Some of you who know me well know that I often comb the Missed Connections on Craigslist before bed. I first started doing this because of a secret mission I have, but I soon became addicted to the slightly voyeuristic peek my forays offer into the lives of others.
Missed Connections is a way to reach out to someone in the universe whose path has crossed yours too fleetingly. The prototypical M.C.: man sees gorgeous woman in supermarket, they make eye contact (or he thinks they do), man turns into putty and does nothing, woman assumes he's not interested (or never noticed him to begin with) and leaves, man smacks himself and turns to the comfortable confines of cyberspace where he is John Wayne and afraid of nothing, man writes a Missed Connection post seeking the woman in the floral dress in the checkout line of Trader Joe's in Alhambra at 2:30pm on Sunday. Man waits anxiously for a response.
Man gets response. Man doesn't get response. The dynamics of fate skew toward the latter, I'm sure.
These can be fascinating in and of themselves, both in diversity of expression and range of insight. However, there is a wide spectrum of other offerings to be found on Missed Connections. They range from flights of fancy to long-lost-loves to rants on the meaning of our lonely existence. Some of it is gay, some of it straight. Some of it is banal, some of it profound. Some of it is well-written, some of it not, some of it interminably long and some only a few words. But all of it (with the exception of the occasional solicitation that was meant to go into Casual Encounters) points to a deeper human need: to find that special person and be acknowledged by them and be sure they feel the same way about you. In other words, to not miss out on that most powerful and elemental human experience, the Connection.
The world is a lush human habitat teeming with love, hurt, victory and drama. Enjoy.
---
To Superman aka My Midwestern Heaven- w4m
Date: 2010-04-11, 3:28AM
Dear Superman,
How are you? Busy saving Metropolis I suppose, I guess there really is no rest for the wicked. I haven't heard from you since you got back from salvaging the South American forests, so much for your holiday huh..considering you just needed time away you said.
Me, I'm here having to post you this note on Craigslist (of all places). On a sad Saturday.
I guess it's fitting to write you here considering this is where you found me last year, practically half-dead from escaping Manchester Black. Nothing quite makes the villain as a British accent. Still, setting all evil charm aside, you managed to save me through judicious use of your wonderful Midwestern values not to mention your amazing superpowers, the x-ray vision was particularly effective. You not only saw through my underwear but apparently through the strange bravado I tried to put up in an effort to hide how horribly shredded I was. I was clearly post-traumatic. And incredulous at your kindness.
You managed to revive me just in time for Christmas, when I was half-delirious with pain that I didn't think my world would ever heal from the way it cracked so loudly. You were smart. You were funny. You were tender. You didn't look like your news pictures but you were in short, just Super.
When you flew off after tending to my wounds and actually sharing yours with me, I sat happily at home hoping you would come by again. After all I didn't want you to think it was just a Savior Crush on my part and I know how you hate paparazzi and stalkers. And from time to time you would check on me..but somehow your concern and curiosity became interspersed with fear and avoidance. You had once again become invincible.
Since then, you've told me you've battled disease (some kind of alien flu I don't want to be too specific as that would be publicity for the evil-doer who released it on mankind), missed a date with me due to out of town guests (from good ol' Krypton, and "it's such a long way"), been on extended work projects (because Batman had technical funding issues when the economy hit Wayne Industries and you always take up the slack since you operate sans technology) until finally, one day you simply wrote, you couldn't be with me. You weren't ready, you said. I wish I could be more there for you, you said.
Which is interesting considering you always tell me I'm amazing...and even in one completely unexpected moment, told me and I paraphrase very loosely, that you, "Must...not...come..too...close...will get..weaker, scared..of..hurting". I don't know how it happened, but I had suddenly become your Kryptonite Seductress.
I know we're not from the same planet, but now I'm not sure if you're considering me as "too exotic", or maybe so unexpectedly far from your usual type - face it Lois Lane was a bit of a Bitch, not to mention pushy. And she didn't exactly wait for you did she?? Or did I just start glowing greenly at some point during that wonderful night?
If I did, I'm sorry. But that's what happens when I get happy. I glow. If it's green, mea culpa.
I know in the bigger scheme of things, you have two thousand good reasons to not want to pursue this, number one being this ridiculous sense of responsibility to Metropolis and the Universe at large followed by this immense sense of purpose you have. Which you don't want to interrupt in case my green glow turns out to be Kryptonic. Well, it isn't. It's earthly and benign, just like the forest you rescued. And yes, I am different..but I don't want to explain more as at the end of the day, I have to accept your reasons at face value then leave it be. I mean, maybe you just don't like me that much at all which would be odd considering you tell me you do.
I know the more you come around me, the more I'll probably glow and you're fearful that you will either hurt me or I will hurt you. So these past months I have tried to be brave and forget about you, it just doesn't seem to be working. I inevitably wonder about what you're doing, or where you are, or all the interestingly human bits of you..like the way your eyes crinkle when you smile. And that you're fascinatingly not exempt from having to blow your nose, I find that really funny. And sure I'll admit it, those red briefs are a sight to behold.
All I know is that in your head it makes sense to ignore the incredible attraction. Even when you wished you could fly back to me again, you don't. So you leave me here.. in the fortress. Once you said you would come back but you never did. So I avoid sending you anything as I want to respect your wishes. Just right now..it's really hard. Specially when I'm under a Manchester Black attack and have to run for cover.
Is this how you really want to let it go? I guess your reasons are Good, I mean who can argue with your super intellect?
I admit I'm hoping your heart does. Unless it too is irredeemable from having turned to steel. This is meant to be kind of funny but it's really not.. I'm sad, I wish I could see you and I am sick of polishing all this crystal.
All I can do I guess is wish you well and know that when I look up at the sky, it's not a bird, it's not a plane..it's Superman.
yours,
because i know what falling feels like
Location: The Fortress of Solitude
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
OK to contact me about appearing in CL documentary series
Original URL: http://losangeles.craigslist.org/wst/mis/1686572396.html
---
So so sad. - w4m
Date: 2010-04-11, 7:43PM
I can still almost hear your when you would say, "babe". I get random flashbacks of doing the most insignificant things with you, like just walking down the street to get some meatballs or pizza or looking for movies at Blockbuster for the night. I'm different now, more quiet, don't laugh or smile much, lost some more weight, you would definitely make me eat some toast like in Vegas, I think I was always too skinny for you, I guess I should've listened when you said I needed to gain weight. I think a million things. "Why? " is the main one. I adored you and no one is you. Maybe I never really knew you, even though you said you could be completely yourself around me, the you I knew wouldn't have left me and been okay, but apparently you are just fine. I feel like you couldn't wait to get away from me. You hate to care about people and since I was the only person you cared about in California like you said, then you should be so happy now. I miss you, I can still smell you and hear you laugh and when I think about, I still get that feeling I got when you would hold me, you said I felt perfect in your arms and I did. What makes my brain hurt the most is that everything was a great between us, it was almost a year and we had one argument and until the day we broke up everything was awesome. You told me that I deserve someone better. I only ever wanted you and you knew that. You could have been honest, completely honest, that really didn't seem like a reason to walk away from the person that fulfilled your every desire in a woman, the most beautiful, sexiest, generous, caring woman in the world, as you said, even up until 2 days before we broke up. I had a mini reunion from friends from grade school, everyone kept telling me how beautiful I was and one friend asked how it felt to have everyone stare at me every time I walked into a room and I all I could thing was that wasn't the case because you left. You know my ego and self esteem are very healthy as well as my pride but my thoughts just drift back to you. Who knows, nothing seems to make sense lately. I just pretend and my friends try to be supportive and understanding and no one ever brings you up. If I happen to mention you or someone asks what happened they just say it that it was for the best or that someone better will come around. I don't know what is going on in your life right now but I miss you and I hope you are happy, maybe one day you will email and just let me know why, it would help. Was there someone else, did you get scared (I know the whole it's too good to be true thing scared you but I thought you got over it), was I too thin, too good to you? Uggg, I guess I will never know. You said no one had ever treated you better, the least you could have done it tell me the whole truth, nothing hurts as bad as not really knowing. Where your lies catching up to you?
Oh well, I sound like a broken record. Hope you are happy and healthy and found what you are looking for. My heart is broken every time I think about you but I usually stop myself from thinking about you. I miss you babe. I know I sound pathetic, I know this and chances are I never even cross your mind but that's what Craigslist is for to be a fool and no one knows who you are.
Location: Too far and too long
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Original URL: http://losangeles.craigslist.org/wst/mis/1687736048.html
---
this house is now cold and empty
Date: 2010-04-14, 3:44AM
I thought I could handle your not being here. I couldnt know that this house would hold nothing further for me now that youre gone.
Location: West Covina
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Original URL: http://losangeles.craigslist.org/sgv/mis/1691434300.html
---
To the girl who rolled her truck
Date: 2010-04-15, 10:14AM
After driving all night from San Francisco I see you flip your truck on to its side. I'm not even sure how you did it but all I saw was your truck come flying off the side of the off-ramp and bounce straight up coming off the ground!! It landed on its tail end and rolled onto the side. I pulled over and ran to see if I could help. When I got there the door was locked but the drivers window was either broken or rolled down. It was hard to see due to the rain and me being half blind with glasses.... I asked if you were ok and you said yes. I could tell you were freaked out when you grabed my arm and said "OH MY GOD....SHIT.....OH MY GOD... SHIT!!!!" I told you to un-lock the door and GET OUT.. You un-buckled your seat belt and fell to the passenger side window. I reached for you telling you again to get out of the truck!!! I know you were disoriented and confused so was I... but I wish you would have just grabbed my arm right away and got out of the truck. Instead you stumbled around gathering things in your truck... I told you again to leave it and get out.. you said that you needed it and continued looking for whatever you where looking for... by this time other kind people had pulled over and come to help. I asked one to hold the door so I could help you out. Next thing I remember is your truck being struck by another car and the two guys behind me go flying like a 100 feet!!!! Your truck spins around with you still in it on its side.. When it comes to a stop I run over to find you un-harmed!!! Unbelievable... by this time I am totally freaked out and confused... You roll your truck, get hit by another car going 50-60 mph, and it looked like you didn't even have a scratch?? The other two guys got hit hard. I never even saw the other guy. But when I ran over.. there where two of them laying on the off ramp. I ran down to the end of the ramp to stop traffic coming off the freeway... I stopped the traffic and returned to my car to call 911. The driver of the other car that had struck yours was helping with the two people down on the road and I think you were standing in the bushes on the side of the road. When I was sitting in my car I could feel the force of the other cars against mine as they went by.. I realized I was putting myself in danger and left the scene. I called 911 and told them I was in a unsafe are on the freeway and gave them my information and reported the accident.
You are the luckiest person on Earth!!! I hope you do great things with your life....
Location: I-5 Burbank
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Original URL: http://losangeles.craigslist.org/lac/mis/1693567325.html
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Mist
As I was looking through my inbox for a song lyric I needed I stumbled on an old email, copied below, that I obviously wrote in a frantic daze and sent to a friend who was very dear to me at the time. I never got a response from her, which is probably fair because the contents are equal parts intense, grandiose and unprompted. The sad thing is that it was probably meant as a gesture of warmth to someone I cared about.
I copy it here as a reminder of the "heavy fog" I found myself traveling during that time in my life and in honor of whatever kernel of insight about existence those convoluted words point to.
---
3/17/07
Wanted to get this down before I slip into a dreamless sleep. You're
the only one I can think to send it to.
As I left UC Santa Barbara in the heavy fog I passed the 101 South
entrance. There was a car behind me so I couldn't turn around right
away. He tailed me for some time as I curved around and made a left
onto a small country road, finally losing him. The mist was thick and
I could just make out fields of grass and brush on the side. It
reminded me of where I went to college.
I retraced my way back to the 101 and headed home. It was a long
drive and, except for my short pit stop for gas somewhere north of
Ventura, the entire twilight journey was shrouded in fog. I couldn't
see more than a few meters ahead of me as I drove at speeds upward of
80 miles per hour. It was like the world itself, or the wide reel of
my life, was being revealed to me in short spurts on the spot, with an
infinite multitude of the 'beyond' lurking in the mist, sleeping just
beyond the frame.
It occured to me that the places in our life and in our hearts are
like little breaks in the fog, little pockets of clarity in a vast,
thick, all-encompassing mist. When you take a step into the great
beyond, it recedes a little. But just a little. You can't see
everything. It may retreat bit by bit forever as you chase your own
personal unknowns into eternity, but ultimately it's bigger than you
could ever see all of with your own two eyes. That's why we have
license to take whatever chances we want to in life -- because
possibility is genuinely infinite. It all depends on where you want to
go.
But it's also one of the reasons, I think, that human beings crave
friendship, fellowship, love and contact with one another. Imagine two
people looking opposite directions in the fog, searching for their
own way home, and meeting one another, whether briefly or lingeringly,
in some secluded, stumbled-upon pocket in the mist.
Michael
I copy it here as a reminder of the "heavy fog" I found myself traveling during that time in my life and in honor of whatever kernel of insight about existence those convoluted words point to.
---
3/17/07
Wanted to get this down before I slip into a dreamless sleep. You're
the only one I can think to send it to.
As I left UC Santa Barbara in the heavy fog I passed the 101 South
entrance. There was a car behind me so I couldn't turn around right
away. He tailed me for some time as I curved around and made a left
onto a small country road, finally losing him. The mist was thick and
I could just make out fields of grass and brush on the side. It
reminded me of where I went to college.
I retraced my way back to the 101 and headed home. It was a long
drive and, except for my short pit stop for gas somewhere north of
Ventura, the entire twilight journey was shrouded in fog. I couldn't
see more than a few meters ahead of me as I drove at speeds upward of
80 miles per hour. It was like the world itself, or the wide reel of
my life, was being revealed to me in short spurts on the spot, with an
infinite multitude of the 'beyond' lurking in the mist, sleeping just
beyond the frame.
It occured to me that the places in our life and in our hearts are
like little breaks in the fog, little pockets of clarity in a vast,
thick, all-encompassing mist. When you take a step into the great
beyond, it recedes a little. But just a little. You can't see
everything. It may retreat bit by bit forever as you chase your own
personal unknowns into eternity, but ultimately it's bigger than you
could ever see all of with your own two eyes. That's why we have
license to take whatever chances we want to in life -- because
possibility is genuinely infinite. It all depends on where you want to
go.
But it's also one of the reasons, I think, that human beings crave
friendship, fellowship, love and contact with one another. Imagine two
people looking opposite directions in the fog, searching for their
own way home, and meeting one another, whether briefly or lingeringly,
in some secluded, stumbled-upon pocket in the mist.
Michael
Monday, November 9, 2009
Election Reflection
In the interest of getting organized I've been thumbing through the approximately thousand unread that have accumulated over the past year. I read the ones that interest me, delete the ones that don't, and respond where a response is long overdue.
A whole bundle of the emails are from the Obama campaign, which I donated a small chunk of change to once or twice and volunteered for on the final day of the election cycle, November 3rd of last year. For those of you who don't know my political leanings, they are simply that I am a moderate independent with no strings attached. In 2008 I saw two men I liked well enough to lead the free world and I picked the one I thought was best-equipped and most capable of effecting real, positive change in our country and abroad.
As I systematically wade through the sea of emails from Obama, Biden, and all the King's horses and all the King's men, I find a few worth reading, if only to help mark a moment in history or for value of reminiscence. I just spent the past 20 minutes filling out an Organizing for America survey sent two weeks after Election Day to ask for reflections on my involvement as a volunteer for the campaign (and, likely, to farm my name out for various volunteer "opportunities" in which I have little interest).
At the end of the survey I clicked "send" and got sent to a wonderful "This webpage is not available" page. I guess The Greatest Internet Campaign in the History of the Universe isn't much for technological upkeep. (Who fills these things out a year later, anyway? Don't answer that.)
Since I took the time to fill out the answers on the "short essay" section at the end of the survey, I thought I'd share my responses here.
OPTIONAL: What first inspired you to join this campaign?:
I didn't want to find myself standing idly by on the sidelines during such an important moment in history, so I opted to volunteer at the 11th hour, begging to be given the most valuable responsibility I could. Taking the day off work to canvass in Nevada seemed like the best sacrifice I could make so that's where I spent November 3rd, 2008.
OPTIONAL: What was the best part of your volunteer experience?:
I really loved the experience of driving several hours and giving my day and myself to a cause--interacting with other people from all walks of life, young and old, and being a part of something important, even for such a short time and at the last minute. I found myself a little sad I had not done so before.
OPTIONAL: What could have been improved about your volunteer experience?:
I walked into my local field office two or three days before election day and found the (admittedly busy) staff fairly unenthusiastic about and unresponsive to my earnest desire to volunteer. That was a real disappointment (though it didn't deter me) that I wish could have been avoided.
OPTIONAL: What was your greatest achievement as a volunteer? What was your greatest challenge?:
My greatest achievement as a volunteer was, I hope, perhaps adding votes to Obama's column by knocking on doors and being honest with real people about why I thought he was the best choice for president. The greatest challenge was braving the angry stares and reprimands of folks who didn't want me in their neighborhood, didn't want to be bothered and, most of all, did not want Obama to win.
OPTIONAL: Did you meet a fellow volunteer or field organizer who inspired you? How did they inspire you?:
To the contrary, my canvassing partner was highly inarticulate and seemed fairly ignorant about American politics or even Obama as a candidate. This was no deterrent, but I met a lot of well-meaning people who didn't exactly dazzle. I was very impressed, on the other hand, by the leadership at the Henderson, NV field office where I volunteered; they seemed like bright, passionate young folks who had worked themselves to the bone for the cause. I wish I had had the opportunity to interact with them.
A whole bundle of the emails are from the Obama campaign, which I donated a small chunk of change to once or twice and volunteered for on the final day of the election cycle, November 3rd of last year. For those of you who don't know my political leanings, they are simply that I am a moderate independent with no strings attached. In 2008 I saw two men I liked well enough to lead the free world and I picked the one I thought was best-equipped and most capable of effecting real, positive change in our country and abroad.
As I systematically wade through the sea of emails from Obama, Biden, and all the King's horses and all the King's men, I find a few worth reading, if only to help mark a moment in history or for value of reminiscence. I just spent the past 20 minutes filling out an Organizing for America survey sent two weeks after Election Day to ask for reflections on my involvement as a volunteer for the campaign (and, likely, to farm my name out for various volunteer "opportunities" in which I have little interest).
At the end of the survey I clicked "send" and got sent to a wonderful "This webpage is not available" page. I guess The Greatest Internet Campaign in the History of the Universe isn't much for technological upkeep. (Who fills these things out a year later, anyway? Don't answer that.)
Since I took the time to fill out the answers on the "short essay" section at the end of the survey, I thought I'd share my responses here.
OPTIONAL: What first inspired you to join this campaign?:
I didn't want to find myself standing idly by on the sidelines during such an important moment in history, so I opted to volunteer at the 11th hour, begging to be given the most valuable responsibility I could. Taking the day off work to canvass in Nevada seemed like the best sacrifice I could make so that's where I spent November 3rd, 2008.
OPTIONAL: What was the best part of your volunteer experience?:
I really loved the experience of driving several hours and giving my day and myself to a cause--interacting with other people from all walks of life, young and old, and being a part of something important, even for such a short time and at the last minute. I found myself a little sad I had not done so before.
OPTIONAL: What could have been improved about your volunteer experience?:
I walked into my local field office two or three days before election day and found the (admittedly busy) staff fairly unenthusiastic about and unresponsive to my earnest desire to volunteer. That was a real disappointment (though it didn't deter me) that I wish could have been avoided.
OPTIONAL: What was your greatest achievement as a volunteer? What was your greatest challenge?:
My greatest achievement as a volunteer was, I hope, perhaps adding votes to Obama's column by knocking on doors and being honest with real people about why I thought he was the best choice for president. The greatest challenge was braving the angry stares and reprimands of folks who didn't want me in their neighborhood, didn't want to be bothered and, most of all, did not want Obama to win.
OPTIONAL: Did you meet a fellow volunteer or field organizer who inspired you? How did they inspire you?:
To the contrary, my canvassing partner was highly inarticulate and seemed fairly ignorant about American politics or even Obama as a candidate. This was no deterrent, but I met a lot of well-meaning people who didn't exactly dazzle. I was very impressed, on the other hand, by the leadership at the Henderson, NV field office where I volunteered; they seemed like bright, passionate young folks who had worked themselves to the bone for the cause. I wish I had had the opportunity to interact with them.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
If I Ever Lose My Faith
I've been looking for a new roommate for the past two months. The search has been a real challenge, with very few responses from craigslist and even fewer leads from friends and family. I'm beginning to wonder if perhaps my place, once an oasis of thrift nestled between three gentrified areas, has suddenly become expensive with the current economic downturn. If that's true, then the recession has hit me hard as well, to the turn of over a thousand dollars as I have to pay twice my portion of rent each month.
Every week a few people come by to look at the place. I greet them with a smile and give them the best sense of my personality I can. I'd've thought the place, its location and the roommate speak for themselves, but it's been difficult to find any real takers. I had one fellow genuinely interested, a 28-year-old medical imaging specialist named Darren, but I foolishly strung him along while looking for someone I thought would be a "better fit." No one with a spine waits forever.
Whenever I have a showing I clean up the place as best I can and then turn on Sting's "Ten Summoner's Tales" in my room. I turn the sound on my laptop low and keep the CD playing on random song order and I want potential roommates to get a sense of my musical taste and the vibe I consider ideal for being at home.
Potential roommates have never commented on it either way, but I'm convinced it helps my case. The real problem is when someone I have an appointment with flakes, or calls to say they've just placed a deposit on someplace else and won't be coming by after all. Suddenly the sad songs take on a poignant new meaning (Fields of Gold, Shape of My Heart), the uptempo pieces wax ironic (She's Too Good For Me, Saint Augustine in Hell) and the album's Epilogue ("They still know nothing 'bout me/still know nothing 'bout me...") acquires a strangely defiant tone.
Every week a few people come by to look at the place. I greet them with a smile and give them the best sense of my personality I can. I'd've thought the place, its location and the roommate speak for themselves, but it's been difficult to find any real takers. I had one fellow genuinely interested, a 28-year-old medical imaging specialist named Darren, but I foolishly strung him along while looking for someone I thought would be a "better fit." No one with a spine waits forever.
Whenever I have a showing I clean up the place as best I can and then turn on Sting's "Ten Summoner's Tales" in my room. I turn the sound on my laptop low and keep the CD playing on random song order and I want potential roommates to get a sense of my musical taste and the vibe I consider ideal for being at home.
Potential roommates have never commented on it either way, but I'm convinced it helps my case. The real problem is when someone I have an appointment with flakes, or calls to say they've just placed a deposit on someplace else and won't be coming by after all. Suddenly the sad songs take on a poignant new meaning (Fields of Gold, Shape of My Heart), the uptempo pieces wax ironic (She's Too Good For Me, Saint Augustine in Hell) and the album's Epilogue ("They still know nothing 'bout me/still know nothing 'bout me...") acquires a strangely defiant tone.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Exercises in Vanity, Part 1
The week after my last post, the Borders over on the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica announced by email that it, too, would be closing its doors soon. I went in one night, hoping to take advantage of their presumably desperate push to get rid of whatever merchandise remained. Apparently Borders had no trouble attracting like-minded vultures, because the shelves were mostly barren.
At least the store went out with a bang. I waited on the longest line in recent memory to pay for my selections. As I handed the clerk my Borders card I asked him whether he was sad Borders was closing. "Yes," he responded. "Of course. But we're just happy we could serve our customers."
I stopped at another Borders just this morning to pick up--of all things--a book on modeling. I decided yesterday that I may as well give it a try. I'm a reasonably good looking guy--not terribly tall, not tremendously angular, but I've been known to hold a girl's (or a certain type of fellow's) attention from time to time.
That's the theme of the new year: to starting DOING all that I wish I were able to do. That way I won't regret not going for it ten years from now when I finally decide that, all these years, I should've been a model, or an actor, or a nuclear physicist.*
Anyway, the point of this little segment wasn't to inform you of this latest brilliant experiment in vanity I'm embarking on; I simply wanted to note that the Borders on Westwood Blvd. is still open, and I wonder how long before it, too, is forced to close its doors.
Speaking of exercises in vanity, though, have a look at my Vocal Arranging Demo:
Hi! I'm Michael's youtube video! I have no idea why I don't display correctly on his blog, but it may have something to do with Throckmorton's Reflex...
This reel is the first of its kind. I put together a demo CD to hand out at a dreadful choral event I got Shanghaied into presenting at last weekend. The event was a bust (to the tune of over seven hours and about fifty bucks in packets of sheet music, to say nothing of the all-nighter I pulled putting these materials together) but all was not lost: I now have a demo I can be reasonably proud of. I hope it will get me some work, someday, somehow.
Still riding the wave of excitement, I dumped the reel montage into iMovie two nights later and made a little video so I could showcase my stuff on youtube. It may--or, should I say, may it--be the first of many self-marketing ploys. I need all the work I can get.
If you read my blog and are interested in my arranging services--or would simply like to hear my work in higher-res quality--drop me a line.
*Book purchase on nuclear physics still pending...
At least the store went out with a bang. I waited on the longest line in recent memory to pay for my selections. As I handed the clerk my Borders card I asked him whether he was sad Borders was closing. "Yes," he responded. "Of course. But we're just happy we could serve our customers."
I stopped at another Borders just this morning to pick up--of all things--a book on modeling. I decided yesterday that I may as well give it a try. I'm a reasonably good looking guy--not terribly tall, not tremendously angular, but I've been known to hold a girl's (or a certain type of fellow's) attention from time to time.
That's the theme of the new year: to starting DOING all that I wish I were able to do. That way I won't regret not going for it ten years from now when I finally decide that, all these years, I should've been a model, or an actor, or a nuclear physicist.*
Anyway, the point of this little segment wasn't to inform you of this latest brilliant experiment in vanity I'm embarking on; I simply wanted to note that the Borders on Westwood Blvd. is still open, and I wonder how long before it, too, is forced to close its doors.
Speaking of exercises in vanity, though, have a look at my Vocal Arranging Demo:
Hi! I'm Michael's youtube video! I have no idea why I don't display correctly on his blog, but it may have something to do with Throckmorton's Reflex...
This reel is the first of its kind. I put together a demo CD to hand out at a dreadful choral event I got Shanghaied into presenting at last weekend. The event was a bust (to the tune of over seven hours and about fifty bucks in packets of sheet music, to say nothing of the all-nighter I pulled putting these materials together) but all was not lost: I now have a demo I can be reasonably proud of. I hope it will get me some work, someday, somehow.
Still riding the wave of excitement, I dumped the reel montage into iMovie two nights later and made a little video so I could showcase my stuff on youtube. It may--or, should I say, may it--be the first of many self-marketing ploys. I need all the work I can get.
If you read my blog and are interested in my arranging services--or would simply like to hear my work in higher-res quality--drop me a line.
*Book purchase on nuclear physics still pending...
Monday, December 29, 2008
Borders Closing, 40% off
I can't help but feel sad about the apparent implosion of Borders. Yesterday I got an email on my Blackberry with the subject line "Borders Closing, 40% off Clearance Sale." Oh great, thought I. Borders, long-vaunted in my mind as the place you go to buy books, was going under. Which staples of my capitalist childhood were about to follow suit?
A few minutes later I got another email stating that only one Borders store was closing, way up in Sacramento, and apologizing for the mistake. Somehow, the reassurance-minded disclaimer made the situation seem even more depressing, like a party guest who spends half the evening apologizing for being so awkward and you don't want to go over to the punch bowl anymore even though you're thirsty because J.D. is standing right there and not talking to ANYONE else.
While I was out caroling on battleships and Beverly Hills street corners, an endless barrage of emails arrived from Borders in my inbox this month, each subject line more desperate than the last: "30% Coupon, Plus Huge Holiday Savings"; "40% Off Item of Your Choice"; "Blowout Savings -- Up to 75% Off." To open one of these messages is to plunge headfirst into a lachrymatory of garish backgrounds and big-sale font, to be greeted by excessive DVD box sets no sentient person could ever want, and the plaintive Beanie stare of Chaucer the Bear (now $4.99 after discount!).
I met my technophobic mom for brunch today and afterwards we went for a drive to a nearby animal shelter. "I think Borders is in trouble," she told me, probably citing some Times article or another, "though to be honest, and this might sound kind of strange, I buy a lot of stuff on Amazon nowadays."
A few minutes later I got another email stating that only one Borders store was closing, way up in Sacramento, and apologizing for the mistake. Somehow, the reassurance-minded disclaimer made the situation seem even more depressing, like a party guest who spends half the evening apologizing for being so awkward and you don't want to go over to the punch bowl anymore even though you're thirsty because J.D. is standing right there and not talking to ANYONE else.
While I was out caroling on battleships and Beverly Hills street corners, an endless barrage of emails arrived from Borders in my inbox this month, each subject line more desperate than the last: "30% Coupon, Plus Huge Holiday Savings"; "40% Off Item of Your Choice"; "Blowout Savings -- Up to 75% Off." To open one of these messages is to plunge headfirst into a lachrymatory of garish backgrounds and big-sale font, to be greeted by excessive DVD box sets no sentient person could ever want, and the plaintive Beanie stare of Chaucer the Bear (now $4.99 after discount!).
I met my technophobic mom for brunch today and afterwards we went for a drive to a nearby animal shelter. "I think Borders is in trouble," she told me, probably citing some Times article or another, "though to be honest, and this might sound kind of strange, I buy a lot of stuff on Amazon nowadays."
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Valencia Car Wash Ad and Jingle
It might not be my very best work, but I met a client's needs and deadline. And with this ad now playing almost 2,000 times in the Santa Clarita broadcast area this summer, it ain't my worst work, either. I hope this small victory will spur others.
By the way, if you live in or near Valencia, tune into Fox Sports, Nickelodeon, TLC, The Golf Channel, Travel or Oxygen and you just might see it "live."
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Another birthday for you
A couple of months ago I was cleaning out my old room at my father's home and I found an old newspaper obituary page dated July 2007. My father had spotted the name of the mother of one of my high school classmates that day and saved it for me. Out of some kind of morbid interest, or enthusiastic disinterest in any actual cleaning, I ended up absorbing myself in that page for a half hour or so in the creaky chair in front of my old bed.
I read through the words dedicated to Sean's mother once or twice, reveling in what few but warm memories I have of her. And after that I scanned the rest of the entries too. I don't know what I was looking for, exactly--a kind of kinship, maybe, or another name I would recognize. There was none; only the long faceless patter of names and affections played out on any midweek obituary page, the doctor who loved, the father who tried, each glimmer equal parts familiar and faraway.
But then a small sheepish rectangle of text on the periphery caught my eye. This is what it said:
In Memoriam: Mitchell Evan Gordon
7/26/54 - 9/12/87
Another birthday for you, Mitch, without you being here. Though the years have been slipping by, our love and thoughts for you are always in our hearts, and always will be. You have left us with so many beautiful memories and we are holding on to them lovingly. We will never stop missing you.
Love and Kisses,
Mom, Dad, and all of our family
That was all. But I couldn't stop reading and rereading it. Just thinking about what went into writing that piece. And how they write to him in the paper on his birthday, year after year. And whether it's the same text, only copied-and-pasted. I doubted that. Whether it's easy or hard, and whether it hurts them or helps them, to pay for this intimate ritual every July for three decades, to write it and then see it in print. Whether they can afford it, and not just financially. Who these people are.
Who Mitch was. What it must be like to die at age 33. Just under three and a half years after I was born Mitchell Evan Gordon passed from this sphere. And how it must make him feel, if he's looking down on them through cherubic morning spectacles from that big breakfast table in the sky, to know that at least one day of the year there'll be something just for him. And whether he would care that it's so public, or if he minds that his little obituary box looks so small and unassuming sandwiched between all those big time captains of industry and dearly beloved recently departeds.
I grabbed some scissors and cut out the entry for safekeeping. What else could I do? It felt important enough to do something with.
Sure enough, though, time passed. Somehow or other the worn and grease-staining clipping ended up in my car. I'm lucky it didn't get thrown away in one of my bicentennial purges. I found it just the other night and immediately the same feeling came flooding back: that this was something to protect. This time, though, I couldn't help wondering if there was some larger significance. Why it was that providence brought this little snippet from another world to my attention once again?
My own 24th birthday draws near, filling me with anxiety about the future. Am I moving quickly enough toward my goals? Will I ever reach them? Do I even know what they are? Am I already too old? Am I talented enough? Am I wasting time? Am I in the right line of work? Will I even be able to pay my rent next month?
But the joy of life lies in weathering its challenges, and none so greater than those within. In all I'm profoundly lucky to be alive, and I know it. The alternative feels, at times, merely a hair's breadth away, that minuteness of a box on the obituary page that few, if any, ever read.
I read through the words dedicated to Sean's mother once or twice, reveling in what few but warm memories I have of her. And after that I scanned the rest of the entries too. I don't know what I was looking for, exactly--a kind of kinship, maybe, or another name I would recognize. There was none; only the long faceless patter of names and affections played out on any midweek obituary page, the doctor who loved, the father who tried, each glimmer equal parts familiar and faraway.
But then a small sheepish rectangle of text on the periphery caught my eye. This is what it said:
In Memoriam: Mitchell Evan Gordon
7/26/54 - 9/12/87
Another birthday for you, Mitch, without you being here. Though the years have been slipping by, our love and thoughts for you are always in our hearts, and always will be. You have left us with so many beautiful memories and we are holding on to them lovingly. We will never stop missing you.
Love and Kisses,
Mom, Dad, and all of our family
That was all. But I couldn't stop reading and rereading it. Just thinking about what went into writing that piece. And how they write to him in the paper on his birthday, year after year. And whether it's the same text, only copied-and-pasted. I doubted that. Whether it's easy or hard, and whether it hurts them or helps them, to pay for this intimate ritual every July for three decades, to write it and then see it in print. Whether they can afford it, and not just financially. Who these people are.
Who Mitch was. What it must be like to die at age 33. Just under three and a half years after I was born Mitchell Evan Gordon passed from this sphere. And how it must make him feel, if he's looking down on them through cherubic morning spectacles from that big breakfast table in the sky, to know that at least one day of the year there'll be something just for him. And whether he would care that it's so public, or if he minds that his little obituary box looks so small and unassuming sandwiched between all those big time captains of industry and dearly beloved recently departeds.
I grabbed some scissors and cut out the entry for safekeeping. What else could I do? It felt important enough to do something with.
Sure enough, though, time passed. Somehow or other the worn and grease-staining clipping ended up in my car. I'm lucky it didn't get thrown away in one of my bicentennial purges. I found it just the other night and immediately the same feeling came flooding back: that this was something to protect. This time, though, I couldn't help wondering if there was some larger significance. Why it was that providence brought this little snippet from another world to my attention once again?
My own 24th birthday draws near, filling me with anxiety about the future. Am I moving quickly enough toward my goals? Will I ever reach them? Do I even know what they are? Am I already too old? Am I talented enough? Am I wasting time? Am I in the right line of work? Will I even be able to pay my rent next month?
But the joy of life lies in weathering its challenges, and none so greater than those within. In all I'm profoundly lucky to be alive, and I know it. The alternative feels, at times, merely a hair's breadth away, that minuteness of a box on the obituary page that few, if any, ever read.
Monday, April 14, 2008
At the Car Wash
Tomorrow my roommate and I have a meeting with a certain so-and-so who happens to be my friend's boyfriend's father. This individual runs two carwashes and tells me the competition is "huge." He's putting up some T.V. ads next month, and he offered me peanuts to write a jingle for him. Of course, food is food to a starving man, even if he doesn't care for peanuts. But I figured I'd one-up him. Working with my friend Tim, I assured him we could produce the entire ad ourselves, saving him money and guaranteeing his business a better ad than the faceless corporate blob will belch out. That way we can also allocate the budget ourselves, ensuring me my fair share.
Now let's hope I can convert on my swagger. Last time I met with him he treated me to a free "Express Wash"; tomorrow, I want him to give me the green light. With a hot SoCal summer coming on, this car wash could stand to benefit.
Now let's hope I can convert on my swagger. Last time I met with him he treated me to a free "Express Wash"; tomorrow, I want him to give me the green light. With a hot SoCal summer coming on, this car wash could stand to benefit.
Monday, March 24, 2008
I'll Come to You
The last few weeks have been an absolute dogfight. The Puritan endeavor of waking up at zero in the morning to record local radio has yielded some fruits, but nothing ripe. I'm still plagued by the same denizens of my bitter jingle winter: evasive phone bureaucracy ("I'll have him call you as soon as he gets out of his meeting..."), non-caller-backers-when-they-say-they-willers, and legions of advertisers who insist their half-witted talk-over-insipid-canned-music ads are serving their needs just fine, thank you very much.
Since people always seem to drop off the face of planet after an optimistic phone conversation or two, I'm now shooting for face-to-face meetings whenever possible. If there's a lull in the conversation during one of my cold calls, I immediately suggest we get together in person to discuss the prospect further. This may wreak havoc on my vital resources of gas and time, but I figure I stand a better chance of wooing their better judgment when I'm standing before them, jingle samples in hand. Who wouldn't be swayed by a sprightly and well-groomed young man delivering his infallible schtick?
I even make it easy for them to set up a meeting. 2:15 on Thursday the 47th? Sure, it just so happens I'll be passing through Nothingtown on exactly that date at exactly that time! Never mind if that means I'll have to book it from my 8AM in Blackholesburg. Shall we do lunch?
Since people always seem to drop off the face of planet after an optimistic phone conversation or two, I'm now shooting for face-to-face meetings whenever possible. If there's a lull in the conversation during one of my cold calls, I immediately suggest we get together in person to discuss the prospect further. This may wreak havoc on my vital resources of gas and time, but I figure I stand a better chance of wooing their better judgment when I'm standing before them, jingle samples in hand. Who wouldn't be swayed by a sprightly and well-groomed young man delivering his infallible schtick?
I even make it easy for them to set up a meeting. 2:15 on Thursday the 47th? Sure, it just so happens I'll be passing through Nothingtown on exactly that date at exactly that time! Never mind if that means I'll have to book it from my 8AM in Blackholesburg. Shall we do lunch?
Sunday, March 16, 2008
My Intergalactic Apologies
Still no leads from my footage last week. Most of the advertisers I cold-called were pleasant on the phone--a welcome surprise--but nobody seemed interested. These are hard times for my economy and I think people are especially wary. Perhaps my initial triumph last year was merely riding the tail end of a now-defunct boom.
I'm not giving up, though. I can't; a recent investigation of my bank account reveals I'm nearly broke. It's now or never, and I'd like to be doing this rather than something else right now.
Which means I have to work harder. Tomorrow, one week after my last trip, I'll travel someplace new in hopes of a customer. And I'll repeat the process every week until I find something, so help me God.
Tomorrow I'm opting for Bakersfield. I went there at the end of last year, but never got around to analyzing the footage. Now it's just sitting there on six tapes dated December 3rd, 2006, likely obsolete now that we're in a new advertising cycle. I'm out of tapes so I'll have to take those tomorrow and record over them.
It's strange, though. I feel funny about overwriting that old footage, even though it's no use to me now. Almost like I might miss something important. Perhaps someone, something, wanted to get a message out to me on that exact day in that exact radio area. If aliens sent from a faraway galaxy with almost-perfect coordinates landed in the Greater Bakersfield Area and sent out a radio beacon to find their soon-to-be-anointed human crown prince, they almost accomplished their mission. Almost. But I have to use those tapes for something else now, so I'll never know. I can only hope that the denizens of Zorticon B or whatever obscure cluster of stars were able to find a substitute despot to take home on their pizza-catered mothership.
All of this is merely conjecture, of course. Perhaps I'll just be missing out on Christmas ads and insipid morning drive time chatter. Even then, though, doesn't it make you just a little bit sad? Recorded but never heard, pursued but never perused, sought but never examined?
Wish me luck. Better luck than I had last week, at any rate.
I'm not giving up, though. I can't; a recent investigation of my bank account reveals I'm nearly broke. It's now or never, and I'd like to be doing this rather than something else right now.
Which means I have to work harder. Tomorrow, one week after my last trip, I'll travel someplace new in hopes of a customer. And I'll repeat the process every week until I find something, so help me God.
Tomorrow I'm opting for Bakersfield. I went there at the end of last year, but never got around to analyzing the footage. Now it's just sitting there on six tapes dated December 3rd, 2006, likely obsolete now that we're in a new advertising cycle. I'm out of tapes so I'll have to take those tomorrow and record over them.
It's strange, though. I feel funny about overwriting that old footage, even though it's no use to me now. Almost like I might miss something important. Perhaps someone, something, wanted to get a message out to me on that exact day in that exact radio area. If aliens sent from a faraway galaxy with almost-perfect coordinates landed in the Greater Bakersfield Area and sent out a radio beacon to find their soon-to-be-anointed human crown prince, they almost accomplished their mission. Almost. But I have to use those tapes for something else now, so I'll never know. I can only hope that the denizens of Zorticon B or whatever obscure cluster of stars were able to find a substitute despot to take home on their pizza-catered mothership.
All of this is merely conjecture, of course. Perhaps I'll just be missing out on Christmas ads and insipid morning drive time chatter. Even then, though, doesn't it make you just a little bit sad? Recorded but never heard, pursued but never perused, sought but never examined?
Wish me luck. Better luck than I had last week, at any rate.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Sondheim
Critic Frank Rich interviewed Stephen Sondheim over at UCLA tonight. I got to go, courtesy of my mother. Hearing Sondheim's vignettes about his life and work filled me with fire for my own potential. I wonder if I could ever find kinship with giants.
I'm going to head out to buy a bunch of biographies of people I admire, and I'm going to read each one so that I'm never at a loss for examples.
At the end of the interview, the MC re-entered and informed the audience that it will be Stephen Sondheim's birthday in three days. Which brings me to a question: how many of you can say you sang for Stephen Sondheim?
I can, now.
I'm going to head out to buy a bunch of biographies of people I admire, and I'm going to read each one so that I'm never at a loss for examples.
At the end of the interview, the MC re-entered and informed the audience that it will be Stephen Sondheim's birthday in three days. Which brings me to a question: how many of you can say you sang for Stephen Sondheim?
I can, now.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Back to the Gold Mine
Tomorrow, after a financially-tenuous hiatus that has lasted almost two seasons, I return to my work as a journeyman jingle writer. Teaching was fun, and caroling was a refreshing way to pay the bills, but the calling on my business cards beckons.
Winter is over. I've got a mostly-full tank of gas and the old set of directions; my stereos and tapes are amassed on the living room floor, and the alarm is set for 5:00am. It's time to get back to work. And I can think of no better place to resume my adventure than the first and only place I struck gold: Victorville, CA.
Winter is over. I've got a mostly-full tank of gas and the old set of directions; my stereos and tapes are amassed on the living room floor, and the alarm is set for 5:00am. It's time to get back to work. And I can think of no better place to resume my adventure than the first and only place I struck gold: Victorville, CA.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
#4
Today my idol, Green Bay Packers quarterback Brett Favre, announced his retirement after 17 years of spectacular play in the National Football League. I feel heartbroken.
People who know me well are sometimes surprised to hear a musician hail a football player as his role model. For me, looking up to Favre is a no-brainer. Like all of history's greatest performers, Brett Favre could improvise under duress with gusto and skill, and he never lost his composure as a leader and a player, no matter how great the adversity or how many mistakes he had made the play before.
The very paragon of passion and dedication, Brett Favre showed me that joy alone can sustain brilliance and that it's never too late to shine. He is the greatest athlete of our generation and I will miss him dearly.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
I don't like to discuss politics, much less post my political opinions online. And so I won't. But I want to say that I feel bad for Hillary Clinton. Like her or hate her, she seems to be caught on the wrong side of something big right now--something it would hurt to be left out of, especially if you were by all measures groomed for it. Fight the current though she may, she's being pulled farther and farther out to sea. This kind of thing always gets me thinking, and then I feel a little sad.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Eclipse
As I was driving to work this morning I heard on the radio that there would be a total lunar eclipse tonight.
Yes, I was driving to work. The jingle business has been tough, so I took a temporary position as a music teacher (kindergarten through 8th grade) at a private school. I also spent the entire month of December working for two professional caroling companies. And, umm, dog-sitting.
Yes, I know I haven't written for four months. All that I can say in my defense is that four is my lucky number. Don't nag.
My recent financial adventures have kept me afloat, but I still consider myself a jingle writer, which means that I'll have to get back on the horse once again come March and hope for better winds.
The lunar spectacle was already underway when I went outside. The radio man told me 7:00, but a phone call around 6:30 alerted me that the sky was falling and I rushed outside. Sure enough Luna was already gleaming red, like my roommate's face after half a Pilsner. And though I speak about these things light-heartedly, there really was a distant kind of majesty about the moon as it drifted solemnly towards eclipse. Pink, and then red, and then suddenly chunks of it were disappearing, little by little, until the moon gave in to a moment of perfect obscurity, disappearing for a brief moment. Just how long I know not; I was on the phone again, meaning maybe I'm out of sync with the universe and all that is beautiful.
But maybe not. Because I opted to stay put in the parking lot of the neighboring apartment complex for awhile rather than drive to grab dinner. Even though there wasn't much doing, and my phone calls were finished, I felt like staying. And sure enough, like clockwork, a strange couple stumbled up the street to join me. Their baggy clothing smelled like dirt and cigarettes, but they seemed nice enough. When they greeted me I made a place for them to stand next to me and pointed out the receding eclipse, perhaps by way of precluding any topic of conversation closer than the cosmos. But when the conversation inevitably got a bit more personal, and I told them my name, the gentleman of the couple (husband or friend, I know not) said I was a guardian angel. And at that precise moment, surrounded by vagrants and even slightly fearful, not to mention worn down by a horrible day at work and an equally potent bout of flu; the cigarette smell, the difference in age and class and fortune and all these things that make me uncomfortable; even with all these things, I felt like I was exactly where I wanted to be.
That's what happened tonight. Here's what else I want to catch you up on:
1) The Ailing Jingle Market, and other causes of professional malady
2) A Holiday Season Spent in Ascot, and other reasons I didn't starve in December
3) I Want to Shoot Myself, and other reflections on substitute teaching
4) Finally, My New Band
(Ah, yes. I have a band now.)
(Talk to you soon.)
Yes, I was driving to work. The jingle business has been tough, so I took a temporary position as a music teacher (kindergarten through 8th grade) at a private school. I also spent the entire month of December working for two professional caroling companies. And, umm, dog-sitting.
Yes, I know I haven't written for four months. All that I can say in my defense is that four is my lucky number. Don't nag.
My recent financial adventures have kept me afloat, but I still consider myself a jingle writer, which means that I'll have to get back on the horse once again come March and hope for better winds.
The lunar spectacle was already underway when I went outside. The radio man told me 7:00, but a phone call around 6:30 alerted me that the sky was falling and I rushed outside. Sure enough Luna was already gleaming red, like my roommate's face after half a Pilsner. And though I speak about these things light-heartedly, there really was a distant kind of majesty about the moon as it drifted solemnly towards eclipse. Pink, and then red, and then suddenly chunks of it were disappearing, little by little, until the moon gave in to a moment of perfect obscurity, disappearing for a brief moment. Just how long I know not; I was on the phone again, meaning maybe I'm out of sync with the universe and all that is beautiful.
But maybe not. Because I opted to stay put in the parking lot of the neighboring apartment complex for awhile rather than drive to grab dinner. Even though there wasn't much doing, and my phone calls were finished, I felt like staying. And sure enough, like clockwork, a strange couple stumbled up the street to join me. Their baggy clothing smelled like dirt and cigarettes, but they seemed nice enough. When they greeted me I made a place for them to stand next to me and pointed out the receding eclipse, perhaps by way of precluding any topic of conversation closer than the cosmos. But when the conversation inevitably got a bit more personal, and I told them my name, the gentleman of the couple (husband or friend, I know not) said I was a guardian angel. And at that precise moment, surrounded by vagrants and even slightly fearful, not to mention worn down by a horrible day at work and an equally potent bout of flu; the cigarette smell, the difference in age and class and fortune and all these things that make me uncomfortable; even with all these things, I felt like I was exactly where I wanted to be.
That's what happened tonight. Here's what else I want to catch you up on:
1) The Ailing Jingle Market, and other causes of professional malady
2) A Holiday Season Spent in Ascot, and other reasons I didn't starve in December
3) I Want to Shoot Myself, and other reflections on substitute teaching
4) Finally, My New Band
(Ah, yes. I have a band now.)
(Talk to you soon.)
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Chords
I've always liked chords. Big chords, small chords, sad chords, scary
chords -- but especially big, juicy, jazzy chords. Like GMaj7/A, or
Bb13#11. The first time I heard a modern big band blast a polychord
through 13 different horns, the texture and emotional power kept me
skipping home. And the first time I made a beautiful chord sound on my
very own guitar, when I was just starting my musical adventure at age
13, I knew I was hooked. I've been writing them ever since. Ever hear
a big, thick, juicy chord sung by a vocal group? It's nasty. It's what
makes me love my occupation as an arranger, or even my job as a jingle
writer in cases where an ad calls for denser harmony.
Chords are your basic building block of songs. My mother once told me
"I need a melody I can hang my hat on." (Since my mother doesn't wear
a hat, I assume she was quoting someone else, but that's another
story.) Anyone who plays guitar or piano know that it just takes a
progression of four (or even fewer) triads and you've got your very
own original song. For many modern pop musicians the chords are the
most prominent part of the arrangement. Sometimes all it takes to
figure out what song you're listening to on the radio is to hear the
guitar strum the first two bars.
Whether we know it or not, though, we hear chords even if they're not
actually played when we listen to music. Melodies live inside a world
established by chords. That why even untrained musicians sometimes
hum unrecorded vocal harmonies while listening to music. So powerful
is the effect of harmony that it ingrains into our consciousness a
framework into which all music must necessarily fall. When we see a
new breakfast cereal advertised on T.V., we conceive of its taste --
indeed, even predict its worth -- based on how it will fare in a bowl
of milk. So it is with a lone melody, which gets it push and pull, its
caress and its climax, from a universe established by chords.
chords -- but especially big, juicy, jazzy chords. Like GMaj7/A, or
Bb13#11. The first time I heard a modern big band blast a polychord
through 13 different horns, the texture and emotional power kept me
skipping home. And the first time I made a beautiful chord sound on my
very own guitar, when I was just starting my musical adventure at age
13, I knew I was hooked. I've been writing them ever since. Ever hear
a big, thick, juicy chord sung by a vocal group? It's nasty. It's what
makes me love my occupation as an arranger, or even my job as a jingle
writer in cases where an ad calls for denser harmony.
Chords are your basic building block of songs. My mother once told me
"I need a melody I can hang my hat on." (Since my mother doesn't wear
a hat, I assume she was quoting someone else, but that's another
story.) Anyone who plays guitar or piano know that it just takes a
progression of four (or even fewer) triads and you've got your very
own original song. For many modern pop musicians the chords are the
most prominent part of the arrangement. Sometimes all it takes to
figure out what song you're listening to on the radio is to hear the
guitar strum the first two bars.
Whether we know it or not, though, we hear chords even if they're not
actually played when we listen to music. Melodies live inside a world
established by chords. That why even untrained musicians sometimes
hum unrecorded vocal harmonies while listening to music. So powerful
is the effect of harmony that it ingrains into our consciousness a
framework into which all music must necessarily fall. When we see a
new breakfast cereal advertised on T.V., we conceive of its taste --
indeed, even predict its worth -- based on how it will fare in a bowl
of milk. So it is with a lone melody, which gets it push and pull, its
caress and its climax, from a universe established by chords.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Appreciation
Yesterday, while I was working at my desk, my cell phone rang, displaying an unfamiliar number. I was about to push the "silent" button when I noticed the area code was that of the east coast college I attended. I picked up the phone and said hello.
"Is this Michael?"
"Yes, it is." The young female voice was unfamiliar to me. Probably trying to sell me something.
"This is ______. I'm a currently a senior at ______." My school. "You're a recent graduate, right?"
"That's right."
"I'm calling on behalf of the Alumni Fund. You made a donation last year." Great. Here it comes.
"Yes, I did..."
"I just wanted to thank you for your support." Pause. Is that all she has for me?
"Oh... don't mention it. It was my pleasure." Following Tim's example, I donated $20.06--a sum corresponding to my graduation year--to the fund several months ago. I don't like being coaxed into spending money, but I felt bad, and I could afford at least a symbolic gesture.
"Well... thanks again." She seemed discouraged by my silence. Here voice was young and unsure, but adult somehow, neither small nor beseeching. Suddenly I felt like I was about to lose something valuable, or already had.
"Don't mention it," I say again, for lack of anything better. "I hope you have a great senior year."
"Thank you, sir. Have a nice day."
For a while after the call ended, I held the thin black cell phone open in my hand, looking into the mirror by my desk. What was that all about? I suppose they want to let the alumni know their giving is appreciated, no matter how small. That's smart business. And they get these kids to do it--current undergraduates, probably work-study employees of the alumni office.
Something seemed a little bit off. She was a senior. So, Class of 2008. Just two years below me. I should've recognized her name. I went to a small enough school. Maybe she was a hockey player, or a science major, or one of the other types of people with whom I had limited contact my last two years in college. If my cellphone were a videophone, would I recognize her face from my hours spent in the dining hall or at the campus post office? Might I have run past her on one of my nighttime jogs on the soccer field or the indoor track?
We could've known each other. But she seemed to have no idea who I was. Maybe that's why I was vaguely upset. Some of my best friends in college were '08s. I knew all of the musicians in that class, most of the actors. I may even know most of her friends. I'm sure she knows some of mine. But she might as well have been cold calling someone who graduated 30 years ago. At least she was nice.
In retrospect I wish I had asked her about herself. Anything to make it less awkward for us both, to head off this dawning intimation of vast, unexpected distance. And to let her know that, truth is, I appreciate her too.
"Is this Michael?"
"Yes, it is." The young female voice was unfamiliar to me. Probably trying to sell me something.
"This is ______. I'm a currently a senior at ______." My school. "You're a recent graduate, right?"
"That's right."
"I'm calling on behalf of the Alumni Fund. You made a donation last year." Great. Here it comes.
"Yes, I did..."
"I just wanted to thank you for your support." Pause. Is that all she has for me?
"Oh... don't mention it. It was my pleasure." Following Tim's example, I donated $20.06--a sum corresponding to my graduation year--to the fund several months ago. I don't like being coaxed into spending money, but I felt bad, and I could afford at least a symbolic gesture.
"Well... thanks again." She seemed discouraged by my silence. Here voice was young and unsure, but adult somehow, neither small nor beseeching. Suddenly I felt like I was about to lose something valuable, or already had.
"Don't mention it," I say again, for lack of anything better. "I hope you have a great senior year."
"Thank you, sir. Have a nice day."
For a while after the call ended, I held the thin black cell phone open in my hand, looking into the mirror by my desk. What was that all about? I suppose they want to let the alumni know their giving is appreciated, no matter how small. That's smart business. And they get these kids to do it--current undergraduates, probably work-study employees of the alumni office.
Something seemed a little bit off. She was a senior. So, Class of 2008. Just two years below me. I should've recognized her name. I went to a small enough school. Maybe she was a hockey player, or a science major, or one of the other types of people with whom I had limited contact my last two years in college. If my cellphone were a videophone, would I recognize her face from my hours spent in the dining hall or at the campus post office? Might I have run past her on one of my nighttime jogs on the soccer field or the indoor track?
We could've known each other. But she seemed to have no idea who I was. Maybe that's why I was vaguely upset. Some of my best friends in college were '08s. I knew all of the musicians in that class, most of the actors. I may even know most of her friends. I'm sure she knows some of mine. But she might as well have been cold calling someone who graduated 30 years ago. At least she was nice.
In retrospect I wish I had asked her about herself. Anything to make it less awkward for us both, to head off this dawning intimation of vast, unexpected distance. And to let her know that, truth is, I appreciate her too.
Friday, September 28, 2007
...and again.
Holy smoke. I just bought another one. Brad Paisley's "Online" is BRILLIANT.
Rising above the din of popular taste (at least within the circles of which I've always been a part), I begin to see now why country music is so popular. The singing is pure, healthy and joyful; the musicianship is nothing short of impressive; the hooks are soaring; the style is homegrown and unabashedly earnest; and the songs run the gamut from romantic female poetry to self-referential macho humor (whose self-referentiality country music's detractors refuse to acknowledge because they love to make fun of it) to deep ballads about striving for integrity, honesty, faith and courage. Craig Morgan's "Tough" is about a wife and mother dealing with cancer. And now, a song from someone named Brad Paisley (probably a big name) about his online alterego.
Could it be true? That I'm becoming a country fan?
Rising above the din of popular taste (at least within the circles of which I've always been a part), I begin to see now why country music is so popular. The singing is pure, healthy and joyful; the musicianship is nothing short of impressive; the hooks are soaring; the style is homegrown and unabashedly earnest; and the songs run the gamut from romantic female poetry to self-referential macho humor (whose self-referentiality country music's detractors refuse to acknowledge because they love to make fun of it) to deep ballads about striving for integrity, honesty, faith and courage. Craig Morgan's "Tough" is about a wife and mother dealing with cancer. And now, a song from someone named Brad Paisley (probably a big name) about his online alterego.
Could it be true? That I'm becoming a country fan?
Infected
Proof positive that my new line of work is having profound effects on my core person, even altering my genetic makeup: today while combing footage of a popular country station out of Temecula, CA, I heard a snippet of a country tune that caught my attention. I ended up listening to the whole thing, even rewound it to catch the lyrics of the first verse. I thought Craig Morgan's "Tough" was such a moving song that I downloaded it on iTunes.
My first-ever country music expenditure. Yet another occupational hazard. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got more footage to gallop through. Yee-haw!
My first-ever country music expenditure. Yet another occupational hazard. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got more footage to gallop through. Yee-haw!
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