year. I cancelled my cable television service a couple of months ago, and have largely run out of things to watch that I can keep on in the background. One day, out of sheer boredom, I booted up Hulu and the show Project Runway was on the front page. Not having anything else to watch, I decided to give it a go. And while I am exceptionally tired of the worn-out tropes of “reality” television, I was completely engaged by the process of designing clothing.

Once upon a time, I liked dressing well. I cared a bit about the clothes I purchased and wore. (As I’ve gotten fatter, that has become less true). I have even done a bit of sewing in my day, making myself a button-up shirt. But I truly had no insight in the process of designing clothes, making patterns, fabric selection, or the things that those in the fashion industry look at and judge to determine whether something is good or not. And as I watched, I would often recognize something as being good, but would rarely be able to articulate why, only to have the judges critique an outfit in such a way that it perfectly articulated what I was feeling subconsciously.

Getting into audiobook market brought about another epiphany, and a new adventure into a heretofore untraveled world. After all, how hard can it be? You stand in a booth and read a book into a microphone. Then you sell the recording. Easy, right? So, so, so very wrong. Recording an audiobook well is exceptionally hard: Pacing, breathing, mouth sounds, editing, distribution, marketing, pricing. The marketplace for audiobooks is exceptionally complex, and it’s always changing.

I have a buddy who quit his job at Microsoft to become a full-time prop and costume maker, usually making physical versions of the weapons or armor one might find in a videogame. And he’s amazing. (You can find his stuff at http://punishedprops.com). He is going to Comicon, DragonCon, Pax, and other conventions around the country. He’s been invited to sit in on panels about prop building and cosplaying. It’s been fantastic to watch his fame in the community shoot through the roof. And while I am envious of his artistic skill, I am more envious of all the knowledge he has gathered as part of this job, and the way he gets to use and share his knowledge. I follow his progress on the current props, read all of his blog posts about his process, and try to soak up all the knowledge. I’ve been so intrigued by it all that I’ve even toyed around with the idea of beginning to do my own costumes and props. I don’t have the talent or even the desire to do it, really, but the idea of all that deep, relatively obscure knowledge just draws me in.

Over and over again in my life, I have stumbled across these little islands of knowledge in the world that pique my curiosity. Finding these hidden treasure troves of depth is one of the driving forces in my life. I suppose you could call it a deeply ingrained sense of curiosity. Simply discovering the fringes of one of these knowledge wells in the world is enough to send me diving in headfirst. Songwriting, theatre lighting, acting, dance, painting, gardening, web design, computer programming, photography, weight lifting, sewing, writing, learning languages, video games—I am constantly fascinated by the world, and the wide vista of knowledge it has to share.

This fascination with acquiring knowledge and experience may not have led me to the pinnacle of any one particular field, but it has provided me with an exceptionally diverse and varied life. The deeper knowledge that I have acquired has opened countless doors for me, has allowed me the opportunity (and in many cases, the ability) to converse with people with whom I would have nothing else to discuss otherwise. Not to mention the sense of excitement and wonder I feel when I stumble into some new knowledgebase. Simply the act of discovering something new can be intoxicating.

I know many people who don’t share this sense of curiosity or wonder with the world. They are content to experience what they know, and feel uncomfortable reaching beyond the limits of their well-travelled world. They are more concerned with failing, with making mistakes, or looking foolish, than with ever feeling as though their mental horizons have been expanded. While I can certainly respect that, I don’t even remotely understand it. How can you not want to know absolutely everything about absolutely everything?

I am grateful that I was have/was given this intense sense of curiosity, and that I am able to derive so much enjoyment from learning that Noodler’s Green ink in a TWSBI 700 Vac pen on Clairefontaine paper writes pretty wet. Or that an expander can help reduce some of the ambient noise in the silences on the audio channel. Or how to program slack into a development project timeline. Or the most common chord progressions that will help you change keys. Or what the sound difference is between a Teletone tap or a Teletone II tap. Or how the Maillard reaction helps to enhance the flavor of food. Or which seeds should be planted in March in the Pacific Northwest. Or how to modulate your vowels to belt a high E. Or how to write a Javascript function to resort a table on demand.

Most of all, I’m grateful that this constant acquisition of new knowledge has given me a wider, and I hope more accepting, view of the world. Constantly opening new doors of knowledge has done one thing better than anything else: It’s shown me that the more I learn, the more I know I don’t know anything.

Diary-uh

Matt — Wed, 06 Mar 2013 07:55:36 +0000

In most religions, there is a "do" list, and a "don't do" list. The Mormon church is no different. The "don't do" list includes things like murder, stealing, sex, coffee, drinking, dating before the age of 16, etc. The "do" list is, by comparison, infinitely more vast: pray, read your scriptures, pay tithing, fast regularly, attend the temple, attend church, serve others, create a food storage, etc.

One of the "do" items that shows up the most often, but doesn't usually get paid much attention, is the oft-repeated exhortation to keep a journal. I remember being taught over and over again throughout my formative years that keeping a journal was very important. The "why" was often framed in very grandiose tones centered around leaving a legacy to those who come after you, and as a means by which you could bear your testimony of the gospel to the generations yet to come. It was often said that the journals of the church leaders offered us much insight into their struggles and personal trials. Pretty heady and important stuff.

I got my first journal when I turned 8 years old. It's was a very small, white book. I'm pretty sure that it is sitting in a plastic tote in my parent's garage, with about 90% of the pages blank.

My second journal, I purchased (or received…I don't remember) right before I left on a mission. It was a beautiful, full-sized, hard-cover book, bound in brown leather, and with my name embossed on the cover. It had a bright yellow ribbon connected to the spine to help me keep my place. I think that one is sitting in a plastic tote in my storage closet, with about 95% of the pages empty.

Back around the end of my college career, my therapist at the time decided that it would behoove me to start keeping a journal of the exercises we were doing as part of some cognitive therapy. (It was part of that whole "cure the gay" thing I did back then.) I didn't want to keep that information in my nice, fancy-bound journal, so instead I went out and bought a cheap journal/notebook from Barnes and Noble. It was a red, wire-bound book, about the size of a large paperback, with a pastoral scene printed on the front cover and an Irish proverb superimposed on the top. I mainly got it because, with the wire binding, the journal would lay flat, unlike my bound journals. It was sitting on the bookshelf in my living room, with about 90% of the pages empty.

See, I always have the best of intentions when it comes to journaling. My upbringing taught me to believe that journaling was a way to leave a record of your life and times behind you when you passed away. It was a record of your personal spirituality and growth–an instruction manual and map by which your progeny could be led to a better life and salvation. The only problem with that is that it places a great deal of pressure on the act of keeping a journal. You're always writing with an audience in mind. You end up censoring yourself, and editing your writing while you're doing it. It just taints the entire process for me. It's one of the reasons why I start journaling, and then stop three entries later.

Right before Christmas, I was asked by my mother to run to Pike Place Market to get a Christmas gift for my dad. At Pike Place, there is a gentleman named Barry, who sells hand-turned wooden pens and pencils. He uses only the best wood, and he's a true craftsman. My dad loves fine writing utensils, and bought one of Barry's pens on his first trip to Seattle back in 2007. Since then, every time one of my parents come to visit me, and we stop by Pike Place, we always pay a visit to Barry. Mom wanted to get dad a pen for Christmas, so I went to Pike Place and purchased a beautiful walnut fountain pen. It really was gorgeous. And I lusted after it.

Since then, Barry's pens had been on my mind. So, after tap class a few weeks ago, I finally broke down and went to visit Barry on my own behalf. That is where I purchased this:

This stunning little piece of hardware is my very first fountain pen. I stood before the dozens of pens, and was drawn to the wood of this pen. Those who know me would be unsurprised to find that I just happened to be drawn to the single most expensive pen that Barry sells. They don't have price tags on each pen, so there was no way I could have known that up front. It's just the one that caught my eye. The pen is made from Amboyna Burl from Thailand. This wood was once used in the dashboards of Bentleys and Rolls Royces, from what I have been told.

Buying a fountain pen for me really was a stupid financial move. The pen ended up being around $80, which isn't a lot, but I NEVER use pens to write. I type everything. I can type a blistering 90 words per minute when I get on a roll. Writing by hand is painfully slow by comparison. I don't even use a pen to take notes; I have an iPad for that. The only thing I use a pen for is to sign the checks that I send out once a quarter for Open Book Audio. Pretty silly to spent $80 on a pen I would use once every three months. But when i get a wild hair to buy something like this, it's usually just better that I buy it and get it over with. Otherwise I'll be obsessing over it for a long time, and when I finally crack, I will end up buying three of them instead of one.

In any case, I had this fancy new pen (which, incidentally, exploded on the very first day I started carrying it around, and ruined a pair of jeans) and no place to use it. While all of this was going on, I was also doing some research on another problem that had plagued me most of my life: an inability to sleep well.

I have always been a light sleeper. Rather than setting an alarm to wake me up every morning for early morning seminary, my mom or dad would set their own alarm and then come wake me up, so as not to wake up my brother, with whom I shared a room. (Fat chance of that…you LITERALLY couldn't wake him up by dragging him down the stairs in a sleeping bag. I know. We tried.) Even during my teenage years, when people are supposed to sleep a lot, I would sleep so lightly that the sound of my parents walking down the hallway would awaken me, and I would be sitting up in bed by the time they came to wake me up. I have never slept well.

These last few years, it's gotten really bad. I'm fairly certain it's a combination of my terrible diet, my natural tendency toward light sleep, the fact that I've got an 85 pound dog jumping on and off my bed during the night, and my own propensity let my mind start wandering in vicious cycles of self-doubt, angst, and woe-is-me-isms at the end of the day.

Doing some research, I have learned that some of the things you should do to improve your sleep include:

Turning off the lights (especially flourescent and daylight-balanced bulbs) toward the end of the day.
Try not to eat after 7 or 8 in the evening.
Don't read in bed (and some say don't read at all right before bed…gets the mind all wound up.)
Turn off all computer monitors, televisions screens, and other electronic devices about 30 minutes before bed.

That last one was the one that vexed me the most. 30 minutes with no screens or electronics? What the hell was I supposed to do for 30 minutes without that stuff on, in the dark, without reading or eating? Meditate? P'shaw. Like that's going to happen. So, I figured that every night at 11:30, the computers, televisions, iPads, and phones go off. The lights get turned down, and I would spent 15-30 minutes writing in my journal. With my fancy new pen.

First, I set up a little writing desk in my bedroom that had been sitting, unused, in my studio. I pulled one of my dining room chairs in there, and put a family picture and a little writing lamp on the desk, and that's it. Then, I pulled out my red, wire-bound journal (I really hate it when my journals don't lay flat), and started writing.

Y'all: It has changed my life.

It has been two weeks since I started this little experiment. I have not missed a single night, although there have been a couple of nights where I just put a bulleted list of all the things I did during the day. Other times, I just let my mind wander, and have a pretty good conversation with myself. Ocassionally, I relate stories from the day. I have even posted a recipe or two, or put in little snippets of lyrics that I've been working on. I didn't try to write with an audience in mind. I don't care what I write, because I don't care if anyone ever sees it. I'm use it as a brain dump for the day, to empty my mind of the hustle and bustle. And the slow, methodical act of writing out longhand actually seems to slow down my heart rate, keeps my mind from racing, and sets a slow, deliberate tone to the last 30 minutes of the day. Then, when I'm done, brush my teeth, and change into my bedclothes (AKA the emperor's new clothes). Then I go to sleep. Almost immediately. And I sleep through the night. And I wake up refreshed. It's amazing.

It's only been two weeks, but already, I am finding myself drawn back to the entries I make each day. I remember things I had forgotten, or end up playing some strange association game where one item reminds me of another. It gives me perspective.

You know, when you think of great leaders, whether they be political, religious, or otherwise, who kept journals, it's easy to assume that each and every entry was a work of art, filled with brilliant prose which bespeaks their greatness. But in reality, the likelihood is that the great majority of their entries are just as dull and monotonous as mine. The beautiful writing and brilliant insights can't come through, though, if you never write anything down.

I have to say, I have really taken to keeping a journal. It has been a wonderful experience for me. My little red journal is just about full. Give me another week or two, I think. Then I'm going to have to move on to a new journal. Maybe I can find a slightly nicer journal that will lay flat as well. I have already had to stock up on ink. I managed to speed through the first ink cartridge in just over two weeks for all my writing. And I'm sleeping better than I have since I was a child.

Plus, I now have an excuse to use my fancy new pen.

New Song: Some Days

Matt — Sat, 23 Feb 2013 00:25:16 +0000

Anyone who knows me, even in the most cursory fashion, is likely aware that I spend a majority of my day on the Internet. I love the Internet. I have since before the web had graphics. (Anyone remember Gopher?) I love the vast stores of information, both relevant and trivial, that are available to me free of charge, with only a few taps on a keyboard. I use YouTube to learn new skills all the time. I use it for my entertainment, and for most of my social interactions. Even my Masters’ degree was completed entirely on the Internet.

One of the things that I love most about the Internet, though, is the ability it provides people to gather on issues and topics that are important to them. Support groups, editorial columns, discussion boards…all valuable resources. I can see what my friends are concerned about, what they believe in, what their hopes are, and their ideas about how they can achieve them. The transparency and availability of information on the Internet can heighten discussion by providing insight and a varying perspectives.

The Internet, as wonderful a tool as it is, also has a negative side for me: The trolls, haters, and most importantly, the fear-mongerers. The trolls have always been a part of Internet life. There’s something about the relative anonymity of online interactions that assassinates all sense of decorum, sensitivity, or even decency for some people. But it feels as though, over the last couple of years, this phenomenon of haters has expanded. As the Internet becomes more pervasive, people have started using the ‘net, not as a means of expanding horizons, increasing enlightenment, and seeking truth, but instead as a means of finding the most echo-y of echo chambers.

As I’ve watched the nature of the Internet change over the last two decades, I have noticed that many people have now spend their time online seeking out only those outlets that will reinforce and strengthen their existing beliefs in a never-ending circle of increasing closed-mindedness. The quest for new knowledge, especially true knowledge, is utterly unimportant to an increasing number of Internet users, who instead are interested only being told that their beliefs are the right ones.

Taking up residence in an informational echo chamber has a few side-effects, though. It actually narrows your horizons, obscures your information field of view, stifles thoughtful and intelligent discussion, and breeds an intense intolerance for anyone who doesn’t believe exactly the way you do. All of these things lead to what I consider to be the single-greatest downfall of the self-reinforcing point of view: irrational fear.

Within an echo chamber, anything that contradicts your beliefs gets repeated and magnified into a cataclysmic event that foreshadows the end of everything you hold dear. Any small slight, any misspoken word, and conflicting thought: they are the signal a coming apocalypse. That fear, so often based in fantasy and exaggeration rather than in truth, causes people to do and say things that they would not often say or do. Especially face-to-face, in real life.

For instance: The day after the 2012 US Presidential Elections, I logged into Facebook as I usually do each morning before work. As I was scrolling through my feed, I came across this post, by a young woman with whom I attended church during my teenage years. (This is paraphrased. I don’t have access to the original post for reasons that will become clear in just a moment.)

“I feel sick to my stomach. I can’t believe that Obama got re-elected again. What he’s doing to this country is criminal.”

This, of course, was not a unique sentiment amongst many that I have “friended” on Facebook. For most of my life, I associated with people who would be considered extremely conservative. After Obama was re-elected, there was a great deal of hand-wringing, and “end of the world” talk. People had delved so deeply into their own echo chambers that they truly, truly believed that Obama being re-elected for a second term would be the worst possible thing that could happen to the world. Many expressed the belief that it was a harbinger of the end of times…and no amount of reason, no pile of facts, no reasonable discussion would cause them even to consider a different standpoint.

I’ll interrupt my narrative here to say that I think getting that up-in-arms over a presidential election is ridiculous. I loathed George Bush as a president. I believe he was uniquely unqualified to lead this country, and I also believe that many of the economic woes with which we struggle now were caused by policies that he put in place. However, even while he was president, I understood that his presidency was not the end of the world, nor would it last forever. Nor do I believe that Obama has been a Savior of all things America. He’s done some good things, some bad things. But he’s just a man with a limited amount of time to try and drive policies. In a few years, it will be someone else’s turn. One man getting elected over another is not the end of all that is good and holy in this world.

In any case, after my friend posted this status update on her timeline, one of her friends left this comment:

“I know. We just need the KKK to rise up and take back our country for us.”

WHOA! What? You didn’t like the fact that Obama wins a fairly-run, legal election , and as a result, you invoke the name of a widely-loathed hate group to storm the White House, and hang our “nigger” president and his family from a branch of the nearest tree while you burn crosses on the lawn of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue? Because, realize it or not, that’s just what you did.

This young woman, a pretty, blond, petite girl based on her profile picture, was so upset by the election of someone who she had been told was bad for the country, that she decided the best way to deal with it was to post, essentially, hate speech on Facebook for all the world to see. The direct result of fear-mongering.

I was, to put it bluntly, not pleased. In my worldview, there is never call for such a level of hate. I responded:

“WHOA! Really? You didn’t like who got elected, so you’re going to call the KKK in? You should be ashamed of yourself. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you, but that comment is completely unacceptable. I would be willing to bet that you call yourself of a Christian. I highly suggest that you do a little bit of reading on the life and teachings of Jesus Christ before you do so again. I make it a point not to speak for Jesus, since, you know, I’m not perfect or anything. But I would be willing to bet that, were he here right now, He’d not be all that pleased with you for saying something so hateful. It goes against pretty much everything He ever taught.”

Far from allowing the anonymity of the Internet to grant me bravery, I wished I could have expressed my anger in person, to help her understand how utterly inappropriate such a comment was. I soon realized, however, that attempting to shame her into self-reflection was a futile task. After a few more exchanges, I eventually unfriended and blocked my former friend, so I no longer had to see her posts or the posts of her friends. I found the whole experience solidified a feeling or mood that I had been struggling against…this mood of apocalyptic fear.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve noticed that far too many people base their decisions around fear. Fear was (and frankly, still is) at the center of the Republic Party platform for this last election. “If we allow immigrants, they’ll take our jobs. If we regulate assault rifles, it’ll be a slippery slope to banning all guns. If we don’t repeal Obamacare, the economy will collapse.” It seemed like a never-ending cavalcade of “If we don’t (fill in the blank with some political agenda item) then (fill in the blank with some catastrophic outcome.”

It’s precisely this incessant fear-mongering that is causing so many young people to flee conservative politics. Nobody wants to live their lives, especially those just starting out their lives, assuming the worst will happen. Fear is being used as a motivational tool. (See this infuriating Stake Conference talk that has been circulating around the internet lately…a supreme example of fear-mongering.) Fear is being used as a marketing tool. Fear guides the emotions and actions of too many people. It is everywhere.

I have lived a lot of my life based around fear. Fear of being broke, fear of being “found out,” fear of being fired, fear of being rejected, fear of being injured, fear of dying alone, fear of being too fat. It’s exhausting. And here’s the thing: it’s completely unnecessary.

Living in a state of fear is a terrible way to live because fear and hope cannot co-exist. If you’re afraid of what might happen, you can’t hope for something wonderful to happen.

A couple of years ago, I made a conscious decision that it was time for me to live based on hope, and not on fear. Hope that I would find the right someone with whom I could share my life instead of fear I would die alone. Hope that my company would begin to take off instead of fear that someone would sneak in to compete with us and drive us out of business. Hope that I would actually pay off my debts instead of fear that I would never be free.

I’m not perfect at it. I still have moments of fear. There are days where the fear of having to put my dog to sleep when he gets older almost overwhelms my ability to enjoy his presence now. There are days where I look at my bank statement and get that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach where I don’t know how I’m going to pay all of my bills. I still see an attractive person on the street and worry that I’ll never be able to find someone to whom I am attracted. But if I allow those feelings of fear to take root in my life, they end up paralyzing me. I’ve lived like that. Well..inasmuch as living like that is not really living.

Which leads me to my newest song recording. Entitled Some Days, this song was written by Steve Marzullo, using the poem Some days (For Paula) by James Baldwin as the source material. For someone who is trying to move past living in fear or anger, these lyrics speak to me.

‘Some days (For Paula)’
James Baldwin
Jimmy’s Blue’s: Selected Poems (pp. 45-47)

Some days worry
some days glad
some days
more than make you
mad.
Some days,
some days, more than
shine:
when you see what’s coming
on down the line!

Some days you say,
oh, not me never–!
Some days you say
bless God forever.
Some days, you say,
curse God, and die
and the day comes when you wrestle
with that lie.
Some days tussle
then some days groan
and some days
don’t even leave a bone.
Some days you hassle
all alone.

I don’t know, sister,
what I’m saying,
nor do no man,
if he don’t be praying.
I know that love is the only answer
and the tight-rope lover
the only dancer.
When the lover come off the rope

today,
the net which holds him
is how we pray,
and not to God’s unknown,
but to each other– :
the falling mortal is our brother!

Some days leave
some days grieve
some days you almost don’t believe.
Some days believe you
and you won’t.
Some days worry
some days mad
some days more than make you glad.
Some days, some days,
more than shine,
witnesses,
coming on down the line!

What I love most about this is that, despite the fear, the failures, the worry, the anger, looking ahead always causes the light to shine. It’s a little sappy, yes, but it should be true. We will all have good days and bad. We will all have moments of fear and moments of hope. There will always be elected officials who espouse ideals in which we don’t agree, and elected officials who we support wholeheartedly. But the real truth is: It will be okay. You have power over your own destiny. The world is almost never as catastrophic as echo-chamber fear would lead you believe. The real key is to treat others with love, respect, and kindness. Because regardless of who’s in office, how angry you are, or how lonely you are, the future takes care of itself if we treat each other with love.

I first heard this song on Andrea Burns’ album A Deeper Shade of Red. Andrea is a well-known Broadway performer. She performs on a couple of my favorite cast albums, Songs for a New World by Jason Robert Brown and It’s Only Life by John Bucchino. Her performance of the song is very good, and pulled me in immediately.

It turns out, though, that the more well-known version of this song is performed by the incredible Audra McDonald. She has used this song to close her concerts, and sang it regularly during the presidency of George W. Bush as a gentle “protest” song . (Ostensibly reinforcing the message that, “It will get better.”) According to another YouTube video of Audra performing Some days, the music was written by Steve Marzullo, who was a pianist in the pit orchestra for the musical Ragtime, for which Audra won a Tony award. He also happened to be her neighbor.

Those of you who are familiar with my theater performance history know that I was in Ragtime back in 2005. It was, by a significant margin, the single greatest theatrical experience of my life. Beautiful music, a beautiful book, a wonderful cast, a great director, choreographer, and music director, a role that I loved, and two of the greatest songs I ever had the opportunity to sing on stage. If that production of Ragtime was still running, I’d still be acting for a living. I could have continued doing that show for the rest of my life. The connection between Some Days and Ragtime made this song even more potent for me.

There isn’t sheet music for this song that I can find, so I transcribed it from Andrea’s recording, and then transposed it into a key that better fits my range. The recording process was a little tricky. I knew that, for this song, I wanted to do something a little more “produced” than I usually do, so I asked my neighbor, Tseno, to come and record the video for me. He’s a very accomplished photographer (and a constant reminder to me that you don’t always need the latest and greatest equipment to do very good work.) I recorded a piano scratch track to a click, then Tseno came over and we did seven takes of me playing the piano to the click. Once that was done, we recorded three takes of vocals with up to three different cameras simultaneously.

Then Tseno took all the footage and cut it together for the video. I used his rough edit to cut together my audio. (I couldn’t have the piano part from take 4 playing over the video for take 7, for instance—the audio and video wouldn’t be in sync.) When I finished my audio edit, he took the footage to finish color correction and clean up the editing a bit, and I went to work on the audio.

While he was doing that, I smoothed out my edits on the vocals and piano, then I orchestrated the entire thing in Pro Tools using Native Instruments Kontakt. Once that was done, I spent a few days trying to mix the audio. This one was really tricky for me. Getting all of the instruments to play together nicely while not overpowering the voice was not easy…and I’m not sure I ever really succeeded. I actually ended up mixing it three times before I got something I was okay with.

Then we combined the finshed audio and the finished video, and that’s what you see above.

I hope you enjoy this one. I’m pretty proud of the way it turned out.

And remember, some days are good, some are bad. So don’t live with fear; live with hope.

Fly Like an Eagle Scout

Matt — Tue, 05 Feb 2013 07:56:38 +0000

A scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent.

The sentence above is known as “The Boy Scout Law.” And it was part of the ceremonies in which I participated during every scout gathering from the day I turned 12 years old until I turned 18. Even now, at the age of 34, I am able to quote it from memory.

I joined the Boy Scouts at the age of 12, like nearly all Mormon young men in the US. My troop, Troop 338, was sponsored by the Albion and Jackson wards of the Mormon Church. In those days, Boy Scouts was the activity arm of the young men’s program for the church. I don’t know if that has changed since. Joining the Boy Scouts, while not considered as sacred, was as much a rite of passage as being ordained to the office of Deacon, going to the temple to do baptisms for the dead, or passing the Sacrament for the first time.

Once among the ranks of the scouts, my friends and I worked our way toward Eagle Scout. Achieving Eagle Scout was so important to most of my friends’ parents that they weren’t even allowed to get their drivers’ licenses until they had earned the Eagle. My parents, thankfully, weren’t that insistent, but nevertheless, I wanted to earn it too (and did, about a month before my 18^th birthday).

For years, I went on campouts once a month. I went to summer camp for a week every summer. I earned my BSA lifeguard certification. I even spent a year fundraising so I could afford to attend the Boy Scout Jamboree…a major scouting gathering where 35,000 boy scouts descended on Fort AP Hill, Virginia for the mother of all campouts.

Boy Scouts, in many ways, shaped my definition of what it means to be a man. And, because the Scouts were tied in so closely with the church, it also helped to shape my definition of what it means to be a man in the church. I had wonderful scout leaders—dedicated men who gave up insane amounts of their time to teach and lead the 20-some young men of our troop. My father was my scoutmaster for a while. There were several others as well, including a couple of men named, and I’m not kidding you, Val Crow and Ray Paholick. (Say them out loud, quickly.)

My scoutmasters were the same men who taught the early morning seminary classes that I attended ever weekday for four years of high school. They were the same men who taught my Priesthood classes every Sunday. These were my church leaders, my role models, my chaperones, my parents’ friends, and were tightly interwoven into the tapestry of my formative years.

My scout leaders taught me how to think my way through problems, how to be prepared, how to laugh, how to work with others, how to survive in tough situations, how to sacrifice time, money, and energy. They taught me how to give of myself to others, and they taught me how important it is for each of us to have positive role models. On the whole, they were a group of wonderful, loving, big-hearted men who would just as easily shed tears when bearing their testimonies as laugh riotously at a good joke or talk trash over some silly competition.

Despite having waxed rhapsodic over scouting and my leaders, however, my memories of my time in scouting are tinged with a bitter aftertaste and more than a little regret. Certainly, there are moments and memories that I hold close. There were friendships formed during those activities and outings that, although they have faded into the past as so many friendships do, still remain precious to me. And, of course, I have more than my fair share of funny stories from the late-night snipe hunts, the bad jokes, and the youthful mistakes that follow any group of adolescent men.

I was 13 or 14 when I began to understand that I was gay. I couldn’t have put it in those exact words, but I could see that I was starting to head down a different path than most of my friends. I wasn’t infatuated with girls. I couldn’t care less about the incessant basketball games that they played in the church Cultural Hall after our meetings. I began to grow supremely uncomfortable with the jocular teasing and roughhousing that always happens when you get a bunch of guys together. I started becoming more interested in performing, and musicals. I would sit alone in the chapel and play music while my fellow scouts threw the basketball around. As someone who never really “fit in” all that well, I was beginning to feel even more alienated than usual.

It was also right around that age of 14 or 15 when I overheard one of the scout leaders talking to another about the restrictions on gay scouts or leaders into the ranks of the BSA. I don’t remember the exact words, nor do I remember the person who spoke them. I do remember, however, those words being a un-Christlike, mean-spirited. For a sensitive boy who wanted so desperately to be good, hearing a man that I respected make comments like that was like a knife in the heart.

The good, Mormon boy in me was in total agreement: keep the gays out of the scouts. They’re going to lead everyone to temptation. We need to associate only with good people, otherwise we’ll be overcome by sin.

The rapidly awakening gay boy in me couldn’t understand. These were my friends. They were people I had known since we had moved to Michigan when I was 9. They were boys who had spent the night at my house for sleepovers, men who I saw at church every Sunday. They were just the people in my life. And all of a sudden, because of a feeling I couldn’t seem to control (despite my desperate attempts, I assure you), I wasn’t welcome anymore. It was really my first taste, albeit mild, of discrimination…something to which, as a middle-class white male, I was not accustomed.

That one, overheard conversation in the hallway of the Jackson, Michigan church building when I was 14 was a turning point in my life. It was that, combined with a few other things that happened in quick succession, that convinced me it was vitally, vitally important to hide my sexuality until I could overcome it. And so, for the next 16 years, that’s exactly what I tried to do.

This week, in a couple of days, the Boy Scouts of America are going to vote on whether or not they strike down the policy that prohibits gay men and boys from participating in the scouting program. They do so largely under duress as corporate sponsors are pulling funding from the program because of this policy. And they are not voting to allow gays to participate, but simply to let that decision rest upon shoulders of the sponsors of the local troops. (In other words, the churches that sponsor each troop.)

I have mixed feelings about this upcoming vote. On one hand, I am loath for any private organization to be “forced” into accepting any group or individual that they do not wish to include, even if that group includes me. I generally despite the “slippery slope” argument, which is the laziest form of “debate” in existence, but I do believe that private groups should be allowed to accept or reject who they wish—and fade into deserved obscurity when their policies are no loner in vogue. I’m disappointed that the BSA national council is passing the buck to the local groups, allowing each chartering organization to decide whether or not to accept gay scouts instead of taking a stand and setting a new, more inclusive policy. I’m disappointed that this move is necessitated by corporate funding, and not because the BSA wishes to change its policy because “it’s the right thing to do.”

On the other hand, I see this as a wonderful first step. There is a persistent (and entirely unsupported) belief that homosexuality equals pedophilia—that a gay scoutmaster will seduce or corrupt the scouts under his care simply because he is gay. In fact, members of the Mormon church who are disciplined for homosexual activity have a “mark” placed on their membership records which indicates that, for the rest of their lives, even after completing the repentance process, they are forever ineligible for working with the youth of the church. It is as though the fact that someone had a homosexual experience at some point in her or her life means that he or she will be incapable of teaching the young men and young women of the church.

As a gay man, I am thoroughly and completely disgusted by the idea of sex with children or teenagers of either gender. It is foul and disgusting. It is rape, pure and simple. None of the gay men or women I know are attracted to little boys or girls. The fact that I am considered incapable of teaching, leading, or supporting young men or young women infuriates me. When I was teaching voice, I regularly taught young men or women, and I was a good teacher. I implemented the lessons I learned from my scoutmasters and church leaders about how to interact with young men or women—that delicate combination of adult authority and collegiality. I was never inappropriate, and to think that I would have been simply because I am attracted to men instead of women is offensive to me.

Nor do I regularly go around talking with even my nieces or nephews about the fact that I’m gay. (In fact, this Christmas, my 10-year-old niece asked me why I wasn’t married. “Because I just haven’t found the right person” was my response. )

Most of the reactions I have seen online about the BSA potentially opening its ranks up to gay scout leaders have been based in the type of apocalyptic fear mongering that seems to take root and flourish among ultra-conservatives: Fears that have no basis in truth, statistics, or reality. Will allowing gay scout leaders increase sexual abuse in the ranks of the Boy Scouts? No, it won’t. Will having a gay scout leader mean that the leader will be talking about being gay with his boys? No. It’s not appropriate, any more than a straight scout leader should be talking about his sex life with his boys. Will having a gay scout leader mean that he will be leading your children into homosexuality? No. You can’t MAKE someone gay. Will having a gay scout leader normalize gays, and allow your son to see gay men as something other than a poncy stereotype on television, but as a real person with hopes, feelings, desires, and emotions just like anyone else? You betcha.

I can’t help but wonder how my teenage years would have been different if, at the age of 14, I hadn’t felt the need to bottle up my emotions because I was afraid of being discovered as being one of “those gays.” Scouting was a huge part of my community. To be a Mormon boy not in scouting was almost tantamount to not participating in the church at all. The terror of being ostracized from my community that I first learned in Scouts, followed me for nearly 20 years. It still impacts my life.

As the date of the BSA vote draws near, I have spent a great deal of time wondering how my life would have been different had I known that being gay wasn’t going to disqualify me from my community. Would I have been able to talk about it with my best friend, late at night as we shared a tent at scout camp? There is something special about those late night talks, out under the stars, where I could have possibly felt safe enough to reach out for a little support.

Would I have been comfortable going to my scout leaders, many of whom were truly wonderful, and sharing my struggles if I hadn’t heard that the scouts didn’t allow gays in their ranks? Would they have used my fear, my abject terror at being gay, as an opportunity to teach me that God loved me no matter what? That despite what I was feeling, my leaders and my friends still loved me? Would I have learned at 14 or 15 (instead of 30) that most people don’t really care whether you’re gay or straight, and that being gay was a much larger deal for me than it was for them?

Or would I have found myself ostracized—still technically able to participate in scouting—but bullied, tortured, or teased because I was a fag?

It seems inevitable that the BSA will have to rescind its anti-gay policy sooner, rather than later. As an organization, they seem to be far less relevant today than they were even 20 years ago when I was in scouts. And as the relevance of scouting declines, their need for corporate sponsorship will continue unabated.

I hope that this change in policy will begin to herald a change in attitudes and behaviors from the leaders and the other scouts. It breaks my heart to think of another scared, confused 14-year-old boy overhearing a man he respects, a scout and church leader, making mean-spirited comments in the hallway of a church building.

Because gay or not, I still believe in being trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent.

New Song: Desperado (Cover)

Matt — Mon, 21 Jan 2013 06:54:20 +0000

During my formative years, I was not particularly plugged into the popular music scene at all. While most of my peers were finding deep, angsty meaning in The Smashing Pumpkins or Nirvana, I was making my first forays into the world of musical theater. Aside from the lush orchestrations (which I love) and the incredible technical complexity of the vocals, the music from theater tends to do one thing better than most other musical genres: theater music wears its emotions on its figurative sleeve, while not burying the emotion or meaning in layers of too-dense poetry. In theater, music is usually used as a means of portraying heightened emotion when simple words may not suffice. You are rarely left to wonder what the song means or what the character singing it is feeling.

I like that. I like that in most of my art consumption. Call me an artistic simpleton, but when I want to sit down and enjoy some piece of art, I generally don't want to have to work too hard at it. I want to be able to appreciate the technique and skill it took to create, the emotion or feeling it evokes. I don't want to have to try and figure out how I feel about it, or what the creator intended when it was created. If I can't tell by simply experiencing the creation, then it has failed (for me.)

Being the typical over-emotional teenager with a somewhat a-typical cause for my emo tendencies, I gravitated toward music that allowed me an outlet for my emotions. Les Miserables, The Secret Garden, Beauty and the Beast, Chess…if it was bombasic, had stirring vocals, and could make me cry, it was central to my high school playlist.

It makes sense, then, that popular music just didn't do it for me. It was all Mariah Carey pop ballads, or novelty songs like "I'm Too Sexy," "Mr. Wendall," or "Whoomp! (There It Is)." It was also the start of the age of Nirvana and Alanis Morisette. It was all disaffection and disinterest–shoving your feelings down and appearing to be completely detached from the world. Or anger. A lot of it was about anger.

My Sophomore year in high school, my dad got an album of country music artists doing covers of songs by the Eagles. I was not particularly well-versed in the Eagles' discography, but I recognized most of the songs in one form or other, mostly from having heard them in the background on the radio. Once song I had never heard before was the song "Desperado." Originally written by Glenn Frey and Don Henley in 1973, this song and I had just never crossed paths.

I remember loving it the very first time I heard it.

The lyrics were simple, the emotion straightforward. The words were poetic, but not obtusely so. The melody was soaring. It was (and still is) one of the most perfectly crafted pop songs of all time. It soon fell into part of my regular rotation.

My sophomore year of college, when I finally got into the Music Dance Theatre program, I was able to take the beginning voice classes: Music 161R and 261R, taught by the incomparable Gayle Lockwood–an institution at BYU. We did all kinds of music in these classes, in an effort to expand our vocal experience, and each semester, we had a segment on pop songs. Gayle's selection of pop songs was pretty heavily based on the late 1980s and early 1990s. "If Ever Your In My Arms Again," "Hold on to the Night," and songs like that. They were chosen specifically for the style of singing that was required to safely hit the insanely high screamers in these songs. Also in that segment was the song "Desperado."

I picked "Desperado" the instant I saw it was an option. I had loved singing along with the song when I would drive around Albion late at night in my car that smelled like Maple Syrup (AKA Grandma's Tank) when I was in my usual emo mood because the boy that I secretly had a crush on didn't even notice me. (Even now, I still cringe when writing a sentence like that…what a train wreck I was back then.) I knew the song well, and I knew I could hit all the notes easily.

The first time I started singing the song in class, I knew there was a problem: I couldn't hit the notes. I looked at the sheet music a little more closely. Sure enough, I had been given the women's version, which had been transposed up a minor third from the original…thus placing the highest note on a Bb/C instead of a G/A. Over the course of the semester, I tried and tried to make the higher version of Desperado sound good. Hell, half the time, I just tried and tried to hit the freakin' notes.

Suffice it to say, I never actually did make it sound good. I'm pretty sure that some of my classmates from those Music 161R classes, have images of me, red-faced and straining, looking like I had just crapped my pants from pushing so hard (which, in all fairness, I may have) burned into their minds. Not to mention the auditory PTSD flashbacks of some of the sounds that came from my mouth as the direct results of my caterwauling. I know it's petty of me, but I still take a small piece of solace in the fact that, at least there were a few people in the class who sounded worse than I did.

***

A few weeks ago, I was flipping through my music, and decided to listen to The Eagle's Greatest Hits two-volume set. When "Desperado" came on, I was reminded all over again how much I loved that song, and figured I should try to figure out how to play it.

Over the last couple of years, I have taken to do something a little bit different than my norm. Instead of buying or downloading the sheet music to a song I like, the way I used to, I have made a conscious effort to try and figure out the chords and progressions on my own. First, I am a cheapskate, and I don't want any additional sheet music (digital or otherwise) crowding my life. Secondly, I figure that if I can dissect those songs that I like, it will help me to understand how to write better songs myself, assuming I will ever again have the depth of emotions (or time) to write music.

Figuring out Desperado was actually quite easy. It only took me about 15 minutes, and I had the chords figured out. Then a quick refresher course on the lyrics, and I had a passable version of the song. Of course, I stuck with the original key of G, because, really, why torture myself or others? I'm not even sure I could hit those notes at all anymore. I've lost a few notes off the top of my range.

Something interesting to note…the audio for this recording was done entirely on my iPad, using the Auria app. Auria is a 48-channel Digital Audio Workstation (DAW) specifically for the iPad. You use the USB Camera Connection Kit for the iPad to plug in an audio interface, then hook up your instruments and microphones. It's a pretty slick system. I've actually considered using it to record audiobooks, but unfortunately, that would require me to have a second iPad, since I would need one to record and the other to display the text I was trying to read. But it's great for these little videos where it's just me and piano. I don't have to drag out all the cables and boot up the pro software. It's simple, and it works well. Technology is cool.

So, here's my video cover of "Desperado" by Glenn Frey and Don Henley.

Selling some computers

Matt — Sun, 13 Jan 2013 07:46:35 +0000

I posted this over on Facebook, but thought I would post this here as well.

Since I have now officially switched over to the Mac, I am selling two of my previous computers, in case anyone is in the market for a good machine. I'd rather these go at a lower cost to friends who will use them, than make more money dealing with strangers on Craigstlist or eBay. So if either of these interest you, make me an offer.

* Desktop - Built by me: 1st Gen Intel i7, 6GB Ram, 1TB Hard Drive, Fanless CPU, Foam-lined "quiet" studio case, 512MB (I Think) nVidia video card with dual DVI Outputs, DVD Read/Write, Firewire 400, eSata, and USB 2.0. This used to be my recording studio computer, and can run a pretty intensive software load (Pro Tools, Kontact, Gigastudio, Adobe Premiere, Photoshop, Encore, etc.) Comes with a Wireless Microsoft Keyboard and Blue light Mouse, an external USB wireless adapter, and a fresh install of Windows 7. No monitors included (though I do have an extra 22" Samsung monitor if you want to include it in the offer.)

* Laptop – Dell XPS15z: You can get the full specs here (http://www.dell.com/us/p/xps-15z/pd). This machine is in fantastic shape, and is still under warrantee until June. 2nd Gen i7 Processor, 8 Gigs of Ram, Slot loaded DVD+/-RW, 1920×1080 full HD Screen, Built in Webcam, SD Card Reader, Backlit Keyboard, USB 3.0/eSata, Windows 7. Comes with an extra power adapter. This machine was my daily use machine. It spent most of its life on the desk in my office, plugged into an external keyboard, mouse, and monitors. I rarely even lifted the lid. I paid $1495 new. I have run my recording software on this machine as well, so I know it can handle a lot.

If anyone wants either of these machines, make me an offer.

ZipCloud: Unlimited means limited? What a Country!

Matt — Mon, 07 Jan 2013 07:47:23 +0000

1/7/2013: Updated with follow-up information

Early in 2012, I realized that I really needed a backup solution for all of the audio, video, and photo files across my computers. I have some very valuable files, including the source files for what would soon turn into over 85 audiobooks. So, I began looking around online to find a good online backup solution.

I eventually decided upon a company called ZipCloud. For the price of $199 ZipCloud offered two years of unlimited backup for a single machine. It seemed too good to be true, but was relatively comparable to other cloud backup services, so I decided to give it a go. I purchased the two years of backup service, plus a “supercharged” transfer package, which allowed me to upload my data to them at a faster transfer rate, and a license for an additional machine. The supercharge service and the second license were approximately $40 per year in addition to the two year rate for the unlimited backup.

My initial experience with ZipCloud wasn’t great. The uploads were painfully slow—even with my supercharged transfer rate. That was to be expected—I had about 1.2 Terabytes of data that needed to be uploaded, and the connections I was using weren’t always of the highest speeds. The backup client was clunky and not well-designed or written. I had to uninstall and re-install it on a couple of occasions just to get it uploading again.

Then, about 50% or so into my uploading, I had a machine die on me. I contacted technical support to have them transfer the license from my dead machine to the new machine. They screwed it up and transferred the wrong license. Then I had to start my backup/upload all over again because, rather than transferring the wrong license back, they started a new one. (It’s very convoluted.) Their support team did a very poor job of actually reading my emails and responding appropriately. They tended to send quick “I scanned your email for keywords” responses without actually paying attention to what troubles I was actually having.

Receiving support like this is particularly frustrating for me, as I make my living managing teams of people who provide high-level support for very technically complicated systems. As a PM of operations, I work very hard to ensure that my folks provide top-notch support, and when we fall down, it’s my job to make things right.

And lest you think that perhaps I wasn’t clear in my communications, I will also point out that I have spent several years working for software companies. Part of my job is to write up software bugs, development tasks, and repro steps. I know how to communicate support and service issues in a way that is relatively straightforward—all in an effort to assist people with troubleshooting. This was just bad support. And, of course, there was no phone number to call, no live chat. Just email with people who weren’t really reading the emails.

However, my experience in this industry has taught me that this sort of support isn’t uncommon online service community, particularly with low-cost providers, so I was willing to just “let it go.” After all, my stuff was being backed up, albeit slowly. I was willing to make some allowances because it was an inexpensive service, providing backup for a large amount of data. You can’t expect everything for nothing.

Then, in August, I noticed that my backups had been stalled for weeks. I knew I was generating new files, but none of them were actually getting backed up. So, in frustration I contact ZipCloud technical support again to get some information and figure out what the problem was. This was the response:

Thank you for your email.

I am really sorry to say that due to the total size of the files that you are trying to back up you may wish to consider a business solution for your backup needs.

Regrettably at this time our business plans are based on a similar server configuration and Fair Usage Policy in the terms and conditions.

I’m sorry for the inconvenience this may cause, please let us know how you wish to proceed.

There is an unfortunate trend in the technology industry when it comes to the word Unlimited. You see, to me (and the rest of the world), the word unlimited means “without limit.” In the case of ZipCloud, the word unlimited was intimated to mean that there was no upper limit on the amount of data that I, as a customer, would be able to store on the ZipCloud servers. Unfortunately, ZipCloud’s definition of Unlimited comes from the same playbook as cell phone providers that offer unlimited data plans that aren’t actually unlimited.

I mean, yeah, bait and switch is illegal, but whatever.

I was frustrated. I had spent eight months backing up what amounted to a terabyte of data only to be informed that, despite the fact that I had paid for unlimited backup, high-speed transfers, and a second license, I had backed up too much data and needed a business plan. A business plan which, by the way, has the exact same rules as the personal plans, and wouldn’t work for my needs. Yeah, that makes sense. Not at all underhanded.

I realized, of course, that I was not going to win a fight on this issue, so I tried to take a fairly mature approach. My response:

I would appreciate it if you could please set my account not to auto-renew when my subscription comes to an end. We will find another solution for backup. I, as a customer, have made the decision not to do business with companies that use the word "unlimited" when what they provide is, in fact, limited. We would have happily paid for additional space, but to promise a feature that there is no intention of providing as a means of attracting customers is distasteful and reflects poorly on the brand.

I am sorry that your organization was not able to provide the service that was promised.

Thank you for your time, and if you could, please reply when you have modified my account as necessary to ensure that it does not auto-renew at the end of our two-year pre-paid period. I would like to keep confirmation of that change on file in the event that there is a misunderstanding on 12/1/2014 when our subscription is set to renew.

He never responded, and my life, working two full time jobs, got in the way, so this issue slipped my mind. That was my mistake. I never followed up to ensure that it was done properly.

Then, on the mornings of 1/5/2013, I received an email from an automated system at ZipCloud, informing me that my credit card had been charged another $40 for the supercharged backup and additional license. I figured that it had been a mistake, and sent a polite message to the original ticket, alerting the team that there had been a mistake, and my account was not to have been charged. The following email farce ensured:

Support Agent #1:
I'm really sorry to hear that you wish to cancel your Online Backup Account with us.

Before you cancel your account, I would love to try to resolve any issues you may have and offer you 6 months FREE backup as a goodwill gesture if I can resolve your issues and get you to stay.

Please let me know if you need help with anything and would like me to arrange 6 months free Backup credits for you to stay a happy Zipcloud customer.

By not replying your ticket will remain on hold and we will not know you wish to continue with cancellation.

Me:

I appreciate the offer, Karl, but unfortunately, Zip Cloud will not be a valid solution for me backup needs, as the system no longer allows back to upload additional files, having hit a 1TB limit. Unless policies have changed at ZipCloud, and the meaning of "Unlimited" has been updated to mean unlimited, I'm going to need to find another solution.

I would appreciate it if you can set the account not to renew as per my original request back in September.

Support Agent #2:

Hello Matt,

I'm really sorry to hear that you wish to cancel your Online Backup Account with us.

We really are so sad you wish to leave we want to offer you one final offer you will not believe or see anywhere else. How about a free 12 months of backup? We will not charge you for another 1 Year and your subscription will continue to run for free for 12 months.

Please let us know how you would like to proceed. Your response is awaited on this.

Me:

I understand that you are only following procedures, but I find it a little frustrating that I have had to explain this four times now.

Unfortunately, 12 additional months of free backup service will do me no good. Zipcloud's support team has already explained to me (as part of this very ticket) that I can no longer back up new data. Far from being an "unlimited" backup solution, there is, in fact, a limit to the amount of data that can be backed up, and I have hit that limit. Since I hit that limit in September, I have been unable to back up any new data, essentially making the service unusable. 12 additional months of being unable to back up newly created files will do me no good.

I appreciate your attempts to keep me as a customer, but until Zipcloud changes its policies to provide a service in line with its marketing message (i.e., truly _unlimited_ backup), there is no possibility that I can remain a customer, paying or otherwise.

As requested previously, I would appreciate it if you could please set my account not to auto-renew when it expires (as originally requested in September of 2012.) Additionally, I would appreciate it if you could please refund the $39.90 that was charged to my card on January 5, 2013, as that charge took place AFTER my request to have my account cease automatic rebilling that was placed in September.

Thank you again for your attempts, and I wish you the best. Please feel free to reach out if you have any further question.

Support Agent #3:

Thank you for your email.

I would like to inform you that we have updated our application, as you have purchased the Unlimited plan, now you can backup unlimited data on your account.

– I can confirm that I have now disabled auto charge on your account. Please be aware that your Backup and services will not automatically renew. We will issue invoices for renewals 7 days before the due date, and any outstanding invoices will now have to be paid manually by the due date to avoid any disruption to your account.

If you would like to cancel a service upon renewal, please contact us 14 days before the renew date so we can remove the service from your account, and no invoice will be issued.

– Regrettably we are unable to refund additional services purchased. This is outlined in our terms and conditions that you had agreed to upon sign up (ZipCloud.com/terms):

6. ZC License to You; Renewals, Modifications, Limits

(d) Cancellation of Renewals.

"…all sales are final and not subject to a refund for the following products multiple computer extra, priority support, additional support, increased bandwidth and other additional products that may be offered from time to time that do not fall within the initial package purchased by you. All extras are concerned one time purchases for the period you selected and will not be eligible for a refund."

Please let me know if there is anything else I can help you with.

Me:

Thank you.

– Regrettably we are unable to refund additional services purchased. This is outlined in our terms and conditions that you had agreed to upon sign up (ZipCloud.com/terms):

I did contact you and request cancellation more than 14 days in advance. I requested cancellation in September of 2012. (That request can be found in this ticket's history). I should not be penalized for the failure on the part of Zipcloud to cancel my service as per my original request. The charge that was processed on 1/5/2013 was done without my permission.

It's not a great deal of money, but I will be filing a claim against the charge with my bank.

A note to ZipCloud: A little word of advice from someone who does high-level support for a living. If you’re going to have a ticketing system, perhaps it would behoove your support agents to actually read the ticket history before responding at the least. At the best, for non-urgent issues, it may make sense to have your support agents “own” an issue until conclusion. It’s a little more resource intensive on the front end, but it leads to much faster resolution, and far fewer instances of agents not listening to the customer.

$40. It seems like such a trivial thing, over such a simple service. The realist in me wants to just let it go. It’s only $40. It's a night at the movies with a friend. It's 2/3rds of a week's groceries. It's 80% of my monthly fast food budget. $40 is not the end of the world. But I feel as though I have been taken to the cleaners by this company. They offered Unlimited backup, then decided I was using too much space, so they stopped accepting new files. They never contacted me, letting me know I was at a limit, nor did they provide me the option of paying extra to expand my storage. Just a “sorry, there’s nothing we can do.”

Then, when I requested they cancel my account, they failed to do so. I alerted them to their mistake, and they try to win me back by offering me six months of a service I can’t use. I explained again. Then they offer me twelve months of a service I can’t use. Then FINALLY, when they canceled my account, they have the temerity to explain that they upgraded their systems, it really IS unlimited now, and by the way, they can’t refund my money for services that I ordered.

Unreal.

In the end, I’m glad I had this experience. I was willing to offer ZipCloud the benefit of the doubt on a few things. When you offer a low-priced service, you have to cut corners somewhere. What I did not expect were flat-out lies in marketing, or a support staff that seems patently incapable of actually reading the words that I have written. I’m glad I figured out how the company operates before it was truly catastrophic. Based on this experience, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if ZipCloud suddenly decided that downloading a Terabyte of my own backed up files was breaking the terms of service, despite the fact that I had lost all of my personal belongings in a natural disaster or house fire. “Sorry! You can’t get your files back. Oh, and by the way, we didn’t actually back up half of your files in the first place.”

When I first signed on with ZipCloud, I suggested them a good service for inexpensive cloud backup, despite some of my early reservations. I would like to rescind that recommendation. I cannot recommend using ZipCloud as a backup service, even if you have less data to backup than do I. ZipCloud’s lack of competent support, lack of ownership (or even comprehension) of support tickets, and lack of honest, straightforward terms of service makes relying upon them as a backup for your important files unwise.

In the end, I found another backup service that I’m investigating now that I think will provide me with the service ZipCloud was never able to. And based on my initial interactions with them, they actual read the emails that come in instead of sending out canned responses.

And you can bet that I'll be disputing that $40 charge first thing tomorrow morning.

Update (1/7): This morning I did receive notification from ZipCloud that they had decided to refund my money. While I'm glad I don't have to go through the process of disputing the claim, it's unfortunate that I even had to threaten it. They should have just taken care of the issue. In any case. Food for thought.