.
for those into any of the following: the OC, Leonard Cohen, Jeff Buckley, music/pop culture and/or Zach Braff.
CLICKHERETOREAD
Interesting (and long) analysis of the journey of the song "Halleluja." A Leonard Cohen song originally performed quite a bit differently than the covered version you probably heard first on the OC or Scrubs or one of the other 24 movies or tv shows it has since graced with its presence.
It talks about 'emotional shorthand' and how this song is used in modern films and tv shows in a way that a woman with the back of her hand pressed against her forehead was used in silent films...whenever someone is in a really heart wrenching situation that may only be fully realized through music that already has that connotation. scratch that...it already has that definition.
it speaks of cliches and how sometimes they work and sometimes they don't. and sometimes, maybe even in the case of the Fall Out Boy cover, that you need to get a bunch of cliches together and have a celebration...and it just might work.
it also discusses the indie rock boom that the author claims was sparked by the OC, basically stating that this show (and others like it) introduce mass audiences to things that would have probably never caught their attention otherwise. stating that 'music is not an activity but an accompaniment--not something you listened to but something you watched other people listening to. In other words, it's lifestyle music.'
after my move out of St. Louis and into a bigger city, with more people, more 'lifestyle choices' to make, this last portion of the article was particularly interesting. when you expand your horizons and experiences by such a wide margin, suddenly it becomes glaringly obvious how much you truly have to just do your own thing...for fear of getting swallowed up with the crowd, or more devastatingly, begin to watch other people listening to music. or reading books, or seeing movies, or visiting museums, or anything else that you could be doing yourself.
at any rate, it made for some interesting reading and helped me realize yet another thing i love about this city: the celebration of cliches i walk amongst every day on the street.
don't think i don't know i am one them.
The Cohen Version (The Original)
VS
The OC Version (Jeff Buckley)
And, of course, the Marissa Cooper death scene.
.
3.17.2009
3.09.2009
THE WALL
.
it was a rainy, desolate weekend.
there was a break from the frigid temps and sporadic snow flurries. friday saw record high temps for early March (almost 70) but the wind was outrageous. i embarked on a 3+ mile walk around the city and was blown (literally) across the sidewalks. the wind felt nice for a change; it didn't sting against my face.
at one point, i stopped and watched as trash swirled up into the streets, then settled to the ground again. a storm was coming.
on saturday, the rain came...more often a downpour than a drizzle. i woke in a somber mood and never snapped out of it. i left early morning for my personal assistant position, only to realize halfway there, after checking e-mail on my phone, that she canceled for the day.
at 2pm, when i climbed into bed for a nap before my night shift, i heard thunder in the distance. it was then i realized that it would have been my dad's 59th birthday that day. i set my phone to silent, pulled the covers over my head and slept.
my shift at the restaurant that night was slow. my somber mood still lingered. a little before closing time, a father and daughter came in for dessert. he was in his late 40's, tall and thin, his dark hair framed with gray. she was around 11 years old, with long, unruly, wavy dark blond hair. they looked eerily familiar.
they ordered - one cheesecake for his birthday; two forks. as they ate the dessert, he brought his daughters attention to the radio.
"ok...rock-n-roll history for the last bite of cheesecake. name the artist," he said, poking her in the arm with his fork.
"Daaad," she said, rolling her eyes.
"just give it a shot. this album, The Wall, spent time on the charts in my day."
she struggled with it for a few minutes, sighed and rolled her eyes again. "i don't know, Dad. just tell me."
"two words...first word starts with a P..."
"pink floyd!" she yelled. he smiled and pushed the cheesecake in her direction.
as he left to use the restroom, i watched the little girl. she could have been me. i pictured myself 11 years old again, tapping her on the shoulder and giving her all my life lessons. i would tell her that the last time i saw my father, i rolled my eyes at him. i would tell her that i still wondered if it hurt his feelings. i would tell her that i don't know if i will ever stop wondering.
my plans after work that night were canceled, and i was happy to go straight home. i didn't feel like looking at people, or the rain.
most of all, i didn't feel like seeing the trash in the street, now soaking wet and helplessly plastered to all of the concrete walls of the city.
.
it was a rainy, desolate weekend.
there was a break from the frigid temps and sporadic snow flurries. friday saw record high temps for early March (almost 70) but the wind was outrageous. i embarked on a 3+ mile walk around the city and was blown (literally) across the sidewalks. the wind felt nice for a change; it didn't sting against my face.
at one point, i stopped and watched as trash swirled up into the streets, then settled to the ground again. a storm was coming.
on saturday, the rain came...more often a downpour than a drizzle. i woke in a somber mood and never snapped out of it. i left early morning for my personal assistant position, only to realize halfway there, after checking e-mail on my phone, that she canceled for the day.
at 2pm, when i climbed into bed for a nap before my night shift, i heard thunder in the distance. it was then i realized that it would have been my dad's 59th birthday that day. i set my phone to silent, pulled the covers over my head and slept.
my shift at the restaurant that night was slow. my somber mood still lingered. a little before closing time, a father and daughter came in for dessert. he was in his late 40's, tall and thin, his dark hair framed with gray. she was around 11 years old, with long, unruly, wavy dark blond hair. they looked eerily familiar.
they ordered - one cheesecake for his birthday; two forks. as they ate the dessert, he brought his daughters attention to the radio.
"ok...rock-n-roll history for the last bite of cheesecake. name the artist," he said, poking her in the arm with his fork.
"Daaad," she said, rolling her eyes.
"just give it a shot. this album, The Wall, spent time on the charts in my day."
she struggled with it for a few minutes, sighed and rolled her eyes again. "i don't know, Dad. just tell me."
"two words...first word starts with a P..."
"pink floyd!" she yelled. he smiled and pushed the cheesecake in her direction.
as he left to use the restroom, i watched the little girl. she could have been me. i pictured myself 11 years old again, tapping her on the shoulder and giving her all my life lessons. i would tell her that the last time i saw my father, i rolled my eyes at him. i would tell her that i still wondered if it hurt his feelings. i would tell her that i don't know if i will ever stop wondering.
my plans after work that night were canceled, and i was happy to go straight home. i didn't feel like looking at people, or the rain.
most of all, i didn't feel like seeing the trash in the street, now soaking wet and helplessly plastered to all of the concrete walls of the city.
.
2.27.2009
NOT-SO-SAD SONGS FOR DIRTY LOVERS
.
something for you internet/technology & music-lovers:
check out blip.fm - ASAP.
it's a lot like twitter, but instead of creepily updating everyone of your every move, you just clue people in to what you are up to musically. it is a streaming music site, so you can listen to anything in the database simply by searching (by title or artist.)
it's also a great way to find new music by following those who share musical tastes. and you can link it in to your last.fm & twitter accounts if you so choose.
if you wanna follow me, http://blip.fm/leigh_roy.
I LOVE IT! YOU WILL TOO!
something for you internet/technology & music-lovers:
check out blip.fm - ASAP.
it's a lot like twitter, but instead of creepily updating everyone of your every move, you just clue people in to what you are up to musically. it is a streaming music site, so you can listen to anything in the database simply by searching (by title or artist.)
it's also a great way to find new music by following those who share musical tastes. and you can link it in to your last.fm & twitter accounts if you so choose.
if you wanna follow me, http://blip.fm/leigh_roy.
I LOVE IT! YOU WILL TOO!
2.23.2009
I FELL IN LOVE AGAIN; ALL THINGS GO
.
sometimes you don't write in your blog for over two months, and you can't figure out how to start it back up. so you never do.
other times, you get invited to watch a taping of the Springer show, have a nightcap at the Reagle Beagle and then, while not entirely sure why, you jump right back into it.
so here i am. oddly inspired and unclear on how to bring anyone up to speed on my life. at least not in any sort of organized manner. so much has happened...i hardly know where to start. so i just will.
i've decided to get rid of my car. in the next week or so, i will buy a good road bike, and this will become my primary means of transportation. i could not be more excited. chicago is relatively flat, and biking (and conserving energy and waste in general) is one of my favorite parts of the city's culture.
i live in the neighborhood that is considered River West. my apartment is on Milwaukee ave, one of the few diagonal streets, and when i walk out my front door and turn left, i have a never-gets-old view of the downtown skyline. there is plenty to do within walking distance; Iguana and Swim Cafe among my first loves. my location is quite perfect, as is the fact that i can be anywhere in the city in less than 20 minutes by bicycle or train.
i recently began a second job doing personal assistant work for a screenplay writer. it's interesting and everchanging; my favorite part so far is editing/proofreading her stuff. i really do, as i always have, get some sort of weird pleasure out of correcting other people's work. something to think about perhaps. on the downside, i am sometimes tasked to rearrange her closets and pantries.
it is expensive to live here, but only if you spend foolishly. i watch every penny that enters my pocket now. i am learning to be financially responsible, thrifty, even cheap. i will never again step foot into a mall or department store and shop only at second-hand stores and locally owned boutiques. there are so many hats...hats everywhere. and books...books, books, books. i love digging through the $.50 book piles at the Salvation Army, and Myopic Books might be my favorite spot in the city to spend money. i am going to get a library card soon and actually use it. i acquire more books than i can keep up with right now. i learn something new every day...scratch that, every hour.
the city is noisy; new sounds everywhere. when its quiet late at night, i feel a train go under my apartment twice every hour. this does not annoy me...quite the opposite in fact. the garbage truck comes at the same time each morning...right outside my window. it used to wake me; now it intertwines with my sleep pattern.
i am surviving the worst winter chicago has seen in ten years. and it's ok. in fact, i recently witnessed the most beautiful, crystallized snowfall of my life. i now understand what it feels like to be lost in a snow globe.
the ratio of guys:girls in this city still amazes me. my advice to any female who has ever said (in that ridiculous, whiny voice) "all of the good ones are taaaken"....move to chicago. or any big city, for that matter. they are everywhere. and one so different from the next. they are interesting and funny and educated and traveled. they are from all over the globe and when you date them, they have not dated anyone you know. they are not distantly related to your ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend. they have never met your family. they don't ask what high school you attended. they are everywhere, and they are ready to take you, shake you and make you. and if that seems like too much, they are ready and willing to break you.
there are SO many shows and things to do; i love that my musical and social horizons have broadened significantly. no clubs, no waiting in lines for no reason, no dj's mashing together remixes of shitty top 40. i have seen real chicago jazz by a 79 year-old local legend and my favorite jukebox in the city (thus far) has nothing on it after 1970. i have played tambourine to some incredible raggae music by a man with dreads past his ass. i have danced to electronic dj's until my clothes are soaked in sweat and would do it every night if i could. i recently witnessed a 30 piece punk rock marching band, which was every bit as incredible as it sounds. i am doing all the things i pictured myself doing in some other life.
my drinking habits have adapted as well. thinking about it, i probably haven't had a cocktail since i moved from st. louis, aside from the occasional martini at the Matchbox (bar on the corner near my house). i still love my grand marnier, but other than that its an occasional shot of jameson and beer. lots and lots of beer. beer i've never heard of, beer i cannot get enough of and beer i'll never try again (i'm talking to you 9% abv Dragon's Milk).
i work a second job right now at a restaurant. i like everyone there and frequently stay after hours and have drinks with them...i consider them friends now and have learned so much from them already. occasionally, i sit in the parking garage next door and drink jack & cokes with the neighborhood valet drivers. this is not as strange as it seems.
i've also made friends with an old mexican man who wears sunglasses and overalls everyday. sometimes he keeps me out until sunrise when i have to be at work three hours later. i often give him rides home to the south side, and he repays me with tortillas from a taqueria next to his house. this actually is as strange as it seems.
i have also made my first real girlfriend that has never lived in or even visited st. louis. both of our fathers passed away when we were teenagers, and that is just the beginning of all we have in common. female friends don't come easy for me, so to relate to her on so many levels is a huge deal for me.
i am making time for things important to me. i am learning to recycle and think about the planet. i cannot wait for warmer weather to do rooftop yoga again and ride my bike up Lake Michigan. i am enrolling in dance in the spring and am re-familiarizing myself with spanish (gracias a los hombres que trabajan conmigo). i hope to save enough money to take another writing class or go back to school. i have no tangible future plans other than to learn as much as i possibly can.
i feel like my eyes are wide all the time; my head is on a swivel. i stood on the outskirts of history in november; amid a sea of hundreds of thousands of people who attended the obama rally. i fought very, very hard to keep tears from spilling down my cheeks. not because of my personal belief in his ability to pull our country back together, but because i've never physically SEEN hope like that anywhere before. literally, HOPE, written on faces, banners, sidewalks, buildings. written across an entire city.
it took a little time, but i can now say that i love my life. things are far from perfect. i am not making much money and still don't know what i will do for the years to come. sometimes the city shits on me, but the trials do not discourage me, they makes me feel at home.
i am different now; i don't know if my past would recognize me. i feel alive here in a way that i did not in St. Louis. sometimes i wish i could gather up all the people i care about and bring them here...all the people who seem to sprawl farther away from my grasp. i want them to feel the way that i do...to have this experience. i want them to walk out their front door and feel such overwhelming emotion that sometimes they stop on the sidewalk and look around in disbelief, unsure of whether to laugh or scream or cry.
then, just as quickly, it comes to me...like a punch in the stomach and a breath of fresh air. maybe they do feel that way, wherever they are, and that is why we are no longer standing on the same sidewalk. maybe they are living their lives, walking their sidewalks, losing their breath and feeling it rush back in again. for reasons that i can't begin to comprehend.
now that i have taken a step back, i can finally see. i see everything; i see myself; i see you. i no longer beg for acceptance. i merely require it. if it is not received, i move on. no hard feelings or non-reciprocated investment.
there is no time for that anymore; there is so much else.
for those of you right-brainers, see below:
sometimes you don't write in your blog for over two months, and you can't figure out how to start it back up. so you never do.
other times, you get invited to watch a taping of the Springer show, have a nightcap at the Reagle Beagle and then, while not entirely sure why, you jump right back into it.
so here i am. oddly inspired and unclear on how to bring anyone up to speed on my life. at least not in any sort of organized manner. so much has happened...i hardly know where to start. so i just will.
i've decided to get rid of my car. in the next week or so, i will buy a good road bike, and this will become my primary means of transportation. i could not be more excited. chicago is relatively flat, and biking (and conserving energy and waste in general) is one of my favorite parts of the city's culture.
i live in the neighborhood that is considered River West. my apartment is on Milwaukee ave, one of the few diagonal streets, and when i walk out my front door and turn left, i have a never-gets-old view of the downtown skyline. there is plenty to do within walking distance; Iguana and Swim Cafe among my first loves. my location is quite perfect, as is the fact that i can be anywhere in the city in less than 20 minutes by bicycle or train.
i recently began a second job doing personal assistant work for a screenplay writer. it's interesting and everchanging; my favorite part so far is editing/proofreading her stuff. i really do, as i always have, get some sort of weird pleasure out of correcting other people's work. something to think about perhaps. on the downside, i am sometimes tasked to rearrange her closets and pantries.
it is expensive to live here, but only if you spend foolishly. i watch every penny that enters my pocket now. i am learning to be financially responsible, thrifty, even cheap. i will never again step foot into a mall or department store and shop only at second-hand stores and locally owned boutiques. there are so many hats...hats everywhere. and books...books, books, books. i love digging through the $.50 book piles at the Salvation Army, and Myopic Books might be my favorite spot in the city to spend money. i am going to get a library card soon and actually use it. i acquire more books than i can keep up with right now. i learn something new every day...scratch that, every hour.
the city is noisy; new sounds everywhere. when its quiet late at night, i feel a train go under my apartment twice every hour. this does not annoy me...quite the opposite in fact. the garbage truck comes at the same time each morning...right outside my window. it used to wake me; now it intertwines with my sleep pattern.
i am surviving the worst winter chicago has seen in ten years. and it's ok. in fact, i recently witnessed the most beautiful, crystallized snowfall of my life. i now understand what it feels like to be lost in a snow globe.
the ratio of guys:girls in this city still amazes me. my advice to any female who has ever said (in that ridiculous, whiny voice) "all of the good ones are taaaken"....move to chicago. or any big city, for that matter. they are everywhere. and one so different from the next. they are interesting and funny and educated and traveled. they are from all over the globe and when you date them, they have not dated anyone you know. they are not distantly related to your ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend. they have never met your family. they don't ask what high school you attended. they are everywhere, and they are ready to take you, shake you and make you. and if that seems like too much, they are ready and willing to break you.
there are SO many shows and things to do; i love that my musical and social horizons have broadened significantly. no clubs, no waiting in lines for no reason, no dj's mashing together remixes of shitty top 40. i have seen real chicago jazz by a 79 year-old local legend and my favorite jukebox in the city (thus far) has nothing on it after 1970. i have played tambourine to some incredible raggae music by a man with dreads past his ass. i have danced to electronic dj's until my clothes are soaked in sweat and would do it every night if i could. i recently witnessed a 30 piece punk rock marching band, which was every bit as incredible as it sounds. i am doing all the things i pictured myself doing in some other life.
my drinking habits have adapted as well. thinking about it, i probably haven't had a cocktail since i moved from st. louis, aside from the occasional martini at the Matchbox (bar on the corner near my house). i still love my grand marnier, but other than that its an occasional shot of jameson and beer. lots and lots of beer. beer i've never heard of, beer i cannot get enough of and beer i'll never try again (i'm talking to you 9% abv Dragon's Milk).
i work a second job right now at a restaurant. i like everyone there and frequently stay after hours and have drinks with them...i consider them friends now and have learned so much from them already. occasionally, i sit in the parking garage next door and drink jack & cokes with the neighborhood valet drivers. this is not as strange as it seems.
i've also made friends with an old mexican man who wears sunglasses and overalls everyday. sometimes he keeps me out until sunrise when i have to be at work three hours later. i often give him rides home to the south side, and he repays me with tortillas from a taqueria next to his house. this actually is as strange as it seems.
i have also made my first real girlfriend that has never lived in or even visited st. louis. both of our fathers passed away when we were teenagers, and that is just the beginning of all we have in common. female friends don't come easy for me, so to relate to her on so many levels is a huge deal for me.
i am making time for things important to me. i am learning to recycle and think about the planet. i cannot wait for warmer weather to do rooftop yoga again and ride my bike up Lake Michigan. i am enrolling in dance in the spring and am re-familiarizing myself with spanish (gracias a los hombres que trabajan conmigo). i hope to save enough money to take another writing class or go back to school. i have no tangible future plans other than to learn as much as i possibly can.
i feel like my eyes are wide all the time; my head is on a swivel. i stood on the outskirts of history in november; amid a sea of hundreds of thousands of people who attended the obama rally. i fought very, very hard to keep tears from spilling down my cheeks. not because of my personal belief in his ability to pull our country back together, but because i've never physically SEEN hope like that anywhere before. literally, HOPE, written on faces, banners, sidewalks, buildings. written across an entire city.
it took a little time, but i can now say that i love my life. things are far from perfect. i am not making much money and still don't know what i will do for the years to come. sometimes the city shits on me, but the trials do not discourage me, they makes me feel at home.
i am different now; i don't know if my past would recognize me. i feel alive here in a way that i did not in St. Louis. sometimes i wish i could gather up all the people i care about and bring them here...all the people who seem to sprawl farther away from my grasp. i want them to feel the way that i do...to have this experience. i want them to walk out their front door and feel such overwhelming emotion that sometimes they stop on the sidewalk and look around in disbelief, unsure of whether to laugh or scream or cry.
then, just as quickly, it comes to me...like a punch in the stomach and a breath of fresh air. maybe they do feel that way, wherever they are, and that is why we are no longer standing on the same sidewalk. maybe they are living their lives, walking their sidewalks, losing their breath and feeling it rush back in again. for reasons that i can't begin to comprehend.
now that i have taken a step back, i can finally see. i see everything; i see myself; i see you. i no longer beg for acceptance. i merely require it. if it is not received, i move on. no hard feelings or non-reciprocated investment.
there is no time for that anymore; there is so much else.
for those of you right-brainers, see below:
12.01.2008
RANDOM CHILDHOOD MEMORY II
.
I had another childhood flashback today: the Manha Manha video from the Muppets.
Oddly enough, the song debuted in 'Italian' in 1968 on the soundtrack for a movie called Svezia, Inferno e Paradiso (Sweden: Heaven and Hell), a documentary about wild sexual activity and other behavior in Sweden. Shortly after it was debuted in 'English' on the Ed Sullivan Show and on the Muppet Show. Seems like a natural progression...
The first video posted below is the version I remember, the second is the original version and the third is a promo for The Office. There have been a ton of other spin-offs spawned over the years, including a cover by Cake and commercial for Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper.
My thoughts: 1 point Hipsters; 0 points Squares
Good luck getting the song out of your head.
MANHA MANHA
manha manha - the early years
Manha Manha meets The Office
.
.
I had another childhood flashback today: the Manha Manha video from the Muppets.
Oddly enough, the song debuted in 'Italian' in 1968 on the soundtrack for a movie called Svezia, Inferno e Paradiso (Sweden: Heaven and Hell), a documentary about wild sexual activity and other behavior in Sweden. Shortly after it was debuted in 'English' on the Ed Sullivan Show and on the Muppet Show. Seems like a natural progression...
The first video posted below is the version I remember, the second is the original version and the third is a promo for The Office. There have been a ton of other spin-offs spawned over the years, including a cover by Cake and commercial for Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper.
My thoughts: 1 point Hipsters; 0 points Squares
Good luck getting the song out of your head.
MANHA MANHA
manha manha - the early years
Manha Manha meets The Office
.
.
11.19.2008
RANDOM CHILDHOOD MEMORY
.
I ran across this today, and it made me smile. Love the animation; one of my fondest Sesame Street memories...
.
I ran across this today, and it made me smile. Love the animation; one of my fondest Sesame Street memories...
.
11.16.2008
I AIN'T SINGIN' CAUSE I'M HAPPY - PART II
.
This is the last week for my first writing class in Chicago. I feel happiness/sadness at the same time. Happy to have a little more time to myself and to update my blog; sad because I genuinely enjoyed it. School apparently isn't all that bad when you love what you are studying. My next class will hopefully be in the summer of 2009, if/when I am admitted into the program. For now, look for more frequent blog updates...starting with my last assignment for the class.
ASSIGNMENT: to expand my character sketch assignment into a partial/full work of memoir or essay. If you read my character sketch a while back, keep reading, it goes on much further.
I AIN'T SINGIN' CAUSE I'M HAPPY
I wrote this on my way to work. It is my one and only love story.
It’s late Saturday evening and he sits perched on a stool out front of the old tavern, as he does most every night. His arms, half covered in a maroon button-up shirt rolled just below the elbows, are crossed, resting on his stomach inside his dark denim overalls, making his already broad, thick frame appear even bulkier. His kinked, frizzy, shoulder-length black hair is pulled back at the nape of his neck, held in place by an elastic rubber band. His eyes are masked by a pair of dark, round sunglasses that never leave his face.
He is a quiet man, approaching 60 years-old. He chooses his words and conversations sparingly, but he has seen things and has stories to tell. It is apparent by the deep creases on his face and roughness of his hands, but also by the way he grins to himself, on occasion, when he thinks no one is watching. His laugh is robust and genuine, but to make him laugh is a rarity. Achieve such accomplishment, however, and it resonates with you for hours.
"SERG, telephone!" someone yells from inside.
He tosses his cigarette butt to the ground, shifts his weight off the stool and stamps at the orange glow on the sidewalk with his heavy black boot. He shakes some imaginary embers off his overalls, which are worn and faded at the seat. He makes his way inside, letting out a deep, low sigh as he goes. His walk is heavy, almost forced, as if he is bothered by each step that no one has figured out a more suitable way to get from here to there.
Pulling the phone to his ear, he lets out a gruff "Yeah?" A series of affirmative grunts follow, and he slams the receiver down shortly after.
"You drove tonight, yes?" He says to me, with just a hint of a Mexican accent.
"Uh...yes, I did," I respond, not sure where this is leading.
"How about you throw me out at the Old Ale House? It's just a half mile down the road."
"Of course, no problem."
After we close the bar down, we drive down the street, in silence at first. Much to my surprise, he hands me a cd and says "Put this on number 19." I hit play and immediately recognize the voice that fills the car, which now smells of stale cigarette smoke, to be his. As he pulls himself out of my car, he nods in recognition to the bouncer outside the Ale House. He leans his head back into the car and says, "You keep that cd, ok?" Then, even though I can’t see beyond his sunglasses, I’m sure he winks at me.
And it stays with me for hours.
It’s Saturday again; my fondness for this day grows with each passing week. I walk up the sidewalk to the bar and feel a twinge of happiness to see Serge get out of the passenger side of an old, slightly rusted car. He wasn’t at work last week, and things felt bland without his presence.
It is a particularly slow-starting evening, and he is talkative. He leans on the bar, his attire almost identical to every other Saturday for the last few months. It could be considered his uniform, I suppose, although it seems more like an extension of him. Tonight, his dark denim overalls cover a deep orange, plaid collared shirt, rolled again to the elbows. One arm boasts a generous hole, the fabric frayed at the edges, through which I can see some dark material underneath. I stare curiously at the hole and wonder how long it took to spread so widely across his arm.
“You are gonna play me in pool” he says, suddenly.
“But I don’t really know how” I respond.
“Perfect, I’ll teach you, and then I’ll beat you,” he says with a chuckle and makes his way toward the table, whistling as he goes.
He is patient in his teaching, in a fatherly sort of way. He doesn’t belittle my inexperience and instead refers to me as ‘the future of pool.’ He provides commentary, playfully, as I sink the final shot for the win and almost convinces me that I deserve it. We play one more game, he wins easily, then we sit at the bar, waiting for the people. He flips a Cary Grant special on the television, and we are both engrossed. I almost fail to notice that a few customers trickle through the door. They know Serg, of course. I serve them drinks, two Pabst Blue Ribbons on tap and a Jameson on the rocks and ask if they would like me to put on some music. No, they tell me. They watch, too.
Sometimes Saturday is open mic night. When the first and only band takes stage, there are about twenty-five people in the bar. The band is dreadful, but their sheer enthusiasm outweighs the mistakes, and we applaud them, like proud parents, for being so fearless. During a break, Serg grabs a guitar and takes the mic. I am delighted at the impromptu performance; it is my first chance to hear him play.
He is a comedian, in his own right, and begins every song with “I wrote this song on my way to work. It is my one and only love song,” even though most are not. His voice fills the room, sweeter and more sentimental than one would ever predict by looking at him. A large group in the corner, they know Sergio. I watch as they sway and sing along with his words:
I ain’t singin cause I’m happy. But then again, I’m not too sad.
It’s a funny sort of feeling, not feeling good and not feeling bad.
Don’t you know I heard it said, that’s the way it should be.
Never tied down, always loose, to do as you please.
That’s the way, I heard it said, it should be.
No ties or bonds, to hold us down, we’re so free.
At the end of the night, Serg asks me, as he does every week, “Whatcha doing, girl? You coming out for a drink?” I begin to deny his invitation, as I do every week, “Just gonna go home, it’s been a long week…,” my voice trails off. He insists, “C’mon, first drink is on me. Come see some city.”
Curiosity trumps sleep; I go with him for a drink.
We walk into the Ale House, and I am reminded instantly of his most redeeming quality. Everyone knows Serg, and if they don’t, they want to and certainly have the chance by the end of an evening. As he introduces me to a myriad of people, I notice the whole room is festooned with portraits, painted by the owner of the tavern, of celebrities, local legends, politicians and other persons of note that have paid visit to the establishment. The air is filled with the snaking sounds of a saxophone. Coltrane, I think. As my senses struggle with overload, my eyes rest on a picture of him singing in a band, which covers a respectable chunk of a back wall. I comment, and he points out another right behind me. This does not surprise me.
Serg and I sit at the bar, shots in front of us, tequila and Jameson respectively. He asks, “What are you really doing here, girl? What’s so bad about St. Louis?”
I try to sum up, in a short time, the reasons behind my move. I tell him of feelings of stagnancy and wanderlust; a constant, insatiable, nagging urge to sprint away, far away, from the place I have always called home. I tell him of questions of belonging, often followed by answers of alienation. I tell him stories of opening a bar with friends and about the beginnings of relationships. I tell him about the slow death of our creation, and subsequently, relationships. I tell him that there was nothing keeping me there anymore, and that I felt abandoned, in many ways, by the only things that held me in one place for so long. I tell him about the ultimate realization that nothing is ever as sacred as I hope, despite grandiose efforts, many that surprised even me. I tell him, behind blurred vision, that I could not spend one more year in that place, for fear of watching myself dry up, crumble to pieces and blow away forever.
Maybe it is the Jameson or the imploring eyes of a hundred paintings or the impending arrival of early Sunday morning sun, but I tell him everything, and he listens.
“Ahh…such is life,” he tells me. “Just when you think you have it figured out, something, or someone, comes along and throws you right off track. You just have to try to remember one thing: always look out for yourself. Welcome people into your life, but realize that they are just here, running around this Earth, doing the same exact thing. This may sound like a negative, selfish thing, but it’s not. People come in and out of your life for a reason – a purpose – and all of these experiences we have, they teach us lessons that we must be open to learning. They change us, ya know, but they don’t stay forever. Nothing does. Just ask one of my ex-wives."
He laughs.
"But in all seriousness, that doesn’t mean they don’t make an impact that you will carry with you forever. You just have to accept it and move forward.”
He shoots his tequila, and looks at me. “You’re never gonna leave Chicago, ya know. Welcome home, girl,” he tells me.
Another Saturday, and I am in St. Louis, the place I used to call home. No windy city, no work, no Serg. I think about his words as I spend time with friends. All of these relationships, which once powered my days and shaped my character, are revisited. Things are different now; I am different now. Old feelings of antipathy and resentment, which I battled after my move, slowly melt away. I gratefully usher in realizations, awakenings and disbandments of old demons. I listen to what my friends say with new understanding. I can feel that they care, often more than can be expressed aloud. I silently thank them for giving what they can and wish them well - honestly and without reservation - and I hope my benevolence transcends all that has happened. I feel at peace, a sentiment that seemed completely insurmountable just a few months before. I move forward.
A week passes, and I am driving the streets of Chicago. I scribble some notes on the pad of paper I keep in my console; as I often do during the short waits at six-way intersections. I am singing loudly, gregariously even. Not because I am particularly happy, but not because I am sad either. I am singing because it’s Saturday, and I am on my way to work.
This is the last week for my first writing class in Chicago. I feel happiness/sadness at the same time. Happy to have a little more time to myself and to update my blog; sad because I genuinely enjoyed it. School apparently isn't all that bad when you love what you are studying. My next class will hopefully be in the summer of 2009, if/when I am admitted into the program. For now, look for more frequent blog updates...starting with my last assignment for the class.
ASSIGNMENT: to expand my character sketch assignment into a partial/full work of memoir or essay. If you read my character sketch a while back, keep reading, it goes on much further.
I AIN'T SINGIN' CAUSE I'M HAPPY
I wrote this on my way to work. It is my one and only love story.
It’s late Saturday evening and he sits perched on a stool out front of the old tavern, as he does most every night. His arms, half covered in a maroon button-up shirt rolled just below the elbows, are crossed, resting on his stomach inside his dark denim overalls, making his already broad, thick frame appear even bulkier. His kinked, frizzy, shoulder-length black hair is pulled back at the nape of his neck, held in place by an elastic rubber band. His eyes are masked by a pair of dark, round sunglasses that never leave his face.
He is a quiet man, approaching 60 years-old. He chooses his words and conversations sparingly, but he has seen things and has stories to tell. It is apparent by the deep creases on his face and roughness of his hands, but also by the way he grins to himself, on occasion, when he thinks no one is watching. His laugh is robust and genuine, but to make him laugh is a rarity. Achieve such accomplishment, however, and it resonates with you for hours.
"SERG, telephone!" someone yells from inside.
He tosses his cigarette butt to the ground, shifts his weight off the stool and stamps at the orange glow on the sidewalk with his heavy black boot. He shakes some imaginary embers off his overalls, which are worn and faded at the seat. He makes his way inside, letting out a deep, low sigh as he goes. His walk is heavy, almost forced, as if he is bothered by each step that no one has figured out a more suitable way to get from here to there.
Pulling the phone to his ear, he lets out a gruff "Yeah?" A series of affirmative grunts follow, and he slams the receiver down shortly after.
"You drove tonight, yes?" He says to me, with just a hint of a Mexican accent.
"Uh...yes, I did," I respond, not sure where this is leading.
"How about you throw me out at the Old Ale House? It's just a half mile down the road."
"Of course, no problem."
After we close the bar down, we drive down the street, in silence at first. Much to my surprise, he hands me a cd and says "Put this on number 19." I hit play and immediately recognize the voice that fills the car, which now smells of stale cigarette smoke, to be his. As he pulls himself out of my car, he nods in recognition to the bouncer outside the Ale House. He leans his head back into the car and says, "You keep that cd, ok?" Then, even though I can’t see beyond his sunglasses, I’m sure he winks at me.
And it stays with me for hours.
It’s Saturday again; my fondness for this day grows with each passing week. I walk up the sidewalk to the bar and feel a twinge of happiness to see Serge get out of the passenger side of an old, slightly rusted car. He wasn’t at work last week, and things felt bland without his presence.
It is a particularly slow-starting evening, and he is talkative. He leans on the bar, his attire almost identical to every other Saturday for the last few months. It could be considered his uniform, I suppose, although it seems more like an extension of him. Tonight, his dark denim overalls cover a deep orange, plaid collared shirt, rolled again to the elbows. One arm boasts a generous hole, the fabric frayed at the edges, through which I can see some dark material underneath. I stare curiously at the hole and wonder how long it took to spread so widely across his arm.
“You are gonna play me in pool” he says, suddenly.
“But I don’t really know how” I respond.
“Perfect, I’ll teach you, and then I’ll beat you,” he says with a chuckle and makes his way toward the table, whistling as he goes.
He is patient in his teaching, in a fatherly sort of way. He doesn’t belittle my inexperience and instead refers to me as ‘the future of pool.’ He provides commentary, playfully, as I sink the final shot for the win and almost convinces me that I deserve it. We play one more game, he wins easily, then we sit at the bar, waiting for the people. He flips a Cary Grant special on the television, and we are both engrossed. I almost fail to notice that a few customers trickle through the door. They know Serg, of course. I serve them drinks, two Pabst Blue Ribbons on tap and a Jameson on the rocks and ask if they would like me to put on some music. No, they tell me. They watch, too.
Sometimes Saturday is open mic night. When the first and only band takes stage, there are about twenty-five people in the bar. The band is dreadful, but their sheer enthusiasm outweighs the mistakes, and we applaud them, like proud parents, for being so fearless. During a break, Serg grabs a guitar and takes the mic. I am delighted at the impromptu performance; it is my first chance to hear him play.
He is a comedian, in his own right, and begins every song with “I wrote this song on my way to work. It is my one and only love song,” even though most are not. His voice fills the room, sweeter and more sentimental than one would ever predict by looking at him. A large group in the corner, they know Sergio. I watch as they sway and sing along with his words:
I ain’t singin cause I’m happy. But then again, I’m not too sad.
It’s a funny sort of feeling, not feeling good and not feeling bad.
Don’t you know I heard it said, that’s the way it should be.
Never tied down, always loose, to do as you please.
That’s the way, I heard it said, it should be.
No ties or bonds, to hold us down, we’re so free.
At the end of the night, Serg asks me, as he does every week, “Whatcha doing, girl? You coming out for a drink?” I begin to deny his invitation, as I do every week, “Just gonna go home, it’s been a long week…,” my voice trails off. He insists, “C’mon, first drink is on me. Come see some city.”
Curiosity trumps sleep; I go with him for a drink.
We walk into the Ale House, and I am reminded instantly of his most redeeming quality. Everyone knows Serg, and if they don’t, they want to and certainly have the chance by the end of an evening. As he introduces me to a myriad of people, I notice the whole room is festooned with portraits, painted by the owner of the tavern, of celebrities, local legends, politicians and other persons of note that have paid visit to the establishment. The air is filled with the snaking sounds of a saxophone. Coltrane, I think. As my senses struggle with overload, my eyes rest on a picture of him singing in a band, which covers a respectable chunk of a back wall. I comment, and he points out another right behind me. This does not surprise me.
Serg and I sit at the bar, shots in front of us, tequila and Jameson respectively. He asks, “What are you really doing here, girl? What’s so bad about St. Louis?”
I try to sum up, in a short time, the reasons behind my move. I tell him of feelings of stagnancy and wanderlust; a constant, insatiable, nagging urge to sprint away, far away, from the place I have always called home. I tell him of questions of belonging, often followed by answers of alienation. I tell him stories of opening a bar with friends and about the beginnings of relationships. I tell him about the slow death of our creation, and subsequently, relationships. I tell him that there was nothing keeping me there anymore, and that I felt abandoned, in many ways, by the only things that held me in one place for so long. I tell him about the ultimate realization that nothing is ever as sacred as I hope, despite grandiose efforts, many that surprised even me. I tell him, behind blurred vision, that I could not spend one more year in that place, for fear of watching myself dry up, crumble to pieces and blow away forever.
Maybe it is the Jameson or the imploring eyes of a hundred paintings or the impending arrival of early Sunday morning sun, but I tell him everything, and he listens.
“Ahh…such is life,” he tells me. “Just when you think you have it figured out, something, or someone, comes along and throws you right off track. You just have to try to remember one thing: always look out for yourself. Welcome people into your life, but realize that they are just here, running around this Earth, doing the same exact thing. This may sound like a negative, selfish thing, but it’s not. People come in and out of your life for a reason – a purpose – and all of these experiences we have, they teach us lessons that we must be open to learning. They change us, ya know, but they don’t stay forever. Nothing does. Just ask one of my ex-wives."
He laughs.
"But in all seriousness, that doesn’t mean they don’t make an impact that you will carry with you forever. You just have to accept it and move forward.”
He shoots his tequila, and looks at me. “You’re never gonna leave Chicago, ya know. Welcome home, girl,” he tells me.
Another Saturday, and I am in St. Louis, the place I used to call home. No windy city, no work, no Serg. I think about his words as I spend time with friends. All of these relationships, which once powered my days and shaped my character, are revisited. Things are different now; I am different now. Old feelings of antipathy and resentment, which I battled after my move, slowly melt away. I gratefully usher in realizations, awakenings and disbandments of old demons. I listen to what my friends say with new understanding. I can feel that they care, often more than can be expressed aloud. I silently thank them for giving what they can and wish them well - honestly and without reservation - and I hope my benevolence transcends all that has happened. I feel at peace, a sentiment that seemed completely insurmountable just a few months before. I move forward.
A week passes, and I am driving the streets of Chicago. I scribble some notes on the pad of paper I keep in my console; as I often do during the short waits at six-way intersections. I am singing loudly, gregariously even. Not because I am particularly happy, but not because I am sad either. I am singing because it’s Saturday, and I am on my way to work.
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