Hot Track 2sday

Not exactly a 'hot' track, more of that brooding, raw cut you can't get out of your head. Maybe it's the violent guitar strum or maybe it's Miss Megan Myers' voice, but something about this song "Desire", has me hooked.

Hot Track Tuesdays—It's a thing!

Need to start collecting music again. I was really onto something for a while here, so why not start up another weekly musical offering? Something clean, something smooth, something that'll go down easy. Let's call it Hot Track Tuesday. Yeah, that sounds good.

First entry, a beat I can't get out of my head. Lyrics are meh, but the hook is oh so nice. Schoolboy Q, what it do?

Keep it moving

"Forcing your way through the sets is futile…Find a friendly current and let it carry you. Relax when the sets sweep over your body. Be as yielding as water is. Think too much and you’ll be wrenched backwards. Take your deep breaths, dive under the incoming waves and let the remnants of the river bear you outward. Newer surfers…would blindly charge out into the maelstrom, only to get batted back every time; the older ones, wiser through observation and experience, put themselves in the correct places and let the water do the work….The surf zone, where the sweet meets the salt, tells us this: Any challenge, any confrontation, can be met with fluid grace. Move as if you were a thin stream that had begun in the mountains weeks before….The only way through is to flow." -- "Waves" Coast Mountain Culture, Fall 2014.

I’ve spent a lot of time surfing this summer, and a better portion of that time has been spent getting crushed by incoming waves. I’m new to the water, new to this surf thing, and competitive as all hell, angry that I can’t get out to where the other surfers make things look so easy.

So this passage spoke to me, but its life metaphor is what really hit home. A lot of people I know, myself included, are reaching that point in our young lives that feels like the crash zone, the floundering victim of unrelenting personal and professional turmoil. These words from Coast Mountain Culture helped provide a moment of pause and clarity though—just because we’re getting pounded by the waves life is sending our way doesn’t mean we’re not moving in the right direction. Inch by inch, we move forward, past the break and into smoother waters. And then, as the metaphor goes, we get to catch our wave, and suddenly it’s all worth it.

To all of you out there struggling against the current, keep paddling, find your path, and flow on.

Here’s a photo roll from a recent trip to Tofino on Vancouver Island. Ironically, the only thing I don’t have pictures of is the surfing itself. Oh well, you’ll have to believe me, I guess.

When your stove breaks, things get desperate...

A Cuban double date

I wrote this a little while ago and just stumbled upon it again. One of my best nights ever in Cuba, circa 2012. I have never, I repeat, never, been further from my element. It was awesome.

***

In June of 2012, I found my way to the land of rum, baseball, and Castro. Yes, we really can go to Cuba if we pull the right (educational) strings. After a few weeks of kicking around Havana, my classmate had gotten close with one of the secretaries at school, Yanet. One day that classmate, Rafa, ran up to me and begged me to help him out— he was going on a date with Yanet, but he needed someone to occupy her friend. A Cuban double date? Sure, why not, I thought. I had completely underestimated what I was getting into.

Her name was Yessica. She had wild blue eyes and a rose tattoo peeking seductively from the strap of her black dress. My tough-guy machismo failed immediately, and I sputtered to say hello and keep my cool. She graciously put up with it, and as I struggled to pick my jaw up from the sidewalk, she assured me that our night would be fun. We were going to a Willem el Magnifico concert for some reggaeton.

Reggaeton? Daddy Yankee music videos and obnoxious car horns immediately came to mind. It sounded painful… at best. I shook my head as I ducked into the cab.

Twenty pesos at the discotech door for my date and me (chivalry isn’t dead after all), and I found myself plunged deeper into Cuba than ever before.  Women in glittery spandex and ankle break heels swished past me attached to men in tight guayaberas and enough gel in their hair to make the Leaning Tower of Pisa stand straight. A group of ‘unattached’ girls looked over with hungry eyes, eager to see how much money the gringo was willing to spend. I knew I’d be a disappointment to those mamacitas, because unlike the older tourists present for the human buffet, I was dead broke, and there for the music.

The club was outdoors on a deck above crashing waves. An ocean breeze provided needed buffer against human heat as the dance floor slowly filled in.

Suddenly, as the sound check wrapped, the skies opened up, sending 300 spandex-clad Cubanas to the space’s limited awnings. If there’s one thing Cubans don’t do, it’s rain, and this storm all but signaled the end of the show. I was bummed. All of this effort—and a first date with a beautiful Cuban girl—dashed by a little precipitation. Then came the lightning. The neon bolts zapped my remaining hopes as they lit up the Atlantic sky.

But nobody moved towards the exits. The speakers sat under tarps and rainwater cascaded off stage, yet still the crowd stayed put, sipping their drinks under packed overhangs. I remember thinking that whoever this Willem el Magnifico character was had some serious pull, and that maybe, just maybe, this would be worth it after all.

Minutes stretched into hours, until finally the rain subsided enough for soundmen to uncover the speakers and get the DJ spinning. The crowd wasn’t buying it. Only a few ventured out from their protected corners, Yessica was one of them. She turned and waved to Rafa, Yanet, and me, but the two next to me didn’t move. I shrugged my shoulders and gave in to the girl with the rose tattoo, following her out into the drizzle.

That was the best move I made all night. While others hesitated with the finicky weather, we made our way front and center. It was only minutes until a figure straight from a Mad Max film—complete with shoulder pads, chainmail, and a bleached shock Mohawk—stepped onstage flanked by two equally ridiculous backup dancers. Shrieks from the crowd confirmed that this was indeed Willem el Magnifico—the one we’d been waiting for all night.

The bassline dropped and it got grimy. Real grimy. The repetitive reggaeton thump ignited the crowd, and it was clear the animals had come out to play. The first song was a dance song that featured a move that could only be described as an earthquaking hip thrust.  The mass knew every word, and as I watched the crowd’s collective forward push, I was swallowed up in a mass of bodies under el Magnifico’s spell.

Midway through the second song, the rain returned. El Magnifico paused for a second, then kept right on playing. The crowd mimicked him, and instead of running for cover, they danced on. We became a mix of hot breath, sweat, and hair gel. My lack of rhythm was swept up in the mob of Magnifico fans, rowdy but fluid—a beautiful disaster. As the rain fell and bodies rubbed, the lightning became our natural light show, thunder harmonizing with bass. I closed my eyes and let go. I was exactly where I needed to be.

The top five list of 10 things you need to know right now

Woohoo!

Thoughts for 12/17

"It’s hard to find anything to say about life without immersing yourself in the world, but it’s also just about impossible to figure out what it might be, or how best to say it, without getting the hell out of it again." -Tim Kreider in a New York Times opinion piece

Transformation of a Stranger

There's always an excitement associated with starting over in a new town—a cliched blank canvas with its multitude of exciting paints in the form of new friends, new sights, new restaurants, new museums, new dance partners, just waiting to be colored in.

But what about the old paintings? The ones that took you years to create, beautiful mixtures of purposeful and non-purposeful strokes that was "your life" one plane ticket ago. What about those? Do they get thrown out, moved to the side, forgotten?

I'm struggling with these old paintings. Sure I helped paint them, but they didn't stop when I left the project. I know that they are continuing to evolve, and I know that my other lives don't stand still just because I switched area codes. It's scary. I'm terrified beyond belief that I'll return someday and not recognize my own work.

Take for example my sister, a senior in high school. The same sister that I got called out of Mrs. Kennedy's first grade class to see for the first time in the hospital. The same sister that used to hum like a motor while she ate her vegetables. The same sister that dressed as an old lady for Halloween even though all her friends were dressing as princesses.

For the last year, I've felt completely disconnected. I don't know how high school is going or where she is looking at colleges. I haven't asked her what music she likes or what movies she's seen recently. I'm turning into my worst nightmare. I'm the absent brother.

I found myself going through Facebook photos to find out the broadest details of family life back home, and it really bummed me out. I talk with my mom on a pretty regular basis, but a phone is a tough medium to connect over (though it is better than nothing). Even then, my sister jumps on the phone for a second and before we can even warm up, we part ways. It's a strange dance that ends all too quickly.

I could go on and on, but complaining to a computer screen is a piece of my problem to begin with. If I'm going to be more present in my sister's life, I need to rehang that picture in a spot where I can see it and stop making excuses. I need to start calling her more often, even if it's just to say hi, or how proud I am of her for everything she's doing (and she's doing a lot). Hopefully she feels the same way, but even if she doesn't, I'm going to be obnoxious and persistent until she just accepts that I'm going to be around. Right now it's all talk, but I have to start somewhere. All I know is that life is short, and that I owe my sister a big hug.

Nothing here is what it seems

I still remember watching The Naked and Famous for the first time. My friends Eric and Lange had showed me them while I was still interning in Utah, and I'd immediately become a fan. When I got back to Boston, Lange had grabbed tickets to an outdoor show of theirs on Landsdowne Street, and I couldn't have been more pumped.

 I stood on Landsdowne, the iconic Fenway Park looming over my shoulder, watching these guys kill it on a sunny May afternoon. Awesome performance, fueled by an electric crowd and amazing weather. Every time I hear them my mind wanders back to that Boston block party, so even as the rain pours down in Seattle today, this song has me back in Sox Nation with one of my favorite bands.


Enjoy beezys.


 

Just a thought

It's true that my vocabulary was better when I was ten. Somewhere along the way, my path deviated.

Instead of learning the big words, I'm dedicated to understanding the small ones.

Post Father's Day

Well, I've been mulling over how I'm going to put together some posts about my most recent trip to Cuba, and time has been slip, slip, slipping away. Enough of that, it's time to drive the stake in and hold tight.

Yesterday was Father's Day, and I was lucky enough to have a good chat with Papa Krich. Ideally I'd be doing that from across the table, but across the country will have to do for now. There were plans for a rendezvous over the 4th of July, and I really hope we can make that happen.

Since being back in the States it has been sensory overload. SO much to smell, taste, touch, and, most importantly, HEAR. Here is a group from Seattle that is making some pretty decent rap over delectable beats. Always appreciate some old school instrumentals, so thanks Brothers From Another. Vibe out to this, and look forward to some Cuba in the near future! B EZ, and shout out to them girls on the bus...

A new day

One thing cool about being in a new city is discovering the new music scene...and Seattle has no shortage of that. And don't worry folks, I'm not talking about Macklemore (have to admit the guy is on fire these days).

I'm talking about Hey Marseilles, a group that sounds eerily similar to another Seattle export, Death Cab for Cutie. Really digging this Bright Stars Burning song though, and the video is pretty rad too. Take a listen and see where I'm coming from on this. Then, put them on your playlist!

New song to take the edge off

This one...oh yes... this one.

...

Well, I'm just at a loss with this whole thing. Here's some tunes I've wanted to share for a while, haven't had a chance to do that this week, so yeah...deep breaths.

Speechless, but not without words. Boston.

Let's start with a fact:

What happened in Boston yesterday, April 15, 2013, was nothing short of tragic.

The rest of this entry is an opinion, my opinion, so feel free to take it and feel free to leave it....

I have never felt the way I did yesterday when I heard about the explosions at the Boston Marathon. I don't believe in comparing one tragedy to another, but I can assure you, this feeling was unique.

Boston was my home for the past four years. It was supposed to be my home this year. It shaped me in more ways than I can ever conceive, turning me into who I am today. I made friends, had relationships, laughed, cried, celebrated, learned, and experienced in that city, and for that I'll never be able to thank the Bean enough. I'll always consider Boston "my town", whether she'll have me or not.

So yesterday I was scared. Scared for the obvious reasons, yes. Scared that my friends were hurt or worse. Scared that there was more chaos waiting to unfold. Scared that no one could be safe in this world. But more importantly, and perhaps this is a tad selfish but I can't leave this, I was scared to lose a memory.

Marathon Monday, Patriot's Day, the greatest day in Boston, the greatest day to be a Bostonian. I had always made a point to be down at the finish line on that Monday. It didn't matter how steep the hangover was or how much studying needed to be done, this was a day that I never missed. Nothing like thousands of spandex clad, visor-sporting, Aasics-rocking ultra milers to turn a mature twenty-something into a wide-eyed 10 year-old. I would cheer at random strangers, promising myself that someday I would be on the other side of that fence panting down Boylston Street as the lactic acid started to build in my legs, my finish line in sight.

This particular day, my friends were less than a block away from the finish when tragedy struck. Thankfully, as Bostonians tend to do, they were in a bar enjoying a celebratory pint. Still, they felt the blast, saw the blood, choked on the smoke. And I can't help but think that if I had been there, that that pint would have been overpowered by the boyish wonder that only the Boston Marathon can produce. I would have wandered down toward the finish line, cheering with thousands of others as runners crossed the yellow line into immortality. I would have been in good company too—smiles, high-fives, cowbells, and flags from around the world—on the most joyous 400-yard stretch of asphalt in the world. That's exactly what hundreds were doing when their lives were altered by senseless violence.

But I never made it down there. I heard the news from a bedroom in Seattle, thousands of miles from my city, thousands of miles from my friends. I have never felt so far away. I wanted to pretend it wasn't real, but even the distance couldn't convince me of that. I can't blame anyone for this, but Seattle didn't seem to react to the news the way I did, making me feel even more helpless, more unable to reach out to the people I loved and cared for. I still tried of course, texting anyone I could just to make sure that I could get some sort of pulse from the other side. I was lucky to get responses, "I'm safe", "I'm ok".

But I wasn't ok, and I knew they weren't either. We had lost something, we had lost the day, our day. Last year I sat on a rooftop on Newbury Street, barbecuing with close friends, the mid-afternoon sun reflecting off the Prudential Center, and the roar of the crowd still audible one street over. It was one of those moments where you think, "life can't get better than this," and honestly I don't know if it could have. That should be my memory of the Boston Marathon. But I'm scared it won't be, scared that Monday's senseless violence will forever taint what once was a treasured memory of a special day in a special city. I'm scared that I crossed a different line than the yellow finishing stripe on Boylston Street, a line much harder to return from. At this point I don't know, but I really hope I'm wrong, I really do.



                           

More Catchy Tunage

So this one is going to be fire as well, that guitar rift, oh that catchy guitar rift....

Hope these guys have more creative stuff in them. What a playful little song about stalking your ex-girlfriend, hah.

The New Pumped Up Kicks

This song is going to blow up. I've done this with several songs previous, and I figured I'd post just to say 'I told you so' 4 months down the line. From my Seattle couch to your earbuds, you're welcome.

The Open Range

Land as far as the eye can gather. A sea of softly rolling hills covered in white, an overwhelming expanse. The settlers must have felt it when they first saw it. Now portioned, split, quartered, and fenced, the range still holds the mystique of endless opportunity to my open eyes. Imagination takes over and I can't believe how beautiful this stretch of nothingness is. Ignoring reality, the blank canvas of the open range is full of possibility.

Peace

I'm most at peace watching the sun dip behind the mountains as it paints the sky.

The end of January...2013?!

I have been terrible at updating this thing, but I think things are going to shift.

I miss writing for writing's sake, I miss the musing. I'm in a constant state of transit these days, both physically and mentally, maybe this is something that I can hold onto a little bit, a home base. So here we go.

I'm currently in Colorado, a little place called Aspen, with a good friend from high school, Chris Loehr. I got to watch my first X Games, catchup with old friends, and ski powder in the legendary Highlands Bowl. Along the way I got the flu, slept on a series of couches, and got some pretty gnarly frostbite. This is par for the course these days, but it's all about rolling with the punches. I'm lucky to have people that can put up with my vagabonding and this stop was no exception!

Now, on to Park City for the Grand Prix and hopefully some more skiing. Here's to a safe day of travels through the jaw-dropping regions of Western Colorado and Eastern Utah. Truly a piece of Mother Nature's masterpiece.

A little tune to send you to a better place (if only for 4 minutes) and to send me on my way. Cheers all, missing you and seeing you soon.