No Rest For The Bi-Continental-Curious

I've felt as of late the writing a blog is an exercise in unbridled narcissism. A rambling and verbose expansion of the need for concise and attention seeking text that dominates our current twitter-face social universe. I am guilty. Guilty of posting the ridiculous, the obscene, the censored, the important, the self-important, the promotional, the humorous and the pathetic; most of which is represented in instagram photos of meals I've cooked and painstakingly garnished -- for myself. But here I am, half-drunk on wine, feeling clever and creative; fidgety fingers stabbing quickly at keys eagerly awaiting a masterpiece. Why? What is so god-damn interesting in my life would lead others in my "social network" to eschew their 140-character intake of the arcane and want to enter my inebriated and twisted little universe?

Clearly, I don't have an answer to that question. Now I'll post alternating pictures of cats with funny captions and attractive women eating turkey legs.

 

As I pour over travel memoirs of the famous, the not-so-famous, the explorers, the deceased and the unknown, I realize that their stories may have had just as humble beginnings as mine; except perhaps theirs were funded by National Geographic and mine are fueled by rhythm, food, caffeine and alcohol. Nonetheless, the last three plus years of my life I have spent a good amount of time drunk and silly and love-struck. The remainder of the hours have been spent on the road in a car/train/airplane, behind a drum set, in a kitchen, slowly climbing a mountain, descending a mountain at high rates of speed, Machu Picchu, Mexico, transversing the great USA in a rock-n-roll van in a rock-n-roll band, learning the secrets to Brasilian music in the redwood forest north of San Francisco, applying to teach English in Japan, carousing with friends and harboring avidity directed at another on the cobblestone streets of The Big Easy, savoring every last bite of the most fantastic bagel while wandering the congested avenues of Manhattan, and finally enjoying the solitude and peacefulness of my quiet mountain home in Colorado. Strong emphasis on the word HOME. Undoubtedly, I'm misplacing a detail or seventeen in my brief synopsis but like I said, I was drunk a lot too. I can't be expected to recall everything.   

Why do I feel compelled to recount this tail of self-congratulatory garbage as I have? Why do I agonize over grammatical errors or pace endlessly, searching a combination of words that will satisfy an apparent deep seeded desire to sound educated and interesting and cultured? These are questions I pose to myself prior to attempting prose and debilitating thoughts that have kept me from doing so for well over a year. But then I ask "why does the song writer write, or the painter paint?" or hitting closer to home, "why does the cook cook?" Sustenance and survival are the obvious and easy answers, however, in our burgeoning foodie obsessed culture, we all know that the answer to that question is multi-layered and complex akin to the finest dishes produced by our culinary masters. We eat and drink to celebrate. We listen to music that evokes a emotional response whether it be dancing, head-banging or self-loathing. We view art to see into the soul of the illustrator, sculptor or photographer - to attempt to understand the subject matter no matter how low-brow or abstract. We read to be transported into the minds of the interesting, the perverse, the exciting, other-worldly and fascinating. I am discovering at this very moment that I write to fill a creative void. It's challenging and painful and I hate myself for doing it. I despise the time I'm wasting when I could be practicing drums or at the gym or going for a hike. 

An epiphany strikes me as I'm once again finding any excuse to not finish what I've started. I will finish this god-forsaken blog entry which has gone completely off the subject matter I originally didn't intend to write about. My life and these experiences I choose to narrate aren't simply vacations. They are not well thought out and planned. Hell, I never thought I was going to be a professional musician. I never thought I was going to work in a kitchen again and enjoy the shit out of every minute preparing food that elicits smiles from a reserved suburban clientele. I didn't imagine that I'd be sharing my narrow breadth of rhythmic knowledge with an attentive young audience that will have more distractions than any generation that precede them. I'd always hoped to travel, to be worldly and wise but for a time, I didn't think that was in the cards. I was in a dark place - the bottom of a canyon if you will - the walls above crumbling down, suffocating my spirit and crushing my will. I was able to fight through it with the enormous help of a supportive and "real-life" social circle. Friends and family I leaned on in times of strife. Individuals I met with face to face to share a story, a beer, a hug. 

I have found happiness and contentment but not without wanderlust and curiosity always tugging the other direction. I am steadfast and ultimately believe in myself no matter where my "career" may lie. Life as an adventure and I am a willing participant. 

Alaska, Denali, the Kenai Peninsula await. 

A rousing percussion performance in Las Vegas (on pots and pans of all things) still visible in the rear-view mirror. 

...More to follow

Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.

-Mark Twain   

Bright Lights, Big City - Part 1

I fancy myself a avid traveler and I guess over the last 3 years, I have been. Much more than others and not as much as many, enough for some - but not so much for me. If I had my druthers, I'd be in a perpetual state of transit. Not a transient, mind you but a globe-trotting and free wheeling gentleman of some esteem, adept at wooing daughters of royalty while drinking with servants in the bowels of Romanian castles.

Fancying myself as something I am not is a wonderful daydream but the reality of the situation is my travel is primarily domestic, my free wheeling has budgetary constraints and my wooing is akin to Mario Mendoza's success rate hitting a baseball. Regardless, I flee when I can; exploring the lower 48 with the same enthusiasm I'd have continent hopping with an amex black and Olivia Munn as Princes Leia.



A fortunate set of circumstances recently allowed me to visit a place I've never wanted to go: New York City. Frontier airlines dangled a $220 round trip fare direct from DIA to La Guardia (La Gwordia? La Gahdiah?) that I simply could not pass up given that both my cousin Matt and college chum Brian live there. Matt is a student and NYU and Brian is a professional writer. If Matt were an investment banker and Brian a TV personality, I'd probably not have considered the trip. I assumed that both were proximate to my economic stratosphere (me being on the low end, of course) and that I could navigate the big pomegranate on a shoestring budget like those cute little guide books advise. My two hosts were more than accommodating, providing a plethora of options that didn't murder my wallet and may have even elevated my antiquated thought process a level or two.

-Strip Clubs
-Cheap Weed
-40's of Malt Liquor

I kid, I kid... well, except for the 40's

I hold up 4 fingers because we are drinking 40's
Apoloigies to fiddy cent
we is drankin fotys
Look how mature and distinguished we all look with our beards.
Pillsbury Dough Boy PHOTOBOMB!

As I was making final preparations to depart Denver, I emailed Matt to determine how best to acquire transportation from the airport to his apartment in Queens. Let me back up a bit and first tell you that I know nothing about New York. It's geography is completely foreign to me, I have absolutely no idea how to navigate the subway system and the neighborhoods (Brooklyn, Queens, Manhatten) are only significant to me as places that Jay-Z , Woody Allen or Billy Crystal perorate about via pop-culture.

I do remember that Eddie Murphy's character in Coming To America wanted to move to Queens when arriving in New York because he logically concluded that's where he would find an American Queen.



As one who doesn't typically use cabs I'm always a little uneasy about a cab driver pulling wool over my eyes, even in Denver. I'm about to head to the stereotypical asshole cab drive capitol of the modern world, clueless as to where I'm headed, white as snow with a suitcase in tow. Awesome. To further boost my confidence, Matt replies to my email with a very reassuring instructions as to how to deal with said cab driver:

"Once in said cab, prolly yellow, tell them that you are going to Astoria. With all of the NYC cocky confidence you've got, say 23rd ave at 28th st. If they ask how they should get there, respond with "whatever is fastest."

Grrrrreeeaaat. Damon Scott, Mr. NYC Cocky Confidence coming straight from the snow capped Colorado mountains on horseback pulling a carriage full of barrels of ice-cold Coors Original. I departed the plane around 11pm and made my way out of the severely outdated terminal, bypassing the baggage claim and exited the automatic sliding doors on a mission to quickly find a yellow cab. I looked to my left and saw a line of people patiently awaiting their turn to hop in the back seat of the clean and modern looking vehicles and I think to myself, "piece of cake... this ain't so bad". However, as my place in line continued to inch forward, I felt a tinge anxiety creep in between my ears and I started to stiffen up which is amazing because I concealed 5 shooters of whiskey on to the plane with me and pretty much downed them all while watching Millionaire Matchmaker on the smallish TV screen in the back of the seat

Yes... She's that scary, even miniaturized

I walked to the front of the line as the yellow Ford Escape pulled up beside me. The driver came around back to assist loading my suitcase into the rear of the SUV. In a thick and indistinguishable accent, he politely asked where I was headed. I loudly replied "ASTORIA. QUEENS!" His eyes seemed to widen a bit and he hesitantly nodded and backed away from the agitated, shaking, half-drunk loud mouth standing in front of him. With my iPhone clenched in my sweaty palm, GPS fixated on the destination; we silently rolled off into the bustling New York night. A few pleasantries were exchanged over the course of the 15 minute cab ride and I arrived quickly; unscathed, un-robbed and unharmed.

Over the course of the following 72 hours, I packed in as much New York City action as I could muster -- on a shoestring budget, of course.

Friday: 11:45 pm -- Matt and I drink multiple glasses/shots of beer/whiskey while catching up on life

Saturday: 10:30am -- Matt, Shauna, ((Matt's fiance) and I catch the subway to "museum row" and head to The Metropolitan Museum of Art. I take pictures:






Matt is currently a PhD candidate at NYU's Institute of Fine Arts (I think). He's smart. He knows a lot about art. He has a penchant to fart. We spent a few hours at the enormous museum until it was time to get a drink. We headed to the southern exit and walked out to central park right as the sun was setting behind the Manhattan skyline. We grabbed a couple of Irish coffee's, had a seat on the quaint patio overlooking the small pond. It was all quite bromantic and fitting of a John Cusack cameo and a string quartet.



Matt and I met up with Shauna and walked down 5th avenue into the epicenter of mass consumerism and manufactured holiday cheer. There was a massive tree that must have been photographed 1.43 million times in the 5 minutes I was trapped amongst the immoveable heard of cattle people. I took one too:

Church of Jobs

Upon suffering a mild panic attack, I notified my hosts that I needed to depart Santa Claus Central with haste; certainly not before acquiring my new Louis Vuitton hand bag and Dolce Gabbana heels.

I was dutifully whisked away to an oasis of $3 draft beer and excellent Ethiopian cuisine:

With bellies full of beer and injera, we migrated to some other part of the eternal city in search of a Johnny Walker scotch tasting but instead found ourselves at a dingy garden level bar straight from the northern Florida coast line. Walls adorned with cheeky, cliche, beach/pirate lingo; weathered fishing nets (probably purchased that way), wooden steering wheels or "helms" from boats. The ubiquitous game of beer-pong provides endless hours of intermittent and entertaining LOUD YELLING-GIRL SCREAMING-DRINK, DRINK, DRINKING -- perhaps only surpassed by the near ear-orgasmic quality of hearing frat dudes bounce quarters off wooden tables in an epic battleship war!



At this point, the three of us made the wise decision to catch the N train back toward Astoria but not before stopping to cap the night off with a little karaoke and a place that I don't remember. Thankfully, I neither have video nor pictures of the evenings entertainment. What is readily apparent is that Matt is blessed with the "talented singer" genes and I received the singular "talented idiot" chromosome.

Shauna, Matt, and I.
One very lucky mirror.

Part 2:
-Hanging with Brian
-Pizza
-Polish Beer
-Brooklyn
-Tebow Time
-GHOSTBUSTERS!

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The French Are Assholes (Except Bourdain)

When I sit to write I have a maddening habit of standing up immediately and pacing around the room, cracking my knuckles, turning down the volume of the music in the background and turning it up again. I fidget endlessly before I can muster a word. It's not particularly easy to get started on something, even when the subject and content have been incubating in my brain for a period of nano seconds.

There, I did it again, I just got up to get a glass of water even though I'm really not thirsty. I think it's called writers block but seeing as I'm neither a writer or blocked, I consider it an idiosyncrasy of my wickedly awesome and highly likeable personality. Boy, ha, if you could be sitting right next to me at this moment you'd be witnessing a spectacular feat of awesomeness that may never be surpassed by anything... ever... in the history and future of the universe.

I also tend to meander aimlessly around the particular subject I want to write about until I can land in a soft cuddly pillow of fluffy verbosity that transports me to an information super highway of genius that flows through my fingers like the salmon of Capistrano.



...another glass of water. Annnnnnd, I'm gonna have to pee soon.

Initially, I wanted to write a concise review about my incredible experience at the 2011 California Brazil Camp in Cazadero, California but I always seem to have a hard time writing about something directly without adding a pinch of bullshit to entertain myself in the exhaustive and frustrating process of doing this for YOU. I know, I know, I'm supposed to write for myself and not my audience but it's difficult when various world leaders and B-List actresses are pounding on my firewall attempting to give me a trojan horse. What the hell does that mean anyway? Is it sexual? Gross... Gorbachev is decidedly not sexy.

Regarding sexiness, in the most heterosexual way possible, I am utterly infatuated with Anthony Bourdain.

The 5th result you get when typing the words "Utterly Infatuated" into Google Image search

Stood up again and walked outside. 5th time in less than 30 minutes.

I recently heard a podcast by Joe Rogan in which he interviewed Bourdain for well over two hours. There are several reasons why this is awesome (3rd time I've used that word or some semblance of if in this blog).

- The podcast is uncensored
- Rogan asks him questions that all of us regular dip-shits would want to ask him
- They are drinking
- If you are a regular viewer of his show, you get the sense that he wants so badly to tell the audience what really happened behind the scenes but he can't.
- He does on the podcast
- What Bourdain says in the first 5 minutes of the podcast is astonishing

Hear for yourself: http://vimeo.com/28919149

To paraphrase:

(In responding to a question that he's an overnight success)

"I was 44 years old, standing by the deep frier in the kitchen... I had no ambition other than to cook and earn the advance back on my book (Kitchen Confidential)."

Fast forward approximately 12 years later and he has (in my estimation) the coolest life/job on the planet. Go ahead, I dare you to listen to the podcast and tell me anything that sucks about what he does.

Of course, I'm biased. This is my blog. I'm allowed. If given the choice to be in the biggest rock band in the world or have the life of Bourdain... no question, I'd choose the latter.

Since I have neither, I'll indulge your rampant curiosity regarding my life.

Approximately three years ago, the dissolution of a relationship that lasted through the majority of my twenties was in it's beginning stages. My ex was a kind, caring, and amazing woman that supported me through all the good and bad of our quarter-life together. I wasn't happy and, I've now realized I was never going to be happy -- there was something that was missing. After hearing Bourdain's story, I'm guessing that he too had an insatiable cultural curiosity and walking home in the wee-hours of a NYC morning smelling of frier grease wasn't exactly filling that crevasse. However, all of his cumulative experience leading up to that impossible moment that he wrote that book and was "discovered" was instrumental in him being "discovered."

It is now October 7th, 2011. As I try to conclude this post that I started editing on 9/27, I came across a video of the recently deceased Steve Jobs. In it, he tells three stories that have had tremendous impact in his brilliant lifetime. I do not possess 1/100th of the eloquence as he, so I will not attempt to summarize. Please watch:



Of particular note to me is something that I was trying to touch on when I started this post -- Jobs speaks of "Connecting The Dots:"

"Again, you can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something — your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life." -Steve Jobs

Leave it to the most influential artist of our generation to take the words out of my mouth and make sense of it all.

"Stay Hungry, Stay Foolish"

As I continue to try to find whatever I'm searching for in this life, his poignant words touched me in (yet another) time of questioning my chosen direction.

I'll have to postpone (yet again) the Cal Brazil Camp review til another day. For now, pictures will have to suffice.

Winter is almost here!

ADEUS

Stage 6: Commence

California Brazil Camp
Day 0

I was awoken at 4:27 am by the 100lb rottweiler belonging to one of my roommates. I couldn't go back to sleep. I spent the better part of yesterday preparing for an 12 day trip that will take me from Lakewood (bus to)

DIA (plane to)
see mom in San Francisco (car ride to)
Calistoga (car ride to)
Santa Rosa (shuttle to)
Brazil Camp in Cazadero for a week (car ride to)
Santa Rosa (shuttle to)
San Francisco (plane to)
San Diego (shuttle to)
Carlsbad (shuttle to)
Toxby's wedding in La Jolla (shuttle to)
Carlsbad (train to)
see brother in Oxnard (car ride to)
see Grandparents in Montebello (car ride to)
LAX (plane to)
Denver (bus to)
house sit for 3 weeks.

So... I had to plan accordingly for a week long camping/music trip a 10+ hr day of travel and a wedding immediately following said day of travel. Driving around Denver in a car with no AC when it's 98 degrees is miserable. Having to shop made it worse. I hate shopping. I HATE SHOPPING. I HATE SHOPPING. 60 year old Dude at Wal Mart wearing the green IZOD polo shirt with his collar popped while rocking the socks with sandals was a highlight. The amazingly cold thrift store off of Alameda in Lakewood was as well.

Yes, when I talk about shopping, I am not rolling into Macy's and Banana Republic... I'm popping in wally world and tha A. R. C.

It's now 7:34 am on Saturday, August 20th. I'm sitting at Denver International Airport, where I have been for the last hour and a half. It'll be another hour and a half til I leave. I am on my second night of less that 4 hours of sleep following an awesome gig with Adam Stern and The High Country Gentleman at The Westin Hotel in Avon, Colorado. I'm tired and a little delirious but excited to get to San Francisco to see my mom and eventually head to the 1st day of California Brazil Camp for an intensive week of Brazilian music and culture learnin. To quote my good friend Spanky, "He goin to learn that International music... ain't no Country 'n Western in International music"

View from the office at The Westin

I'm not sure if I have it in me this morning to be witty (not that I ever am witty) or descriptive or interesting. Heading to camp is another step in my journey of my... drum... journey? For the last three months I've been keeping a practice log of various exercises/techniques I've been working on; almost on a daily basis, when time allows. My playing has improved steadily. Obviously, the trip to New Orleans had a tremendous impact on my career and I'm thinking that CBC will do the same.

--Ha... a guy just passed in front of me at the airport wearing a shirt that said "I Love Bacon" People watching at the airport is fun.

I think I might be off the grid for a week or so but I'm going to attempt to document my experience at the camp and I might even try to write a review and submit it to Modern Drummer to be published. How Bout Them Plantains?

Okay, kiddos. Y'all enjoy yourselves and I'll be in touch soon.

Oh, went for a nice hike at Chicago Lakes in between Evergreen and Idaho Springs, close to the base entrance of Mt. Evans. I saws a bear. Here are some pics (not of the bear).

New Orleans: You Complete Me

Dear Mrs. Easy - or should I call you Mrs. Big? Mrs. Crescent? The Big Crescent, or, perhaps The Big Croissant as an homage to your French heritage. Speaking of French; fries sound really good right about now. Thank you French people for your freedom potatoes and wine and women with hair 'neath their arms. I appreciate it all except for your snooty Maitre'D with the shiny pointy black shoes. He can go to hell. And why do your women like to smoke so much?

That French girl in Inglorious Basterds is hot.

...but what's with the smoking, lady?
Her name is Melanie Laurent and that in itself is sexy.

I like her hat. In fact, I liked the hats that the women in New Orleans were wearing, it reminded me of when I was in France as a young man, searching for love in art galleries and clinging to the notion of having a romantic rendezvous at the top of the awful tower. The really amazing thing about that life changing experience in France is that it never happened because I've never actually been to Europe because I hate Euros -- not the people, the currency. It looks stupid.

faire tomber la pluie
"make it rain"

Honestly, I started this post on July 21st and it's now August 9th. I forgot where I was going with this and what I intended to write about. I have noticed that this is my 4th post about New Orleans and I should probably move on to a new subject. I'd endeavored to give a blow by blow recap of my trip to the birthplace of American music but an adequate use of language to describe what an impact this city had on me is elusive at best.

Ned Sublette is far more eloquent and, uh, published. Read this book:

Musician, musicologist and longtime New York resident, Sublette revisits his Southern roots and recounts a 2004–2005 pre-Katrina research sojourn in New Orleans in this blunt, eloquently humane and musically astute memoir—a worthy companion to his acclaimed The World That Made New Orleans, a music-laden cultural history of the city to 1819. Sublette delves into some quintessential dynamics of modern American popular culture—including racism and poverty as well as restive imagination and invention—through the prism of his childhood in virulently segregated, early rock 'n' rolling Natchitoches, La., and the fraught but idiosyncratic culture he finds in pre-flood New Orleans. If discussions of Elvis, early rock 'n' roll and hip-hop millionaires straight out of New Orleans's projects inevitably rehearse familiar narratives, Sublette carefully marks them out as part of a larger personal and social landscape. Sublette's sensitivity to the precariousness of a system that collapsed completely after he returned to New York is more than mere hindsight; his worldview dovetails movingly with his turbulent and alluring subject and its dogged rebirth.

Think the American Government has the best interests of it's constituents in mind when a national disaster strikes? Love or hate George Dubious Bush? Watch this:

Want an audio escape to the city from anyplace in the world:

http://www.wwoz.org/

Want to know what it's like to happen upon a brass band on Frenchman street? (Hint: An epic dance party erupts in the middle of a busy intersection)


A few random highlights of the trip:

• Walking down Frenchman street (akin to 6th st in Austin, TX; cultural epicenter of concentrated music venues in NOLA) hearing brass and drums pour out of every third door
• Noticing fliers posted for upcoming drum clinics by both Billy Martin and Stanton Moore (with Johnny Vidocavich)
  
  
  
  
• Bumping into Billy Martin (MMW) after watching Mike Clark & The Headhunters perform at The Maison
  

• Meeting Adam Deitch at Billy Martins excellent Drum Clinicli>

• Taking the ferry from Algiers to The Quarter and chatting with Stanton Moore who was on his way to do an interview with WWOZ, an instore performance with Galactic at the incredible Louisiana Music Factory, the drum clinic with Vidocavich, play with his trio at Jazz Fest and a late night show with Will Bernard and Robert Walter. I think he said he had 31 gigs in 7 days
  
  
• Seeing The Roots (with John Legend), Dirty Dozen Brass Band, The Decemberists (surprisingly awesome), Dr. John (best performance of the day) and Tom Jones at Jazz Fest
  
• Eating Beignets and drinking fresh squeezed orange juice at Cafe Du Monde the morning before flying home
  
  
  PAY THE HONOR BOX!
  
  

Go To New Orleans!
Thank you.

Where would you go?

My married friends are jealous. So are those experiencing domestic bliss with the joy of little fockers running wild -- as are those of you that are tied to a mortgage, car payment, a great job with no vacation time or a lousy job with a ton of vacation time. Maybe you hate your job and your wife -- I mean wife. Shit, I meant LIFE.

Are your AmEx cards maxed? Discover? College loans not paid off? Have you ever wanted to make $500,000 a year from home? Follow these simple steps:

Find some bananas and vanilla ice-cream. Or yogurt if you are lactose intolerant. Get a blueberry or two and some RED Gatorade -- the flavor doesn't matter.

*Fruit Punch
*Fierce Berry
*Xtremo Tropical Intenso
*Berry Citrus
*ESPN The Flavor
*X-Factor Fruit Punch + Berry
*Super Bowl Berry
*Cherry Rain
*Cherry Rush
*All-Stars Strawberry
*Cran-Raspberry A.M.

Some fresh basil, mint, and a pinch of grape Big League Chew for good measure. A few Mike & Ike's - lime and strawberry only, unless you prefer Hot Tamales.

-PORK sausage
-Boxed Wine
-Quail Egg
-Packet of Harry Potter Taco Bell Taco Seasoning.

Cue up Knight Rider season 3, episode 5, K.I.T.T. vs K.A.R.R.
Here is the synopisis for those of you that are stupid:


K.I.T.T.'s bad tempered prototype K.A.R.R. is found buried in the sand by mechanic John Stanton and his girlfriend Mandy. K.A.R.R. convinces Stanton to replace his damaged parts and give him a new look. Then he sets out to take his revenge on K.I.T.T. and Michael Knight. After turbo boosting into the Foundation's semi, John and K.A.R.R. take possession of an improved laser Bonnie was preparing for K.I.T.T. to use against his evil twin.




Proceed to get so drunk that you black-0ut. In the process, write a bunch of notes to yourself that you just won $500,000 in the lottery.

Back-up. Before this all occurs, DVR the lotto drawing from the previous week. Fill out all the winning numbers and take it to 7-13 (I don't want to get sued by using 7-11's name in the blog post).






Forward-down. Resume blacking out drinking. Realizing that you are watching a epic 1984 episode of Knight Rider in Dutch, you decide to grab something to eat from de kueken. Post the above recipe on your fridge and spend 14 minutes cleverly arranging Dirty Fridge Magnets in a clean fashion whilst commencing chewing of the Big League. Make smoothie. Throw Hawaiian Sea Salt over your left ear lobe and drink the ENTIRE box of wine. Sprinkle a bit of the taco seasoning on the quail egg and throw it out a third floor window.


YOU MUST THEN WASH YOUR HANDS. I do NOT promote poor hygiene.

Done. Easy. I won't even charge you.

Do you want to travel? I want to travel? I've always wanted to travel and I've not gotten my fix. I moved a lot as a child -- always finding a new way in a new school with new friends, or no friends. I was ahead of the fashion curve and behind the education curve. Sometimes vice-versa. I was the popular kid and I was painfully shy and insecure. I went to elementary school in the Colorado mountains with hippie teachers and hippie offspring. I endured earthquake drills and boiling asphalt lunch breaks in the Los Angeles public school system. I was befriended by the most unpopular kid in school my first day in Hood River, Oregon because I was a skater/snowboarder in this "hick" town that was yet to embrace Xtreme sports. In 7th grade, I got into a fight with my soon to be best friend because I beat him in a race in track and field. I was tormented as a freshman in a yet another new town, a bustling, wealthy suburb of Portland, OR. I completed secondary school in Boulder, Colorado, never quite figuring it out.

On to a few different colleges, a quarter life relationship, a trip to South America, a two month solo road trip and a few nation wide tours with a rock-n-roll band; yet here I sit, the burden of freedom heavy on my shoulders and the wide-open universe waiting to embrace my nomadic desires.

"If I were in your position, I'd be gone already"
"I wish I had that freedom!"
"Now is the time -- do it -- see the world!"

I made those quotes up. My friend didn't really say those things but they said something relatively close. There may have been an fuck or ass thrown around for color but that's essentially what I've encountered while pondering this decision, this life; my life.

They all say that, but they all might be in a position where jobs are plentiful and so are resources. I have chosen to be an artist. Art doesn't really pay unless you die or do drugs or are super hot and young with a great stylist and fake boobs or ass implants. In order to keep my freedom to travel, I need to not be obligated with silly things such as regular work or relationships. I've been reading Jack Keroac's "On The Road" as of late and as appealing as it sounds to hop in the car with Babe, Carlo, Dean and Betty to traverse our great nation stealing gas or hopping box-cars along the way, I'm not sure my 30-something gang of friends is able to set off on a grand ole caper of riotous carousing at 70mph on rickety wheels and good spirit.

I possess a remarkable enthusiasm for new stimuli, born of my migratory days as a youngster. I need to be in new places, meeting new faces. I am parched as my thirst for cultural knowledge overwhelms my ability to swill enough to satisfy a curious mind. New experience informs my soul as I adapt and assimilate, choosing small pieces off the ENORMOUS Avatar life tree that I will soon make sweet, sweet love to/with. I digress. That was getting too deep -- that verbal diarrhea was making me ill.

I'm going to finish up this stream of consciousness blog post with this:

Tomorrow morning, you wake up and your life as you know it is put on infinite pause. You must leave for a month and can return within 3 years. Everything as you know it will resume when you get back. You have $173.62 in the bank and your car is not road-trip appropriate without some serious AAA black card coverage. What do you do?

This is a pretty cool website: http://b2b.meetplango.com/

NOLA Jazz Fest Pictures

If you happen to be a fan of music, a performer of music, a purchaser of music or, simply a lover of music, you must attend this festival and the city of New Orleans. Oh yeah, the food doesn't suck.





























A plethora of more great pics to come. I'm tired of reminiscing -- I miss it badly!