Instant Everything™

Instead of screwing around on Facebook when I'm mentally restless I'm going to try and focus at least some of that energy on journaling instead when the urge to type brain Twinkies emerges. Even if it's just a short entry and not a mile long book like I've been doing lately what little I post on this thing. Facebook is fun and all but it's a little too instantaneous and time stamped. I don't like the fact that I can post something and potentially have someone read it and think "Hmm... so Mike hasn't responded to my email/voicemail yet but he has time to post on Facebook?" A few times people have called me out on that. Sure, I'm guilty, but a) I'm horseshit at answering my phone much less putting forth the effort to press and hold the 1 key on it to check voicemail, and 2) maybe you need to make your messages stick out a little bit more or at least interesting enough for me to make it past the first few words. Did you ever think of that, lame email/voicemail leaver? It's not all my fault. It takes two slices of bread to fulfill my attention defect disorder sandwich of correspondence.

So anyways, this new Google Instant thing sort of concerns me. If you're not yet familiar with it, try Googling it and a million links will vomit themselves up in your browser without you even having to press enter. I tried searching for something this morning and it looked like my web browser was having a seizure every time I typed in a character. At first I thought it was a cool hallucinogenic side effect of the 16oz Red Bull I'd slammed but it turned out that my browser was the one that was doing the jitterbug.

Does the world really need this? I've been an avid Google user ever since being blessed with a Gmail invitation from a friend back in the invite-only days. I'm starting to notice that the more changes they make to the Gmail interface and the Google search engine over time they're really not making life easier. Sure.. that's what they're doing on the surface. But at the same time they're slowly turning our brains into lazy mushy globs of mashed potatoes, and not even real ones. Yeah - powdered ones. I recall the days of searching the innernets for something and if I happened to misspell a word or two (shocking I know, but even awesome people like me make mistakes) it would kick back zero or very few results. Usually the only results were meaningless sites that happened to feature the identical misspelling that you'd just fed into the search engine. It was at least reassuring to know there was another human out there who made an identical fuck-up, and even went so far as to accidentally publish it on a website.

Looks like those days are becoming extinct. I suppose it's convenient. But so was watching Jerry Blackwell's big sweaty ass on AWA on Sunday mornings and drinking Pepsi instead of doing my homework in 5th grade. As a result of computers thinking for me I'm finding that I no longer pay close attention to how I spell stuff. I've talked to other people who are going through the same thing. That's fine and dandy on a computer, but when I have to hand write something or type into one of the few text applications left in the computer world without spell check I'm pretty much fucked with most of the words my inner proofreader stops me and taps my shoulder on. This is not good. That helpful skill has been overwritten with other information.. like the echoing sound of a robotic auto pilot voice in my head that tells me "DON'T WORRY, YOUR FRIEND MR. COMPUTERMACHINE WILL FIX IT FOR YOU. THANK YOU AND HAVE A NICE DAY, YOU JUST KEEP ON MAKING MISTAKES NOW, YOU HEAR?"

If this keeps going, what's next? Google Fridge? I open the fridge and if I think of the letter B, butter, beer, and broccoli suddenly swoosh to the front and center? Google TV? Google purse? Google chewless chewing gum that blows its own bubbles and loses flavor after 10 minutes all by itself? Google poop-and-dingleberry magnet toilet paper? Can we not just leave the entertaining psychic computer stuff to 20Q?

I dunno. Call me old fashioned but sometimes I enjoy the whole process of having to think and react in order to accomplish something. Sometimes. Just some occasional combustion up in the ol' noggin to shake the dust off. Such as when I want my shoes tied: I bend over and tie them and bask in the fruits of my labor with a rewarding walk from point A to B without my shoes falling off. I do not need a Google Shoelace app to accomplish this. I love my iPod but still find the greatest joy in dropping a needle down on a record and looking at the massive 12x12" album art printed on the cardboard sleeve. It's nice to still have to press COPY on the copy machines at work if I want something that's on 8.5 x 11 duplicated.

I have this fear one day of satellites being blown to bits by aliens and the internet as a whole crapping out like an old car. You never know, someone's pet hamster could get stuck in the internet pipes or something. What will the people who have subconsciously become dependent on technological conveniences do at that time besides hit things when they don't work and then stand there and drool? I'm slightly scared... I think I'm going to head on over to Google.com to find help. Sadly that involves either typing Google.com into my web browser or pressing its home page button. That sounds incredibly exhausting to have to do. Maybe if I sit and stare at the screen it will go to Google.com and do all of the rest of the work for me.

I'm getting verrryyyy sleeeepppyyyyyyy.....

My nose hair trimmer has been seen on TV

I'm ecstatic about my new nose hair trimmer. It's the first one I've ever bought, and It. Is. BAAAYud. AYYYYuusssss.

Since spending my entire 5th grade school year looking at my teacher Mr. Basil's nose hairs that were so unkempt that they practically could have been French braided, I've always wondered at what point in my life I would start a) noticing such things coming out of my nose, and as a result b) have to do something about it. I now know the answer: My 37th birthday. That's the magic number where my olfactory filaments began to try and grow out onto my face like the ornamental vines on the side of my old apartment building on 24th and Hennepin. In the past I've had instances where I've tamed a few sporadic strands trying to peek out. Those were easily managed with beard trimmer attachments built specifically for nasal cavity landscaping.

That was then, this is now. Things seem to be getting a little more unwieldy in my beak, and it seems they just don't make those beard trimmer attachments like they used to - that is unless ripping the hairs out with a dull reverse pencil sharpener is what it used to feel like and I just don't remember. I've tried carving them down with the regular flat clipper attachment by bending my nasal cartilage to a point to where I could get the corner of the clippers in there, but that only calms the savage beasts that are my nose hairs for a day or two. Plus when you've got a cat who likes to hop up on the sink and get all up in your binnit like Frank does, I could end up with one big nostril if he caught me off guard mid-trim.

The first thing that caught my eye on the packaging and made it stand out amongst the rest at Bed Bath & Beyond was the AS SEEN ON TV emblem (or AS ON TV as the seductive propaganda to the left says). If you see an ad for a nose trimmer on TV, yup, that's the same one I use. I'm a distinguished gentleman who will settle for nothing less than the finest trimmer available for my nose hair.

Check out all of the functionality built into this thing. Look at how happy and confident the man using it is. His nostrils are crisp and clean. He's in it to win it. He's going to go into that interview and land that job. And then when he goes and meets up with the guys for a round of Coors Lights at Applebees to celebrate, the chicks will be lining up to talk to him. Anyone who knows anything about well built machinery will tell you that the AS SEEN ON TV emblem basically means you can rest assured that this product consists of nothing but the highest quality parts and most superior craftsmanship that money can buy. It's almost as if the manufacturer is shooting itself in the foot by selling such a fine product. Once you buy one, you'll never need another because it will outlast you. And your children. And quite possibly their children. On my deathbed I will pass this nose hair trimmer down from my generation to the next. I haven't just bought a nose hair trimmer... it's an heirloom forged from the finest plastic and metallic-looking substance that is hopefully mercury/lead free that one could ever ask for. I'm almost tempted to make an appointment with a jeweler to take it in and have my name engraved (or melted as the case may be) into its shaft.

As you can also see in the graphic, it has a built in light which is incredibly handy when trimming that hard to see hair on the back of your neck. All these years I thought it was because my eyes were on the opposite side of my head, but it turns out that's not the case. Inadequate lighting is to blame. That and not owning this fantastic apparatus any sooner. The light is also useful when I wake up in the middle of the night and feel an extra long brow or beard follicle when I randomly brush my hand across my face. I can run to the bathroom mirror, take advantage of the simultaneous light/trimmer feature, and crawl back into bed without disturbing the wife or cats whatsoever.

It also comes with a pen-style cap which protects the "now 50% more power" blade when not in use. What's awesome about that is the pen cap has a clip on it so that I can keep it securely in my shirt pocket for those unexpected times when I need precise nose hair, brow, beard, ear, or neck hair trimming on the go. There's been so many times where I'm sitting on the train or in a meeting and suddenly remember that I forgot to trim my nose hairs or those dozen or so beard hairs that are longer than the rest. Those days are gone. Now it's just a matter of saying "Excuse me" during that meeting, asking the person next to me to hold up a CD or other reflective surface, removing the trimmer from my pocket, and giving the nose hairs a little touch up. I can feel the righteousness now of putting the cap back on, sticking it back in my shirt pocket, shaking the clippings off the pie chart printout in front of me on the table, and saying "All right gentlemen.. carry on."

The next time you see me and you're taken aback by how attractive and youthful I look, take a good long gander at my well groomed nostrils. Because that's where all of that new found youthful radiance is coming from. All with the help of my $9.99+tax Men's Precision Groomer. You know. It's the one you've probably seen on TV.

I AM (met) OZZY

As far as my personal views on religion (and/or lack thereof) go, Ferris Bueller put it best when he said "A person should not believe in an -ism; he should believe in himself." Whenever I find myself in situations where people are stating their religious beliefs and it inevitably becomes my turn to chime in, I usually just say that my religion is "Musician". It usually garners a chuckle or two, but I'm not kidding.

My primary denomination of Musician would probably be ROCK, first and foremost. Thanks to my darling sister telling me about groups like KISS and Alice Cooper at the ripe age of 5 or so, rock music perked my interest and quickly became an obsession. Whenever Moms or Pops took me to K-Mart and I grew tired of ogling the Star Wars junk, I would always walk over to the record department and gaze at album covers and posters, wondering about things like how the guitar player on the AC/DC record cover was still alive if he was impaled by a guitar like that... and if Alice Cooper really was as blue as he looked on the From the Inside album cover. Although I didn't own any rock albums, I always felt connected to the cover art and would stare at it whenever I could. Eventually that obsession gave way to buying those records and listening to them... which led to buying rock and roll magazines, which led to picking up the guitar (shout outs to my parents as well on making that one happen), and ultimately 25 years later led us to New York.

My rock/metal magazine phase kicked into high gear around 1980-81. They became my comic books - I spent countless hours looking through them until they would ultimately fall apart and become wallpaper in my bedroom. Many of those mags featured articles on (and more importantly pictures of) Ozzy Osbourne. Ozzy pretty much scared the crap out of me more so than anyone else I'd laid eyes on in those magazines. Meat Loaf was the scariest rocker prior to that, basically because in most of the photos I could never tell if he was a dude or a chick (I was still uncertain when I first heard Paradise By The Dashboard Light but eventually figured it out). To me, he was just a big sweaty androgynous something-something who wore shirts that looked like wedding cakes.

I would see the pictures of Ozzy and read all of the interviews and stories and think Holy crap... that dude is truly crazy; if I were in the same room with him he might bite me in the face! Other than maybe Popeye, Ozzy was the first person I'd ever seen with tattoos. And they were scary ones. Tattoos are about as pedestrian as eyeglasses nowadays, but the flaming blue demon head on Ozzy's upper right chest was the first large tattoo I'd ever seen and it had me convinced that his threshold of insanity knew no bounds (I wasn't too far off the mark). I never actually heard Ozzy until Bark at the Moon came out in late 1983 and I saw the video for it. I'd just gotten over the phobia of our basement that the movie Poltergeist had sparked, and when I saw the Bark video it was back to square one - I pretty much promised myself that I would never go down there again. Our basement had a creepy crawlspace which contained a frighteningly realistic dwarf-sized stuffed clown doll that our grandpa allegedly dumpster dived and brought over to us kids as a "present". My siblings will testify that in addition to the dead basement bugs and scary clown doll, the crawlspace was infested with Krenner-eating monsters eagerly awaiting to kidnap us into their underworld. After experiencing the Bark at the Moon video (which looks completely ridiculous when I watch it now, thankfully) I was convinced that Clown and the Krenner-eaters were most likely accompanied by a rabid pack of Ozzywolves.

About a year or so later I was playing video games with my home boy Troy and he popped in the Bark tape. "So Tired" came on and I thought Huh... this stuff is actually pretty damn good. He can't be THAT much of a freak, can he? Around that same time my Aunt Lucy brought me some old Black Sabbath tapes to listen to (I have been blessed with some really cool aunts). I had read about Ozzy being in Sabbath in my old magazines and now FINALLY got to hear them. At first it was a little too slow and syrupy for me, but after a few more listens it clicked. The Wizard became an instant favorite tune of mine and is to this day. Although I never got into Ozzy's music as much as I did KISS, Zappa, and all of the other big ones, I always put him at the very top of the heap as far as heavy rock music royalty goes (yes, even above KISS). Ozzy is more than the dope on The Osbournes and/or the guy who bit a bat's head off... he basically helped invent heavy music as we know it. For example: Without Black Sabbath there would probably be no Melvins, and without Melvins my life would be very sad. He has released a wealth of material since, most of it rules, and I still consider him to be the king as far as heavy metal goes. Some may beg to differ with all of that, but that's just how the mental waffles stacked up over time in my little noggin. It is what it is.

That said, my "religion" left me with no choice but to go pay my dues for a few hours with Wife last Tuesday at the Borders bookstore in Columbus Circle where Ozzy was doing an I AM OZZY book signing. I had high hopes to A) get a book signed for Troy - not only for his birthday, but as a thank you for being my gateway to Ozzy records, and B) make some sort of connection with the man himself for a few split seconds. I always make a point of it to say something slightly left of field in situations like this to break the "Dude you fucking RULE" monotony (I once met Dave Grohl and asked him what he had for breakfast). Thankfully we were there early enough to get a decent spot in line. A river of people ran throughout the entire store, and an additional gaggle of Ozzyheads were staged outside of the store hoping to get in. As we got closer to the table I felt fireworks in my belly similar to those I felt when standing before KISS during a signing they did at Sam Goody in the Mall of America in '92. We were about 20 feet away from Ozzy now and had a great view of him. He appeared to be in a "Let's get these f*&king books signed already" mode - not really looking up all that much. His hair was hanging in his expressionless face as he signed book after book. The only movements he was exhibiting were a) his mouth chewing gum, and b) his right hand swirling over books with a Sharpie as the Borders gimps hurriedly passed them under his hands like an assembly line. From a distance it looked like he was drawing an infinite series of slow-motion loops. I wasn't sure what I was going to say and we were just seconds away...

Bryn went first and got her book signed, and when he looked up at her I instantly heard that infamous blurry Ozzy voice in my head: "Bullocks, an I haffta go home to Sharrin?" My book was slipped beneath his hands and life was suddenly in fast-forward. He started squiggling his name in my book and I peered into those trademark circular Ozzy sunglasses. It was like looking into the top of two cups of black coffee; I could just barely make out his eyes. The fireworks in my belly turned into an all-out fireworks factory fire. It was my turn. I had to remind myself: Quick... think... don't just stand there - say something, dumbass!

The first few pages of his book contain a strategically placed blank page which I found to be quite the humorous and priceless literary inclusion on his part. I decided to use that as my ice breaker for our 5 second rendezvous. Belly fireworks ablaze, I felt my mouth open and heard it say "The blank page is absolutely brilliant, I seriously can't stop reading it." He stopped his name doodling, looked up for a moment, and although I still couldn't really see his eyes all that well I could tell he was looking at me. This officially confirmed that I'd just jostled the little Ozzy hamster wheel in his head and that it was starting to rotate a little. Victory! He broke into a nice big pearly white-bearing goofy open mouth smile and bobbed his head up and down - and although he didn't say anything, I could see exactly what he was thinking: "Haaaaaaaaaaaa, yeah, ah know, that woss a real good one, roit?"

We were rushed towards the exit by the Borders gimps much like the mall elves rushed the kids away from Santa in A Christmas Story. I looked at the inside of the book. I thought about how he was already back to scribbling in other people's books and giving them their moments. He had probably already forgotten about what I'd just said to him, but I was happy to have said something that briefly changed his disposition and crack him up.

Yet another priceless moment to cross off of our "Cool shit in life that we didn't know we were gonna get to do" list. And thankfully this is as close as he came to biting our faces off or turning into a werewolf:

There is life outside of watching Dick's big ball drop on NYE

December 31st, 1981

The kitchen/dining room area in our family's house on Ideal Avenue was empty and the lights were off which meant the coast was clear. Either a) Moms and Pops went out that particular evening and my sister's friend Tessy was babysitting us, or b) They had people over and were in the living room or basement entertaining (I can't recall). I unplugged the portable black & white TV on the kitchen counter top and for the next 3 hours held it hostage in my bedroom to watch Dick Clark's Rockin' New Years Eve. As far as I was concerned, all that existed in the world that night were me, a 16oz glass bottle of Pepsi, and that TV. I put the TV on my bed so I could lay down like a king and watch the New Year ring in beneath the comfort of my Mom-made quilt. It was about to become 1982.

One thing I did a lot when I was a kid was watch TV shows with a perpetual and insatiable hope that KISS was going to be on. Unfortunately for me that was never the case... but for some reason I didn't ever let that stop me until I was 10 or 11 and wised up. It kind of happened with Scooby Doo and CHiPs when there were KISS-like guests worked into an episode, but never the real KISS. This was back when you had to actually watch shows of this type in order to know who was on them - there was no magical innernets back then that you could run to at any given minute for such info. There were the TV listings in the paper of course, but usually for shows like this it only said SPECIAL GUESTS. At any rate, due to this disadvantageous television intake ritual of mine I was prepared to be Rocked by this Rockin' New Years Eve special that KISS would inevitably not appear on.

Although there was no KISS, there were a lot of other great performers. I vividly remember Dick Clark saying "Please welcome 1981's queen of rock and roll, PAT! BENETARRrrrrr!" I briefly wondered who made her the Queen and pictured her with a crown on her head. She was wearing a crown, I guess - it was just in the form of a headband. Pat Benatar and her band commenced with a severely ass kicking performance of Hit Me With Your Best Shot. Much like Joan Jett, 8-year-old-Me was slightly afraid of her - to me she looked like a tough chick at the mall who you'd go out of your way to avoid making eye contact with lest you want to be beaten to a pulp or knifed. The Village People were on as well. Back then to me 5 dudes in costumes, two of which were scary to me in a good pseudo-Gene Simmons kind of way were better than no KISS at all (the biker and the Indian... and I guess the construction worker was pretty badass to me as well due to him having a lightning bolt on his hat and a screwdriver in his mouth). I want to say that Christopher Cross performed on this particular Rockin' New Years Eve, but that and other details have evaporated over time.


I had a great time watching the show and waiting for KISS to not appear. That New Years turned out to be the benchmark of New Years Eves to come; likely due to a) Having the TV in my room for one night, b) It's the first one that I somewhat clearly remember... and c) It was my first exposure to the anticipation of a gigantic ball dropping on top of a building located on a faraway planet called "Times Square". Having only downtown St. Paul on the way to Grandma Gertie's as a reference point of what cities were supposed to be, when the camera first panned over the crowd and the buildings and the lights it looked like the most massive thing in the world - a place that I surely would never visit in this lifetime. I'm not sure if it was that year that I made the connection that Times Square = New York, but it happened eventually. And I knew that KISS were from New York (yeah, here we go with the KISS thing again). Back then, to lil kids like me they were the biggest monsters in the world. In my mind they were 10 feet tall. Combine that, the hugeness of the Times Square footage, and maybe some misconstrued perspective of buildings courtesy of my Spider Man album cover, and from that point on I assumed New York City was hands down the most gigantic fucking place in the world. Not necessarily in a buildings per square mile sense, more so in overall height and massiveness of the buildings sense. Everything looked double in size to me. In New York Groove Ace Frehley sang To the left and to the right, buildings towering to the sky which is something I always took quite literally... right up until the first time we walked through Times Square in 2007 and I thought "Huh. It looks a lot more compact than it does in books and on TV." It really does. It is indeed huge - but not as huge as TV makes it look. Same goes for the Statue of Liberty. It's big... but not as big as I thought it would be.

Every single year since then I've made a point of it to watch that dang ball drop and would always think Man, if I ever lived there (this was long before I had any idea that I someday would) I would TOTALLY go to Times Square on New Years Eve. I didn't watch it one New Years in 94 or 95 - the one night I went out to some dive sports bar in the Cottage Grove mall and got blurry off of drinks with my friends and thought about the ball dropping when 11:59 came - but other than that I NEVER missed it.

---

Like, dude, we totally live here now

Fast forward to 2009. After all those years of watching the ball drop on TV we actually live where it happens now. As mentioned in other blawgs, I now walk through Times Square nearly every day on my lunch hour. I still compare the image of it embedded in my head at a young age vs. what it really is - a gigantic, dirty pinball machine crammed with buildings that are slightly more compact than I thought they would be. Some of them do indeed tower to the sky, though. And it is out of sight, in the dead of night.

One of the most frequently axed questions that people had for us (and understandably so) was "You going to watch the ball drop?" Nope, we didn't. It definitely crossed my mind, but after going to watch fireworks when we were here as tourists last year on Pier 11 I'm not sure that it would be all that and a bag of chips. One thing they don't show on televised major public events is everyone standing in one spot for 3 hours so they don't lose it, and then everyone trying to leave at once when the event is over. Everyone's been drinking, everyone has to pee, and most places after events like that do not offer up public restroom accommodations. A smart move on their part, but when we were waiting in line for restrooms at a nearby Burger King for 20 minutes and longing to just get back to the hotel to sit down, yeah... it's not the big party it's all cracked up to be on TV. I think the trick is to get so inebriated that you're oblivious that you're "trapped" within such circumstances. I prefer to have memories of going to such events, so that's not really an option. Plus at $6-8 a beer that would be a pretty expensive buzz to maintain for an entire night.

Ultimately we ended up attending a party at a photographer's studio in SOHO that we were invited to by our dear friend JB (thanks, JB!) Never really having access to such events back in MN, I don't think that either Bryn or I really had any idea what we were in store for. Alls I knew is if we spent our first New Years Eve in New York watching the ball drop on TV when it was happening a mere 2 miles away from us, that would feel just plain old wrong. As some things can be when you don't see 'em coming, it was amazing. It turns out that this photographer's clients include Billy Joel, Sting, Miles Davis, and countless others. His walls were plastered with decades worth of work (one of my favorites being an Innoncent Man-era Billy Joel promo shot that I recall seeing at Great American Music when that album came out). His main floor gallery had photos of Fast Times-era Phoebe Cates and Jennifer Jason Leigh. This picture of Miles Davis which I've seen countless times while standing at in the music biography section at Barnes and Noble. I spotted a few familiar photos of John Lennon. DAMN. There were only 2 dozen or so people there if that and a potluck spread right smack dab in his basement which is half studio/half kitchen - it was pretty surreal thinking about all of the famous people (talented ones that I admire, no less) that have set foot in that studio.

Good times were had, midnight arrived, we all did the HAPPY NEW YEAR deal, and shortly thereafter I had a brief out of body experience for about 10 seconds experiencing the following thoughts pert near simultaneously:

1. Holy shit


2. We're in New York


3. It's New Years Eve


4. We're at a party in New York on New Years Eve


5. Said party is hosted by an extremely talented and successful photographer


6. This is like something out of a movie


7. Actually, this is something that happens in movies


8. Thank goodness Jennifer Aniston isn't here making one of her dumb pouty heartbroken faces
   


9. Is this life imitating art or does art imitate life?


10. I love the music that he's playing and that it's kept at a conversation-friendly volume
    


11. Do I have one more beer left? I'm really kind of tired of beer but if I have one left I guess I'll drink it


12. Should there be movie cameras in the room or is this just what life is like for some people here?
    


13. Seriously.. we're really here and doing this?

After that stream of thoughts it occurred to me that for the first time in 29 years (save for that one year at the white trash Cottage Grove bar) I didn't watch the ball drop on TV, much less even think about it. Ironically it happened to be the first year we actually could have watched it in person. There wasn't a TV in the room, and who knows, maybe there wasn't a TV in the entire building. Maybe when you achieve that level of success as an artist you don't need a TV because you're too busy being creative and doing what you love. Maybe there is no need for escape real life for a while, at least via a television. In all of the years prior to this I'd always make a point of it to watch the ball drop even if it was on a TV in the background - my New Years Eve would always threaten to feel incomplete without it otherwise. But there we were in SOHO at a small party with Food, Folks and Fun (© McDonald's) welcoming 2010 in without the help of a 4 ton illuminated jewel encrusted ball slowly plummeting to the roof of One Times Square. And it was really, really fun. Not particularly loud, crowded, or rowdy - I will quote the Three Bears and say that it was just right.

Who knows what next New Years Eve will bring or where we'll be. The 2009-2010 transition was definitely right up there on the Most Awesome list next to that fateful New Years Eve of 1981 watching a much younger and fully functional Dick Clark, the Queen of Rock & Roll, and the gayest boy band in the world. I hear Dick isn't doing so well and was planning on appearing on the show on New Years Eve but wasn't sure if it was going to pan out for him which is kinda sad. All I know is that I learned that I can still have a really good time on New Years Eve without Dick Clark - and we certainly did on Thursday night.

I guess that means I can tell people that I was Dickless on New Years Eve and it was one of the best times I've had since we've moved here. That would sure get some interesting reactions at work on Monday morning.

Happy Freakin' New Year.

No car, no cry

It has been 110 days since I have operated a motor vehicle.

I don't miss it at all. No insurance premiums, no gas tank to fill, no flat tires, no dead batteries, no oil changes (which I never really kept track of anyways - sorry Grandpa), no filling the windshield washer fluid, no window scraping in the winter, having to replace headlights and wiper blades... the list goes on and on. We have been in a standard size vehicle two times since we've lived in New York and it was surprising how claustrophobic I felt both times. Not necessarily in a bad way, but in a way where I immediately took notice that I hadn't been in a car or thought about being in one in quite some time. Sitting in a car used to feel completely normal, but now it feels like being in a glorified upholstered Rubbermaid storage container.

Old fashioned mp3s

I bought a new vehicle once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away: a Chevy S-10 pickup back in 1993. It featured the Tahoe trim package which basically meant the tires looked more bitchin' than the standard S-10 and it had a sweet-ass Delco AM/FM cassette player. It had a manual transmission which is something that I had never laid hands on prior to signing my life away to GMAC on that fateful autumn day. An automatic transmission would have added $700 or so onto the final price of the vehicle, not to mention there was only one black S-10 on the lot which is what I wanted. In spite of the manual transmission, that wasn't going to stop me from learning how to drive it. It was a bit unnerving watching my salesman Rick Cherry ("Like the fruit," he'd say when telling people his name) walk towards me with freshly typed up loan papers to autograph in exchange for a new vehicle that I didn't know how to make go. Just like most of the others in the handful of big risks I've taken that could have resulted in complete and utter catastrophe (make note of the word "most"), everything worked out fine. After a few weeks of letting up on the clutch too fast, slamming the brakes and killing it on hills and at stop signs, that is.

For several years that truck was my life. Not so much in the way that other dudes look at their cars as babe magnets or status symbols - to me my truck was a glorified private stereo system on wheels that I liked to keep shiny. As a teenager I'd always fantasize about having my own vehicle with a tape deck in it so I could aimlessly drive around and crank my tunes by myself. Kind of like the solitude that a bathroom offers but with driving and loud music instead of pooping and reading the latest issue of Rolling Stone. When I bought my truck I loaded up my 24 cassette tape suitcase with all of my favorites and DROVE. For once in my life I had a reliable vehicle, and being that I was 20 at the time and hadn't been outside of the St. Paul area all that much, I explored. I've always taken a fancy to wandering around in unfamiliar territory so did a lot of driving around outside of the St. Paul city limits to places like *gasp* Edina and sometimes even *ohmygawd* Minnetonka, simply because I could. Although these places were only 15-20 miles away they seemed like different worlds to me. This was back before the internet came around and fucked everything up for independent record stores and guitar shops, so more often than not I'd look up music shops in the Yellow Pages and go cruisin'. As convenient as the internet is sometimes I miss the old days of having to hunt and gather my music rather than just typing it into a magic box and downloading it within seconds.

I don't know if it's the holidays making me nostalgic or the fact that we don't live in MN anymore is truly sinking in, but lately I catch my brain randomly remembering Twin Cities roads and highways and which routes I'd take to get places. It's only been three months but it seems like we moved out here a couple of years ago. A few nights ago just before falling asleep I found myself trying to accurately recall as many details as I possibly could of the Lyndale exit ramp off of 94 and what everything looked like getting from there to our place on Grand Avenue. Although I pretty much remember all of it, there are some things that I'm sure have evaporated from my noggin. I'm sure there's many snippets within the Twin Cities scenery that I subconsciously absorbed, but not until next time I'm in MN and see them will think "Oh yeah, I remember that!" I also play video in my head of the route from 80th Street in Cottage Grove to my parent's house a lot. I'm still batting at 97-98% on that one because I grew up in the Grove for 18-19 years, but now on top of that my brain has additional new cud to chew: What will it look like next time I'm there? When will I be there next? Whose car will I be in? and a bunch of other junk that didn't really occur to me until we recently became so geographically displaced from our roots. We used to get out to Rancho Relaxo about once a month on average, so this three month stretch is a new record. I'm not sure how to feel about that, but it is what it is. Thankfully Google Maps has street view (plus there's Google Earth) so I can always visit places that way, but that's sort of like cheating.

Good ol' Cabbage Grove.

I just read Paul Shaffer and Craig Ferguson's books, both of which interestingly enough go into detail about moving far away from Mom and Dad and their families and ultimately ending up in New York City... that subject matter certainly hit me on a much different level now than if I would have read those books back in Minneapolis. Instead of reading it and thinking Man, that would really suck I read it and think Yeah, it really sucks (we miss you, family and friends!) Life in Minneapolis didn't involve two hours on the train every weekday for me to sit and read, so I probably never would have read those in the first place had we not lived here. Right place/right time, I guess. If we were still in MN I would have given them a half assed read at best and never finished 'em. Not because they weren't good - they were incredibly excellent books. My attention span just doesn't allow me to finish books unless I'm in a situation where I'm forced to, such as sitting on the train trying not to stare at the asses and crotches in my face of people who got on at Times Square and have to stand and hold the bar above my seat (I believe they're lovingly referred to as strap hangers even though there aren't straps in the subways anymore). Times Square is the stop on my way home from work where everyone and their mama boards the train; I'm incredibly grateful that I get on three stops before it when seats are still available.

I've been wondering when I'll be behind the wheel of a motor vehicle next - we just scored tickets to a Jeff Beck gig in June which will require 6 hours of driving upstate, so it looks like that might be it at this point. Maybe instead of renting a car I'll bust out Grand Theft Auto and brush up on my carjacking proficiency. That and maybe one of the Need For Speed games to familiarize myself with getting past the road spikes they'll put up as we approach the Newark Turnpike at 110mph.

It's Beginning to Look a Not Like Chrissss-mas!

Wow... Here we are three and a half months into this whole NYC thing already. It's interesting thinking back to August not knowing how in the world this was all gonna pan out. I remember thinking "What happens if we don't have jobs and savings runs dry?" and envisioning having to sell my amp and a guitar to pay for a moving truck back to Minneapolis, but lo and behold our savings account is still alive and we both have jobs. It feels strangely like home here rather than some big scary intimidating city you always see in the movies that we packed up and moved to.

Every day during my lunch break I religiously walk to south Central Park, down to Times Square, and then take the train back to work. We honeymooned in that general area so it's always quite nostalgic walking past all of the spots and remembering seeing them for the first time. When you see a building or even a doorway that you remember from a movie or TV show for the first time it's almost as cool as seeing a celebrity. Maybe it's better than seeing a celebrity now that I think about it... buildings and historic sites can't talk. Unless you're on some sort of illegal mind altering toxin, I guess. Then they probably talk a lot.

Will Lee, man on bass

On that walk I make a point of it to pass under the Late Show marquee outside of the Ed Sullivan Theater and remember a) crapping my pants in delight when we turned the corner onto Broadway from our hotel and seeing it IN REAL LIFE and b) waiting outside for tickets to Dave's show a few days later wondering what it would be like to live here. A few days ago I saw Late Show bassist extraordinaire Will Lee outside the building for the second or third time - he's pretty hard to miss. I always get a little musician-giddy when I see him. Not just because of his undeniably stellar bass skills and his place in Letterman history, but also because he laid down some pretty kickass bass lines on Ace Frehley's 1978 solo album (which also features equally kickass drumming by Late Show drummer Anton Fig who I hope to see roaming the streets some day). That record has been a staple of my music intake ever since Santa's elves made it for me and left it under the tree on Dec. 24th of 1979 or 80 (thanks, Santa!) My sister and brother both remember those songs simply because I played the shit out of it and still do to this day - I'm sure it has been embedded into Bryn's brain as well at this point.

I also unwrapped the Paul Stanley and Peter Criss solo albums that morning, completing my collection of KISS record awesomeness that my Aunt Cookie started the previous July by giving me the Gene Simmons record for my birthday. Ace's was and always will be by far my favorite. I wonder what Will looked like back then. I'm guessing he sported a sweet beret and a moustache. Pretty much every good rock bassist back then seemed to look like they were in the Doobie Brothers.
Speaking of Santa giving me KISS records, Christmas is right around the corner, yet life feels strangely UnChristmas. This is not a bad or a good thing, it just is what it is mainly due to the following two circumstances:

1. Friends and family are 1,200 miles away. If I were The Dude from The Big Lebowski this would certainly register at the top of my "Major bummer, man" list.
2. New York City's weather is currently 49 degrees. Minneapolis' is that minus 50. I don't miss that by any means, but it's certainly different living without it at this time of the year.
   

#1 is a given to throw anyone's holiday spirit for a humdinger of a loop. I love being around my families, all two of them, and wondering what spending the holidays without seeing them all sucks. It's one of the first things that weighed quite heavily on my mind when planning to move out here. Christmas + No family = Major bummer, man. The only thing I can really compare it to is the feeling I had when I was 14 and couldn't go see Ace Frehley's 21+ show at Ryan's... there was something awesome going on that I really wanted to be part of but couldn't go. We made it through our first Thanksgiving on our own last month just fine though, so there is hope. Missing everyone aside, it was quite the lovely holiday to be quite honest. It still felt like Thanksgiving rather than a day of feeling like we were the only two people left on the planet missing our family and friends. Hopefully Christmas will be the same... we'll miss everyone like crazy but as Tony Soprano would say, "What da fugg yagonnado?"

#2 The weather. This one kind of took me by surprise. In my happy little pretend la la land world I choose to walk around in most of the day, in order for Christmas to occur there needs to be snow on the ground accompanied by nose leak-inducing temperatures. Rumor has it that does occur around here on occasion, but at the time of writing this it's 49 degrees and all I see when I look at the ground are the beautiful filthy gum-spotted sidewalks.

There is a #2.5 to this that I just realized: There aren't any tacky yard ornaments or lights to see on people's homes... I'm assuming that is because there are no yards in most areas of the city. When one does not have a yard, one cannot decorate one's yard. Makes sense, I suppose. There are front stoops of course, although I have yet to see any of them completely pimped out for Christmas (there were some really well done Halloween stoops so I know they've got it in 'em). There are three Christmas tree vendors on our street alone, and every time we walk past them I get in a good huff of Christmas tree smell which will forever give me the warm fuzzies and flashbacks of things such as watching John Denver hanging out with the Muppets, the smell of wrapping paper, and eagerly awaiting the two week break from school. Those are things that encompass true meaning of Christmas, after all. Man... I miss the two week break from school. I work at a school of sorts now and have a copious amount of envy when I see the unspoken anticipation in the faces of students of not having to come here for two weeks. Lucky sonsabitches.

Christmas will come and go, as will New Years, and then it's onto that long stretch to spring. We certainly aren't going to get the same amount of frozen crystalline precipitation that I'm used to in Minnesota which is primarily a good thing. Once winter is over perhaps we will catch a glimpse of the East Coast's own special extreme weather treat: Tropical cyclone season. I'm not sure that we're close enough to get any of that action firsthand, but a guy can always hope. I've always wanted to hold onto a tree for dear life while my body is parallel to the ground as a result of 150mph winds. Perhaps I will shave all of my hair off so that I'm more aerodynamic.

Dear Santa:

This Christmas in preparation for East Coast tropical cyclone season I would like an adjustable hair trimmer, a bottle of Nair, and a nerd strap for my eyeglasses to keep them on my head while I'm holding onto a tree for dear life and being blown sideways by torrential winds.

Sincerely,

Micycle.

Gainfully employed and Back In The (better) NY Groove

To quote one of my editorial heroes Jim Anchower, "It's been a while since I rapped at ya." It seems to be getting increasingly more difficult to find the patience to sit and type out one of these things nowadays having been conditioned to the world of things like Facebook where it's a little more instantaneous and concise when you type something you want to share with the world. I have this huge backlog of stuff in my mind I could write on and on about but I prolly won't get around to simply because I want to put my time into focusing on NOW vs. writing about something that happened a month ago. It's been a wonderfully crazy two months in NY of doing nothing and everything simultaneously if that makes sense. We've covered a lot of ground but have barely scratched the surface of what this city has to offer.

Moving to NYC without jobs and living off savings which was purposely saved with this exact goal in mind is an interesting position to be in. I've told a few people it's similar to going to Six Flags and just sitting in the parking lot all day eating homemade sandwiches and reading a book. A world of blissful fun is at your fingertips... but then again at the same time it's not. It felt incredibly safe, yet at the same time there was always an underlying sense of urgency to find a gall damned job. We knew we'd be fine for quite a while, but every time money was spent on anything from groceries to a slice of pizza to a bag of crack (just kidding on that last one, I think) there was a lingering cartoon bubble over my head of a gunnysack labeled SAVINGS getting kicked by a big hairy guy named Vinnie resulting in a few dozen origami butterflies made of money flying out of it every time. And then that would trigger another cartoon bubble; one containing the scene towards the end of Back to the Future where Marty McFly is holding the picture of his slowly disappearing family - but with us substituted for Marty and a picture of the NYC skyline disappearing instead.

It was getting rather discouraging the past few weeks after sending out well over 150 cover letters and resumes over the span of the past month and a half and hearing NOTHING from any prospective employers. It didn't matter how much I tried to correspond and follow up. Out of the 150+ aforementioned cover letters and resumes sent out (each one tweaked to accommodate the job posting I was responding to, mind you) I only heard back from three people: 1. The hiring manager of the place I started at last week, and 2: Two "thanks but no thanks/we'll keep you in our database" emails from other companies. But persistence paid off - all it took was that one hiring manager to make me an offer I couldn't refuse (no, it's not a job with the mafia).

SO. As of now we've both finally secured ourselves jobs that we love, and they tie in with our personal interests to boot. Uncertainty has since been replaced with reassurance that we're going to be able to "keep" New York after all. Thank goodness for that, because I really don't think we would be partial to a 1200 mile drive back to MN in a moving truck crammed full of our stuff with no jobs, nowhere to live, and our tails between our legs. From what we've been told by the locals it's a pretty impressive feat to have only been here 8 weeks and already have jobs, so I'm just going to go ahead and take that as a glass-half-full sign of things to come.

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Commuting to work in NYC is a rather peculiar experience having come from MN where for the past four years I could conveniently bike to my last place of employment in 15 minutes. Now in order to get to work I take the morning train. I take the B from 7th Ave in Park Slope to Columbus Circle in Manhattan and quickly learned that it just so happens that basically everyone and their mama get on the train prior to my stop. People are literally packed in like sardines... it's similar to being in the front row of a really, really crowded standing room only concert sans the loud music and alcohol. Now that I think about it I suppose depending on which train you take and what time of day it is it's highly probable that there will be loud music and alcohol on the train, but that's another story...

There are only so many poles on the subway to hold on to and stabilize yourself when the train stops/starts/turns, so when it gets packed and you can't find something to hold onto, well... tough shit! Such was the case on Friday - I was part of an aimless subway inertia mosh pit with a few other riders who only had their feet and surrounding people to fall back on. We danced and we danced hard. I'm starting to get the hang of riding without bracing myself on a post though, it's actually a pretty good workout on the calves. It's all good; as long as I have my trusty iPod to keep my brain happy I'm set. It's New York City, after all. For someone to voluntarily move here and then complain about something like that is, and I quote Paul Stanley in an interview from the 80s when he was washed up the first time, "... like winning the lottery and complaining about the taxes. If you're lucky enough to get what you wanted, then shut the fuck up." Thankfully my rides home are much more mellow than that and there's always multiple open seats. I'm much happier it's that way after work than the other way around...

And now It's FINALLY time to focus on the music and being creative, which is what pretty much led us here in the first place. I've been corresponding with numerous musicians via online musicians wanted ads and it's mind boggling how flighty people can be here (not just musicians, either - people in general). One minute they're really interested and the next minute they fall off the face of the earth never to be heard from again. It will happen, though, there's no doubt in my mind about that.

In the mean time, it's time to make it to that first paycheck which will cement in the notion that this all really is for real. And maybe start exploring and getting out to some new places that we've been eyeballing since we've been here. There's this restaurant in Atlantic Center we've been meaning to check out called McDonald's... I've heard really good things about it, so maybe it's time to go see what it's all about. With a name like that I'm guessing it must be some sort of authentic Irish or Scottish cuisine.