Louis C.K. is a genius.
Every now and then I watch an episode of his show, Louie, on FX. I highly recommend it if you can tolerate lots of profanity and quite explicit references to sexual acts. What really sets this comedian apart, at least in my mind, is his ability to be ridiculous and absurd yet still speak about everyday truths of being a human being. And I mean...DEEP truths. They're just often disguised in the show as sex jokes or thoughts on masturbation - also a part of the human experience whether you like it or not (or whether you like seeing and hearing about it on a television screen).
ANYWAY, I finally got around to watching the season 2 finale tonight. SPOILER ALERT
Quick background. In the show, Louie plays himself, a single, middle-aged father who has a career in New York as a comedian. There are lots of father and dating themes in the show.
Back in season one, Louis meets a single mother, Pamela, at parents' night at their kids' school. They develop a friendship. They hang out while their kids have play dates and that sort of thing, but they're just friends. At some point in season two, Louie expresses that he has feelings for her. These feelings are not reciprocated -- anyone every been in that situation?
Anyway, so in the season finale, Louie takes Pamela to the airport so she can catch a flight to Paris. At the airport, she explains the nature of the trip. Her son had gone to visit her deadbeat ex-husband who has never expressed interest in having a relationship with his son. Now all of a sudden, the two of them have bonded and the son wants to be with his dad in Paris. So, Pamela is going to try and salvage the relationship also. She is NOT coming back. Louis is understandably upset.
He reminds her how her ex-husband is a "shitty person." This is just a "whim." She stands there and tells Louis to move on and get over her. She knows he has feelings for her, but she doesn't have them back. "You're a nice, guy Louis" but this will never work. Blah bla bla. You can't help but feel terrible for Louie as he stands there and says, "I will wait for you" even though she has NO intention of coming back. He starts to tear up, and that's the final straw for Pamela. She turns and gets in line for security. Then, there's the most awkward, hilarious, and heart-wrenching scene in television history as Louie watches her slowly make her way through the security queue. They can see each other every time the line faces his way. He just stands there and watches with tears in his eyes like a sad dog. Then he watches her climb an escalator...painfully slowly, I might add. At the top, she finally turns and waves. He just stands there.
She calls out, "Wave to me, Louie! Wave to me"
"What!"
"Wave to me!"
"WHAT! I...WHAT!?"
"WAVE TO ME!"
"Wait for you?"
"Yeah. Wave to me."
(this goes on for a while...)
Waving now, "I'LL WAIT FOR YOU, PAMELA! I'LL WAIT FOR YOU!"
They wave goodbye, not understanding the other. We then see Louie walking out of the airport with the faintest smile on his face. Poor guy.
Very little is clear in life, you know? There's always the baggage we carry. Feelings we feel for someone who doesn't feel them back. Information we lack or information we have but don't know what to do with. Communication that gets jumbled by distance and differences and misunderstandings. Life can be an absurd mess of random shit that we do our best to make sense of. Sometimes, we do a pretty good job. Other times, we fail abysmally.
Louis C.K. is really good at showing us the latter, a side of things we can often relate to (60% of the time, every time), and letting us laugh at it. It's ridiculous. BUT, we keep learning and improving. Life goes on...until it doesn't. All we can do is do our best in the meantime.
Incidentally, Season 3 of Louie premiers tomorrow night, June 28th, at 10:30 PM. Check out the official website HERE.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Sunday, June 24, 2012
What am I supposed to do now?
Doesn't sound right when I put it out there.
Curious disconnect between my words
And their intended meaning.
What would it take to be a Meaning Master?
One who says what he thinks
Expresses what he feels.
Then, what if no one cares to listen?
What if the meaning is lost on some third party
Who inevitably fills in the spaces with a unique personal story?
Then I wouldn't be some ingenious crafter of truth
But telling a pre-existing story with different words
And my syntax.
Who is this fabled master of meaning?
A word weaver with utmost sensibility who knows what to say and how
Regardless of who hears and who listens
Regardless of who cares
Or perhaps the intended eyes and ears predetermine
Precisely what must be spoken.
Precisely what must be spoken?
An ancient tale with a new spin
Or an original one disguised as old?
Or the story is of trivial significance -
At least on its own.
The master inflects a tone of urgency
Underneath the surface
Something else is at work here.
The game is to prod and to point, but never to reveal...
Reveal me this:
What is the purpose?
Who is hiding behind it all
Writing the rules of this game
Artists and poets and, hell, even scientists play?
No one.
Or everyone - doesn't matter.
The answer never got anyone anywhere
It's the question
What am I supposed to do now?
Curious disconnect between my words
And their intended meaning.
What would it take to be a Meaning Master?
One who says what he thinks
Expresses what he feels.
Then, what if no one cares to listen?
What if the meaning is lost on some third party
Who inevitably fills in the spaces with a unique personal story?
Then I wouldn't be some ingenious crafter of truth
But telling a pre-existing story with different words
And my syntax.
Who is this fabled master of meaning?
A word weaver with utmost sensibility who knows what to say and how
Regardless of who hears and who listens
Regardless of who cares
Or perhaps the intended eyes and ears predetermine
Precisely what must be spoken.
Precisely what must be spoken?
An ancient tale with a new spin
Or an original one disguised as old?
Or the story is of trivial significance -
At least on its own.
The master inflects a tone of urgency
Underneath the surface
Something else is at work here.
The game is to prod and to point, but never to reveal...
Reveal me this:
What is the purpose?
Who is hiding behind it all
Writing the rules of this game
Artists and poets and, hell, even scientists play?
No one.
Or everyone - doesn't matter.
The answer never got anyone anywhere
It's the question
What am I supposed to do now?
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Proverb...
A little gem from a good friend of mine today (via text):
"Person who says it cannot be done must not interrupt person already doing it."
"Person who says it cannot be done must not interrupt person already doing it."
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Little Sissy
3 months until my 23rd birthday. Weird. My Michael Jordan birthday.
I remember when my family took a trip to Hawaii and we had a layover in San Francisco for a few hours. We were wandering around the airport and found some shop that sold sports memorabilia. There was this Chicago Bulls cap I HAD to buy. (This was in my basketball days...and the days of Jordan). So I begged Mom & Dad for it. What a little pest I was. Eventually, they caved. Then I'm sure I lost it not too long after, just like they thought I would. Bummer.
I also remember losing my favorite stuffed animal, a dog named Fido. He was an awesome dog, and I loved him. One day he just disappeared. I never found him. I wonder if the neighbor's (real) dog got hold of him somehow. Or perhaps my dad didn't want to see me grow into a little sissy, so he saw to it that the dog was confiscated. I should ask him. I have no concrete reason to believe it's true, but I've run out of explanations.
Bad news for my dad:
I totally grew up to be a little sissy who listens to Taylor Swift and Katy Perry...for ENJOYMENT
I remember when my family took a trip to Hawaii and we had a layover in San Francisco for a few hours. We were wandering around the airport and found some shop that sold sports memorabilia. There was this Chicago Bulls cap I HAD to buy. (This was in my basketball days...and the days of Jordan). So I begged Mom & Dad for it. What a little pest I was. Eventually, they caved. Then I'm sure I lost it not too long after, just like they thought I would. Bummer.
I also remember losing my favorite stuffed animal, a dog named Fido. He was an awesome dog, and I loved him. One day he just disappeared. I never found him. I wonder if the neighbor's (real) dog got hold of him somehow. Or perhaps my dad didn't want to see me grow into a little sissy, so he saw to it that the dog was confiscated. I should ask him. I have no concrete reason to believe it's true, but I've run out of explanations.
Bad news for my dad:
I totally grew up to be a little sissy who listens to Taylor Swift and Katy Perry...for ENJOYMENT
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Safe and Dry
I realized something.
Some of the very first recordings I did are actually really cool even though I didn't know what I was doing. I wasn't afraid of screwing up because there was nothing to screw up as far as I was concerned.
There's a middle period where recordings I was involved with sound really bad. This was when I was in the Music Production & Engineering program at Berklee. I was learning how to use more tools, thought I knew how to use them, and was afraid of screwing up. These recordings sound boring, safe, and dry.
Then, I began to transcend my "knowledge." The act of playing became fun again, and I started following my intuition rather than my intellectual "understanding" of the tools that I use. I am not really afraid of screwing up anymore because there's nothing to screw up. I use and abuse whatever tools I feel like using and/or abusing at any given moment. I have sonic "colors" in my pallet and am not afraid to paint.
I don't feel like I've fully achieved the transcending of my barriers, but I'm definitely putting myself in a good spot to do so. The next stage I want to be in is where the recordings create themselves and I just push buttons and move faders accordingly.
Some of the very first recordings I did are actually really cool even though I didn't know what I was doing. I wasn't afraid of screwing up because there was nothing to screw up as far as I was concerned.
There's a middle period where recordings I was involved with sound really bad. This was when I was in the Music Production & Engineering program at Berklee. I was learning how to use more tools, thought I knew how to use them, and was afraid of screwing up. These recordings sound boring, safe, and dry.
Then, I began to transcend my "knowledge." The act of playing became fun again, and I started following my intuition rather than my intellectual "understanding" of the tools that I use. I am not really afraid of screwing up anymore because there's nothing to screw up. I use and abuse whatever tools I feel like using and/or abusing at any given moment. I have sonic "colors" in my pallet and am not afraid to paint.
I don't feel like I've fully achieved the transcending of my barriers, but I'm definitely putting myself in a good spot to do so. The next stage I want to be in is where the recordings create themselves and I just push buttons and move faders accordingly.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Sing Sang Sung
I'm taking a break here from tracking some vocals for one of my new metal songs, and it's got me thinking.
First of all, singing metal is something I am really good at and passionate about. The better I get and the more comfortable I am doing it, I feel more confused about it. Here's an approach to singing that often has something negative to say, whether it's pain, anger, fear, betrayal, hatred, regret, confusion...you get the picture. Well, those things are a part of life, so I don't have to go searching for bad things to happen to have something to write about. And normally, when something bad happens, it gets to me for a short period of time and then I forget about it. I wonder sometimes if all these terrible things are just lurking beneath the surface waiting for a chance to be expressed.
Then there are things that I am not over yet - things that keep me up at night and frustrate me to no end. Things that find me in my dreams. Things that flare up in me on the road when "some idiot" pulls out in front of me or goes too slow or changes lanes without signaling or what have you. Moments like those are when fragments of un-dealt-with aggression and anger and frustration at every time someone has every screwed me over get projected on some unassuming person. They're protected in their car, though, so it's only a bummer for me as my heart rate spikes and blood pressure rises and some part of me has to sift through all that junk and then suppress it again.
I am not an angry person. But I am fully capable of rage. I am an animal after all. We all are.
Which brings me to my next point: heavy metal is therapeutic. I can see how for some people it's an excuse to remain an angry, bitter, maladjusted adolescent well into their adulthood. But for me, it's about taming a beast. Emotion comes in pairs of opposites, equally capable of manifesting as elation as it is depression (and I have somewhat of a history there). My theory (based on personal experience and what I've learned in psychology) is that the negative stuff that gets repressed and forgotten often bites us in the ass later, like when I'm driving with "all those idiots out there on the road." Playing metal, and especially singing, is a way to embrace all those "negative" emotions - to OWN them. They are part of me after all. I feel like I can either be pathologically condemned to be angry, bitter, and depressed...or I can find ways to channel that energy into my art. Maybe it doesn't have to be a lifelong thing. Maybe I only need it now. Maybe I will be yelling into a microphone until the day I day. As long as I do, though, I want it to be a vehicle for positive change and personal growth.
So on days like today, when I'm singing about fresh and open wounds, it gets difficult. I have to "BE the emotion" as Melissa Cross (Zen of Screaming) would say, without succumbing to it. That sounds like it might be a lifelong struggle. Today I say this:
"BRING IT ON, MOTHERFU***ER!!!!" (followed by a smile that lets you know I'm being silly and playful).
Also, if you don't like metal...
well, fuck you :-)
First of all, singing metal is something I am really good at and passionate about. The better I get and the more comfortable I am doing it, I feel more confused about it. Here's an approach to singing that often has something negative to say, whether it's pain, anger, fear, betrayal, hatred, regret, confusion...you get the picture. Well, those things are a part of life, so I don't have to go searching for bad things to happen to have something to write about. And normally, when something bad happens, it gets to me for a short period of time and then I forget about it. I wonder sometimes if all these terrible things are just lurking beneath the surface waiting for a chance to be expressed.
Then there are things that I am not over yet - things that keep me up at night and frustrate me to no end. Things that find me in my dreams. Things that flare up in me on the road when "some idiot" pulls out in front of me or goes too slow or changes lanes without signaling or what have you. Moments like those are when fragments of un-dealt-with aggression and anger and frustration at every time someone has every screwed me over get projected on some unassuming person. They're protected in their car, though, so it's only a bummer for me as my heart rate spikes and blood pressure rises and some part of me has to sift through all that junk and then suppress it again.
I am not an angry person. But I am fully capable of rage. I am an animal after all. We all are.
Which brings me to my next point: heavy metal is therapeutic. I can see how for some people it's an excuse to remain an angry, bitter, maladjusted adolescent well into their adulthood. But for me, it's about taming a beast. Emotion comes in pairs of opposites, equally capable of manifesting as elation as it is depression (and I have somewhat of a history there). My theory (based on personal experience and what I've learned in psychology) is that the negative stuff that gets repressed and forgotten often bites us in the ass later, like when I'm driving with "all those idiots out there on the road." Playing metal, and especially singing, is a way to embrace all those "negative" emotions - to OWN them. They are part of me after all. I feel like I can either be pathologically condemned to be angry, bitter, and depressed...or I can find ways to channel that energy into my art. Maybe it doesn't have to be a lifelong thing. Maybe I only need it now. Maybe I will be yelling into a microphone until the day I day. As long as I do, though, I want it to be a vehicle for positive change and personal growth.
So on days like today, when I'm singing about fresh and open wounds, it gets difficult. I have to "BE the emotion" as Melissa Cross (Zen of Screaming) would say, without succumbing to it. That sounds like it might be a lifelong struggle. Today I say this:
"BRING IT ON, MOTHERFU***ER!!!!" (followed by a smile that lets you know I'm being silly and playful).
Also, if you don't like metal...
well, fuck you :-)
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Time
The last real quality time I spent with my grandfather before he passed was a little over a year ago.
I was doing research for my final project in Adult Development & Aging. We got to choose from a few different final paper options, one of which was a phenomenological study of "successful" aging. In other words, interview someone who has aged well. Sound vague and open ended? That's because it was. Grandpa - to me, anyway - was the epitome of aging well, so I decided to interview him and pick his brain and get to know him better all under the guise of this school project. You see, we had watched Tuesdays With Morrie in this same psychology class, and I had become fascinated with the idea of having a close relationship with someone who is older and wise. This project seemed like a good excuse to turn ideas into reality. So I went. I came up with a bunch of questions. I asked away. And Grandpa talked away. I got to hear all kinds of stories I hadn't heard before (and Grandpa told LOTS of stories, many of which had become very familiar in the family). I recorded it all.
But I never went back and listened to all of it. We talked for nearly three hours. I started to take notes on it and hash out an outline for a paper that I would never write. I realized that the questions I asked were for me, not for the project. Had I adhered to the syllabus, I would have ended up with a really cool project. It turns out I did not. I didn't have the information I needed for a 7-page (or whatever) phenomenological study of again.
However, I got to talk to Grandpa late into the night and take in the aroma of pipe tobacco and the dim, soothing ambiance of his basement den with dark green carpet. I got to look into his eyes as he shared stories and wisdom with me. We shared laughs. I feel like Grandpa and I had always been pretty close, but this was a new level of our relationship. Ask and you shall receive, right?
Those three hours were an enormous gift - a gift of which I do not feel worthy. Warning: this may sound weird... but when you talk to someone that old and wise and get to really be with them, I think that's as close as you get to being in a room and talking with God. There are things you can only learn with experience and time. The more open you are, the more you will probably receive. Then, you will have more to give back to your grandchildren...but that is beside the point. Those three hours were a gift. A divine gift, even. Life-changing. But that wasn't even the best part of the trip...
At this point, Grandpa was starting to wind down from old age. Sharp as ever, sharper than a nail, but winding down physically. He wasn't supposed to drive anymore, so I offered to run a few errands with him. We ran by the pharmacy to pick up some prescriptions. I offered to go in the store for him, but he insisted on doing it himself. You see, it brought him pleasure to still to do things on his own. It also frustrated him to no end when people grew inpatient with his slowness.
"It might take me longer because I'm old, but I can still do it myself, (dammit!)"
So despite the fact that I hated to see him struggling to get in and out of the car and was somewhat worried he might fall on the way in or out, I let him have it his way. He made a point of thanking me later for being patient with him. We had a mutual understanding. I was there to help out (or offer to help), and it was his choice whether he wanted to accept or not. Pretty fair for an old man who has to wear Depends and can't drive anymore. The least I can do is let him have the pleasure of picking up his own medicine.
After the store, he was directing me back to the house since I am not very familiar with the St. Louis area. I forget the exact circumstance, but I ended up missing a green turn arrow because I was unsure where I was going and was trying to decipher his directions, which were very mathematical. He was an engineer after all. "Turn left after (x) feet. Head southwest on such-and-such road..." So I hit the red light instead of the green, and in my typical 21 year-old fashion, in a hurry to get everywhere, I apologized. "Sorry we missed the light. If I had been paying attention better..."
Grandpa, whose stern disciplinarian ghost still haunts my 4 year-old self for knocking something over in the bathroom way back in the day, just turned and smiled at me.
"It's okay. We've got all the time in the world."
He then proceeded to direct me back to the house in what was definitely not the most efficient route. Certainly not the quickest. Absolutely not the shortest. We drove on some pretty roads past beautiful houses. He seemed to be just taking it all in. I get the sense, though he never shared with me, that when he was younger he enjoyed Sunday driving.
Why are you in a hurry all the time? Sometimes, you really just need to relax and take it all in. After all, we have all the time in the world.
One of these days, when you're ready, you'll go back and listen to the three-hour conversation with your grandfather. You'll be ready when you can stand the thought of listening to your impatient 21 year-old self attempting to meet Wisdom half-way. Fortunately for you, he was patient, kind, and gentle enough to meet you where YOU were (certainly not halfway) and put up with your questions and naivety. More than put up with, he actually enjoyed it.
How many countless opportunities have you had to approach Wisdom but did not? How many times could you have talked through the night in that smokey basement? How many phone calls could you have made to get just one step closer?
Being hard on yourself fixes nothing. Just remember, from now on, that time is precious.
AND we have all the time in the world.
I was doing research for my final project in Adult Development & Aging. We got to choose from a few different final paper options, one of which was a phenomenological study of "successful" aging. In other words, interview someone who has aged well. Sound vague and open ended? That's because it was. Grandpa - to me, anyway - was the epitome of aging well, so I decided to interview him and pick his brain and get to know him better all under the guise of this school project. You see, we had watched Tuesdays With Morrie in this same psychology class, and I had become fascinated with the idea of having a close relationship with someone who is older and wise. This project seemed like a good excuse to turn ideas into reality. So I went. I came up with a bunch of questions. I asked away. And Grandpa talked away. I got to hear all kinds of stories I hadn't heard before (and Grandpa told LOTS of stories, many of which had become very familiar in the family). I recorded it all.
But I never went back and listened to all of it. We talked for nearly three hours. I started to take notes on it and hash out an outline for a paper that I would never write. I realized that the questions I asked were for me, not for the project. Had I adhered to the syllabus, I would have ended up with a really cool project. It turns out I did not. I didn't have the information I needed for a 7-page (or whatever) phenomenological study of again.
However, I got to talk to Grandpa late into the night and take in the aroma of pipe tobacco and the dim, soothing ambiance of his basement den with dark green carpet. I got to look into his eyes as he shared stories and wisdom with me. We shared laughs. I feel like Grandpa and I had always been pretty close, but this was a new level of our relationship. Ask and you shall receive, right?
Those three hours were an enormous gift - a gift of which I do not feel worthy. Warning: this may sound weird... but when you talk to someone that old and wise and get to really be with them, I think that's as close as you get to being in a room and talking with God. There are things you can only learn with experience and time. The more open you are, the more you will probably receive. Then, you will have more to give back to your grandchildren...but that is beside the point. Those three hours were a gift. A divine gift, even. Life-changing. But that wasn't even the best part of the trip...
At this point, Grandpa was starting to wind down from old age. Sharp as ever, sharper than a nail, but winding down physically. He wasn't supposed to drive anymore, so I offered to run a few errands with him. We ran by the pharmacy to pick up some prescriptions. I offered to go in the store for him, but he insisted on doing it himself. You see, it brought him pleasure to still to do things on his own. It also frustrated him to no end when people grew inpatient with his slowness.
"It might take me longer because I'm old, but I can still do it myself, (dammit!)"
So despite the fact that I hated to see him struggling to get in and out of the car and was somewhat worried he might fall on the way in or out, I let him have it his way. He made a point of thanking me later for being patient with him. We had a mutual understanding. I was there to help out (or offer to help), and it was his choice whether he wanted to accept or not. Pretty fair for an old man who has to wear Depends and can't drive anymore. The least I can do is let him have the pleasure of picking up his own medicine.
After the store, he was directing me back to the house since I am not very familiar with the St. Louis area. I forget the exact circumstance, but I ended up missing a green turn arrow because I was unsure where I was going and was trying to decipher his directions, which were very mathematical. He was an engineer after all. "Turn left after (x) feet. Head southwest on such-and-such road..." So I hit the red light instead of the green, and in my typical 21 year-old fashion, in a hurry to get everywhere, I apologized. "Sorry we missed the light. If I had been paying attention better..."
Grandpa, whose stern disciplinarian ghost still haunts my 4 year-old self for knocking something over in the bathroom way back in the day, just turned and smiled at me.
"It's okay. We've got all the time in the world."
He then proceeded to direct me back to the house in what was definitely not the most efficient route. Certainly not the quickest. Absolutely not the shortest. We drove on some pretty roads past beautiful houses. He seemed to be just taking it all in. I get the sense, though he never shared with me, that when he was younger he enjoyed Sunday driving.
Why are you in a hurry all the time? Sometimes, you really just need to relax and take it all in. After all, we have all the time in the world.
One of these days, when you're ready, you'll go back and listen to the three-hour conversation with your grandfather. You'll be ready when you can stand the thought of listening to your impatient 21 year-old self attempting to meet Wisdom half-way. Fortunately for you, he was patient, kind, and gentle enough to meet you where YOU were (certainly not halfway) and put up with your questions and naivety. More than put up with, he actually enjoyed it.
How many countless opportunities have you had to approach Wisdom but did not? How many times could you have talked through the night in that smokey basement? How many phone calls could you have made to get just one step closer?
Being hard on yourself fixes nothing. Just remember, from now on, that time is precious.
AND we have all the time in the world.
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