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   

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/

We Gettin Drunk On Life

Cacophony: Music. Frequent use of chords of harshness and relationship difficult to understand

I'm leaning back in a very comfortable leather recliner, my feet resting on the extended foot stool. I am staring blankly at a brilliant sequence of lights that are spitting out images of a slightly overweight man with spiky bleach-blond hair, tattoos and ear piercings taking enormous bites of this or that in the back of kitchens here or there. In the spacious room to my left, a horn section consisting of trombone, tenor and alto saxophones is diligently learning and rehearsing the New Orleans traditional, "When The Saints Go Marching In." What started out as a series of hoots, cackles and whales has settled into a loose, yet enjoyable rendition of the timeless song

Cacophony immediately came to mind as the initial uncertain notes escaped from the trio of horns. A belch here or a squeak there disrupted my comfortable existence on my comfortable chair in this comfortable house located in the Rocky Mountains some 100 miles west of Denver. I wasn't deep in thought pondering Rumi's poems of Realisation or laughing heartily to myself as I was about to discover how to take over the world with bass lasers -- I was just sitting and staring. Mind blank. No cravings, no desires, nothing. Blank.

The high frequency blast of human breath through meticulously crafted brass and wood, metal and rubber snapped my dormant mind back to the present. A skillful manipulation of dexterous fingers and a trained embouchure filled the silent air with a tasteful and practiced minor jazz scale, somewhat akin to a guitar player mindlessly fingering their "cool lick" or the drummers imaginary solo to tens of adoring fans

Cacophony: Music. Frequent use of chords of harshness and relationship difficult to understand.

Following a calling as an artist is a harsh and difficult path to understand. I've struggled mightily with the pursuit in my adult life, often questioning my decisions to continue with the tremendously challenging yet immensely rewarding quest for fulfillment. As I acquire a modicum of wisdom with each passing year, I slowly come to the painful realization that there might not be an ultimate pinnacle of artistic achievement -- i.e., no super bowl to win or award that can be earned to quiet the mind into a state of serene sedation. Of course, a Modern Drummer cover, a Grammy win, and a yacht full of bronzed and toned females pouring champagne over my head and drinking it out of my belly button with a straw might calm my frenzied brain. However, tanned booties and luxury boats only carry so much intellectual weight. Actually, I think I'd be pretty happy on a yacht right now as my mental imagery is quickly overtaking thoughts of finishing this blog post....

**By the way, if you do a Google image search for "Girls On A Yacht", you may want to make sure a boss, wife, husband, child, is not in viewing proximity. Unless you're into that kind of thing, which I am. "Grandma! Come here -- check THIS out!"

So what is it that pushes us to create? Is it buried deep within our DNA? Is it cultural? The way we were raised, regardless of hardship or advantage? I clearly have no idea and I'm not looking to get too philosophical this morning as I'm still thinking about tan boat girls cooking meat on my yacht. Nevertheless, as I was handed my college diploma and bought my first suit (thank you Enterprise, they'll pick you up!) a decade ago, it took me all of three months to understand the limitations of my patience in the stifling confines of coat and tie. The mind numbing sport of selling replacement car rental insurance to humans whose existence is defined by the luxury vehicle they lease (I CAN'T GO OVER MY MILES!) is an experience I'd rather not repeat. Upon going through some of my old college text books, I discovered an essay I'd written 3 years prior to that moment in which I declared, "I will never wear a shirt and tie to my job." The next morning, I walked into the drab office illuminated by soul-sucking neon tube lights and handed in my resignation.

May of 2011 will be 10 years since I received my diploma in the Murphy Center at Middle Tennessee State University. To the delight of my three family members in attendance, I sauntered across the stage, shook the hand of the Dean of the Liberal Arts department with my right hand and simultaneously received my diploma in my left. I looked to the photographer standing in front of me and managed to contort my face to some resemblance of a half-smile half-grimace as he snapped photo #354 of the afternoon. Later in the day, while sitting on the toilet inside my favorite Cajun restaurant in Franklin, Tennessee I thought to myself, "Whew... the hard part is over! All I have to do now is find a good job, move back to the Colorado mountains with my girl and start living!"

Uhhhhh... cough, ahem. It don't exactly work that way. First off -- that last statement was a complete lie. All I was thinking about while sitting on the toilet? Wait - who knows if I was actually sitting on a toilet? Right? I mean, it was 10 years ago! I don't remember shit I did yesterday. However, I certainly was at a Cajun restaurant called "Copelands" post graduation. I did eventually move to Colorado (but not the mountains) with my girl and I have used the bathroom at some point along the way. The rest of the life stuff... weeeeeelllllll, I believe that is why I am hacking away on my laptop at this very instant.

You see:

Against the expectations of current socioeconomic climate in the United States in March of 2011, I'm an outsider. I am 33 years old. I own a 17 year old Japanese import that approaches 40 miles per gallon of petrol when conditions are ideal. I posses most of two separate drum sets that have paid the bills in one way or another for the better part of the last 4 years. I have a 5'x10' storage space that contains 85% of my possessions. The remaining 15% resides with me inside of my rented, partially furnished apartment-sized bedroom some 5 miles west of the infamous Red Rocks amphitheater. There is nothing on hanging on my walls and I sleep on a borrowed futon that is without frame. By American standards, I have skirted the poverty line for the last several years. The only debt I owe is due to my college education . I have no children, no wife, girlfriend, lover, dogs, cats, or blow up dolls.

The most valuable thing I own is my freedom. Freedom to choose which direction to wander, freedom to escape the monotony of day to day life, routine and obligation - All of which I have seemed to acquire a strong distaste. The plethora of options leads to endless possibilities that keeps my synapses firing rapidly as I turn to the next blank page of Nomad's** choose my own adventure book. My personal hell is over-thinking choices and not following through with instant decisions. It's a painful and arduous process, albeit one that generally keeps me in good financial health in the long run. I have a no credit card policy that keeps me from making rash decisions--like flying to New Orleans next week to attend The Jazz and Heritage Festival. In order to do things such as this, I need to have the money in the bank and my bills covered. Or, I simply rely on one of my wealthy and enabling friends to give me a long term no interest loan (Any Volunteers?)

To hell with it all. The over-thinking, the responsibilities, towing the line between caution and adventure. I choose adventure. I choose the pursuit of knowledge outside the regimented and linear academic process. I earned a document that legitimizes my wherewithal in a white collar interview but my passport might hold more secrets to my education than that damn, dusty, expensive ass diploma ever will.

I own my freedom and I better take advantage of it while I can.

In the coming year, I'm endeavoring to embark on a grand adventure to feed the mind and soul. I am the art project. I am also the artist. Is that weird? Can I like get arrested for that in some southern states? I will attempt to keep a updated blog as to the goings on as I travel and learn and succeed and fail. I hope to see many of you in person along the way and it's my desire create something new with as many good friends as I can. Call it "Reverse Engineering of FaceSpace for MyBook."

And I swear I will not be this serious and disgustingly self-indulgent from here on out.

**Nomad=Damon