366 Flashes of Awesome: Day 7

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366 Flashes of Awesome : Day 6

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366 Flashes of Awesome : Day 5

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366 Flashes of Awesome: Day 4

You’re dead if you aim only for kids. Adults are only kids grown up, anyway.
● Walt Disney

This basically represents my standard modus operandi – tooling around on Vespa. Note the Splash Mountain t-shirt. Yeah, I’m stylin’.

We reached 83 degrees today! I attempted to contain my glee whilst flicking between the temperature in Mequon and Orlando. Never enjoyed a white Christmas, and find myself infinitely preferring the glowing yellow variant.

366 Flashes of Awesome: Day 3

You must not let anyone define your limits because of where you come from. Your only limit is your soul.
● Ratatouille

Extremely productive day! Chip in full-out holiday regalia high-fived me, his striped Peppermint scarf swinging gleefully. We hit the Frontierland Shootin’ Arcade, wherein I nailed my favorite prompted animation, the ghost galloping across the clouds. And after a relatively short twenty-minute wait, we hopped aboard the Buzz Lightyear ride in Tomorrowland, which we have not frequented since my partner-in-DNA barely reached my elbow. Behold the obligatory Castle shot – would that you could vicariously experience the peace and contentment via jpeg. Ah, well. A patent for another time.

366 Flashes of Awesome: Day 2

I’m tired of taking, I want to make things. I want to add something to this world.
● Remy, Ratatouille

At the risk of qualifying ourselves as veritable hillbillies, we raided the local Lowe’s for white lights, extension cords and power strips to adorn the bushes in our backyard. Naturally, we also hauled out the massive latter to scale our twin twenty-four-foot palm trees and swirl them in luminescent bulbs. Excuse the travesty of a light display on the bushes – we need to acquire some additional supplies tomorrow. But, it’s a start. Oh, and by the way – we initiated the project at 9pm EST. In 74 degrees. Hee.

366 Flashes of Awesome - Day 1

Without inspiration, we would perish.
● Walt Disney

We have returned! Amidst a blaze of glory. Or something.

The internet consistently told me to go bleep myself this morning. Both of Remy’s back tires have stubbornly refused to maintain proper inflation for any considerable period. The QuickBooks file for one of my companies elected not to backup onto a zip drive. Almost every single employee reported some variant of crisis for the four hours I worked this morning. We careened out the door purportedly late to encounter a vacant security checkpoint and ninety minutes of blank space prior to departure. On the plane, I wound up in front of an egregiously sonorous yapper saddled with an extraordinarily heinous Wisconsin accent, and across the aisle from a Jewish woman who seemed bent on emitting vociferous complaints about this, that and the other thing nobody else cared about, both of whom scarcely paused for breath amidst the monologues to which their hapless seatmates were subjected (“It’s like your worst nightmare!” Dad noted, busting into laughter at random intervals.) After all that, I half expected the plane to deposit us unceremoniously in the backwoods of Tennessee. But, we have arrived. And I can express naught except gratitude.

My goodness. At 10pm, it remains a balmy 67, poised for record-high temperatures in the 80s tomorrow. Life, I love thee.

One More Time!

No one knows,
They can never get that close;
Guesses, at most.
● J. Mitchell

Please excuse and accept my perfunctory apology for the rather considerable gap between posts. I allowed the banalities of life to distract me from the two great loves of my life, art and writing, and have a massive expanse of blank blog space, a completely aggravating ache in my upper back, and a general sense of wasted time as the castigating repercussions.

However, I also managed to completely overhaul my vocation and achieve two of my few Major Life Goals by purchasing both an Audi and a house in Orlando, so perhaps I did manage to employ the downtime wisely.

The Appeal Never Dims

Despite my best efforts, I could not acquire ingress to the roof on Saturday whilst touring the Club with a companion. (We also neglected to foray into the tunnels, the labyrinth of pipe-adorned hallways that hover beneath the building in the manner of the Phantom’s famed catacombs, but shall perhaps attempt that another day.)

Thus, share one of the innumerable, impossibly captivating views from the rooftop. (Cue Carole King’s soothing bop here…) 

Deliberately omitted from the photograph: one foolishly barefooted female, wedged against an exhaust pipe in deference to the exuberant wind, black Polo shirt flopping about like a Pirate flag, unable to contain the engulfing grin that invariably forms each time I crest the roof’s apex.

 

The view never gets old.

Graduation Remnants

In response to a recent infusion of writer’s… distraction, I have embarked upon a photo-per-day blog challenge. Entry number one ensues…

Behold the residue of Marquette University’s graduation ceremony for their school of Engineering. Excuse the sunlight streaming through the window. 

Fairly suave manner of graduating, I must say. Cresting the Ballroom stage whilst your name echoes through the entirety of the Ballroom and you stride purposefully across the stage.

Conquering the Roof

Almost all of our sorrows spring out of our relations with other people.
● A. Schopenhauer

Walking in, as ever, I peered up at the vast expanse of stone and carvings and height culminating in sky and experienced a slightly overwhelming sense of trespassing. Curious that so legendary a structure should allow vermin such as us unfettered ingress and egress.

Rome, my nickname for the building, seems to hum on show days. Only one today, but echoes and movement seems to bristle in the atmosphere. A young twentysomething of unknown origin slumped on the front stoop, peering about alertly tucked inside a black hoodie, chewing on the tassel and deliberately eluding my gaze. Two elder men inside clustered at the box office window, conversing with the attendant in smoke-hewn baritones obstructed by thick Wisconsin accents. Stagehands navigated the loading ramp on the west side of the building, ushering massive black parcels against gravity, their clothing puffed and rustled by the bullying eighty-five degree September interloper wind.

I have wasted too much of this blog yammering about myself; let’s explore the building. Such a day demands a visit to the roof.

People I don’t recognize mull around the Ballroom and for a while I loiter against the walls. Mental debating ensues but eventually I push myself out onto the floor and stride purposefully across it, ducking between table-and-chair setups and avoiding a newly-waxed portion.

Locating a doorway behind the stage and resolutely ignoring the “do not enter” sign, I thread my way up several flights of curved metal stairwell, the setting so cramped that I slouch involuntarily and unnecessarily. Previous passerby have encased the cement walls with graffiti: a dragonfly, a rather accurate rendition of Sylvester, nameless initials. Several flights recede completely into shadow and, as ever, I have forgotten a flashlight, but refuse to turn around. Two distinct spiderwebs, and likely several smaller ones, attempt to block my passage.

A doorway to the hulking dome of the Pantheon passes, multihued lights emitting a starchy electric glow at low grade. Then a passage to the curtain wires, propped ajar. Finally I encounter the doorway to the roof, warped into a locked position, and shove my entire length against it twice before popping through the doorway into a surge of sunlight and gauzy humidity. The view immediately seizes the breath and l almost forget to attend my foot positioning, lest I misstep and literally tumble off the side of the building.

Folding against the steep incline, I crest the main portion to position myself on the apex. By way of greeting it offers a rather spectacular view of the valley, the Domes, the stadium, and downtown, replete with a great many buildings I cannot identify, not having occupied this city for long. The thick wind tears my hair and whips my shirt and the heat loosens the tar, leaving the undersides of my hands caked with powdery black. Perched as an eagle, sitting cross-legged against the wind, I watch a train pull in to the valley.

Eventually I descend, and the universe tears in again with more gusts to the extent that I actually foresee a rather painful tumble, but force it not to materialize. Former frontiersmen have engraved their marking on the inside of the door. ALL STAR WEEKEND, with a lopsided heart below it. I saw dead animals here! Family Force Five. The Human Abstract 2008. I talked to a ghost up here. Almost drenched in a longing to remain, I haul the cement closed behind me; as one would the cover of a coffin, or a tomb. The corkscrew stairwell seems to contain a greater atmosphere of menace on the descent.

Returning to reality, I canter like a horse across the Ballroom’s expansive wooden dance floor, and my gait ricochets spectacularly in the massive, presumably deserted ballroom. Laughter ricochets in my wake.

Cramming people into walls.

A decaying mouse trapped in the office walls emits a stench somewhere between an abandoned bin of food-based rubbish and dust. In our pursuit of the critter, Lionfish (one of the promoters) removed an autographed, framed Poison poster from the wall to reveal a gaping maw that once contained an air conditioner prior to the office renovation.

“Hey, cool!” Fisherman, our website manager, loped around the corner with his hands tucked in his jean pockets. “Find any money stashed in the walls?”

“I’ll bet we could fit someone in there,” I noted, considering the possibilities. Perhaps one of the art guys; they tend to run scronny.

Tetra, a computer graphics boy who always arrived toting a skateboard or bike and helmet, rounded the corner in pursuit of the commotion. “What’s all this?”

“We decided we’re going to cram you in the wall,” Fisherman informed him with his trademark lack of voice inflection.

Tetra bent and attempted to peer between the wall and the insulation, his bright lavender hoodie presenting the impression of an actual illuminated guppy. “Sure,” he nodded agreeably. “I could fit in there. Easily.”

. . .

In response to an e-mail inquiry; yes, my boss knows I blog at work.

Law School in a Nutshell

What's it like? The quick answer.

There's a Monty Python skit (genuises, the lot of them) wherein Michael Palin enters an establishment and proffers payment for the honor of having an argument. He follows the directions precisely but winds up in the room for abuse.

Ding!

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be lawyers

And the more he talked to me
The more he reached me
But I couldn’t let go of LA
City of the fallen angels.
● J. Mitchell



Mondays always present the feeling of giant heft, a massive machine attempting to turn over. They involve an assault of paperwork amassed from the weekend; and, on the twentieth such as today, the ever-distasteful task of filing sales taxes.

Currently enduring the arduous process of acquiring and threading through new box office personnel. Hopefully I won’t unnecessarily assault them during the interview process; I tend to default into cross-examination mode. Also, I resolutely refuse to ask them where they “see themselves” in a decade. A, what a ridiculous question. B, they’re all twentysomethings – the honest among them would reply with, “Alive, God willing; though, considering what I ingested last night...”

Weeding through resumes steadily chisels at my faith in humanity. There’s the one who employed acronyms in her cover letter (“SYL”). The one who used “their” instead of “they’re.” And, my personal favorite, the one who obviously employed a Microsoft Word Template and neglected to completely attend the input fields: the grey text along the bottom reads Insert Address Here. Better leave the “attention to detail” box unchecked for that one.

Someone sent me the most fabulous photo of a sign out in front of a merchant’s cart in the country: Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be lawyers – make them be farmers and such. Heh.

Didn't need eyebrows anyway.

It's weird... people say they're not like apes.
How do you explain football then?
- M. Hedberg



Activities in which I would voluntarily participate to get out of shopping for clothes:
- Endure the entirety of a Celine Dion album.
- Subject myself to Titanic (incidentally, I respectfully request those three hours of my life back).
- Clean saddles until the glycerine irrevocably pruned my fingers.
- Clean my storage closet. (Would likely necessitate the acquisition of a Hazmat suit.)
- Implement the Dewey Decimal system for my innumerable books.
- Tackle the storage gutters of an entire suburb.
- Count the kernels in a bowl of rice.
- Scorch off my eyebrows with a Zippo lighter.
I draw the line at watching football, as that has no physical component. But golly, it's close.

A changing physique and altered circumstances necessitated the acquisition of additional strips of fabric seamed and trimmed and collectively referred to as "clothing." One benefit of my former career, I suppose - the most monumental morning contemplation amounted to "Black suit, brown suit or blue suit?" Still. Small sacrifice.

Completely missed the shopping gene - I like my money tidily esconsed in a savings account, multiplying. Plus, once you acquire additional stuff, you have just unnecessarily complicated your existence. I don't need stuff - everything I desire has no tangible personification.

When Dad and I cruised Rodeo Drive in LA he strolled in to this particularly ritzy shoe shop and dove straight for a pair that had the two salesmen tripping over themselves in adoration of his taste. (Italian Men : Shoes :: Foxes : Small Rodents. I myself have never noticed anyone's shoes unless the "one" happened to also have a mane and periodically emit a neighing sound, but I seem to defy all stereotypes.) I wandered over to one of the tasseled amalgamations of leather and stitching, staring blankly, and one of the salesmen followed: "Your father, he has excellent taste, does he not?" Actually, my thoughts had focused the entire time on why people wasted such spectacular leather on shoes when it would perfectly accentuate a saddle. But he didn't need to know that.

Of Gratitude & Glee

I'd like to call back summertime
And have her stay for just another month or so
But she's got the urge for going
And I guess she'll have to go.
- J. Mitchell

For all my generalized abhorrence of holidays, one aspect bears considerable appeal: my beloved Christmas lights. Tiny bursts of unadulterated glee, marching one after the other in a parade of euphoria. I can scarcely wait to raid Stein's and embellish the existing insanity in my apartment. Drive around at night and gawk at others' creations (icicles have an irresistible appeal, despite their ubiquitousness in suburbs). Cruise home along the lake at night and catch a bright sprig of new color, then detour to investigate.

I clearly recall our first encounter, Christmas lights all but nonexistent even in a city overrun by Roman Catholics. They seemed the embodiment of magic - pinpricks of stars, glowing within reach, inspiring levity in everyone, brightening the psyche of all who set gaze upon them. People complain so extensively about this country, and I genuinely cannot understand why. As though they grew enveloped by all the treasures, and thus immune to their pizzazz. I'm so bloody grateful to reside here, yet all they do is complain.

Hurrah for Earplugs.

“Same dances in the same old shoes
You get too careful with the steps you choose
You don’t care about winning but you don’t want to lose
After the thrill is gone.” ● Eagles

Because I’m insane a nice person, I agreed to catsit for the weekend. Turns out I instinctively cut a wide birth around the small meowing things at the stables due to an innate survival instinct that directed me away from allergy-instigating objects. You know that saying, the cat will always gravitate toward the one person who despises it? Correct. Atop its innate inclination to investigate new objects and rub against them (what are you doing? No, no; stay on your side of the room, please), a thunderstorm activated its “must find and follow human” proclivities. In all fairness, the thing does have charm, and the whole “let’s play” concept almost approached tolerably cute until thunder tore into the sky and HOLY CRAP, CAT HAS CLAWS. CAT HAS CLAWS. Needless to say, I’m slightly dazed today for lack of proper slumber.

One thick pair of cold weather running pants, one pair of winter socks, one tank top, one Monty Python Silly Walks shirt, one H.I.M. shirt, one pair of gloves, and one purple mountain bike later, I successfully braved the elements to terrorize the neighborhood on bikeback. Not quite as entertaining as its equine equivalent, but you do what you can. On one hand, clearly my biology requires greater proximity to the equator. On the other, the universe has a verrrrrry formidable opponent.

And ever onward. Three black-clad and multi-hued-haired teenagers clustered around the side steps at the venue when I pulled in, evidently seeking prime positioning for the show this evening. Our bar manager Tower A slunk against the front stoop tucking in to a bag of McDonald’s, his massive 6’8” frame folded against the thick breeze. He almost bears comparison to Turtle of Entourage in his attire – today, an oversized Orchid purple windbreaker and matching flat sneakers, which clashed spectacularly against the constellation of tattoos webbing both arms.

Past the harangued weekend box office girl (tattooed, but I like her anyway), up the eighty-plus year old stairwell, into the offices. I started fishing through my backpack for office keys only to have a completely illuminated hallway and ajar entryway halt the process, and as I strode down the hallway two voices chattering in quick Spanish ceased. “Umm. Hello.” Evidently we’re recarpeting this weekend.

I located mice remnants in my office and executed my standard pushup routine with a slight measure of trepidation, expecting to encounter Remy or his counterparts. (Hmm… perhaps ought to enlist the assistance of the aforementioned furry creature? Whoa. Insight.) Noticed too late that I ought to have invested in a foam mat or something – I have acquired a sizeable tailbone bruise as payoff for my attempts to better myself via sit-up. Nothing compared to horse tumbles; just enough to twinge.

Currently positioned in the conference room amidst the scattered, dust-adorned innards of a gutted office. Stacks upon stacks of portable filing cabinets, bearing the names and dates of upcoming shows. A rack of mail, partially-opened, with a row of green sticky tabs protruding that bear such eloquent text as You won’t believe this crap and You’ll hate this crap. Partially-melted scented candles, the wax slightly coated on the edges. A rolling chair with metal backing, a box of unopened Green Day bobbleheads stacked upon it. Miniature replicas of a violin and harp, signed by someone of presumable repute.

The Gaslight Anthem have coiled through three songs thus far in the Rave, employing the time between them to noodle through guitar licks and gleefully pound the backbeat. No idea whether these constitute actual tracks, as I have no working knowledge of their catalog, but they seem above decent without vocals (which leave something to be desired for the non-punk-aligned among us). Hurrah for earplugs.

After all that.

People will tell you where they've gone,
They'll tell you where to go
Until you get there yourself
You never really know.
- J. Mitchell



En route passing a graveyard adjacent to a house adorned with Harley-Davidson garb, I experienced a fluttering, exuberant trepidation. Almost what one would encounter prior to a horse show, or an eagerly-anticipated assignation. I could not pin it to anything in particular, and eventually realized: I'm excited for the day. I'm excited for a perfectly ordinary day! I'm headed to work voluntarily because I sincerely enjoy it. How marvelous.

We interrupt this program to annoy you and make things generally aggravating.

Hup two heh hay hoo hay hoo heh heh HEH heh hep hep eee eye eee eye oh huh hup hup hup huh hup one two one two yeah hey yeah yeah yeaaaaah hey one one hep hep hep yep yep.

Right, so this would be soundcheck. You’re not missing anything, I promise.

Sometimes you live right.

The venue almost seems deserted after the abject chaos that unfurled yesterday. The interview panel setup on the Landing. Men in blue shirts and headsets scuttling about like cockroaches, steering wheeled boxes of equipment from the immense conglomeration of metal we call an elevator onto the Ballroom floor. At one point a rather massive fellow wandered into the Landing, strode purposefully into one of our promoter’s offices and hissed, “When are you gonna be done with that computer? I need to send an e-mail.” We locked the doors from that point forward. Other than that, your typical fare for a Ballroom live broadcast of a world championship fight.

Tech N9ne this evening (no idea; don’t ask) so I pulled in to three towering black semis backed against the loading ramp and various tour-clad gentlemen striding around pretending they’re important. Everyone’s a rock star – just ask them.

The weather has regrettably dipped to an extent that precludes my beloved evening bike rides. Sigh. I always enjoy playing Paperboy – weaving past the woman who walks her yippy Sheltie every night at 6:30, and the smattering of skateboard-toting teenagers who generally slink and snarl and unleash their angst upon the universe. Most of all, gawking at the houses and admiring the yards. Hopefully this weekend.

Our art fellow produces rather fantastic stretch canvas photographs, so I enlisted his assistance to decorate my office subsequent to replacing the deafeningly white walls with a deep teal color. At this point I have Joni Mitchell and Walt Disney on either side of my door, a show jumper coasting over a Swedish oxer and the Castle from Walt Disney World on my left, and a giant spread of horses grazing in a paddock amidst morning fog on my right. A few more photographs and some Christmas lights crisscrossing my ceiling, and I believe I shall have stamped myself upon the structure. Have I mentioned that I adore this non-toxic atmosphere? It seems as though I upgraded from Preppie to Hippie.

As I type, the stagehands have elected to check the PA system in the Pantheon by blasting the Hell Freezes Over version of “Hotel California.” Sometimes you live right.