There was a fleeting moment on the usual rush of a commute home that I was able to get distracted by the clouds, they having just rained all over, under and through that Mayberry of a city I work in. It was on the one loop that leads to that long stretch of highway towards my building that I caught it, my first impulse to stop in the street's middle and turn my few seconds of distraction into out-and-out admiration. The clouds overlapped themselves, creating contours and caverns and purples and blues, a wavy ceiling not so high above, a sort of mountain range I didn't have access to. What was once so apocalyptic in scope (trees and branches breaking in the sudden darkness, strong winds the cause of swaying buildings, the report of one woman who was lifted 10 feet into the air before dropping back down again, downed power lines and so much more) had given away to some undeniable beauty. The calm had revealed itself and seemed to ask forgiveness for the power and damage it'd unexpectedly wrought not so many minutes before.
I should have stopped. I know the others wouldn't have.
Since there were only about 40-50 of us at this little show last Saturday in Orlando, it's safe for me to assume nobody currently reading this was actually there. This means you missed a couple hours or so of some sweet-sounding, sweaty country-rock-soul (the closest I can come to describing the genre) ... and they did it in a tavern with broken air conditioning, no less. So you didn't get excited as I did when they decided to move it on out to the patio and play an acoustic set with a cool breeze attached (and you missed those who were inexplicably throwing rocks at other attendees). And that final thing you missed? This song, Langhorne Slim's "I Ain't Dead," a tune so new, you can't get your hands on a recorded version of it yet. It renewed my faith in the band's ability and how they might just continue to get bigger, better and more polished as time goes on. I also tend to really, really, really like it. Every time I watch this, I find my smile by the middle ... every single time.
“To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not, rich; to listen to stars and birds, babes and sages, with open heart; to study hard; to think quietly, act frankly, talk gently, await occasions, hurry never; in a word, to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common–this is my symphony." — William Henry Channing
I still remember being the happiest deejay volunteer guy with a video camera, two years ago at KRCL 90.9 FM in Salt Lake City (when this took place). Being the only person in the room along with Miss Jessica Lea Mayfield as she casually played a few songs live for the radio-listening audience and myself, well, it was all I needed to be just about the smilingest guy on the planet for those long moments. It'll never happen again but, you know? The fact it happened once? It was enough. More than, even.
I had to watch this a second time yesterday, just to prove to myself that I wasn't simply being wowed by stellar animation, a smart script and lead (yes, that Johnny Depp), a movie that feels more like a real-live Western than the cartoon it is and, well, all things considered, I liked it better that second time around. I'm no avid movie watcher, but I'll go ahead and go on record with this: this is one of the most entertaining movies I've seen in a theater in at least a year's time. Can I get a witness?
Nobody asked me, but here I go offering up my opinion. Everybody is really, really tired of Charlie Sheen at this point, it's true, but the fact he decided to wave around a bottle of XanGo a few days ago and claim it was "Tiger Blood," well, that's an all-new spin on his brand of crazy. It's not what I would consider great press for the company, considering he alternated waving around one of their barely-disguised bottles with waving around a machete (because why not?), but it puts them in the public eye in an altogether new way. But, hey, bad press is still press ... which could be a good thing. If I were still writing for them, I'd offer some of my own ideas on how they could spin things and have some real fun with it. A couple of them include:
1. Release an "official" standpoint on behalf of the company. "Our product, contrary to Charlie Sheen's claims, does not, nor has it ever, contained the blood of a tiger. It just looks that way."
2. Adversely, they could run with it. "Now with 100% more Tiger Blood."
3. Pass him off as a company spokesperson of sorts. "At long last, Charlie Sheen really IS winning."
4. Claim that they will cure what ails him. "Now that he's on our Juice, we fully expect a complete recovery within 90 days' time. Unfortunately, it won't make Two and a Half Men funny. Hey, we're not magicians."
Ah, I kid. But, if I was still kicking around those parts, I'd at least try and get myself an interview. Because you know that turning it down isn't his way of doing things. I'd just have to steer clear of that machete.
The integrity and honesty of a Polish beachside motel owner, the one who went out of her way to return a plug-in USB modem I'd accidentally left behind a couple of weeks back. I'd wanted to get to the beach and I'd left it behind in my rush ... and it showed up in the mail today, when I'd pretty much written off my ever seeing it again.
The unexpected kindness of strangers might be my favorite brand of surprise.
I've decided to stop feeling a weird sense of guilt for liking this woman, this song and this album as much as I do. You've heard this song already. You've seen this video already. But now I'm proudly professing my love for Adele, a definite first. And I feel better for having done so. Drums! Sidenote: I was thiiis close to interviewing this woman prior to one of her concerts a couple years back which means, well, that I almost had a good story to share here. As you were.
I have a confession to make: I eat hummus every single day. This is not an exaggeration. Next to my cottage cheese staple, I have anywhere from 1-5 containers of hummus in my fridge at any given time. Sometimes I dive into it before breakfast, but I always go straight to it once I get home from work. Not everyone shares this kind of fascination, I realize that. But it does my heart good to know that, when my nephew had it for his first time a couple days ago, this was his immediate reaction. I'm pretty sure he's mirroring what my taste buds do every time they get their hummus fix. He'll go far, this boy. Does his uncle proud, he does.
Call it a restlessness of spirit if you like, though I can’t quite come up with a solid reason, not yet. It may be too easy to chalk it up to this passion for adventure, this reason I live. It could be this desire of late to live the proactive life, happening to it as much as I can get away with, rather than that other easier way around. But there was a day this past weekend where I allowed the wind to lift me up and take me wherever it may. And I obediently did so. It’s part of living the unhurried life.
There was the Canaveral National Seashore, a beach so far from beach houses and all that attach themselves to that culture of sand and sun that nothing else exists; it’s not allowed. I drove until I ran out of road and hoped it’d be just me and that nature and some thoughts, but a couple fishermen beat me to that kind of solitude. Got there just after 6:30 in the morning, a touch before the sun. Looking either way down the coast, I saw nothing but coast and surf. Saw and heard hundreds upon hundreds of birds flying by in a never ending line and it was so quiet, I could hear the distinct, thrilling sound of wings flapping above my head. I was able to be. Once the folks started showing up without their swimsuits (including one jolly old man who eventually wore nothing but a ZZ Top beard), I figured it was time I made my exit. I mean, I walked away barefoot to make them feel more comfortable around me, sure. I’m nice like that.
But this story isn’t about that morning. It’s not even about driving to Cassadaga with a curiosity after that, being offered a reading by one of the mediums there and politely refusing. I wasn’t in the state of mind for that.
On my way to the beach, I’d seen a sign for a town called Samsula. Only two days before, I’d come across a tiny blurb in the newspaper advertising a weekend-long Polka Festival there and, yes, it was the sort of thing to interest me. I read the newspaper more dutifully on the weekend than I do any other day of the week, lest I miss out on an opportunity. Case in point: Samsula, a wee blink-and-miss-it kind of town. I drove back to the sign and figured out where the lodge was (just past the ‘Boiled P-Nuts’ truck on the corner), promptly dropped my 10-spot and parked “wherever I liked” on the grass, as instructed.
Passed by boxes upon boxes filled with polka compact discs, slipped through the doors and, just like that, I took a large step back in time. I was suddenly one of the youngest guys in the joint, as there were tables filled with old folks in pastels and owning up to gray hair and no hair and pants pulled so high. People were happily eating plates piled high with sauerkraut and homemade sausage and chatting loudly. No one seemed to be acting very old. In fact, the dance floor was being used to almost full capacity (and they could dance!) while a band in from Cleveland was providing the requisite polka music and double accordion action up on stage.
I’m not sure what it was I expected. Or why I was there. I’ve a) always had a penchant for the polka music and b) played the squeezebox for a whole year straight without ever mastering it very well. And, yes, everybody knew everybody else and, yes, it didn’t take long for the lodge owner to ask me who I was and what my business was there. The good part is that we know each other fairly well now. It was like I’d crashed some kind of high school reunion. I didn’t look like I belonged, yet I didn’t feel out of place. And, in a period of my life not entirely filled up enough with very lasting connections, I felt like I found a few of them there.
There were dance steps that had been learned much earlier in these lives and still nimble feet that hadn’t forgotten a single step. There were songs sung in a tongue I didn’t understand (though Slovenia was the country referenced most often) and sometimes up to 16 accordions being played at once, completely in unison (!). There was an 89-year-old mother of someone, now confined to a wheelchair, who a few folks decided to spontaneously sing to as she tried her best to sing along and clap. There were perogies and corned beef and sausages in the kitchen in back.
Scenes from a time gone by, all of them.
The thought struck that, while I don’t have a love of my life (not in that traditional sense), I felt something akin to real love in this place, love that had lasted through wars and heartbreaking trials and more than I can ever attempt to fully realize.
It never really seemed to matter that everyone thought I was someone’s grandson and why hadn’t I been to the past two days of the festival and really? I found out about this whole thing in the newspaper and didn’t know a soul? I came a spectator and left having made some friends. Friends who enjoy the polka music are few and far between, after all. And I didn’t even have to join the rest of them on stage with an accordion.
