Late-Night Thoughts

Washing of the Water

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Fri, 05 Feb 2010 00:55:00 +0000

I've spoken about this song before.

Everything I said still holds true. But I came across this version of it this morning and am re-obsessed.

Note the fact that Peter Gabriel is not particularly wonderful as a singer or a keyboardist, but the complete raw emotion comes through.

Enjoy.

Bad Dates

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 01:53:00 +0000

I've been on a number of bad dates in my life. None of them I'm going to talk about here.

I am, however, going to say that they are all better than this date that Woody Allen spoke about in his bit "Vegas" from 1964. (If you want to hear it rather than just read it, email me and I'll gladly send you an .mp3.)

--

Y'see I'm not a gambler, you should know that about me. I went to the racetrack once in my life and I bet on a horse called Battle Gun, and when all the horses come out, mine is the only horse in the race with training wheels. You have to believe me when I say, that there is something seductive about me, when I shoot crap. And I'm at the crap table, I'm...dicing. A very provocative woman comes up to me, and she begins to...size me up...and I take her upstairs to my hotel room. Shut the door. Remove my glasses. Show her no mercy. I unbutton my shirt, and she unbuttons her shirt. And I smile. She smiles. I remove my shirt and she removes her shirt. And I wink and she winks. And I remove my pants. She removes her pants. And I realize I'm looking into a mirror.

Faith

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Wed, 03 Feb 2010 18:04:00 +0000

Back when I was collecting material for my podcast, a woman sat down and told me her story of overcoming illness and letting god into her life. (I shared this story with my class, but did not publish the final product anywhere since she made it quite clear that she did not want her voice in public.)

Her story moved me. Not because I, myself, am a person of faith -- in fact, I may be quite the opposite. My faith is something I am constantly struggling with. But that's not the point. Her story moved me because of her and how she framed preached faith to me -- understandingly.

She started by sitting down and asking me if I am a person of faith. even though the answer is a clear 'no' in my mind, I struggled answering this question, partially fearing that if I'd say 'no' she would start to preach, and partially because I feared that if I answered improperly, she would not share her story with me, and we all know that I'm a little bit of a story hoarder.

She could see me struggling, so she cut me off. "Do you have faith in anything?"

I quickly answered, "I have faith in the people around me."

She smiled, and lovingly said, "That's all you need."

I occasionally find myself jealous of those people who are, in fact, people of faith. I'd like to believe in some higher power. I'd like to feel like I'm part of something other-worldly. But when I find myself getting jealous, I only have to remember this woman, who truly believes she was taken out of the grasp of death and paralysis by god and brought back among the functioning.

If she is convinced that all you need is faith in the people around you, then I'm proud to say that I am a person of faith. I have faith in the world around me. And y'know what? That's all I need.

Napoleon's Battle Plan

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 19:54:00 +0000

Napoleon's battle plan was a simple two part plan.

Part one: Show up.
Part two: See what happens.

For the most part, this plan worked out quite well for him. That is, until he hit Russia. (But even then it didn't stop him. I mean, he escaped Elba, after all! Yes, only to be defeated at Waterloo and then die in exile, either from cancer or poison. But that's not the point here.)

The man single-handedly (or more accurately, with one hand firmly tucked between the sides of his jacket and with many, many hands, legs, arms, swords, shields, and force of soldiers) took over Europe. All that by just showing up and seeing what happened.

It didn't hurt that Napoleon's army was great in both skill and numbers, but they all showed up.

Showing up is a major part of life. You cannot do anything if you aren't there to act.

Which brings up step three of Napoleon's plan, which, even though it isn't actually part of the plan, per se, it was, without question, how Napoleon succeeded.
1) Show up;
2) See what happens;
3) Act and react.

(And of course:
4) Declare war on Russia;
5) Get banished;
6) Show up again.)

So maybe the lesson of Napoleon is less so about the first three steps and more about the last three. Quite simply:
*Never get involved in a land war in Asia.
*You can always show up again.

So on those days when I feel like I haven't actually shown up, when I'm on my own personal Elba, I just have to remember that sometimes all it takes is showing up again and I can rise to power again.

We'll stop the analogies there; I am in no mood for arsenic poisoning.

Soup is the perfect food

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 05:03:00 +0000

Yes. That's right. I said it. Perfect. There is absolutely nothing bad about soup.

It's easy to make, quick to reheat, it's tasty. And best of all, it goes well with crackers.

But soup has one other quality that is impossible to ignore: It requires time to eat.

Yes, you can eat soup faster than, say, a steak dinner, or even a large sub sandwich. But for what soup is, there is no fast way to eat it. You can't put a straw in and inhale, you can't pick up the bowl and drink it all, you can't take bites that are larger than, well, a spoonful -- and those soup spoons always seem too small when you're really hungry. But it forces you to enjoy it; to savor every slurp; to enjoy the smell of the soup before the taste as you put your head down closer so not to lose the liquid out of the spoon (we all look like buoys while eating soup...); to enjoy every spec of goodness as you pull the spoon to your lips.

I guess what I'm saying is that it's nice to be forced to focus on one thing, taking time with it -- voluntary or not -- and only it. You can't really eat soup while reading a book; that would get very messy very quickly.

Soup maybe is supposed to be seen and not heard, but no matter what, do it slowly.

Nostalgia

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 17:35:00 +0000

I woke up this morning with a particular emotion that can only be described as nostalgia.

I'm not nostalgic for a particular time, or a place, or a person, just...nostalgic.

I've been going through today with the sounds of scratchy vinyl and not-properly-mixed piano trios, playing songs with names of people in them -- Emily; Stella by Starlight; Laura...Have You Met Miss Jones.

Maybe this is what being a musician has done to me; it's imposed emotion of songs whose subjects I do not know onto my own psyche. Maybe it's given me such a vast library of old standards that I can't help but have them run through the jukebox of my mind bringing up memories of a time and place I never was. Or perhaps, it's just given me music to help explain an emotion I would feel otherwise.

Or maybe I'm just nostalgic for those times when I would embrace my inner (and outer) musician and sit at a piano for hours and just play. And play. And play.

And now, I invite you to join me, Bill Evans, his trio, and the nostalgia that Emily brings to us all.

Dick Johnson

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Fri, 15 Jan 2010 04:38:00 +0000

My mother just called and shared with me the Boston Globe obituary of Dick Johnson, one of the unsung heroes of jazz. He was an incredible multi-reed player. If you want to know more about him, you can read the obituary, but suffice it to say, if he'd ever decided to leave the Boston area, he could have been a very big name in jazz.

I had the pleasure of meeting Dick a number of times, though he never remembered me. The very first time I played with a group of other musicians was with Dick Johnson. I was in 6th grade and my parents and I went to a local jazz concert. It was Dick Johnson and the band he was using that night, consisting of all local guys. My mother, being the pushy Jewish mother she is, said at intermission, "my son is a pianist and he would love to play with you guys!" Of course, I resisted, but a couple tunes into the set, Dick called me up. We played "Fly Me To The Moon," lamely enough, in C.

I would hardly say I played well. In fact, I was quite bad, I think. I mean, I was 12 and had never actually played with a bass player. I didn't know what I was doing, but I knew I wanted to learn.

I saw Dick play the last few summers around Cape Cod with various musicians, and he always sounded great. He always had a great joy for playing that came out through his music...or more often than not, came out through the conversation he would have quite loudly with the band or the patrons in the front few rows of whatever venue he was playing while someone else in the band was taking a solo.

Here my favorite recording, a duet of "Shaw 'Nuff" with Dave McKenna, another unsung jazz hero whom we lost in October of 2008. (I was lucky enough to see Dave McKenna's last performance in December of 2001, I think it was. I'm kind of surprised I didn't write about him on the blog then!) It was recorded live in 1980 and is on Dick's album Artie's Choice! and the Naturals.

(For those who subscribe, you may need to click to the original post to listen to the tune. Even if you are not a jazz fan, you can appreciate the energy, facility, and enjoyment of this music. I promise.)

Filled with tears and flapjacks

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 15:08:00 +0000

That was the title of a chapter of a book the man standing across from me was reading while on the subway this morning. I loved the image of it -- or, more accurately, I loved the juxtaposition of these two nouns: tears and flapjacks. Tears is clearly a stand-in for sadness, while flapjacks is, while, breakfast.

So it got me thinking about comfort food.

When I get down, what do I eat? Usually I have to force myself to eat, as my ideal activity for when I'm down is to sit on my sofa, curl up with my teddy bear, and watch The Muppet Show (or some muppet movie) for hours on end until I decide it's time to get up and the lines on my face from the creases in the pillow are getting too deep.

But when I do eat, there are a few staples: Of course there's chicken soup, I am, after all, Jewish. When I have the time and the proper ingredients, it's nice to make chicken soup. Cinnamon toast is another food that brings me back to childhood in that cinnamon toast is what was always made for me when I was home sick. (I have recently come up with a wonderful variation on cinnamon toast: cinnamon English muffin. That is to say, when you can't decide whether to have an English muffin or cinnamon toast, butter and cinnamon sugar up your English muffin!)

Of course, M&Ms are a comfort food. But more so for me, milk chocolate. Nothing makes me smile like a smooth piece of milk chocolate melting in my mouth and sticking to my tongue. (Of course, my dentist hates me for this, but that's another story.)

And what would a good comfort food day be without ginger ale? Canada Dry is my brand of choice.

So while I appreciate tears and flapjacks, I prefer tears and chocolate. Because everything goes better with chocolate!

How did I get here?

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 01:13:00 +0000

Today was my first day of law school. (You will notice that I, who almost never uses tags, have tagged this entry as "law school," which I'm sure is a tag that will be showing up often from now until, well, the next 2-and-a-half to 3 years, depending on if I decide to add a semester and get an LLM in addition to a JD...but that's discussion for 2 years from now.)

As the day went on, I started to feel a little more comfortable with the people around me, and a little bit with my surroundings -- though tomorrow is going to be my first day studying in the library (or some other alcove of the school). But no matter how comfortable my surroundings may feel, one question still lingers, and probably will for quite a while.

How did I get here?

As I said to someone today, "This is weird; a week ago, I was a musician." Granted, I was not really doing much as a musician, and I've had quite some time to prepare myself for this mentally, but I am still not sure what exactly this is that I'm doing here.

I think I'm going to like it, though I may never get used to it.

Comfort

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 07:47:00 +0000

Comfort is a weird thing. We always strive to be comfortable. We want to be in that comfortable pair of jeans, that comfortable relationship, that comfortable job, that comfortable house...We always say there's no such thing as too comfortable, and then we think about it.

There's certainly such a thing.

I am only going to speak of one kind of too-comfortable that I've always avoided, though I have many more personal experiences with plenty of other kinds, too.

For me, I've always tried to avoid comfort when it comes to my academics. I start law school in 3 days. (why am I awake at 2:30 in the morning, then? I have 3 days to adjust my sleep cycle!!!) (Oh yeah...I started reading my contracts text book and got so excited that my tea to help me relax wore off, but I digress.) Law school will, most certainly, not be a comfortable experience for me. It will require lots of hard work and plenty of shutting out the people around me, I'm sure. I will be irritable at times, and I am certainly sure there will be times when, no matter how hard I try, I will only be able to speak of what's on my plate -- be it a story from class, freaking out about an exam, or the case I just read. (Note to my friends reading this: I apologize in advance. Feel free to yell at me.)

But this is not the first time I am making myself feel uncomfortable.

My previous educational experience as a composer was filled with voluntary uncomfortableness.

I spent 5 years figuring out what I was good at and doing the exact other thing. If I was really good at writing 3-horn arrangements of standards, I made sure to write for 5 horns. If I felt I was good at writing interesting voice-leading accompaniments, I would spend my time writing counterpoint instead. If I...well, for those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, I'll just say it simply, and redundantly, if I was good at it, I avoided it.

I learned. I moved forward. And oddly enough, I started getting uncomfortable with things I was once good at since I got out of practice.

I'm still confident I can write a 3-horn arrangement of a standard quite easily, though perhaps not as quickly as I once could. I'm sure I could do a saxophone quartet arrangement of "Rainbow Connection" without it being horrible, but as I move on to new uncomfortabilities, what was once comfortable no longer feels quite right.

I'm not sure where I'm going with this, but comfort has been on my mind a lot in the last couple days. I guess you could say I was quite happy being comfortable for once, and since then, I've been forced out of comfort.

I guess I'll just learn how to be comfortable in this new situation...and then move on, whether I want to or not.

(Which, by the way, I don't.)

Happy Old Year!

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 07:11:00 +0000

I never do New Years Resolutions; I don't believe in them. I believe in making smaller goals -- a goal for the day, the week, the month...

I didn't write 100 blog posts this past year as in previous years -- though I still have 6 weeks to get to 100 on the blogoversary. (I only need about 70...excuse me while I laugh at the thought of writing even 70 WORDS in this thing after law school starts...)

I don't like to reflect on the previous year; it gets depressing to think of missed opportunities, because even if things overall were positive, there is always something to nitpick at. (Though if I look back at 2009, it's safe to call it a success, though honestly, it seems like it was more of a place-holder year than real advancement...)

I do, however, like to think ahead. And I'm thinking good things. Not even so much about the next year, but about the next month, week, and day.

And on that note, I'm going to wish all of you out there the same thing I've wished you in the past:
May you find a 2010 calendar in your price range.

Teddy Bear

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 07:13:00 +0000

I admit it, I have a teddy bear. That's right, I'm a 24-year-old male with a teddy bear. In fact, I have a number of stuffed animals, but just one teddy bear without whom I do not know what I'd do.

Let me put this out there: it's been years since I've slept with said teddy bear, but he lives on my nightstand next to my bed. I always know where he is. And yes, if I've had a bad day, I will grasp him in hopes of gaining comfort, though it works less and less as I grow older. (Which makes me only grow sadder.)

This teddy bear was a gift to me at birth. He's in great condition for a 24-plus year old stuffed animal. He had a rattle inside him that broke upwards of 13 years ago (thankfully), his eyes are rough from many trips through the dryer, he is no longer incredibly furry, and the felt on his nose would come off if rubbed the wrong way, but I guess that's to be expected.

Tonight, I watched my eldest niece, age 5, carry around a bear of her own (whom she called "dolly," though I've always assumed dolls to be human analogs) and I watched her care for it. She made sure her clothing was on properly and her Croc slippers (yes, her bear has Croc slippers) were on properly. Such work for love, my niece puts in. Dolly even has a sweater that my mother knit for her to match my niece's sweater.

Then my middle niece, 3-and-a-half, had a birthday party for her favorite stuffed animal, a bunny (called "Nani") whom I'm not sure I've ever seen her leave the house without. When she goes to the beach, my sister has to put Nani in a ziploc and bring it. Nani cannot leave the bag, but Nani does not leave my niece's side.

I have no friends who admit to having such a tangible connection to his or her childhood still living with them. I guess I can't handle the thought of fully growing up.

My sister used to have a Winnie the Pooh stuffed animal that lived on her nightstand, even after marriage and even while she lived in London for a couple years. I should ask her where Pooh is. I'll honestly be sad if the answer isn't "my nightstand."

It Never Gets This Dark in Brooklyn

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 04:46:00 +0000

I never used to be afraid of the dark. I admit that I liked having my closet light on when I went to bed as a kid, but it had nothing to do with fear; it was because I loved staying up late and playing in my room without my parents knowing. If the closet light was left on, I could get out of bed and pull out a toy car or legos and sit in its – what’s the opposite of shadow? Since my mother or father would leave me tucked in with light creeping from under the door, there was no way to truly know I was awake and out of bed since there was no change in what they saw from outside.

I never had a strict bedtime. I had a time when I had to go to bed, but it wasn’t that I had to go to sleep. My mother always said: “I don’t care what you do, just go in your room, and I don’t want to see you for the rest of the night.” In the years since then, when I come home for holidays and stay up late and my mother emerges from her room suffering from the apparently-genetic insomnia wanting to play a game of cards or Scrabble, I regurgitate that same line to her. (She probably wishes she had never used it on me…or that I were not smart enough to see the cyclical nature of our dilemmas.)

So I used to stay up. I’d bask in the light of my closet. I would tire myself out, since the rest of the day clearly did not tire me.

I am now an adult – by age and lifestyle, at least – and live alone without anyone to tell me to turn out the light or to go in my room. So I keep the light on until I get tired enough to sleep. Just like when I was seven.

But now, I’ve developed a fear of the dark. Not really all the time – just at night. That’s the hazard of living in New York City; there is never true darkness to deal with. The lights that reflect in from the street, from neighboring apartments, from the hallway of the building, those lights are a built-in excuse to distract from sleep, to distract from thoughts, to be able to watch shadowy figures dance and let imagination run wild. It doesn’t take a night light to play with a toy car – literally or proverbially. It doesn’t take action to distract oneself; the world does a good enough job for you.

So now, I’m afraid of the dark. I’m afraid of having no excuse. I’m afraid of having no distraction. I’m afraid of having my eyes wide open and still only seeing the back of my eyelids, the inside of my brain, my thoughts and memories and fears and anxieties.

I’m afraid of the implication that comes with total blackness at 2 in the morning, that of solitude and loneliness, and frankly, of being lost.

I love vacation, but after this one, I only fear my next. Bring on the onslaught. And the next time I have free time, I’ll spend it where the light still shines and being alone doesn’t mean ever being alone. At least then, I’ll have an excuse for insomnia.

Halfway Down the Stairs

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 05:06:00 +0000

In a recent entry, I posted the video of “Halfway Down the Stairs,” which is one of my favorite Muppet Show segments. As great as the segment is, there is something to the simplicity of both the music and the lyrics that speak to me. There is an inherent duality in its meaning, and I am never quite sure if it is a hopeful piece or a depressed piece.

On The Muppet Show, it’s sung by Robin Frog, Kermit’s nephew. (Though we do not actually find him to be Kermit’s nephew until the season following this sketch.) Robin Frog is always a slightly depressed character. He’s the underdog the Muppets. He’s the one that nobody really notices, but he’s genuinely liked and would be missed if he weren’t there. I guess I relate a lot with Robin. Perhaps it’s more in my head than a real one-to-one correlation, but this song is part of what makes me love Robin.

It’s a song really about a special place – a place of solitude and reflection, a place that “really isn’t anywhere, it’s somewhere else instead.” In my own life, I have had many places like this, and I am yet to figure out if these are happy places or sad places.

When I was little – say 5 years old and under – I loved nothing more than being in places that only I could fit. When I was VERY little, I used to love to stand under the kitchen table, the place where I could be surrounded by the action and be completely free of everyone else, as I was the only one who could fit. I reigned over the kingdom of under-the-table. I would play with toy cars. I would stand there when I didn’t want to go somewhere that my mother was making me go. I would just go to get away from it all. (More often than not, I’d take my teddy bear with me, as even the powerful ruler of table-opolis needs a companion and confidant.)

When I grew too large for the kitchen table, I used my abilities to curl up in a little ball – something I can still do quite impressively today for a so-called grown-up – to my advantage and would curl into laundry baskets, again with my teddy bear, and sit contently.

As I grew older, my me-places became more normal solitude places: My car on a long drive; Long walks on the beach; Long showers; My piano bench. (Incidentally, I hated being interrupted while practicing piano not because of the rigors of practice, but because it was the only place I really felt like I could be alone without leaving the house, as my entire being would get into practicing and I did not like being torn away from that world.)

In all of these me-places, one constant remains: duality. Sometimes it’s where I escape to cry; sometimes it’s where I escape to revel in glory; sometimes it’s where I go to reflect on the future, itself an action of ambiguity and duality.

Having such strong attachments to music, many songs – or specific recordings – have an emotion tied to them when I hear them, be it one I’ve implanted onto it, one tied to a specific memory, or one deliberately written into it.

“Halfway down the stairs,” however, is one whose emotion changes as fluidly as my own.

But I always love it and it’s always me. I guess it’s a place where I always stop, too.

Rather than post the video again, I’ll link to it, but I will also type out the lyrics here:

(video here)

Halfway down the stairs is a stair where I sit.
There isn’t any other stair quite like it.
I’m not at the bottom,
I’m not at the top.
So this is the stair where I always stop.

Halfway up the stairs it isn’t up and isn’t down.
It isn’t in the nursery, it isn’t in the town.
And all sorts of funny thoughts,
Run round my head.
It isn’t really anywhere, it’s somewhere else instead.

Thinking too much

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 09:24:00 +0000

Rowlf's voice in this hand puppet really says it best: you can't get away from it.

Two versions:
The first from 1959 from "Sam and Friends"
The second from 1966 from "The Ed Sullivan Show"

Insomnia

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 09:10:00 +0000

I've been having a bout of insomnia lately. Yes, I have been known to have odd hours, from the year I was an RA and went to bed around 4 every night, or the year where I was studying with a yogi and at one point went 3 days without sleep and merely 20-minute meditation sessions every 6 hours, but the difference is I wasn't TRYING to sleep then.

Now, here I am -- and have been for the last 2-3 weeks -- sitting awake in bed, watching my clock roll over another hour. I've owned a sofa for a mere two weeks and change, and yet, I've spent more nights falling asleep lying curled in a little ball on it with the TV sleep timer on than in the previous 20 years of my life combined.

Though I do not need sleep, I miss it.

In my new-found time to watch DVDs, I've started watching all of The Muppet Show seasons 1-3 DVDs. (Rumor is that season 4 will come out in 2010; they're just working on getting rights to some of the music.) I'd say I've rediscovered that my favorite Muppet Show music is the A. A. Milne stuff, but that implies that I'd forgotten it at one point.

So without further ado, two of my favorites:

Everything happens...

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 07:25:00 +0000

We all know the old cliche "Everything happens for a reason." (And if you don't, where do you live, and can I come with?)

If you want to be technical, this cliche is true. I mean, every action has a(n equal and opposite) reaction, and every effect has a cause, and vice versa. So strictly by definition, nothing just plain happens without something having led up to it, so yes, everything does, in fact, happen for a reason. But that's not what the cliche is supposed to be saying.

It's understood that the cliche is supposed to mean that all the crap that happens to us is supposed to fit into some greater plan. I may not identify my spiritual beliefs as that of any religion, though I do consider myself spiritual (though I think spiritual is the wrong word. I think "zen" is more like it...), and while I've had my "there's reason in this" stage, I've come to realize that that's a bunch of, well, hogwash.

"Everything happens for a reason" is the passive approach to life. That action is usually followed by the reaction of, "let's see what this universe has in store for me." That's all fine and good and a good way to get through some tough times, I guess, but I've taken on a different approach.

No longer is it, "Everything happens for a reason," it's just "everything happens." And no longer is that followed by "let's see what happens next," but rather, "let's see what I do next."

That's right, ladies and gentlemen, I'm telling you to stop focusing on the universe and start focusing on you. Luck favors those who work, the only way to get ahead is to take a step forward, and most importantly, the universe doesn't give a crap about you.

But if it makes you feel any better, I do!

Failure

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 01:37:00 +0000

Okay, I’ll admit it: I’m scared to death of failure. But not in the way you think. I’m not afraid of failing. I’m afraid I haven’t failed enough.

I know what you’re thinking: “What the hell is wrong with you?” Yeah; I ask myself that all the time. I talk too much, I tell the same boring stories time and time again, and tell the same not-boring stories so many times that they quickly become boring. But nowhere on my list of what’s wrong with me does this particular problem show up.

I was listening to the radio this weekend and heard Malcolm Gladwell being interviewed by Tavis Smiley. Say what you will about Tavis Smiley, but he gets wonderful guests and is always well-prepped such that the interviewee always manages to say something noteworthy and interesting.

Gladwell started talking about his failures in the job market and the advertising world. He and Smiley reminisced that it seems all people who show amazing successes always failed first, or at least faced some sort of adversity.

This got me thinking. Sure I’m amidst a change from front-of-the-house of the music business, so to speak, and moving to the business side of the business, but am I too young and inexperienced for that to really count towards my failures and adversity check-box? I’ve had it pretty easy; no opportunity has been spared, I’ve never been fired from a job, I’ve never had any disability (aside from chronic knee issues, which I usually follow up with, “Yeah; so I’ll ice later…”), and I’ve never had any massive academic speed bumps.

Sure I’ve made mistakes, but do these count? Are these failures? Have I hit the ground enough to make me stand taller?

Of course, maybe just the fact that I’m thinking about this is enough. Or maybe I’m not giving my failures enough credit. Maybe quitting my job and being rejected by job after job since is enough, and I’m just lucky enough that my failures spanned a small chronological period.

And then, there’s the chance that Smiley and Gladwell are wrong, that success does, in fact, exist without massive failures.

Or my failure is yet to come.

Okay – now I’m scared of failure. And in the way you’d expect...

Another year, another birthday.

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 06:05:00 +0000

Another year has gone by, and for the 24th time, I survived my birthday.

Some years are easier than others – and I'm not talking about the year, I'm talking about my birthday itself. I'm not a big fan of my birthday, even though my mother wants to disown me when I say that. Part of it is that I don't like being the center of attention when I've done nothing more than being born. (I mean, let's be honest, my parents have a lot more to do with my birthday than I do. The only thing I've done to deserve a birthday is not die.) And part of it is that if I had my way, I'd spend my birthday in relative solitude, and people always make me feel quite guilty when I say I want no party or hoopla.

But anyway – this year was wonderful. All it takes is a few friends, in very small groups, and baked goods. Yes, baked goods.

I'd go all retrospective about the last year and where I was one year ago today, or I'd get all hopeful about where I'll be a year from now.

But I won't. Let's just say that things are good right now, and that's all I can focus on now – and all I should focus on.

So here's to not the next year, not the next month, but the next day.

Happy no-longer-birthday! 'Cause every day should be happy, not just one out of every 365. (Or 366 every 4th year...)

You know what they say...

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 06:36:00 +0000

"With a sharp enough knife, you don't need a cutting board."

Okay -- I don't think anybody's ever said that, but it sounds like a probable Southern Cliché, one that we all know has been said forever and must mean SOMETHING but we aren't quite sure what.

Maybe it means that the right tool doesn't need another. Or maybe it means you should keep a cutting board on hand if you don't own a knife sharpener. But I'll get back to the made-up cliché. For right now, I'm going to discuss actual clichés. Not any specific clichés, but clichés in general.

The thing about clichés is that almost everybody hates them, and yet everyone still uses them. (Of course, some people use way too many clichés, specifically sports figures at press conferences.) But there's something about clichés that makes them unique to annoying idioms; they're usually true. After all, things don't actually get repeated unless they're true.

I guess that's why it's so hard for me to come up with a new cliché; there seems to be no truth to the random sayings I manage to blurt out.

'Cause you know what they say: "Even the sharpest knife in the kitchen needs a cutting board."

And that's the truth!

Instant Coffee

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 16:11:00 +0000

Good coffee, There is a process to it. And you have to wait. You first smell the beans while they are ground, then the smell and feel of seeping and steam, and then finally the taste. Instant coffee, you get the taste sooner, and it may be good for a sip or two, but you really should have waited for the good stuff to brew.

Coffee is such a simple thing, and it's a staple to most Americans. (Not me, but that's not the point here.) And yet, so many people still pick the instant stuff when there are better things out there.

The recent introduction of the Starbucks brand instant coffee is a perfect example. I've heard -- though I cannot find a link now ('cause I'm not looking, really...) that in the rest of the country, the taste-tests have been mostly quite positive. In New York, however, not so much. In New York, you can get a better cup of coffee that has at least had a couple more steps than "just add water!" in how it's been made, and it's waiting for you so you get it nearly isntantly. As a result, Starbucks instant coffee has been getting quite negative reviews here.

But the problem is that this attitude has gone beyond coffee.

We're all about instant gratification -- myself included. Hopeless romantics are only hopeless because they are too romantic to go beyond a first date when a click isn't instant.

Patience no longer exists in the northeast. The only thing people here will wait for is the next pitch during the playoffs. Outside of the baseball diamond, nobody is willing to put in an extra second, or an extra ounce of work. We all want that perfect job to come right along, that perfect employee, the perfect relationship, the perfect shoe on the first try. And when we find one that feels great from the first second, we take it. And if it feels okay, we toss it aside forgetting that tough leather needs to be broken in. And then they are the greatest shoes you've ever owned, and that before pretty designs hit the sky, the fuse of the fireworks has to be lit.

I'm mixing metaphors, many times over, but I'm sure you get the point.

And if you don't want to weed through the metaphors to figure it out, here it is: Sometimes a little work and patience is worth it.

In other words: Smell the beans, then make the coffee. Micro-ground powder is not a bean. After all, nobody's ever said, "You have to try this instant coffee! It's amazing!"

Things I've learned while looking for a job

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 07:42:00 +0000

I've been unemployed for a week now. My final paycheck came in the mail yesterday and I think my replacement may finally have figured out the last few things such that I won't be getting daily emails from her anymore.

In this week, I've still managed to stay quite busy, with interviews and meetings and lunches with friends and general activities to keep me from realizing I'm unemployed. (Tomorrow is no different, but I think Tuesday is the day I'll start to actually feel unemployed, so I need to start thinking of activities to do to get me out of my apartment at least once a day to stave off unemployment-depression...)

But in my first week of unemployment, I've actually learned quite a few things.

I've learned that I really like wearing nice clothing. My life's goal is a job where wearing a suit is normal...or at least nice pants, a blazer, and a tie. (In fact, if my next job is merely an administrative assistant position, I'm going to set the precedent that I am the guy who comes in wearing a blazer 3-4 days a week, unlike before when I started doing that a few months in and always got the "special plans after work?" questions.)

That my people-skills will get me halfway to wherever it is I'm going. (Side-story: I once said to Mark, my first restaurant manager, that I was scared of being a musician because of employment and bills, and he told me that if I could get myself in the door for an interview, I could wow anyone. Of course, he also warned that that doesn't mean I'll get jobs, but I'll at least get chances to get jobs...)

That if your resume says you type 95 WPM, you better be able to do that on a slightly-off day, too.(I hit 92 earlier in the week at a temp agency, under pressure, and was given an all-in-good-fun hard time about lying on my resume. Had I hit only 80 or 85, I think the reaction would have been much harsher.)

That being young is a disadvantage only if you act your age. Wearing a tie and exuding confidence is a good way to avoid being seen as young.

That you never decline an interview. Even if it's in a field you really don't belong, interviews are good experience. And sometimes if you're on the fence, the interview will push you one way or the other. Not to mention the fact that a positive interview for a field you shouldn't be in could be a great networking opportunity!

There's no telling how long this unemployment will last, but I'm completely certain that it will be longer than my parents would like it to be, shorter than I fear it will be, and filled with valuable lessons and experiences that I would have no other way of getting. That, and a few matinee movies. Free Tuesday movies at select theaters in Manhattan, here I come!

Listening to the old folks

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 05:52:00 +0000

This past weekend, I was at a favorite hole-in-the-wall eatery this weekend on the Lower East Side. (Best Vietnamese sandwiches EVER! They also have wine, beer, coffee, and it turns out, really wonderful M&M cookies. Kinda glad I was waiting for someone and the kitchen was closed on Saturday! But anyway...)

I had no idea that this place, in a neighborhood that's part slum, part Chinatown, and part old-world Lower East Side, was a hangout for old Jews on Saturday afternoons. Outside, on the first day that I was wearing a jacket all year, there were 15-20 elderly Jews, all friends, all talking. Come to think of it, i don't think they had actually bought anything from the shop, they just loitered in their sidewalk seats, completely unbothered.

As a people-watcher, I love to watch people interact and make up their stories, filling in whatever gaps aren't readily apparent. But this was a gold mine, as I didn't have to guess anything, they said it all.

I zeroed in on two white-haired men. One was emptying the entire contents of his wallet on the small table -- a risky move considering the steady breeze. Included were business cards with handwritten phone numbers on the reverse side, credit cards, his ID, and black-and-white photographs. He was carefully examining the contents while the other man spoke.

The first man started examining his photographs, looking lovingly, as he carried on conversation. The second man spoke. He had the raspy voice of someone who has had a long life and loves to talk about it, and the confidence in tone of someone who was clearly the dominant figure in the relationship.

"I don't know how people survive 10 years in prison. I couldn't survive 10 hours," he said. The other man looked up from his photo, confused. "I never told you about this? I was young and I had no idea what was happening. I was just in the truck. I wasn't driving. I didn't know it was stolen!" He continued to tell stories of the pair of shoes he had just been given that he was wearing and the minority men were eyeing them. (Oh, the colorful language of the actual story that I feel uncomfortable typing...) "I told them that if they wanted the shoes, they'd have to pry them off my cold, dead feet. They woulda done it, too, had I not gotten the hell out of there!"

The men continued their conversation with unashamed cultural observations about prison, the neighborhood, and anything else that came to mind in ways that were both insensitive and more honest than you will ever hear people now in this politically correct and culturally "sensitive" world that is the Northeast United States.

Another man walked by and asked how Pauly was doing. "Oh, you didn't hear? He died on Thursday night. The funeral's tomorrow." Discussion about the burial plans ensued. "They're cremating Pauly?" "Wow. Do you think that's what he wanted?" "I dunno. It could be money. But his uncle and aunt were cremated. His mother, though, she's in a box."

Allow me to step outside the narrative for one moment. There's something about watching old men discuss mortality that is oddly comforting. These men, who have seen their contemporaries start to drop, seem so comfortable with it. They clearly know that one of them is going to be the last, and everyone seems okay with it. I almost assume they have a pool going, and to the winner goes the box of unopened Cubans from well before they were illegal.

This led to the talkative man calling a friend on the wallet-explorer's phone to tell of Pauly's death.

"Hello, Marty."
"It's Marty!"
"You only know one Marty, I thought!"
"Yes, I know it's your name, too. It's my name, also."
"What do you mean Marty who? You've only known me for 64 years."
"Yes. Yes, Marty. It's Marty!"
"Pauly died..."

The conversation continued, but at this point, Marty realized I was there and knew everything. In the same way that this man so bluntly spoke unapologetically and uncaringly before, he looked at me and said, "I cannot believe he doesn't know me! I hang out with a bunch of old men!" He then told me to sit because it was better for my back. He pulled up a chair and had me sit at the table next to him.

He continued his conversation. I got cold and wanted hot chocolate, so I went inside.

There was no "goodbye" or "have a nice day." In fact, while I tried to give him a glance and a nod, he ignored me, went back to looking at wallet photographs, and discussing shoes.

I've got a feeling that Marty's the one who's going to get a box of cigars when all is said and done. And he'll be okay with that.

Conversation Starters

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Sun, 11 Oct 2009 05:21:00 +0000

Goodnight, ladies and gentleman!

Yeah -- okay. That doesn't work. And I don't think it ever will. But that's been a big topic of debate over the last few years of my life.

So back in my days of being a restaurant host, times of day and what to call them were always in question. When I worked lunch shifts, someone always yelled if I said "good morning" at 12:05 or "good afternoon" at 11:55. (I tried "Good Mid-day" a few times, but that just didn't work. Usually, I said "good morning" too late and when someone corrected me, I would say, "It's morning somewhere!") It was consensus that evenings begin at 5 PM, and before that "good afternoon" was still appropriate. But the problem came when people would enter the restaurant past, say 7 or 8 PM.

Fast forward to tonight, when the debate continued, this time with new parties: the two musicians who came into the subway car I was in at 11:52 PM and sat down. The one who did the talking said "goodnight, ladies and gentlemen of New York!" and one man returned the goodnight. The performer ranted for a minute about manners and how nobody returned the goodnight. I told him that I felt goodnight was an ending, and that I would say goodnight when they were done and left, but not before. "So what would you say?" "I'm not sure. Maybe good evening? Maybe just 'how are you all tonight?' I'm not entirely sure." "Have you ever travelled outside New York City?" "Plenty!" "Haven't you noticed people say goodnight there?" "Not that start of a conversation!"

Ultimately, they played. The man who spoke played two congas and sang "Everything's Gonna Be Alright" (the Bob Marley tune) while the other accompanied on guitar. They walked around, I gave them a couple bucks, and said "goodnight" and smiled.

What I'll miss about my job

ayellen@gmail.com (Alexander) — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 06:31:00 +0000

Well, I'm officially no longer employed -- though if things go as planned, that won't last long. I most certainly made the right decision leaving, but there are a number of things I will miss.

Of course there's the people -- both the production staff and the support staff, from mail room to reception to archives to the custodian who I can understand 45% of what he says.

But more than anything, I'm a creature of habit and I'll miss the fact that the last 2 weeks, 7 of 10 morning commutes have been on the train with the same crew (with the man with the best voice I've ever heard on a subway) and I even sat next to the same man 3 of them. I'll miss my breakfast cart man and my glazed doughnut (though I wish he didn't sell out of the chocolate covered before I got there), and I'll miss the lunch place where the owner gives me the occasional free fruit and wants to open a wine bar when he's done selling lunch to business folk.

I'll miss my desk -- the closest one to the cafeteria, which I think is the best location because of the near-weekly leftovers that I get the first crack at. I'll miss having a space of my own that I'm paid to be at rather than paying for. I'll miss being closest to the printer and starting conversations with people as they wait, or helping people who have powerpoint formatting issues -- the parts of my job that aren't actually part of my job. I'll miss the one girl who never engaged in conversation, even though I always tried to make eye contact while she was at the printer or passing in the hallway and she would look away. I'll even miss the little TVs in the elevator that gave me my gossip news.

I guess in the end, nostalgia takes over. Whether experiences are positive or negative -- and this particularly one was mostly positive -- there's always a sadness to endings...and a scariness to new beginnings.

But that's another story.