I am certain that this is what they call “viral video.” And who needs a cure?

http://onegoodmove.org/1gm/1gmarchive/2006/02/cheneys_got_a_g.html

* Yes, damn it. I’m breaking down and using a pseudonym for one of my friends. It’s out of respect for her privacy, which I refuse to show for the other people in my life. That should tell you something right there.

I can’t remember the context, but I’m sitting at the bar and hear Bree call me a motormouth — tells one of the regulars that I haven’t shut up all day. I laugh, of course. For some reason, everything she says makes me smile. I think that it’s her voice, that slightly accented cashmere softness that is so often followed by the most perfect laugh anyone ever imagined. How can I not smile?

That laugh is one of my favorite things in life. You ever had a friend or maybe been really attracted to someone, but then the laugh that comes out of their throat is like an after-school special without the benefit of bourbon, that thing that you sit through wondering when the torture will end? Och, I have. But Bree — god, her laughter makes up for every nails-on-chalkboard giggle I’ve ever put up with in my life.

It puts me at ease, her laugh, her smile. Everything about her, really. And as funny as the motormouth comment is — most people that know me will say I’m withdrawn, reasonably quiet outside of controlled bursts of extroversion — it hits me that yeah, it’s true. I probably have talked her ear off this day. It certainly fits with the three hour phone call records that I’ve set with her.

There’s a lot about Bree that makes it feel okay to just relax, not think, and just be me.

Right now, she’s laughing, by the way. It was the “not thinking” comment that made her laugh. But as much as it seems against my nature to not think and just be, somehow it works out that way.

Bree is captivating. She’s physically stunning. I don’t want to mislead anyone here; she’s not a supermodel. But she’s got a look that you could never accurately capture without an artist’s touch and paints on canvas. That’s a lot of what made my jaw drop the first time I saw her: she’s very real, and very unique. She’s got curves, and imperfections and flaws, just like the rest of us. But she doesn’t hide those things, at least not with an obsessive vengeance like so many other women I’ve known; it’s as though she draws attention to all the sexy things about her by not hiding anything at all. She’s beautiful, I think, because of her flaws, not in spite of them. Her eyes are at times penetrating and intense, at others distant and dreaming, but always the color of dusk. She’s soft without being lazy or weak. She moves with purpose but always with grace and ease. And I can always come full circle to her smile…

She’s a good person, there for both friends and family with an ear or even much needed words. She has, in many, many ways, got her life together, but she’s not predictable or dull, and that’s inspiring to someone who has spent too much time wandering off course. She’s moving forward, and seems to know where she’s headed (and if not, she hides it well). And she seems totally okay with getting there whenever, no real rush.

It strikes me here and now that as much as I might know about Bree, I know very little. I look forward to learning more about her, to learning from her, and to laughing with her. In a perfect world, things would blossom and develop into a life-long love affair, one that I think would be meant for storybooks and moviescreens. But even if that perfect world never comes around, I’m an incredibly lucky person, to have her as a friend, and even luckier to have connected with her across the miles.

This is the closest I could come to a Valentine’s Day wish for someone, and I think I remember someone saying that they’ve never really had a good Valentine’s romance… I hope yours is wonderful and filled with laughs, Bree.

Fortunately for all of you, I’m wide awake in America at 4:30 AM. That’s unfortunate for me, by the way, but hey — this isn’t about me. It’s about a long drive on a Sunday in February of 2006.

The road from Birmingham to Chicago is really an easy drive, especially in a car with cruise control. Set your car to 80 or 85 (mileage may vary, as they say) and just go. There’s not a lot of traffic, if you pick your time wisely — I hit rush hour bullshit on the way out of Birmingham on Thursday afternoon at four, and Chicago at 3 PM is busier than I would have thought, but that was it for busy roads.

For the most part, it’s a really pleasant drive. The spaces between Birmingham, Nashville, Louisville, and Indinanapolis are long enough to relax without getting too hypnotized. Sadly, this does leave the final stretch, from Indianapolis to Chicago (about 150 miles between city and Skyway) — and as either beginning or end of a journey, not a road you particularly want to be endlessly driving. At least, that’s what it feels like.

Thursday’s drive was beyond mindless, punctuated by a single stop for fuel in Louisville and a little ice on the road in Gary, Indiana, just before the changeover to toll roads in Illinois. At that point, I was so excited about returning to Chicago that it didn’t matter, and I picked the right music (Devin Townsend’s Terria) to carry me into the home stretch. It was a little unnerving, hitting the roads that potentially held black ice patches — after driving 8 hours, it would have been what Alanis Morissette would call ironic (translation: not really) to wreck just outside of my destination. But I made it okay, and Bree’s directions were spot on.

The road home, of course, would not be so easy — though somehow, faster. The weather conditions were nearly unbearable: I drove through four states, from snow to rain to snowy rain through country music and finally into a few flurries as far south as twenty miles from home. There were a few moments of whiteout driving in Indiana, not so bad except for the moron driving about 100 mph through the non-existent visibility. It wasn’t until I hit the Tennessee / Kentucky border that I felt genuinely endangered, though — I had somehow let it slip my mind that 95% of southern drivers are incapable of driving in even the most remotely winter-like conditions. From the state line into Nashville, the roads were a mess — no salt + enough snow to cover the asphalt * drivers in awe of nature = accident waiting to happen. Fortunately, the few close calls that I saw or experienced remained just that, and I finally hit the mountains of southern Tennessee, cruising at a cozy 90 mph.

Total time: 8:45:00, give or take something.

The best part of the drive was the area on the midst of dull, rolling Indiana. Snow covered the ground, white as far as the eye could see, and the moon was cresting the horizon in the east, a brilliant eye of yellow-orange greeting the evening. The trees didn’t hold the snow as well as those in Kentucky and Tennessee, but it was still a beautiful sight, the entire land lit up with reflective natural radiance.

It’s unfortunate that those who get the good snow are so accustomed to the sight (and perhaps even irritated by it) as to be unimpressed. The beauty of winter is truly something to be respected and appreciated, no matter where you live or how inconvenient it may prove to be.

“There is only today; tomorrow is an afterthought.”
-Lewis Black

Not a bad idea to live your days with this in mind.

A long time ago, I promised myself that I would shift my living to encapsulate a few things that had become important parts of my philosophy. I determined to live my life in such a way that I no longer have any regrets — no more spending my days wondering what if I had chosen differently, done this or not said that. I determined to discover as much about the world as I possibly could, including and often focusing on me. And I decided to live every day, every minute as though it might be my last; this one struck me as most important, and though I’m still walking a fine line, trying to find the balance of planning for tomorrow while not counting on it, I’ve come a long way.

I’ve seen a fair amount of death in my life. Never an immediate family member or very close friend, but many friends and acquaintances. My three grandparents (my paternal grandfather died well before I was born) passed away over a course of 18 years — my grandfather when I was thirteen, of Alzheimers; his wife, my maternal grandmother, when I was 28, also of Alzheimers; and my father’s mother most recently, in the summer or fall of 2003. Many friends and acquaintances — a few suicides in college, an overdose here and there, and two victims of ex-spousal homicide.

I’ve come to terms with death long ago. Again, who knows how much that will hold true when it’s my parent, or a sibling, or a girlfriend, but that’s a bridge to be burned some other time. That’s not the point of all this.

Knowing that you can go any day, any time, any place, for any reason, should really force you into an awareness of what’s important in your life, where your priorities should lie. And it does me — I try to be conscious of always resolving arguments as quickly as possible with those close to me. I try to always let people know how much they mean to me, and not just when the Jager has been flowing. I especially try to compliment people, whether I know them or not — it’s become too common to hear negative things, to say negative things, to point out the aspects of a person that you don’t like or aren’t impressed with. And — speaking only from perspective — I find that it can’t really make your day, to hear a compliment, whether on your hair, your natural good looks, your writing, your work ethic, whatever.

And yes, Bree’s right: I’m a sap, and cheesy, and incurably romantic. And that’s why. Who knows what will happen tomorrow, or even later today? I don’t, and rather than take chances and gamble, I’m willing to throw all my cards on the table and take the risk that I’ll be thought of as — well, whatever it is that I get called when my back is turned. If a musician plays so well that it actually grabs and holds my attention, I’m going to try to let them know after the show; why wouldn’t I do the same for a woman who is actually capable of capturing my attention?

What’s really funny about this to me is that I am perpetually accused of being withdrawn and not showing my feelings. Which comes largely from learning to live unmedicated with bipolar disorder, I’m sure, but from the inside looking out, I’m completely a heart-on-sleeve kinda guy; according to all but one, I’m too quiet and reserved for my own good.

Hey, if you’re that one, the one that says I don’t stop talking, maybe that might tell you something. Something impressive about yourself, eh?

Take a few minutes today, and drop an email, make a phone call, roll over — whatever. And compliment someone who means a lot to you, or tell them how much better your life is with them in it. And then do it again tomorrow — maybe with the same person, maybe with someone different. Try to do a little something like this every day, if only because there may not be another.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go burn some incense and tie-dye a Dead shirt.

Man, even joking about that makes me need a shower.

Walking along the sidewalk, day old snow crunching under worn boots, and he is crackling with energy. The city around him is filled with wonder and life, and he can feel it pouring into him, each passing second another moment closer to what he remembers being.

It wasn’t so long ago that he was so close to what and who he dreamed he could be: bold and adventurous, cautious but unafraid to step into darkness with only the enbers of his cigarette to light the way. There was a passion in him, one that drove his life, pushed his writing and his music, gave him dreams. And he hadn’t realized that all that had slowly slipped away from him over time, not until he walked the city and felt it pulling him inside. That unique thing that he had held, what he had always felt had defined him, had been bled from his system, drops at a time, so little here and there that he had never known it was happening.

Rear-view mirrors, though, are wonderful things.

A billion stories run through his head, and he doesn’t even bother wishing for pen and paper. Lyrics pour like a flooded river behind his eyes, chord changes filling his ears over the cacophony of the traffic and the people, and no instrument in the world could suffice. And none of it fazes him, because he knows that there is plenty more where that is coming from, and in time, he would capture what he was supposed to capture, pulling the tales and songs from his head like fish from a stream.

Once again, his heart and his head pulse with passion and fire, and he smiles, huge and carefree, feeling a bit like a child in the womb of the world and letting that feeling wash over him, tearing away the old dead skin that had kept his self from the sun for so long.

And he sees her, as beautiful as he had ever imagined, more beautiful than he ever could hope to dream, looking exactly as she was supposed to even though he had never defined her clearly. He feels her fingertips on his forearm, brushing across his skin featherlight, slow moving arcs of a cold fire that light up his nerves. Her voice is everywhere in the city, echoing the sweet, exotic notes of her orchid song, and without even trying, he calls her laughter into his mind, and can’t help but smile, even wider, completely unconcerned with anything in the world.

He’s glad that she’s a part of the city, this city, the city that calls him so loudly that he can’t believe he ever ignored it before. He thinks of finally getting an inherited coat, and finding hundreds of dollars stuffed in the pocket, forgotten and found. Could things get any better for him than finally finding his home? He thinks that maybe they can, and are.

Home is where the heart is, he thinks, and maybe he’s gotten lucky enough to find both. And if not, if it all falls apart, he thinks, at least he knows that he’s back on the right road, and headed toward the dreams he never meant to quit chasing.

And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
-Max Ehrmann, Desiderata, � 1952

If there were any lingering doubts about my decision to move, they were erased last night at 1 AM, when I crossed through the Gary, Indiana toll booth on 90.

I’ve spent the morning wandering, aimlessly but not. Thanks to Wade for providing the iPod last birthday, and Neely for reminding me that Porcupine Tree is perfect wandering music; the past hour’s walking through random streets has energized me, brought out the determination to make this happen. And, as Wade predicted, probably sooner than the original plan. Not before I’m ready, mind you — unfortunately, I’m not at a point where I can just pack my shit in a truck and go (though if that lottery ticket hits, or a screenplay magically sells, the three day countdown is on).

It’s overwhelming to me, and I can’t decide if it’s the city, the context, or the idea of transplanting myself. I’m not uncomfortable, on the one hand; I’m built for the city. Especially this one, that makes me feel so much more at home than I do where I keep my stuff. On the other hand, I feel like a country yokel at times, stopping to grin uncontrollably at all the snow on the sidewalk, staring off at the skyline (ohmygod, there are buildings higher than 12 stories here!). I’m sure this — like the rest of the intensity that is washing over me even now, back in a quiet and could-be-anywhere place — will fade, given time.

But then, part of me hopes it doesn’t, because one of the things that is so attractive to me about this city is the intensity. Chicago feels alive. Things are happening here (even if some of those things suck, like the city council approving an additional $1 per pack tax on cigarettes — looks like I’m quitting, or finding someone to ship them to me from Birmingham), and not at some sad, tortoise-like pace. I think southward, and I feel like Birmingham is where you go to die, or at least nap for a long time…

It’s going to be a major adjustment, in some ways, but maybe not so much as I think. In fact, I kind of hit a weird calm spot just exactly as I was typing that sentence out… There will be the issue of finding new places to get all my things, new bars, new friends, but I think after I get moved and find a job, it won’t be nearly so scary as I keep trying to make it out to be.

There’s a lot to do, and I’m not entirely sure where to start, so I suppose I’m just going to drop my finger down on the list and go from there.

Ending up in web design to make my living was something that happened almost by accident. I’ve been doing design for years now, since ’97 (which, I think, makes me ancient in Internet years — perhaps even dead and awaiting burial), but more as a hobby / experiment in vanity. I knew that I wanted to work in new media, but that was more because it’s the perfect playground for someone with such a mixed interest in both the creative side of life and computers (from a purely technical hardware and programming standpoint).

And so I made my way from waiting tables to writing for Hecklers Media and each of their various websites, back to waiting tables and bartending, and finally into the university world, doing (ostensibly) web design and programming and whatever else they ask me to do (the joys of being a jack-of-all-trades).

Unfortunately, as much as I love the mixing of technical and creative, of problem-solving and algorithms and visual design… Look, the long and short of it is to tell you this: NEVER get involved in a situation where you will be designing for a committee. Especially not one where the hands don’t necessarily talk to each other.

I love designing sites for clients. You have them state the goal of their site, whether it’s advertising or e-commerce or dynamic content. You present a solution. You hammer it down until your happy and they are. And most of the time, since I’ve learned to listen to the client, I get it 95% right the first time.

I hate designing sites for groups, no matter how large or small. The minute you hit two people having equal input into anything creative, you’re in a danger zone — because opinions clash. Especially on a level of university or corporate or government work, because every needs something different from the site, and everyone is convinced that their department’s needs are priority (when, in fact, none of them really matter).

The other bitch is that you can find yourself stuck in the middle of places you have no purpose being in in the first place. People will see that you’ve only been on payroll for a year (not realizing that I spent plenty of time here, albeit quietly, for three years before that), and try to pull rank or throw their perceived weight around. What they apparently fail to realize is that, at the end of the day (and even just before lunch), I REALLY DON’T CARE.

I don’t play politics, and the people that have known me for any real amount of time (which is to say, anyone who pays any attention at all to me) know that. So the fact that you’ve got pull or seniority or the President’s ear? Meaningless. What matters to me is a) the quality of my work, which will not get compromised because someone who doesn’t grasp the technology wants something different but outside-of-best-practices-and-standards; and b) what my boss wants, and his boss, too. Guess what? You don’t make sure I get paid, nor get me raises and promotions, nor reward extra effort — they do.

The bigger the corporation or government or educational entity, the bigger the committee — and the bigger the committee, the bigger the pain in the ass. Double up the number of people that want something different, double the screaming and the threats of horrible things and whispered promises.

Honestly, it all just makes me tired, and wanting to go back to running my freelance business.

The one tattoo on my body that is visible to the viewing public is on my right forearm, an “x” with electrons revolving around it — very elemental. It’s the logo that I designed for the Exhibit(s) a while back (maybe, what — two years ago?), and although it hasn’t been used anywhere else outside of our website (which is so badly in need of redesign and upkeep that I’m hesitant to provide that link), it’s come to symbolize the band in my mind.

Last night’s show was one of the best — definitely one of the most intense — that we’ve ever played. The set list was fairly common, though we started off much heavier and louder than we normally do (with Tenacious D’s Explosivo, and a paricularly punky version of Delia), but regardless of that, it just felt good.

One reason that I got the tattoo is that this band is the best thing I’ve ever done musically. Sure, other ventures have been more successful on traditional levels — with Lunasect, for instance, as a part-time stage player and studio assistant, I played on a nationally released cut (on a Radiohead tribute disc — man, those customer reviews are brutal), and played some great shows. But nothing has met my artistic and creative goals, musically, as much as playing with Eric and Chance and Carlos over the past three years.

I always thought that it would require me having my own band, under my control, playing my own songs, to make me really happy. But I think that situation would leave me feeling too pressured. Make no mistake: the Exhibit(s) is Eric’s band, through and through. All the songs are his, the cover choices come down to him, and he’s easily the most charismatic of the four of us.

But I don’t know that this band would be as well-recieved (or, dare I say [of course I do] good) if you removed any of us from the picture. There is a unique chemistry between us all, and it was there almost from the beginning. Chance and I have always had a really intuitive connection, very important for a rhythm section; Eric’s playing and song structure is well suited to my bass style. Carlos and Eric both play off of each other well. Each of us comes at our respective instrument from an odd angle, and, fortunately, it works. Pretty damn well, most of the time.

We aren’t playing week after week to secure a record deal or to try to get laid. I don’t think any of the traditional rewards for musicians would be lost on us; of course we’d tour if we had an opportunity that was financially stable enough (Chance and Eric are both married, so it’s not like we can go on a six week starvation tour), and I’m sure we’d all love to have better distribution for our discs. But it’s more about a pure joy of playing. We get paid, as often as we play weekend gigs (it’s definitely been the most successful band I’ve been in, from a per-show amount perspective), and we usually walk away with a healthy band tab for ourselves. But it’s more about showing up every week, doing some drinking and playing music with friends; we just happen to be fortunate enough to have people interested in watching us.

I think everyone that does anything creative should be fortunate enough to find themselves in a situation that allows them the same contentedness that I’ve found with the Exhibit(s). There are other goals in my life that I’ve checked off my list with a less-than-perfect accomplishment; as far as music goes, though, there’s nothing more that I ever need do to feel like I had everything that I wanted.

I’ve always thought that it’s best to quit while you’re ahead – leave the stage before the audience starts yawning and looking impatiently at their watches. You make your exit while things are still going strong, and people remember you at your peak. You always leave ’em wanting more. But doing that is hard. The tempatation is to milk a situation for all it’s worth.

Not this time, not for me. It’s going to be hard, leaving this behind, but I just have to remind myself of how much better STAR WARS would have been without the second/first trilogy, or how much more fondly we’d all remember Van Halen if they had stopped about 1984, or how Buffy should’ve ended with season five.

Yeah, that’s right. Nerd, right here. But a nerd who knows how to enjoy life day to day, and to appreciate what he’s got while he’s got it.