Are you experienced?

"So do you want to be my Lamaze partner? It can't possibly take more than a couple weeks, can it?"

Well, okay then. Sign me up.

A night well spent.

Raced home after work. Changed faster than Superman.
Ran just under five-and-a-half miles in pouring rain. Excitedly.
Did so around 2 lakes, almost entirely on cobblestone streets.
Saw three toads, one that almost didn't hop away in time.
Skipped out of the way of a snake, prolly a boa constrictor.
Heard four or five largely imaginary gators out to get my ankles.
Swallowed exactly one mosquito, much to my chagrin.
Hurried past one embarrassed looking Scotty dog trying to relieve himelf on his lawn while somebody waited expectantly, arms folded. (Poor sod.)
Jaywalked in front of an idling cop, as I live rather dangerously.
Did not succeed at running around the raindrops.
Did succeed at splashing hard through 19 different puddles.
Wished for my camera on four occasions.
Regretted my decision to run in all of this: 0 times.
Listened to: emptying clouds and wet socks, mostly.
Drove home, windows down, still sprinkling out.
Listened to the radio: jazz piano first, Spanish station next. Both came heavy on unabashed joy.
Experimented with turmeric for dinner. Ate an heirloom tomato like a halved apple.
Lived after the manner of happiness.

cover song o' the day. easily.

GAYNGS - Eye in the Sky from GAYNGS on Vimeo.

Honesty is still the best policy.

The other day, I got good and reacquainted with my iPod. I don't use it as much as some do and all of the music on it existed on a laptop I don't even own anymore. So, listening to it was like bumping into old friends again. I hadn't thought about them in a good, long while and it was a happy reunion of sorts, song after song, for hours.

Still, when I lost it on the bus the other day, on the way from the airport to the parking lot (my pockets don't like to hold onto anything, it seems), I wasn't real pleased with myself. Losing somewhere in the neighborhood of 8,200 friends isn't something that happens every day. If I'd have thought of it then and could manage doing so very easily, I would have kicked myself. Hard.

As it turns out, I didn't have to go without my music for very long. An old man found my iPod right where I'd left it, picked it up and shared it with his son-in-law when he got home. He didn't even know what it was, but he knew someone would probably want it back. My name was found in the "About" section of the thing, I was found on Google, then Facebook and, well, we ended up being reunited. My iPod arrived in the mail this morning, no questions asked. Sometimes it pays to be all over the Interwebs, I guess.

You know, I would have learned to live without my songs—I've got a lot more where those came from. The integrity and honesty of the guy who returned it to me, though? That I won't easily forget. It restores my faith in humanity some. I just had the feeling that, well, if I'd have lost a quarter on my way out of the bus, this man would have found a way to return it to me. I like that. I like being reminded that these sorts of people exist in the world.

And, on a related note, I'm not putting anything of worth in my pockets ever again. They'll turn on you when you least expect it.

"I've got enough gas to go to Pittsburgh."

Blessed.

Setting: Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, restroom, 12:16 p.m.

One man, white, 30s, a visitor for all of two hours to the city, moves to wash his hands. Another considerably older man, African American and probably a longtime resident of the area, is putting new paper towels in a dispenser nearby. He's the one to speak first.

"And how are you doing today?" The one being spoken to, as a rule, doesn't much care for making conversation in a restroom. Never has. And yet? The words come out rather easily.

"I'm just fine. How are you?" He doesn't much expect an answer. At least not the one that comes.

"I'm doing pretty great. I'm feeling blessed. I'm trying, just like God himself tried." The other doesn't much respond to this, but he does get some of those new towels to wipe his hands on. By this point, the blessed, working man has ambled over to another sink, replacing more towels. He sings to himself on his way there, too.

The bathroom visitor hurries away and hears "Have a safe flight!" from the gentleman so involved and happy to be doing what he's doing. It's practically a goodbye. A goodbye for a incredibly short conversation he felt was already over.

Maybe he could have spoken with him longer, he thinks. Maybe he should have been as open and generous as the other had been. Or maybe not. Still, he's lifted. He will think of this example of unexpected kindness the remainder of the day, this Sunday. It's only right.

Arkansas bound.

Going to Little Rock would be so much cooler if it somehow involved a midget version of Tina Fey there to greet me with tiny, open arms. Hey, the very name of the place practically promises that kind of magic. Or am I the only one to make the connection?

Wordless Wednesday.

Read my lips.

Some kind of racket.

Seven days from today, I will have been in Florida for exactly seven months. In those many weeks, I have gained some semblance of a requisite suntan, traded socks for flip flops and brought too much of that white beach sand back to my apartment floor. I wonder at what point I actually become a Floridian.


Another thing I got was a downtown loft in a high rise. The rent is astronomical, the visitor’s parking doesn’t exist and I don’t have enough furniture to pass off the swanky bachelor pad it should be. I’m a minimalist, okay? I am in love with the high, concrete ceilings and windows that start there and stretch all the way to the floor. I like the fake wooden floor and sunshine that pours down Church Street around 7:30, landing on my face as my alarm clock. I like how John Coltrane sounds in the dark of the city, confirming nightly that jazz sounds better amongst the buildings. I like to hear the train on its way here and as it trails off into the distance, warning wanderers the entire way. And sometimes (and I stress the word), I can even get behind the racket of the rooftop club not so far below, those with their black dresses and high heels and chatter and same, repeated songs that I’d never play on my own. I like it in the same way I enjoy folding myself into that coffee shop down on Bumby, yes, because the free Internet connection is strong there, but also because it’s my way of spending time with the more tolerable folks in my community, even if it’s just to occasionally eavesdrop on their conversations


I also left another place behind, 2,000-something miles away in Utah, one that gets to be a statistic of the present down economy and struggling real estate market. It’s been on the market as long as I’ve been away and, as such, hasn’t allowed me to completely leave my old life behind. It’s not as sexy as this new joint, but I gave it some new carpet and a new paint job and am even considering some kind of new facelift, if that’s what it’s going to take. I’ve dropped the price considerably, I’ve told countless friends “why, yes, I am still selling my place, yes” to no effect and come up with idea after fruitless idea for solving my situation. I feel like I just need to explain to a sensible person that it’s within walking distance of pretty much everything—the fancy library, the grocery store that wants to be a mall when it grows up, the local Urban Lounge bar, the coolest music store you’ve ever wrapped ears around —and that, well, they could manage to make some real history within that space, too, if they’d just given it a chance. Give it a year or more. Roll around in it a while. I mean, I had a decade to discover the layers that were Salt Lake City, but there is depth there. There is beauty there. You get to wake up to the mountains. You get dogs serenading the fire engine sirens, without fail, every time they hurry off to in search of yet another melodic malady.


It comes down to these unanswered questions: what am I supposed to gain from this experience? How does this seemingly endless scenario serving to benefit me? What can I learn?


If you want to get downright existential about it, I suppose there is safety in having an out to any situation, no matter how good or bad it is. It’s easier to date the girl in a different state or country, for example, because you can always blame the distance that separates you for it eventually going sour (and it will). If this job of mine gets stale and Florida stops turning up adventures just short weekend drives away, it wouldn’t take very long to gather my possessions and hightail it for the Pretty, Great state again. It’s not something I want to do, not in the least. The longer I am in this land of sunshine, the more I enjoy about it; that’s the unfiltered truth. However, that home, the one so often covered by the dirty snow, it’s still harboring a lot of my memories within its walls, painted or no. Part of my heart might even be kicking around there, too. I can’t entirely leave until someone buys it up and passes me my Get Out of Utah Once and For All card. Who doesn’t like options?


Until then, I wonder why. I wait for that one person to make my day. And, I promise right now and to nobody in particular, I’ll fly back to either kiss them on the face or treat them an expensive steak dinner. I’ll share stories about the neighborhood that was. They’ll make me a happy, happy man. And I’ll return to take my friends on a chartered boat for a full day of deep sea fishing, too, my treat. After all, we’ve got a big shark out there, just waiting for us to catch it.

Rappin' Pappy wants to sing you a song.

If I controlled the Internets, I would somehow make the following video go viral. It's just not every day that you witness an 87-year-old man with no teeth doing a Young MC song. He even goes by the name Rappin' Pappy. It's how he got introduced to me ... I can't make this stuff up. I'm just glad I was there to witness it. Even did a little Tone Loc later on. And, once I was done making him an online sensation, I'd hire him to do our work Christmas party and pay him handsomely to do so. I'm not even kidding. You just can't take your eyes off this guy when he's dropping his rhymes and feeling the flow. He flat out gets jiggy with it.

Wordless Wednesday.

Swim to reach the end.

I'm probably already excited to see this little band from West Palm Beach (they'll be doing their thing in town on Friday @ The Social). I may be a newbie to the FL scene and maybe I can't truly prop them up as one of the local-ones-that-did-good since I'm hardly much of a true local just yet, but still. I'll go on record as loving them and their sound and being addicted to "Swim" all summer long. And, well, if they played it about 47 times in a row, I'd be okay with that, too. For an even better time, listen to "Floating Vibes." But, for the best time of all, come join me Friday night. We will bang heads and shake butts. Hey, don't say I never invited you anywhere.

Let's keep this real. Really real.

"Did I just catch you looking at my mustache? Is that was that was?
I mean, I can't say I blame you, of course, but I just wanted to be sure.
Now, if you don't mind, I've a taco to eat.
I'm very distressed about this. Obviously."

Wordless Wednesday.

Grandma & Grandpa, so many years ago now.

Today's sampling: Sarah Sample.

I've gone relatively quiet around these parts, it's true, and that is bound to happen on occasion. I am still experiencing and growing and adventuring and, well, that list is ongoing. I suppose I'm just less inclined to pontificate about it all over this wide world for the time being. That said, my ears still appreciate the good stuff and, today, they found one Sarah Sample. She has a new album coming out very soon and, if it's half as good as this live take is, I very much want to hear it. I guess I'd heard the rumors about how good she was, only I never fully expected them to match up with the reality. It's so good to get proven wrong.

Wordless Wednesday.