Brechtian

The first weekend of Threepenny shows came to a conclusion last night. For the most part, I'm happy with how the show turned out. There are portions of my character that I would have liked to gone a different direction with, but I understand that as an actor, those decisions are not mine to make. Our director had an interesting vision for this show, one that I think ended up being a bit more muddled than he would have liked. Overall though, it's entertaining, comically poignant, and foggy as hell.

My buddies Braizen, Poncey, Spats, and Omelette saw the opening night performance and all had positive reactions (to my face at least). Otte and Marie made the venture down south from the Twin Cities to see the show/visit. It was a good time and I'm really glad that they could make it down.

My need to create has returned. I read the blogs of people like Kevin Smith or Mike Doughty, people who create for a living, and I realize just how badly I want to do that. Don't get me wrong, I still want to teach English in high school. I'm not talking about doing that as a means of maintaining a productive member of society (i.e. contributing to our recessing economy). I'm talking about creating for the sole purpose of creating. Spats and I have joked about how we're going to decorate our room next year with bedsheets that we'll then paint over. I actually love that idea, in moderation. I want my room to be a collage of things we've made.

I've been flooding myself with music by Cloud Cult lately. It's the most artistic music I've heard in a long time. Subtle indie rock meets electronic drums, a cello, and a violin, often with gorgeous five part harmonies over it all. On top of that, there are two people in the band whose purpose is to paint during concerts. That's right, live, on-stage art. I was blown away by the strength they have in their sound. Craig Minowa, I would love to meet you.



Sometimes we all just need to find faith in our own creation.

New Things On The List Of Things I'll Get To Give People When I Die

I bought a new guitar today. Long story actually, so sit back, grab yourself a cold one (I'll let you pick the beverage), and get ready for the trek that has been my last couple days.

For the longest time I've adored the look of resonator guitars. I've seen them on racks, the back of albums, and in old bluegrass footage, and I wanted one of my own. Also, ages ago I won a Fender Stratocaster. It's a beauty, but electric instruments, for the most part, don't really fit what I do.

I'm on spring break now, and in my perusal of the local Music-Go-Round led my eyes to a gorgeous resonator that looked exactly like this:

Now I had been contemplating selling my Strat for about a year now, since it's been doing nothing but gathering dust in a spare room here in my house. So what did I do? I put the resonator on hold and ran home to grab my Strat. Thus ends visit number one to that illustrious place.

On my return I was told that the trade would be one for one, no money changing hands required, something I wasn't expecting at all, something that made me smile. I made my trade and drove back home to play with my new toy. End of visit two.

I'll admit, my knowledge of the inner workings of many musical instruments is minimal. This lack of knowledge extends, of course, to resonator guitars. When I was play for a bit more than twenty minutes it began to hum something terrible. There was obviously an issue somewhere around the cone feature. So what did I do? I made my re-return to Music-Go-Round where they offered me a repair job, which graciously accepted. They assured me this would not happen again. End of visit three.

The next day I noticed the sound was off again. I started looking around online and the more I read, the more I realized just what I had got myself into. Turns out certain resonators are made for lap purposes only. All resonators are also easily tweaked, meaning too much moving around can cause the cone to shift and the tone to change. Knowing the way my life goes, I came to see that this just wasn't the instrument for me. Back to Music-Go-Round.

Here I was told what I was expecting. Since I hadn't paid anything for the resonator, because I had simply traded for it, I could only get store credit for that particular store for my return. Since I had time and money to kill, I started looking around. After playing a handful of decent items I found myself holding this Abilene acoustic that possessed many of the qualities I love in acoustic guitars that also don't exist in my current Ibanez acoustic.

These are those qualities:
It's old
It's not glossed
It's neck fits my hand
It’s a jumbo, but it’s thinner than my Ibanez
It sounds earthy as hell
It looks like it’s actually been played before
It’s beat up just enough
It feels like me

This is an actual picture of my new baby:

Lucky for me, this new guitar was also cheaper than the resonator I had previously purchased. This left me with enough cash to get myself a hard shell case, something I’d always wanted. I picked up a tuner too, cuz I suck at that.

All in all, this spring break has been extremely profitable for me. My phone was on the fritz, so we got me a new one, one of them fancy slider phones, which I’ve pictured for you below:

Don’t worry, it’s the same number and I still have (most of) yours.

Also, two new pairs of pants. Guess who’s gonna keep being clothed? This guy.

At Target today, my mom decided that I need snack food for the rest of the semester. It’s at these points that I realize just how much of a child I still am. I will be returning to college in a few days with boxes of Goldfish Crackers, Animal Crackers, Teddy Grahams, Fruit Roll-Ups, and Gushers. She insisted and I’ll be sharing. I’m a big enough boy as it is.

Let's Put a New Coat of Paint on This Lonesome Old Town

The new Mike Doughty album came out this week. I promptly requested that someone else drive me (the roads here are absolutely awful right now) to the nearest Minnesota based electronic store so that I could pick myself up a copy.

It's good stuff. Doughty never ceases to make me bob every part of my body with his melodies and lyrics that always grab my attention with their borderline nonsensical yet somehow poignant tendencies. Pick it up, totally worth the drive.

I also picked up a live podcast of a Bon Iver concert at the request of Tim. It's, as I had to expect, beautifully soulful and wrenching. It also prompted me to check the iTunes-ness of his rereleased album, where I was shocked to find that it included a new track. I proceeded to download, listen to, and thoroughly enjoy it. At this point, I'm ready to declare Bon Iver my new god.

I have this intense craving to road trip, preferably someplace I haven't been for a significant period of time before. I'm thinking Omaha, St. Louis, Kansas City, or Madison. Chris, Amelie, Joe, Brian and I may hit up Omaha in a month and a half or so for a Mike Doughty concert, which would be incredible. I just need to get off campus and preferably out of Iowa for a weekend or so.

Also, I currently crave pizza.

And to catch up on homework.

Hypnosis

I was sitting in the Writing Center last night, as I have a lot lately. It's become my room now that I spend almost no time in my sleeping quarters while awake. A few of my friends were around and we were occasionally spicing up our homework with conversations on current campus controversy or other mind stimulating topics. As this happened, I found the most enormous butterfly clip I have ever seen attached to the pocket of Chris' bag. I immediately removed it and began placing it on different parts of my body.

At first this did nothing but cause painfully loud reactions, followed immediately by throwing the clip off of my person. After a while I began finding strategically painful parts of my body and testing to see if I could maintain my composure while it latched on. It wasn't masochistic, okay not that masochistic, it was more out of curiosity.

I've always had a really high pain tolerance. The fact that I could clamp this onto my nose or knuckle while simultaneously continuing conversation wasn't wholly surprising.

I think this says something about me. I've been having issues lately with certain people's reactions to the person that I am. I understand that I have faults, large ones, that I need to work on, as we all do. What I founds was that I like to push limits. I have this craving to learn just how far I can go, then try to push past that. This idea of boundaries seems too safe for me (most of them, at least).

It's like those people who opt for hypnosis rather than anesthetics. A higher form of pain aversion.

So there I was, sitting on a couch in a room designed to make people comfortable, pinching myself with this clip and trying to keep my mind clear and ignore the pain. And I could do it.

I'm Going To Do It All Someday

So I'm sitting here at work, minding my own business, and an attractive female wanders in front of the desk. At the same time, a older man, her senior by at least four years of age, walks in the opposite direction. As they pass, this gent literally turns his head as he continues strolling, staring directly at her lower half. It’s actions like these that give my gender the reputation we have.

I’ve been thinking a lot about sex/gender. Last semester I was called out by the faculty advisor for not writing about female artists enough. The article in question was a gauntlet of sorts on five different poetry books. It was thrown together last minute, filled with books I had recently perused or could speed through quickly, and no, none of the poets were female (though one was S√he by Saul Williams, a collection of female centered poetry, though written by a man). I was a bit upset, but the fact is that she had a point. I am lacking in female artistry works.

I have since started a weekly three musician review per week in the paper and I’ve made sure to include at least one female per week. This is actually becoming a difficult task for me, as I’m finding it harder (not hard, just harder) to pick out female artists from my library of music. I cross my fingers and hope that this has to due with the industry and the simple fact that there are more male musicians than female. I know there are a lot of females in the biz, and I would like to hear from more.

On that note, I’m not an Ani DiFranco fan. Just not really my style. “Untouchable Face” is a great song, mainly because of memories I have tied to it. Beyond that, I just can’t get into her stuff.

Also, the Vagina Monologues are coming up on campus. Now, I support the Monologues, don’t get me wrong, I just don’t find them to be especially powerful. It’s a mixture of comedic and absolutely tragic accounts of female struggles. Somehow, hearing this is supposed to further the feminist cause. I know that I’m a male and that I can’t understand what it’s like to be a woman, I just don’t see this as what it’s advertised as. I have a feeling one gets more out of being a part of the Monologues than merely seeing them. That makes sense to me.

The paper ran an article on this production as our lead story this week. I have major issues with some of the things that were said. One quote from a student here states, “The men who are most comfortable with themselves and their own sexuality really enjoy the show.” This seems to insinuate that any man who doesn’t enjoy the show doesn’t know themselves as may not have a grasp on their own sexuality. I went last year and enjoyed my time, I can’t lie. But as I said, it didn’t move me. I didn’t feel more empowered or that I needed to fight harder afterwards. I am also very comfortable with myself and my sexuality. Even if this quote doesn’t necessarily apply to me, I still have issues with it. It’s a blanket statement that takes little more than the feminist perspective into view.

I consider myself a feminist just as much as I consider myself an equal rights activist for race, sexual orientation, class, and any other issue. I promote and will gladly fight for equality amongst all people of this planet. It’s the strictness, the anger in some extreme feminists, as well as activists in other fields, that makes me step back and reevaluate the situation. These people (I wouldn’t consider the owner of the above mentioned quotes an extremist, for the record) seem to alienate anyone who isn’t fighting as passionately, loudly, and publicly as they are, regardless of the other’s beliefs.

I am a feminist, but I won’t fight any harder for feminist rights than I will for gay, minority, lower-class, immigrant, environmental, or animal rights. That doesn’t mean I won’t fight, because I will. I simply refuse to step beyond the line of rational movement into the realm of extremism. It’s proven in the past to be nothing by detrimental.

I miss fighting. My poetry class this week had a short conversation about how, back in the 60s, students were in the streets protesting and making their voices heard. This attitude seems to be lacking my generation, replaced by a glaze of apathy and disregard. I want to fight. I want to march down streets and scream for an end to war and genocide and classism and all other -isms. I don’t want to slip into the irrational radicalism I just spoke against, I just want to make my voice known. My generation seems to be missing a lens to focus us. We have more and more issues arising every day and I have a feeling we don’t know where to begin in speaking out against them. I get tempted to stop my studies and take a year to become an activist, hitting the illnesses I see in our society and finding ways to combat them. Realistically, I don’t see this happening for the same reasons that plague all of my generation. I want to fight, I just don’t see how to work it. The rebel, the screamer, the rioter in me wants out.

Sniffles

Ahhh...my favorite mid-winter friend has returned yet again. In the past we have grown close, cuddling next to each other when the wind blows to coldly. We have found solace in the fact that, no matter what the snow tried to cover, it cannot hide our bond.

I have a sinus infection.

There are countless reasons why I get sick every year. They are the exact same things that doctors warn you about. I don't get nearly enough sleep on a nightly basis, I have a terrible diet, I am (at least this semester) far too stressed for my own good, I have no free time to make relaxing good use of, and I rarely exercise.

On the whole, this doesn't bother me.

I have grown accustomed to my yearly reunion with this little fellow. We take naps together, sip tea and orange juice while wrapped in fleece blankets, and collectively moan every time a breeze tries to push us apart.

This, however, does not excuse Mr. Infection's rude behavior. I don't enjoy having to skip class because my head is too heavy to lug around. My nose has become sore and blushed from the countless amount of nasal tissue (or toilet paper for the collegiately challenged) that has scraped
against its soft exterior. More than anything, I despise it keeping me awake at night. The last few nights have been accompanied by constant stirring, waking up at almost hourly intervals, and, my assumption would be, a less than ecstatic roommate.

So this is my plea. As close as we have grown, I am now asking you, Mr. Sinus Infection, to vacate my body. Pack up, eviction notice has been posted.

Now...where's my Sudafed?

Re:Search

I turn my mind, occasionally, to love. At this stage in my life, as for most people of my age, I have established the fact that I know nothing about love. I have had experiences with the word love: my family, my friends, and a couple of the people I spent large amount of time holding hands with when I was younger. This idea of a romantic love, something so deep it cannot be explained, is still foreign to me.

That I do not understand this does not concern me. I'm a sophomore in college, and I have no plans for settling down. At the same time, I adore being in a relationship. The euphoria, camaraderie, excitement, and insecurities that ring-around-the-rosy and encapsulate budding romance thrills me to no end. I also feel a bit more like myself when there’s that special person, one who exceeds regardless of how slightly, the title of friend.

I am single, happy, but definitely keeping my eyes open.

I have also found, through keeping a skeptic eye on myself, that I can establish an idealistic crush in an instant that can trail me for ages. These can be focused on friends, acquaintances, coworkers, performers, baristas, secretaries, or essentially any girl I pass who is singing. A friend and I had a conversation through letters a few months ago about how she had a tendency of developing harmless crushes an a heartbeat that could easily dissipate when needed. I see this in myself.

Perhaps I am confusing infatuation for admiration or a simple want to converse. I’ve seen Too Much Light Makes The Baby Go Blind in Chicago three times now, and each time I have been mystified by the strength, forwardness, honesty, and pride that I have found in one of their members. Does this mean that I would like to become in someway romantically involved with this person? No. I simply want to sit down with her and two cups of coffee and absorb everything she has to say.

There are others that fit into this category.

I say all of this because my relationship status has been the subject of conversation lately. Times it has been brought up by myself, times by others. I’ve been asked why I find it so hard to find a girl on a small liberal arts college campus where I am one of few males known for being extremely outgoing, humorous, and (to a degree) confident (I hate myself for even typing that). One person even brought to my attention that a lot of what girls look for is in facial expressions, so I should watch how I position my features while speaking.

All of this has me very aware of myself, something I find completely unnerving.

The facts are: I am loud, somewhat obnoxious, eccentric, liberal, radical, socially deviant, creative, overweight, near sighted, passionate, eager, supportive, sarcastic, demeaning, introspective, brutally honest, often dishonest, judgmental, uncaring, apathetic, devoted, regretful, loving, confused, isolated, out of place, teddy bear-ish, masked, serious, lazy, completely insane, logical, satirical, disrespectful, stubborn, argumentative, begrudging, hopeful, optimistic, a Johnson, a Bobst, a Smolinski, and many more. I wear brightly colored button down shirts or baggy, earth toned sweaters, knit “newsy” caps or trucker hats, skate shoes or blue and yellow basketball shoes. I’m an English and Creative Writing major who is finding it increasingly difficult to read and write for class. I second guess almost everything I do while rarely thinking it over first, and I constantly let the people closest to me know both how much I love them and how easy I find it to tear them down. I try harder than I know. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

I have not typed this out of loneliness, sorrow, self deprecation, or to be told by anyone that “there are plenty of fish in the sea” or that I “really am a good person.” I said this merely because I wanted to.

I find solace in the fact that I will never stop examining myself.

I hope you can too.