Seriously?

Yeah yeah, I know. Haven't written in forever, blah blah blah. We've been down that road before and we all know how great I am at keeping those promises.

I'm here today to hopefully spur myself into remembering how fun and easy it can be to write on this blog. This post is kind of a two-parter, each distinctly connected through the common thread of Starbucks coffee.

For those of you who don't know or don't remember, I sported a green apron for almost three and a half years, better known as most of my collegiate career. It's a phenomenal company and I have almost entirely nothing but good things to say about them as a company and as an employer. As a byproduct of this, I remain loyal to Starbucks to provide me with caffeine intermittently throughout my work week, and occasionally on the weekends. That means I make anywhere from five to ten trips into the warm embrace of a Starbucks coffee shop in any given week.

With this frequency, you start to notice things about your fellow patrons. One thing that has always slayed me and once nearly spurred me to the tipping point of nudging a stroller is the promised land in the few hundred square feet of any Starbucks known as the condiment bar. It is here that we can tinker with our drinks like scientists in a lab until they reach coffee perfection. For 95% of grown adults, especially those who are creatures of habit enough to visit a Starbucks, we know how to prepare our coffee to our liking. I drink a venti black coffee and add one Sweet & Low and one Equal, stir, then leave. I'm efficient as all hell. I am in and out of a condiment stand in under 30 seconds. I even understand those of you who are a little more complex; throw some cinnamon in there, sift through the pitchers in search of the whole milk. But for the love of all that's holy, please, please know what you're doing to your coffee before you get to the condiment stand ahead of me.

This is my experience the other day: I was running behind schedule, as I am sometimes wont to do in the morning time. I get my coffee, and there are two people, taking up the entirety of the condiment stand. This is fine.

Then, this woman who was already there, as soon as the man next to her leaves, scoots to the MIDDLE of stand.

She takes a half & half pitcher, pours.

She takes the sugar, pours.

She picks the half & half pitcher back up, pours.

She takes the vanilla powder. Shake shake shake.

She takes the sugar, pours.

She picks up her coffee cup, now filled to the absolute limit.

Sip. Stand. Stare.

She stirs the coffee.

Sip. Stand. Stare.

She takes the vanilla powder. Shake.

She takes the cinnamon. Shake.

Sip. Stand. Stare.

Sip. Sip. Sip.

Stare.

Stand.

Finally I saw that the level of liquid in her cup was low enough for me to elbow her on my way to the sweetener, and elbow her I did. I grabbed the two packets and a stir stick and carried them to my office with me rather than taking care of it at the Starbucks.

She was still staring out the window when I got to the corner and the light had finally changed.

This is what I deal with at least once a week.

So, now. This evening I was on my way home on the bus, which is always an adventure in and of itself, as has been well chronicled here in several posts.

I am standing in my regular spot at the middle of the train, and as the doors are closing at one station, a guy comes trying to gracefully slide through the doors as they shut. He failed, and damn near smacked an unsuspecting patron in the head with his messenger bag, which he'd whipped in behind him to avoid it being stuck outside of the train.

Naturally, the near victim never even realized because they were playing Candy Crush.

Now, for those of you have had the distinct pleasure of riding San Francisco's Municipal Transit system, you know that if the doors are interrupted whilst closing, they will re-open to their maximum level so as to avoid crushing limbs or people.

So the doors re-open in this entry, then they begin to close again. Again someone tries to throw themselves into the train before it scoots away. Except this person made one HUGE tactical mistake: the only body part they put out to interrupt the doors from closing was their left hand, which was holding a Caramel Frappuchino.

Apparently, this uninformed soul did not think the doors might actually meet when the closed around their wrist, so their reflex when this happened was to relinquish the grip on their beverage.... which then flew halfway into the train, and promptly exploded. Shoes were showered with sugary goop, caramel, and whipped cream, and the whole center area of the car was suddenly a beige puddle. And what does this wonder of human achievement do once they realize they have given six or seven MUNI patrons a frappe shower? She gets on the train, steps over the puddle, and finds a seat like nothing ever happened.

Some days, it's just too much.

Not as Smart as One Might Think

For any of you worried about privacy invasion with all this "intelligent internet targeting" I have irrefutable proof that the computer marketers aren't nearly as smart as they'd like to think they are.

A friend passed along a Google Offers deal to me, and I noticed the "Your Favorite Brands" section in the lefthand banner side of the page. I am compelled to see exactly what Google believes my favorite, can't-live-without stores might be, according to the years and years of rich data they have been secretly and not-so-secretly collecting from me using their search engine. What follows is the official list, with a little commentary on each store as it pertains to me.

1) McCormick & Schmick's - I don't know what this business is or what it does. I have never heard of it before in my life, and part of me wanted to search and see what it was, but then Google would see that I was seeking out info on the place, and might think that I'm actually interested.

2) Morton's The Steakhouse - I like steaks, I'll give them that. I like steakhouses and even eating in steakhouses. I've never been to Morton's, but I suppose that if I were to be presented with a great deal to go to one, I'd highly consider it.

3) Juicy Couture - I have never owned a pair of sweats with writing on the butt. I will never own a pair of sweats with writing on the butt. To my knowledge I've never dated a female who has owned a pair of sweats with writing on the butt, and at this stage in my life, if I haven't yet, here's hoping I never do. I know they do more than sweats with writing on the butt, but that is literally the extent of my knowledge on this brand.

4) Chico's - I know nothing about Chico's. It's women's clothes, right? I think there used to be one in the mall. Either way, I know nothing about them.

5) Tilly's - Okay, I'll admit, I actually did a little google search on these guys because it was yet another brand that I had absolutely no knowledge of at all. Based on the name, I developed the opinion that it was probably a store featuring old lady clothes. But it's actually a skate/surf clothing shop, which is cool I guess. At least I learned something, right?

6) Jo-Ann Fabric and Craft - I don't know if I've ever been to a Jo-Ann before. I have been to fabric/craft stores, and I have to say, the main reason to go is that the girls who work there (let's be honest, there are NEVER men employees at a craft store) tend to be cute pixie-ish craft-minded girls, which I'm kind of into. That's the best part about going into those stores. Totally worth the awkwardness of walking into a craft store as a single and terribly out-of-place man.

7) Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. - I've been once, with the fam, right when these restaurants started popping up in mega-malls. As memory serves, it was cool. I think it's on Pier 39, right? I just remember that the waiter pulled up a chair and sat at our table to take our orders, which my parents deemed "quirky."

8) BJ's Restaurant & Brewhouse - Been a couple of times, this one isn't that far off the mark, because if I got a good coupon, I'd probably go take advantage of it.

9) Barnes & Noble - Do physical bookstores even exist anymore? Does anyone buy books online from somewhere that's not Amazon or Half.com? Not. Interested.

10) LIDS - For all your hat needs. Because I wear so many hats. Sports hats. Actually, the only thing (besides hats) that I associate with Lids is Chris Walla, guitarist from Death Cab for Cutie, who went through a period of time on Twitter last summer where he'd randomly tweet "Lids!" and for some unknown reason, it always made me giggle. Thank you, Google Deals, for reminding me about that.

So clearly, based on this experience in shopping recommendations from the smartest search engine in the universe (my generic claim, not theirs) you can clearly see that, if their shopping deals recommendations are any indication, we have nothing to worry about them finding out everything about our lives, reading our minds, or turning us into their automatons who mindlessly shuffle around in order to power their grand schemes.

Snap!

Just a quick story, because I feel like it's almost too good to pass up.

At my office, we have a dog. Yes, technically, one person in my office has a dog, but when you have one person who brings in their pet all the time, it kind of just becomes the "office pet". But anyways, we have an office dog. As anyone who knows much of anything about me is aware, I am a cat person. I don't harbor any specific beef towards dogs, they just don't really make me all goofy the way cats do.

Now the president of my company, who is a character, is completely smitten with this dog. Like "head-over-heels ecstatic, the owner better keep an eye out because one day that dog is going to disappear and the president will claim not to not know anything about it" kind of obsessed.

Yesterday, the president and I were in the kitchen at work, and the dog was in there with us, staring up at him, and he was making eyes at the dog, talking about how cute she was and how much she brightens up his otherwise mundane days. He then turns to me and asks if I like the dog. I naturally say "oh yeah, me and dog, we're totally cool. We're almost friends."

At this point he asks a question that I have never really considered when relating to animals before: "Why do you like the dog?"

I stop and think for a second. The question has totally thrown me for a loop. I mainly like the dog because I am a moderately normal adult, and insofar as that the dog has done me no specific harm, and has given me no major reasons to not like it, I like the dog. But that can be hard to convey to someone else, especially given that the dog pooped on the carpet on Wednesday. That was as close as I got to not liking the dog.

So I dig deeper. And I start rambling, as I occasionally have a habit of doing, especially when put on the spot. "She's... cute. And kind of friendly. She's always around, and she walks all funny, which amuses me." Then I start to see exactly where I need to steer this description. "Yeah, you know she's cute, she's usually fun to be around or at least entertaining, most everyone else likes her a lot too. But she can be kind of inconsistent - some days she will walk right up to me and be completely interested in me, but most of the time she doesn't even acknowledge that I'm in the room. I would say I like her a minimum of six times as much as she likes me....

"In fact, that is probably what I think makes me like her so much: she reminds me of the last few girls that I've dated."

And that, my friends, is the honest-to-goodness truth.

A Portent of Things To Come

Nope, I'm not writing a state-of-the-blog post promising all sorts of exciting things I have in store for the next few posts (I have a few ideas, but I'm not making any promises). Rather, this is a story I've told some people in the past; a story that came up in conversation with my roommate tonight, and I figured putting it down in print would be a fun way to re-live it a little bit.

As I recall, this all took place in the glorious sumer between my senior year of high school and my freshman year of college. I was a precocious eighteen year old, completely immersed in the retro revival of the late nineties and early aughts. It was the Fourth of July, and my best friend and I were going to see The Reverend Horton Heat at The Great American Music Hall here in San Francisco. I feel like maybe this was even the first time I ever saw him live, but that is inconsequential to the story at hand.

So there I was, a retro-tastic teen, in black slacks, Chuck Taylors, and a bowling-type shirt in black and red with buttons that looked like dice. So in other words, I thought I looked like a million bucks. My friend and I had experienced a change of plans and ended up with hours to kill before the show, so we spent it as all broke teenagers would when stranded in the Geary and Van Ness area -- we spent like two hours drinking coffee at Mel's Diner. Needless to say, this did not ingratiate us to the waitstaff, who was out two counter spots on a combined $2.00 tab. Regardless, we sat and drank coffees until we just couldn't drink coffee anymore.

We got to the show, took in the opening band (maybe Southern Culture on the Skids?) and pressed the flesh with other locals that we knew from the rockabilly and swing scene. At some point, the coffee kicked in and we both had to run to the bathroom to empty our caffeine-addled bladders.

I made my way out of the bathroom before my friend, and stood there in the balcony of the venue, probably posturing to show off how well put together I was. In under a minute, and older woman walked up to me. Remember, I was eighteen, so "older" probably meant something like mid-to-late twenties, but regardless, I saw her look me up and down and make her way over. Naturally, I straightened up and played it all cool and casual.

I asked "Hey.. how's it going?"

"Pretty good -hey, I just had to tell you something."

Naturally, I figured she was going to tell me I was the best looking guy in the room, or that I was everything she could dream of in a man. Because how could she not? So, with sultry gaze in tow, I cooly lifted my eyebrows and said

"Really.... what is it you have to..... tell me?"

"You have toilet paper stuck to the heel of your shoe. I figured you'd want to know before you went downstairs."

And with that, my cool, calm collected facade shattered like a cheap mirror, I blushed redder than my shirt, and thanked her profusely for the heads up.

Lesson Learned: Nope, she's not interested. 

Alas, that lesson has been the most consistently applicable one I've learned in pretty much my entire dating life. Oh, and to always check your shoes when you make that first step out of the bathroom.

The Little Things In Life

It's already late, but I was just thinking about how much I think. This came about because I just afforded myself about 45 minutes of glorious oblivion where I was able to sit down on the couch after a long day and not think for a change. I threw on some TV, and just allowed myself to go mentally numb for a bit. And it was glorious, it really was. I was able to take a momentary vacation from my life that was really quite refreshing. Then, as always happens, I got up from the couch and my mind started racing with all the things that I wasn't thinking about.

Maybe it's the curse of being a Pisces (I don't really buy into all that, but I had to do some writing for work about a horoscopes toolbar that my company is working on, and some of it actually made some sense), but I realized that I think a lot. Like a lot. I think about things I need to think about. I think about what I have to do. I think about what I haven't done. I think about what I did that day, and if I could have done it better. I think about my plans, my dreams, my aspirations, my shortcomings. I think about why I think so much about things that I don't really need to think about. It makes me sound neurotic, but it's all the truth.

I think about work. I constantly think about the craft of writing, about grammar and syntax. I think about word counts and character counts, about line breaks, and the way text fits on a page. I think about using compelling language and what kinds of words I can use to influence people to do the things we want them to do. I think about paragraph length, and how many sentences is too many before adding a little white space. I think about how frequently I do or don't use bulleted lists. Turns out they're highly effective

• Because they're eye catching
• Because they break up bunches of text nicely
• Because they're a convenient way to cleanly lay out information
• Because that's part of what doing my job consists of

and then I think about how many lists is too many, because after all, the world is written in prose not in lists.

I think about the lists I make for myself, to stay on top of things at work, and to keep in mind what I need to do when I get home, because I am thinking of chores I have to do, but I'm at work, so I can't do them. I think about how I spend my time, and wonder if I am making the most of my time away from my desk. Then I think about whether or not really making the most of my time outside of work might drive me to exhaustion. I try to remember if I talked to my parents recently, if I have spoken with friends frequently enough, and if I have told certain people certain stories. (I usually haven't, because I have a habit of assuming that once I've told someone that story, I've told everyone that story.) I think about how I should probably exercise more, because given the copious amounts of caffeine I take in, paired with an enjoyment of drinking and a carb-heavy diet, I need to exercise more. I think about when I can fit that in my schedule, and what things I could not be doing to make time to get a little more fit and trim.

I think about big picture stuff, and that makes me think more about the little details. I think about how I should write more, how I should spend more time playing music, how I shouldn't get so distracted with silly things like shitty TV shows and cats on the internet. I think about how I should date more. I think about how I should read more. I think about how I should read less and write more. I think about how I should write less and live more. I think about what kind of t-shirt collar best defines me as a person (for the record, the v-neck is totally killing it right now). I think about now that I'm my age if it is silly to still cling to some of my dreams and aspirations, or if I should approach life from a more realistic standpoint and focus on settling into a comfortable work life. I wonder how much longer I can go on keeping the hours that I keep before it starts to take a toll on my general happiness, and then I realize that half of my happiness comes from what I do or get done in those late nights.

Sadly, that's just the tip of the iceberg. I have spent probably an unhealthy amount of time spelunking in the caverns of my mind. The benefit is I have probably an above average sense of self, but the down side is that I'm pretty much always fucking thinking about thinking. So in those brief spurts of time where I can just shut down and be blissfully lazy, I find a certain amount of peace and solace. I can finally, if even for a little bit, just shut my mind off and not think, and sometimes that is the most important, most intelligent thing I can do.

You Must Be Really Fun at Parties

This poor lop just wanted to talk about how much he loves sundaes. The people in the "Giant Sundae Fanfic" forum were all about it.

Okay, so in my last blog post, I talked about that former classmate of mine who is obsessed with going on cruises. I was going to start talking about this in that blog post, but realized it was better served for a posting all its own, but I am always kind of fascinated who dive headlong into their obsessions with no reservations whatsoever. It can be anything: cats, macrame, cruises, tattooing, fantasy sports, shipmaking, whatever. I can't help but marvel at people for whom their obsession is their life and they are devoted to it so wholeheartedly that they don't notice or just don't care that most everyone they know doesn't share that obsession.

This post isn't just an ode to my cruise-going classmate, it was also inspired greatly by this video, which I saw the other day. This man believes he has dedicated at least three thousand hours of his life to making a kinetic toothpick statue of the SF Bay Area. Seeing the video, I think he's undercutting that by way too much, but regardless... Watch the video, and listen to the guy talk. You can tell that is all he knows in life. If anyone asks him about his interests, hobbies, what he does for a living, what he did over the weekend, any of that, you know they're getting a diatribe about his toothpick statue.

I know that I can be guilty of this at times. I talk about music a lot. I talk about my bands a whole hell of a lot, but more than anything, I love to listen. Deep down, despite how it might seem for those of you who read this blog, I'm actually pretty quiet and introverted, and would greatly prefer to talk than to listen. I have a pretty varied group of interests, and there's nothing I enjoy more than learning about things I'm otherwise unfamiliar with. Now, having said that, I don't know that I'd want to sit around and learn all about the finer arts of toothpick sculpting, but there are plenty of things that might pique my interest that I know absolutely nothing about.

I guess my larger gripe is just with those people who are so obsessive about their interests that they automatically assume it is fascinating to the general public, and they feel they have been given license to prattle on whilst ignoring all the unspoken cues that people don't really give as much of a damn about it as they do.

I am also curious about the role that the internet plays in this dynamic. Obviously, you can find an online community of people that share an interest in just about anything: painting, poetry, John Hughes movies, beauty tips, artificial insemination of livestock, you name it. It's wonderful that these people can find kindred spirits and share their mutual obsessions, it really is. I love that people spanning the globe can pool their knowledge and energies to advancing anything, even if it is the preservation of pre-1930s haberdashery. Doesn't matter what, I think it's wonderful. However, the flip side of that coin is that, despite the way it may seem, people live their lives outside of the internet, if even for a precious few hours, and they enter the outside world armed with a whole new set of information that the average person they interact with doesn't care about. And since most of their online interactions are with people who share the obsession, and encourage their obsessive behaviors, in my mind they are less likely to realize that happens on the internet, not in the real world.

But maybe I'm just cynical, and if I stopped rambling on about my band or the underground pop punk movement on the eastern sea board, I'd realize that I'm just as bad as anyone else.

Root Down

I may be considered odd for saying so, but there's a very unique and indelible truth about yours truly: I don't understand the love for exotic travel.

Yeah, it's no big deal, and everyone has their own opinions, and I respect that. Not everyone has a great time at shady hole-in-the-wall bars, but that happens to be just about where I feel the most at home, and in that same vein, I just don't get people who say "Man, you know what I want to do with my free time and money? Go to some weird under-developed corner of the globe."

The reason I bring this up is twofold:

First, I have been thinking about this mainly because vacations and travels have been at the forefront of conversation in the lunchroom at my job recently. I have two co-workers who have traveled to or are travelling currently in Indonesia, Singapore, Thailand, etc. Another just booked a trip to Panama. Another still just got back into town after a week in remote corners of Mexico. These travels have sparked the discussion among other co-workers about their "bucket list" travel destinations, among which the apparent consensus number one pick is The Maldives. This is incredibly ego- and ethno-centric of me to say, but the only things I know about The Maldives is that they are a chain of islands and that they're in the Indian Ocean. (I hope to god those facts are right)

When the discussion turned to me, and everyone asked where I'd want to go next when I decide to travel, all I could say was "Austin."

I am curious if I just happen to work with a bunch of intrepid travelers who love the idea of escaping civilization, or if I am just boring as all hell. I can't help it, I just happen to believe that there is so much within the fifty states that I haven't experienced or seen, that I want to knock out all of my country's local flair before I start really venturing out there.

That being said, I'd go to most of Europe at the drop of a hat. I'd love to drink beer all across Germany. I'd kill for the chance to go back to Sweden and live it up with all the relatives who only remember me as an apple-cheeked youth of eight. (spoiler alert: I got old, got heavy, and got kinda cynical, but in what I believe is a pretty entertaining and comical way) Plus, I've never spent proper time in the British Isles, and that just seems like a dreary, cold, boozy good time.

Especially having seen these travel preparations up close and personal - most of my co-workers have gone through a whole battery of shots for fun stuff like malaria, typhoid, and dengue fever. The Mexican travelling co-worker said her boyfriend spent two of their six days unromantically wrapped around a toilet, puking uncontrollably. Some complain about the extreme heat of tropical locales, while others complain about freezing their tails off on another continent.

The second reason is because an old high school acquaintance of mine has developed an obsession with cruises. Like, at the moment he has gone on a total of 20 cruises, and has another four booked for the next few months. He's the same age as me, which means that probably early next year he will hit the point where his total number of cruises is equal to his age. That's just so bizarre to me. I don't have a whole lot more to say, mainly because that idea is so odd to me. It's like avoiding your real life by basically living on a boat when you're not working (he works for an airline, so he travels non-stop for work as well). It's just a foreign concept to me, but it seems to make him happy as a clam.

Then again, maybe I'm just jaded because I'm a San Franciscan. I love this city, and feel that I can vacation here and have just as much fun, and I don't have to buy different clothes or wear shoes that I can easily remove for security reasons.

Who knows. All I know is that those co-workers can keep their exotic travels and their foreign diseases. I'll stay in SF, spend my money going to shows and having fun with my friends, and live vicariously through the people I know who do travel; it's a hell of a lot easier on the digestive system if nothing else.

Perfection vs. Completion

I apologize up front if this post isn't especially compelling or insightful, but it's just what happens to be on my mind a lot these days. See, as most of you know, I play in a band called Hello Monster, and as most of the people who know that are aware, we have a new album due out... soon-ish. Needless to say, as music is kind of the big thing in my life, the impending album weighs heavily on my thoughts a lot of the time.

In addition to song names, album names, album artwork, and promotion (along with a whole other host of small-ish details), the primary job we have on our table at the moment is agreeing on the final mix for the album. This process has been relatively painless, though it is time consuming. However, the big hangup is an issue I find myself facing not only with the band, but also in my life as a whole: at what point do you simply say that you are finished, and at what point do you continually draw out a project to make sure it's up to the highest standard?

I'm not saying that I am unhappy with the album. Quite the opposite; it sounds pretty fantastic. My issue is, especially considering what we're paying for it, I (and my other bandmates) want to be sure that it sounds just plain fantastic with no "pretty" qualifier. Our slogan throughout the process to this point has been "no compromises" but in my mind there also comes a point where you have to take a step back, throw your hands up and say "enough is enough" and be done. As I have discussed this with friends who have done more recording than I have, you listen with such an attention to detail, that whatever changes get made or don't get made often end up forgotten a few months after an album is released.

I think in some ways, my personal writing suffers from the same obsessive need for revision. Not this blog, this is much more a "brain dump" of writing, and that's part of the reason I want to get back to doing it more often, but anything else I write for the band, for my own enjoyment, and even for work, I find myself wanting to tweak over and over until I am convinced that it is absolutely the best it can be. I don't know that, as a writer, I'll ever reach a point where I think that something I write is absolutely fantastic. I view everything as a work in progress (and believe me, some progresses are significantly slower than others), and for that reason I feel like nothing is ever really done.

Is there an answer? Can it be healthier to just pronounce something finished if there might be lingering doubts in the back of your mind, or is it better to keep hammering away at the small details and tweaks that eventually drive you up the walls, all in the sake of "no compromise"?

Long Overdue, As Per the usual

I know, I know. I don't ever write anything compelling on here anymore.

Hell, I don't ever write anything on here, really. And I'd love to change that, to get back into the swing of things, but alas, life just hasn't worked out that way recently.

But here I am, at the beginning of yet another new year, and as much as things never change in my life, a lot has changed. I've been living in an amazingly comfortable house with great people for almost two years now, and that in itself has changed my outlook on blogging. See, it used to be that I'd blog as a way to pass the time, as a way of being able to relate the minutiae of my everyday life to the world outside of my old bedroom, and now I have roommates and a constant flow of guests in and out of my house all the time with whom I share my life.

I spent one night at my folks' house over the holidays while my car was out of operation, and I realized all over again how I got started blogging in the first place. It really struck me: for years, the center of my universe was my little basement hovel. I spent an inordinate amount of time in that little room, and now I spend less time in my bedroom than just about anywhere else in my house. It is refreshing to be surrounded by new and interesting people, and for once it almost feels anti-social to run to the solace of my bedroom to write posts on here.

Also, in recent months I started a new writing job, which means that I now spend the majority of my waking hours in front of a keyboard, dedicating my grey matter to coming up with compelling things to say, so when I get home, I actually find it necessary more and more often to switch my brain off. This goes along with two qualifications: first, I actually really enjoy the job that I have now, I feel like I've found somewhere where I know that I fit in the workplace, and I'm working alongside equally creative and fun-loving people, and it's been great. The second is that yes, I totally realize the job came along far after I'd stopped updating this blog regularly. I get it. I'm a pretty lame blogger at this point, and the steady decline in the number of postings paints a pretty vivid picture of that.

But as I embark on a new year, for once I feel somewhat invigorated that changes are just around the bend, and that is a pleasantly unique feeling in my life. I feel more driven, more creative, like I kind of have my shit together just a wee bit more if nothing else. It's a good feeling, and I hope that as my life begins to take on something more closely resembling some sort of structure, that an uptick in blogging goes along with that.

More importantly, don't think that this post is the indication of a change in me; this blog won't suddenly become all puppy dogs and ice cream. I still have plenty of bile to spread, and lots of beef with a lot of stuff around me, but I feel like now that things are beginning to fall a bit more into place, I will be able to re-capture some of the optimism and hopefully some of the wit I had back in the early days. Because, as I said ad nauseum before, when you're spending the bulk of your unemployed life on the couch (or in a small basement room), there isn't much external stimulus, and you can only dwell on your own misery so much.

So here's to a new year. Hopefully 2013 will be the year that I finally get some of my shit together and start re-realizing some of the potential I once had as an apple-cheeked youth, or even as a slightly hung over twenty-something. Mazel tov!

Twelve Days

I've been in Southern California for ten days. To most of you, you probably think "oh wow, you get to enjoy some sunshine and nice weather for a change" others of you more in the know say "nice - working on the new album with the band, that must be an awesome time."

I say humbug. I am just not an LA person. It's too hot, it's too dry. I can't see the ocean, I never know where I'm going, and to run down to the corner store for a soda, you need to take two different freeways. I'm not one of those people who really gives much of a damn about regional biases and all that. I don't hate SoCal sports teams because they're in our divisions, or because they're better than us, or because of some great sportsball sense of rivalry, I usually root against them because the SoCal sports fans as a whole really annoy me.

Yes, I am lumping a huuuuge mass of people together here, and I'm sure there are more exceptions to what I am saying than those who fall into my stereotypes. I have had nothing but good experiences with all the friends-of-friends and other well-wishers that I've met in my time here, and despite our differences in regions and our differences in sports affiliations, our mutual love of music and good times has been a big part of what has redeemed this trip.

The studio experience has been great. Erik Ron, our producer for the new Hello Monster record, has been flat-out inspirational to work with. It's always amazing to see someone in your general age range who is pushing towards mastery in their craft, and using their talents to help people realize their potential. He's also been just a great guy to spend time with; we've drank together, we've hung out at his place, we've played FIFA, and we've gone to shows together; it's been a definite rockstar experience. Our music sounds amazing, even if the majority of what I've done on this stage of the recording is sit in a windowless room and verify lyrics and melodies as they're being performed by my bandmates.

But now I'm ready to go home. I'm tired. I've slept on floors, couches, and air mattresses for almost two weeks. I haven't shaved at all. I have been surviving on energy drinks, fast food, and not nearly enough sleep. I think the days I've showered only outnumber the days I haven't showered by maybe one. Maybe. I know I'm currently on showerless day three, and I suspect people are starting to realize that. Everywhere I've spent the night, the host owns some kind of pet. I am ready to crawl into my bed, in my cold corner of San Francisco, freshly showered and comfortable.

I know, if the band goes on tour, this experience will be expanded. But the difference is that on tour, there is always something new and different around every corner. I have seen the interior walls of most of the same places for almost two weeks now, and while the recording studio definitely feels like home away from home (especially after sleeping here for like five days), it's dimly lit, windowless, and soundproofed, which means if I want to know what time of day it is, what the weather is like, or if I just want to see another human being who isn't Erik or Paul, I need to leave the building.

But yeah, that's what I've been up to. There are a lot more stories from this trip, but most are not blog-appropriate, so I'll save you the time, and if you want to hear them, you know how to get a hold of me.

Me in a... Messenger Bag?

As I have been working and commuting on the bus recently, I have had an increased reliance of the majority of my life fitting into my messenger bag. As I sat at work the other day, looking into my bag, I began to realize: the possessions of one's bag really capture the essence of who they are. Honestly, much more than my wallet, my bag gives you a great in-depth look into who I am and what I do. I realize that it's a cliche idea, and it only makes sense that the one place where you put almost everything you might need on a daily basis had better well speak volumes about you, but I figured it could make for pretty good blog to give a brief rundown of what all goes into making a fully-grown Bill.

Glasses. I wear glasses to read, and 99% of my work requires that I wear them, plus I wear them when I read on the bus, which is all the time. I'm one of those sick weirdos who actually wishes he could wear glasses all the time. I realize that if I actually did have to wear them all the time, I would hate it, but I personally really like the way my glasses make me look, and wish more people saw me in them on a regular basis. These days, I keep a red felt-tip pen for editing markup in the case as well, and I always find that it looks just a little bit menacing in there lurking just below the glasses.

Whatever book I happen to be reading at the time. Reading on the bus is the one bright and shining silver lining that balances out the usually awful experience of having to ride MUNI. The trains are seldom on time, more and more people seem to think it's okay to bring a pet or do something gross on the bus, and I am seemingly constantly lambasted by homeless. But taking the bus to work means that I have two hours out of every week day in which the only enjoyable thing I could think to do is stand around and read, and I kind of love it.

Two Moleskine Notebooks. One is for general notes, one is for band notes. I don't use them nearly as much as I probably should, but they do come in wildly handy when I either think I should write something down (sometimes about this very blog) or need it for work, and by having the notebooks, I can keep them all organized and held together in a single book.

An iPod classic. I have an iPhone that I don't hardly ever listen to music on, I need the full 80 gigs of space to stash music on, and sometimes even that isn't enough. I actually kind of miss the days when iPods were considered devices that people used only to listen to music. This whole multi-functionality thing is for the birds. I want something small and light with enough music to let it outlast the battery life of the device.

Headphones. For me, headphones are one of the few places where I don't mind spending money. I hate earbuds, and because I like listening to music loudly in quiet offices, I want headphones that isolate sound well. I have burned through about four pairs of headphones in the last four or five years, but it's one of those things where I can't help but drop decent coin on a high quality pair.

Accordion File. This is a remnant from my teaching days; I found it in the band room where I was, and it is now adorned with a mirror-reflective B that came my way via a chemistry lab. It's perfect for two things: first, it keeps a little bit more structure at the back of the bag, which keeps everything inside a little more orderly. Second, it holds a lot of loose crap. I can put in spiral notebooks, manila folders, loose paper, all that. It's even got a special loop where I keep one of my many pens. I also keep Hello Monster CDs in there. I have a whole folder full of musical staff paper which I don't use nearly often enough, and stack of printouts explaining how you can build your own silk screen press from scratch, which I've never done.

Small pocket notepad. I bought some of these a few years ago, and honestly had halfway forgotten that I still had this one in here. Needless to say, it doesn't see a lot of use.

Writing utensils. I'm a huge pen dork, so I have a wide variety of pens, and somehow I assign a certain amount of significance to when each gets used. By my current count, there are 3 black pens, 3 pencils (two traditional, one mechanical), one red pen, one multi-color pen/pencil, a fine-tip sharpie, and the aforementioned red felt pen for editing. Sad thing is, I used to keep my old glasses in one of the pencil flaps of the bag until those broke, so now I'm thinking about what pens need to get added in.

Gum. One of my oldest friends was somewhat surprised to find that I almost always have gum with me. I keep it in my bag, I keep a huge container in my car, a huge container on my desk at home, and pretty much anywhere that isn't in my pockets. I am an obsessive gum chewer, even though I'm the type who will chew a piece of gum until it is hard as a rock and lost its flavor some hours earlier.

The other day, I even had a volume pedal in there, but that was strictly there because I was selling it on Craigslist and was supposed to meet the buyer that afternoon. Still, it seemed a fitting addition that I could include for the sake of this blog.

Perhaps most importantly, the main thing about my bag is that it is organized to a T. Just like the way I try to live my life, there is always a place for everything, and everything is usually in its place. I know where each pen should be, which side the books should be on, and what needs to be moved where in order to accommodate other items.

In other words, I'm a huge dork who spends too much time looking into his bag.

Different Worlds

Last week I started a new contract job, and was pretty excited not only to make some money, but also to get out of the house, ride the bus, and have some interesting fodder for the ol' blog. Lo and behold, I have already found some pretty blog-worthy material. Earlier today I was thinking of writing a tale about my bus ride the other morning, which consisted of two homeless guys hitting up everyone on the streetcar for beer money (at 11:00 a.m.), two riders with dogs (one of whom sat on the floor with his dog), and a whole bunch of messes of people all over the place.

But then, at the office, I decided to hop in the elevator and head down to the lobby to get a coffee, and I ran into the most stereotypically sleazy sales guy that I have just about ever met. I got into the elevator and he gave me the classic bro-nod. I returned favor and stepped in for the ten-flight ride. After a second or two, he turns to me and asks "Dude, how do you get away with the mohawk?"

Now, a few points of clarification before I get into our entire convo: yes, I kind of have a mohawk, but it's definitely more of a faux-hawk, and I never have it combed all the way up. It's not like I have a foot tall wall of hair running down the middle of my head or anything. Still, I guess it's noticeable enough to comment on. Also, this guy just couldn't stop eating miniature candy bars. He had a handful of about four of them, and ate three of them throughout the course of our forty second-ish elevator ride. So all of his statements are said around a mouth full of little Snickers bars.

So I ask him to repeat himself, in part because it was hard to understand him around all the chocolate and nougat, and in part because I couldn't tell if he was being friendly or being kind of a dick. So I pause to think about it and reply "Well, you cut your hair like this, trim down the sides, and let everyone deal with it."

He kind of nods, adding "Well, what kind of work do you do? IT?" And I informed him I was in the creative department (truth be told, I don't know the official title of the department I'm in) and he says back "yeah, I guess that is more of a creative haircut... I couldn't get away with it." Yes, I know that we looked very different; he was in a blue pinstripe suit and I was in a Dickies shirt and jeans, but what really struck me as the difference was that he was wearing sunglasses, despite having come from inside of the building.

Our conversation continued, I commented "Well, you know, there are pluses and minuses. I'm technically kind of a behind the scenes kind of guy, so my appearance is usually just kind of matters to me, my boss, and my computer monitor. I don't deal with execs or customers, I only have to impress people with my work, not my appearance."

He pauses and mulls that over. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Pluses and minuses.... Like, I make great money and live a life of leisure. I am pretty much set for life. But you have a mohawk. I'd probably trade with you, because you have a mohawk and I don't. I can't buy the right to wear a mohawk. You just can. Yeah, I'd trade with you in a heartbeat."

I assured him that I'd trade haircuts if we could trade incomes as we parted ways.

So again, as per the usual, this anecdote once again proves that apparently I attract weirdos like a fiddler attracts a square dance. All I wanted to do when I set foot on that elevator was to stand in once place and somewhat blankly stare at the numbers go by, just like anyone else would usually expect in the same situation.

Having had a few days to mull this over in my head, and after discussing this with some friends, I kind of assume this dude must have been pretty baked. That is the best explanation for him wearing sunglasses when getting onto the elevator from inside the office, for his insane consumption of mini candy bars, and for his generally strange manner. Nonetheless, baked or no, this guy still saw me and just knew: this guy will make for some good conversation. Little did he know that almost as soon as he started talking to me, I just knew: this guy will make for some good blog.

Long time, no blog

Wow. This is absolutely appalling. It's been months, again proving that I'm absolutely terrible at this. If there is one thing that I can blame at the moment, it is a lack of external stimuli. Over the past few months, I've taken to a somewhat hermetic lifestyle, mainly for economic reasons. See, I had a job for a bit, and ever since that job ended, I've been spending the majority of my time either at home on my couch, at my friend's place on his couch, or at various band practices. While that is good news for my consistently dwindling bank account, it is bad news for this blog.

I'm one of those folks who thrives on external stimuli when it comes to blogging. I see stuff around me on the bus, at a coffee shop, at the bar - wherever - and I find that it stirs up something in me or something like that, and then I write about it here.

So half the reason I haven't written in a while is the fact that plain and simple that I haven't really had much of anything to write about. I don't think anyone is really interested in left side of the couch vs. right side of the couch, or how excited I was when I finally got a DVD rack that I could fit everything into so that I could finally get the boxes out of my living room. Nobody other than myself or my roommates care when I max out my character in Borderlands. You get the picture. I am leading a pretty darn mundane life at the moment, and while there is nothing wrong with that, it doesn't exactly make for good reading.

So, here's to hoping that I become more active again. I start a new contract job next week, which will mean upwards of ten hours a week on MUNI which is always rife with blog-worthy material. Also, I just want to be more disciplined in setting aside some more time on a regular basis to write; I am, by profession, a writer (some might argue) and therefore I do need to keep the old tools well honed.

So let's hope that this is the start of a more diligent trend. As always, I'm not making any promises, but it would be good to get back into the swing of things a little bit more.

This Is What We Have Become

A friend of mine posted this photo on Facebook this morning. This is the line outside of a local mall, where people are queued up in order to get a wristband that will allow them to purchase a pair of the new Air Jordans that come out today.

Yes, that's right. Shoes. These people are in line for shoes.

But they're not even in line for shoes, they're in line for the wristband that will give them the right to buy shoes. Knowing how things work these days, I imagine this is even a line for a wristband to allow them to buy a pair of shoes that they pre-registered to buy on the internet.

The sad part of it all? I would imagine that at least 25% of these people will not even put the shoes on their feet; either because they want to keep them pristine and in perfect condition in the box, or because they want to flip them for a quick profit. Still, that "profit" comes at the cost of having to stand in line for hours on a Thursday morning for shoes.

When did we become a line-waiting culture? How did this "get it before anyone else can" obsession spread to all parts of our consumer experience? I can condone it for something that has a spoiler aspect to it: movies, books, stuff like that. Yes, you want to see the movie before every jamoke on your Facebook timeline talks about how OMG the ending was, and your moviegoing experience is ruined. I get that.

An aside: usually going to the movies for one of the first showings of a movie is enough to ruin my moviegoing experience. But I'm a curmudgeon.

But shoes? Shoes? I can guarantee that every person in this line has seen pictures and probably videos of the shoes already. Some crazy Nike Jordan fanboys have probably even seen design specs. So what is the rush? Spoiler alert! The shoes are mid-tops! I'm the first to realize, these shoes have laces!

This makes about as much sense to me as all the commenters who flock to online newspapers, video hosting sites, etc. and leave one comment: "First". Because, after all, it doesn't matter if you watched the video or read the article (it matters even less if you have an opinion, especially an intelligent one) about what you read or saw, what matters is that you got there first.

And where does it all lead?

Apparently to a parking lot outside a shopping mall at 7:45 in the morning, waiting in the drizzle for a wristband for a pair of shoes you may never wear.

Conflicted

No, I'm not conflicted about abandoning this blog, I've just been busy with the new job and all.

And for those of you who haven't heard, I got a new job. I'm working as an editor for an educational publishing company, and so far it's pretty sweet.

What I was conflicted about earlier today was a task I had to do for part of my job: I had to pull a book apart. Yeah, it was weird. See, whenever we print a new edition or a new printing of a book, we digitally archive the previous printing, from what I can tell, it's pretty standard operating procedure, and it's good because you can almost immediately pull up any edition of any book to see what changes have taken place and all that. It's just the method by which that archiving takes place that was a tough pill for me to swallow.

For those of you who regularly use a multi-purpose copier/scanner deal, you know there is the glass platen where you can place things, and there is a top-loader that will pull loose pages through and scan them automatically in a large batch. That is clearly the more efficient way to go about scanning high page counts. So today I had to take a reference copy of this book, cut its cover off with an old-fashioned paper cutter, and then pull each individual page from the binding to create individual pages to feed into the top loader, and for a book nerd like yours truly, that is just about the same as doing something cruel like pulling the wings off of a fly.

It got me thinking of how peculiar I assume I must be. I'd imagine most of you reading this wouldn't think twice, but it really got to me. I talked to the book, said how proud we all were of it, and assured it that it we were going to send it to a nice farm upstate where it could play in a big field with other retired editions so that it wasn't worried to take that final trek. I reassured myself that this book was giving its life as a bound edition to assure future generations of better books, but it still was tough. Outside of humans, cars, or domesticated animals, this is probably about as sentimental as I get about stuff like that. I can go to a restaurant and eat veal or foie gras without batting an eye. I enjoy watching chefs artfully butcher and prepare meats, but somehow if it happens to a book, I get all glassy-eyed and have to steel my nerves.

I had a similar reaction with a piece of art that I purchased a few years ago. It should come as no surprise to anyone who has ever read this blog that I am a huge fan of Jack Kerouac, and when I saw a portrait that an artist had painted of him for sale at a local restaurant, I bought it right off the wall and carried it home with me that night. However, there was one little part of that portrait that still makes me a little sad to this day: the entire backdrop of the portrait is made up of ripped up pages of On the Road that were decoupaged onto the canvas. It looks great, and it makes an excellent effect, but it also makes me a little sad to know that a copy of my favorite novel of all time was sacrificed for the sake of art.

In summation, I'm odd and you should love and cherish your books like I do. Now I'm off to bed to cuddle with a couple books and assure them that they'll never see a fate like that as long as I have a say in the matter.

Getting Started

I've been involved in a number of conversations with a number of people recently about how I got my start doing something, and I feel like I never have a particularly exciting or insightful answer for the question. It doesn't matter if it's music or writing, I just feel like I found something I like to do and have tried to dedicate my time and efforts to getting in to that practice. 

For music, I was eight years old, I saw the movie "La Bamba" and immediately knew I wanted to play guitar. My parents had tried to get me to play piano first, since my sister had already been playing for a few years and was showing some promise, but I just couldn't get the hang of it no matter how I tried. Oddly enough, I still can't play piano to save my life, so that's something I guess I just have to just throw my hands up and say "oh well" to. I was lucky that maybe a month or two later, a teacher at my school started offering guitar lessons, and I immediately signed up. I was maybe eight years old, and for the first little while, it was kind of hellish: I remember a number of times my parents sent me to my room and threatened some kind of recourse if they didn't hear me playing guitar for at least half an hour. At the time there were probably a hundred things that I would have rather been doing, but now, some 23 years later, I am thrilled that they did it. Because I had a knowledge of reading music and all the basics of guitar playing, by the time I started listening to a lot of music that I wanted to play, I was able to pick things up much easier than friends who were just starting out. 

Since then, all I did was keep playing and playing until I couldn't play anymore. However, I also wonder from time to time nowadays if I have plateaued. It's strange: I don't feel the need to practice much on my own, since I can play what I feel like I want and need to play, but I still always want to believe that I'm getting better at the same time. Similarly, I am the worst person to ask if it is difficult to learn guitar or not: when you start playing as young as I did, you don't think about the challenge, and now that I've been playing for like 75% of my life, I believe that it comes second nature. I realize it doesn't, but I just can't think back to the old days of not knowing anything about guitars. There is plenty of stuff that I can't do, there are plenty of songs that I might never be able to play, but I can play as much as I want to for the time being, and I have to be content with that. 

Writing was a trickier question. You never really take lessons or anything like that, right? Yes, I realize taking English classes is like taking writing lessons, but only a portion of what I learned in school applies to writing that I might do for work (kids, if you're reading this, don't pay attention to that last sentence - school and English classes are the most important thing you can do with your life, ever). 

So when I had a former work acquaintance ask me "How did you get started as a copywriter?" I was completely flummoxed. For me, it has just been a part of self-discovery: I knew upon graduating high school that English and Band were the two areas in which I excelled. When I decided not to major in music, I didn't bat an eye before settling in on an English major. I graduated, I taught for a while, I went to grad school, and all the while, I wrote. I wrote this blog, I wrote lesson plans, I tweeted, I wrote hopefully entertaining Facebook posts, I wrote emails for myself and for my bands; I just plain wrote. It became a way of life. 

Yes, this is the point where you detractors will draw attention to the fact that my blogging has become infrequent at best, and my twitter account has been somewhat neglected, but I have a lot of irons in the fire at the moment. Bear with me. 

Much like music, I don't think of writing as something I work on anymore, it's just something I do. Yes, I work like hell on it, but to me it's all part of the writing process. I read, I edit things that I write, I edit things that other people write, I brainstorm; it's always going on even if I don't have things to show for it. I would like to say that I started writing when I was a little kid and I poked a few attempts at a story on my parents' old typewriter. It was god awful, I'm sure, but it was the first time I sat down and said, "I am going to write something" and sat there until the words came out. It's not unlike what I do now, but now I'm a lot more critical of my writing, and every now and again, someone pays me for the things I write. 

So how did you get your start? Did you determine this path early on, or did it evolve over time? I'm curious more than anything because I don't think that I've asked too many people that question myself, and the more the question rattles around my head and the more I try to formulate an answer, the more I kick myself for not asking of myself and of others sooner.

The Real Cost?

A few days ago I read an article that a local music promoter had put up on her Facebook account entitled "Want to Be a Rock Star? You'll Need $100,000". All in all, I found it a pretty worthwhile read, especially for aspiring musicians.

If you don't want to read the whole thing, the gist of the article is that being a musician is expensive, and if you really want to devote yourself to chasing a dream, you had better be prepared to spend some cash in that pursuit. I fully agree. Lord knows I've spent a pretty insane amount of money on all the trappings: recording, CD duplication, making merch, van rentals for tours, etc. It's not easy and it's not for the faint of financial heart. If I sold off every last bit of gear that I own and gave up the rehearsal studio I love so dearly, for the year 2012 I could probably come close to putting myself through grad school again. Yeah, it's that bad. But I don't, because I love playing music, I love being in bands, and I love the friendships I have developed as a byproduct.

But back to the article. There are a few marked differences: first off, the authors, who are members of a band called Two Lights" are further along the musical journey than I have ever been, and they're significantly younger. They are legitimately up-and-coming, and I respect that. However, the management company they pay for and their booking agent don't come cheap at all. They record in high end studios that cost a lot of money, and despite tracking some stuff on their own, I'm sure they work with at least one, possibly more high-end producers who always fetch a pretty penny. Hello Monster is starting to go down that rabbit hole at the minute as we are finally starting to undertake some recording for our new album, so I am more than aware what the going rates for studios and producers can be. In the meantime, does anyone know how I can sell a kidney on the black market? That might help offset some of the pain.

However, in the article, and this is really the heart of what got me writing this blog tonight, the authors start lumping in some costs that I find much more suspect. They lump in a lifetime of music lessons, totaling about $30k. Yes, I took lessons too, but I did so when I was in grade school and a bit in high school. I learned a lot from instructors all along, but did I say to myself when I was in the 7th grade "Bill, you could keep on learning and possibly become a rock star, or would you rather bank some of that money and have an easier time paying your rent when you're 30?" Of course not, I said I wanted to learn guitar, and taking lessons helped. Having said that, ever since I started playing real shows at about 18 or so, I have never taken any additional training. I've bought books and studied some theory on my own and stuff, but that's it.

They also mention the cost of taking taxis to gigs, and paying a drummer to play with them. Both are absurd to me. Yes, I know, nobody owns a car in New York, and if they do, they never give up their parking spot, but you're in a band. They might as well count the money they spend on the subway to practice, or the electricity in their apartment while they are songwriting, since it's all the same. As far as paying a drummer, maybe they should do what so many other musicians have done with great success: find a drummer who wants to play in your band, not just some hired gun who you have to pay to play.

What's worse, is they talk about the exorbitant cost of living in New York, because being in NY is apparently tantamount to their success as musicians. This is absolute bull. Yes, I live in San Francisco, and yes, I am exposed to much more as a result. But look at a band like REM, at one point one of the most popular bands in rock, and they're from Athens, Georgia. Pavement, the gods of the indie rock scene, are from friggin' Stockton fer chrissakes. In short, if you are good, your music will be heard, and if people like it, it doesn't matter where you are. Your music will be heard and it can catch on anywhere, then you can relocate when a record label or management company is willing to pay for you to live where they want you to live.

Finally, they factor in "lost wages" - since they are spending so much time working on being in a band and making it, they aren't able to work full time, and the older brother apparently even has to turn down writing worth $400 a week. Unfortunately, the vast majority of bands I know don't have this luxury. If my bandmates don't work, we don't eat. We don't have somewhere to live. (yes, the irony of an unemployed man writing these words is not lost on me) I know of two different bands who are currently living in a space that is also their rehearsal space, one of which had it so bad that they all had to get memberships at 24 hour fitness so that they could shower. So don't get me started on wages or making sacrifices for your music.

Phew, now I feel a little better. Everyone who has legitimate aspirations of making it in music also doesn't have the delusions of what the cost of those aspirations are. You spend money on gear, promotion, recording, the whole shebang, and maybe some day you get big enough where you can play all that gear in a bigger room for more people, people who give a damn about your music and might actually be more receptive to buying your merch. But until then, the boxes of unsold CDs will continue to crowd our garages, the epic speaker cabinets will still only live up to part of their usefulness, and we'll all hope that the next person that comes to our show is that person who can finally help us get to a point where we don't have these worries anymore.

Sweet Solitude

This is going to be another one of those posts where I tiptoe around a question because blogging is often a way for me to figure things out. I try not to do these too often, or if I do, I at least try to keep them lighthearted or quirky enough to make them a fun read. Tonight, however, I really feel the need to throw some words up on this page and hopefully some of you read it, and even more hopefully, some of you have an opinion or a take on the whole situation (not necessarily specific to me, just in general).

See, I'm currently reading this book called "Generation Me" which is all about the emerging trend of bolstering self-confidence and entitlement over everything else, and how it is actually making the people it is supposed to be helping miserable by setting up false assurances. Thus far (I'm only about a third of the way through the book) it seems to be very convincing and well thought out, and I'd recommend it to most anyone in my generation. But I'm not here to write a book review, rather, there was one line that really struck a chord with me:

There's also the obvious danger of getting too accustomed to being on your own. If you learn to love yourself and your solitude, it will be a lot harder to adjust once you do find someone to share your life with.

A grim look into my future?

Thing is, for those of you who know me, I haven't had a real serious relationship for some years now, and while yes, there are all sorts of times that I think "I'm a little lonely" or "I don't like being the one single person in the room" there are also hundreds of times where I appreciate being single and only having to account for myself. But my question is this: is that such a bad thing? Is it really detrimental to be happy by yourself? Are we still resorting to judging your happiness and or the fullness of your life by romantic relationships? What happened to self-acceptance and contentment with yourself? What happened to independence? How about friends and family? I got that up the wazoo. I have two excellent roommates, about a sum total of eight bandmates, all of whom I love like brothers. Does this still make me a risk of having difficulty adjusting my lifestyle when I get in a relationship?

My main gripe is that the author is sub-textually inferring that you need to compromise your lifestyle in order to be in a relationship. She implies, rather indirectly, that you need to concede parts of your life you might enjoy in order to build a relationship, which I think is dangerous. Yes, I know a lot of people who absolutely need someone else in their life, and being the singleton that I am, I sometimes have trouble wrapping my head around that, but am I hopeless because I still want to spend time with my friends or my bands when I date someone?

Yes, I know compromises or concessions are made, but that is something we all do in every relationship, don't we? Don't most of us also crave some amount of space from time to time? I love hanging out with my roommates, of course, but I also love nights like this where I can close my door, put on my headphones, and feel like I'm in a house by myself. Does that make me crazy? Am I just a loner? Have I already fallen so deep into this "love yourself and your solitude" mindset that I am jinxing the possibility of meeting someone?

Bah, there I go with all the questions. That's always a good time to stop. Still, if you have any insight, feel free to comment here, call or text if you know how to get a hold of me, or shoot me an email (again, if you have the necessary info). In the meantime, I'm just going to sit here in my bedroom and love my solitude.

The Night Owl Problem

I was first going to write this post back when I was working, but I suppose the fact that I'm starting it at one in the morning on a Thursday should pack the same amount of gravitas.

Here's the thing: I am not a morning person. I never really have been. Given the choice (as I have at the moment) I prefer to turn in somewhere between three and four in the morning and wake up around noon. It's a weird way of going about life, I understand that, but it's just what suits me best. However, whenever I am employed, that whole lifestyle is turned on its ear: I have to be awake and functioning far earlier than I'd ever choose to be, however no matter how hard I seem to try, I can't naturally acclimate to waking up at 7:00 or 7:30. Try as I may to break the pattern, my body seems to resist it. Even if I try to "get to bed early" (read: midnight or so) I still find myself laying wide awake in bed for hours on end until my body is finally ready to rest. Then when the weekend hits, I'm back to my old habits.

This is why, as I fairly broadly advertise, I am a bit cantankerous in the mornings. I have warned people for almost as long as I have known them: if you happen across me before about ten a.m., coffee or not, chances are, you will be met with some manner of scowl like you just insulted my mother. I honestly don't really want to be that way, but it seems like my body is much like a porcupine with its spikes: it just wants to send a clear "do not touch" message to anyone who can see me. I have famously either glared at or nearly flipped off a number of friends and acquaintances who give a gentle honk to get my attention while I'm on my way to work. Perhaps the most notable of these times was about six months back when my friend's brother-in-law saw me as I was crossing the street in front of his car at a stop sign. He gave a quick honk to say "good morning" and I stopped dead in my tracks in front of his car, thinking he was honking that I wasn't getting through the intersection quickly enough. As I wildly gesticulated and yelled "STOP SIGN" at him, he rolled down his window and said hi. Apparently I seemed so irate that he felt he had to text my friend to have him apologize for the "unnecessary spike in blood pressure" he had caused me.

What amazes me more is the fact that, when working, I tend to end up being awake for so long any given day. It could be the reason that no matter how much coffee, Red Bull, or 5 Hour Energy drinks I have, I am still tired until about 10 or 11 in the morning - I think my body just tells itself that it is either still asleep or about ready to go back to bed. More interesting is in the evenings: I can be dead on my feet at 8pm, and almost ready to go to sleep, but suddenly, once the clock gets close to about 11pm, I wake up like an eight year old who just drank a two liter Mountain Dew. It's like I miss my window to fall asleep, and as a punishment, I am stuck awake for at least three more hours. It's uncanny. What's worse is that during that time is hands-down when I am most productive. I'd say most of my college papers and probably at least a third of my master's thesis were written between eleven at night and four in the morning. It's just how I work, so as a result, I feel guilty since I know I'm not as productive at work as I can be.

One other snag in this situation is that what should be the obvious solution of finding a job where I can work nights is that, in all honesty, I don't want to because, again, I get so much done during this time of the day/night/morning that I wouldn't want to use all this focus and energy for work only to be asleep or unproductive during my other waking hours.

In short, I'm kind of a mess and this post has dragged on far too long already. I'll be back in the next couple of days with something that is hopefully a tad more entertaining than this, but as I said, I've had the idea for this post for some time now.

The Closest Thing You'll Get To a New Year's Post

Yeah. It's New Year's Day. (Note: it was in fact New Year's Day when this sentence was written) You know what? It's just a Sunday. I am not a big fan of New Year's Eve or the festivities that accompany, so usually I tend to bow out of most invitations for that day.

I was thinking about maybe doing some kind of music review "best of" kind of post, but the simple fact of the matter is that 90% of the stuff I've been listening to this year didn't even come out this year. (Though I will say that both the new Thrice and the new Manchester Orchestra albums are both worth buying and listening to about a hundred times each)

I was going to try to write some kind of "ten best shows I've been to this year" list, but I realized that would be absolutely impossible. The reason is, I have gone to a stupid amount of live shows this year. So, in the spirit of lists, here is Bill's "I went to that show" list for the year 2011. Seeing it all down on paper kind of makes me wonder if I have a problem.

"I Went to That Show In 2011"

1/22 - Old 97's at The Fillmore
1/27 - This Charming Band and Dead Souls at The Rickshaw Stop
2/8 - Sebadoh at The Great American Music Hall
2/17 - Cake at The Fillmore
2/20 - Godspeed You! Black Emperor at The Great American Music Hall
2/21 - Man or Astro-Man? at The Independent
4/14 - Two Door Cinema Club at The FIllmore
5/1 - Explosions in the Sky at The Fox Theater
5/9 - Mogwai at The Regency Ballroom
5/10 - The Raveonettes at Bimbo's
5/18 - The One AM Radio at Bottom of the Hill
6/18 - Matt and Kim & The Thermals at The Fox Theater
7/21 - Soundgarden at The Bill Graham Civic Auditorium
7/22 - The Ogres and The La Teen-Os at The Knockout
7/23 - Audiodub at The Independent
8/13 - Beta State at The Rockit Room
8/13 - Outside Lands Music Festival
8/24 - Motion City Soundtrack at The Fillmore
9/4 - Daikaiju at Serra Bowl
9/27 - Jimmy Eat World at The Fillmore
10/5 - Blink 182, My Chemical Romance, and Matt & Kim at Shoreline Ampitheater
10/9 - Yellowcard at Slim's
10/16 - Treasure Island Music Fesitval
10/18 - The Airborne Toxic Event at The Fillmore
10/30- Cake at The Fox Theater
11/4 - Minus the Bear at Slim's
11/5 - Thrice at The Regency Ballroom
11/11 - Benvenue at Sub-Mission Gallery
11/30 - Rhett Miller at the Swedish American Hall
12/9 - Death Cab for Cutie and The Airborne Toxic Event at The Masonic Auditorium
12/17 - Lagwagon at Slim's
12/30 - Kalifornia Redemption at The Phoenix Theater

I am sure there are others, and I didn't include shows that I personally performed at, which would add another 15 or 20 to that list.

Hopefully in 2012 I will be able to make enough money to afford to go to that many shows again.