Y'see...I have this problem. I'm a people-watcher and a story-teller, so I watch people and make up their stories...and sometimes that's not good. Like today, for example, I kinda had my heart broken! It was me getting in my own head.
Beautiful girl, we meet eyes, and my mind wanders -- creating her entire life story. She has a fantastic smile and I imagine the dreams she's having as she tilts her head slightly back against the 6-train window and gently shuts her eyes.
I imagine where she grew up, where she lives, where she works, everything.
I imagine the kitchen she goes home to and cooks in.
I imagine the childhood puppy she had but has not yet replaced since coming to New York City, though she desperately wants to.
And then she gives out a smile...the kind of smile one only gives when thinking of a significant other. And my heart drops.
Now my story shifts to him. How they met. How she's way too good for him yet she can't break up with him because, even though she knows she's too good for him and her friends and family hate him, there's something about him she loves. And then I get a little sad, and move on to reading the newspaper over someone's shoulder.
And that was today's commute.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
January 26, Zack Hample
It's been a while since I've done anything related to my baseball project. (And even longer since I've written about it.)
On January 26, I interviewed a friend of mine (and published author) Zack Hample. He's been on NPR, been on Leno, featured in many news stories, written heavily featured stories for Yahoo! Sports, been featured in newspapers and by the AP, and is what one might call a baseball geek.
(With his third book just announced, he is most certainly the most exciting person I've interviewed thus far. Unfortunately, the piece I ordered to allow me to record cell phone interviews ended up being shipped to me...and it was not the piece I ordered, so I'm still a while away from being able to interview other in-business baseball names.)
I interviewed Zack for over an hour. (It's still waiting to be transcribed, incidentally.)
I talked with Zack about his personal relationship with the game, his relationship to other fans, and anything else we could think of. (Until my arm got tired from holding the microphone...)
Location wise, Zack spoke to me about the intensity of baseball being greater on the coasts, with some exceptions. (Specifically: San Diego, which is great for a collector because of less competition, but it's a sad place to watch a game.)
I took pride in my home-town when Zack said that Boston, hands down, has the most passionate fans. (Sorry, New York.)
He also mentioned baseball really as the game of the US. He told stories of watching baseball in Canada (both in Toronto and Montreal) where fans are nearly silent. He told me of a foul ball where it landed in the aisle between the seats and nobody even got off their chairs to pick up the ball.
The thing that Zack spoke about that stuck out to me most -- aside from his unique perspective on steroids -- was the accessibility of baseball. Not as a fan, perhaps, but as a kid and a player. When you're little, you can look at your family and your build and you can know that you're not going to be a football player or a basketball player, but being a baseball player feels accessible. You can look at David Wells, who is slightly overweight and a fantastic pitcher in his day. You can look at Dustin Pedroia, who is generously listed at 5'9", but has anecdotally been called 5'7" at best.
There was so much more, but this is what sticks out at me not yet a week removed from my latest listen to the interview.
Zack's answer to the "Baseball Is..." question was very long, but had some very interesting things in it. My favorite:
"Baseball will find a way to survive. Doesn't matter how many strikes there are, how many steroids are ingested, what kind of competitive imbalances there are, if the balls are juiced, baseball will survive. It's that beautiful and awesome and there are that many people who are interested it in that it will find a way. It will be there."
On January 26, I interviewed a friend of mine (and published author) Zack Hample. He's been on NPR, been on Leno, featured in many news stories, written heavily featured stories for Yahoo! Sports, been featured in newspapers and by the AP, and is what one might call a baseball geek.
(With his third book just announced, he is most certainly the most exciting person I've interviewed thus far. Unfortunately, the piece I ordered to allow me to record cell phone interviews ended up being shipped to me...and it was not the piece I ordered, so I'm still a while away from being able to interview other in-business baseball names.)
I interviewed Zack for over an hour. (It's still waiting to be transcribed, incidentally.)
I talked with Zack about his personal relationship with the game, his relationship to other fans, and anything else we could think of. (Until my arm got tired from holding the microphone...)
Location wise, Zack spoke to me about the intensity of baseball being greater on the coasts, with some exceptions. (Specifically: San Diego, which is great for a collector because of less competition, but it's a sad place to watch a game.)
I took pride in my home-town when Zack said that Boston, hands down, has the most passionate fans. (Sorry, New York.)
He also mentioned baseball really as the game of the US. He told stories of watching baseball in Canada (both in Toronto and Montreal) where fans are nearly silent. He told me of a foul ball where it landed in the aisle between the seats and nobody even got off their chairs to pick up the ball.
The thing that Zack spoke about that stuck out to me most -- aside from his unique perspective on steroids -- was the accessibility of baseball. Not as a fan, perhaps, but as a kid and a player. When you're little, you can look at your family and your build and you can know that you're not going to be a football player or a basketball player, but being a baseball player feels accessible. You can look at David Wells, who is slightly overweight and a fantastic pitcher in his day. You can look at Dustin Pedroia, who is generously listed at 5'9", but has anecdotally been called 5'7" at best.
There was so much more, but this is what sticks out at me not yet a week removed from my latest listen to the interview.
Zack's answer to the "Baseball Is..." question was very long, but had some very interesting things in it. My favorite:
"Baseball will find a way to survive. Doesn't matter how many strikes there are, how many steroids are ingested, what kind of competitive imbalances there are, if the balls are juiced, baseball will survive. It's that beautiful and awesome and there are that many people who are interested it in that it will find a way. It will be there."
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Sy Johnson
“You know what your problem is?” he asked me. I had more answers to this question than he could have possibly imagined, so I decided to let the question stand as the rhetorical question it was meant to be. “You're scared. You let fear get the best of you.”
This was only my second lesson with Sy Johnson, at 6-foot-1 and 76 years old, one of the five greatest living jazz arrangers, Charles Mingus's right-hand man until the day he died, a big name in the jazz community, and for two to three hours every three weeks, my composition teacher.
“Y'see, right here, you held back.” He pointed to the fifth measure of the arrangement of “But Beautiful” I had brought in. “You wrote something that is perfectly nice, but you could do so much more. You're too simple. You've got a muted trumpet, a muted trombone, and a flute in three octaves. Beautiful combination; but you have 10 other instruments! Use them!”
I took notes using the pencil Sy had just given me – a “Mingus Pencil.” My success in the music industry, Sy explained, was based on my use of this pencil. It was once owned by Charles Mingus, though never used. Mingus bought them in bulk, and when he died, Sy was given the rest of them. Sy now gives one to select students.
“Fear gets the best of us all at times,” Sy continued. “Take me, for example. I was once conducting an orchestra doing a live performance of a film score in Cannes. Afterwards, I was at the bar and the most beautiful women I'd ever seen came up to me and asked to go to bed with me. Fear, my boy. Fear got in my way. I still wonder.”
I paused. Sy did not.
“Now in measure 7...”
This was only my second lesson with Sy Johnson, at 6-foot-1 and 76 years old, one of the five greatest living jazz arrangers, Charles Mingus's right-hand man until the day he died, a big name in the jazz community, and for two to three hours every three weeks, my composition teacher.
“Y'see, right here, you held back.” He pointed to the fifth measure of the arrangement of “But Beautiful” I had brought in. “You wrote something that is perfectly nice, but you could do so much more. You're too simple. You've got a muted trumpet, a muted trombone, and a flute in three octaves. Beautiful combination; but you have 10 other instruments! Use them!”
I took notes using the pencil Sy had just given me – a “Mingus Pencil.” My success in the music industry, Sy explained, was based on my use of this pencil. It was once owned by Charles Mingus, though never used. Mingus bought them in bulk, and when he died, Sy was given the rest of them. Sy now gives one to select students.
“Fear gets the best of us all at times,” Sy continued. “Take me, for example. I was once conducting an orchestra doing a live performance of a film score in Cannes. Afterwards, I was at the bar and the most beautiful women I'd ever seen came up to me and asked to go to bed with me. Fear, my boy. Fear got in my way. I still wonder.”
I paused. Sy did not.
“Now in measure 7...”
Friday, February 20, 2009
Driving in the Snow
The last two nights, I've found myself driving in the snow. It's a beautiful experience when three things go right:
1) Windshield wipers are working
2) There aren't that many cars on the road
3) You're not trying to read street signs that are, of course, covered by newly sticking snow.
(Yeah; I had to deal with items '1' and '3' on separate occasions, but it was uneventful, in spite of said obstacles.)
There's something infinitely beautiful about going into a snow storm. When you're in a car, driving at 20-30 miles an hour, the snow comes at you, coming closer -- no matter which way the snow actually is falling -- but never actually touching you, thanks to the whole windshield thing. It's like being surrounded by one of the old After Dark screen savers. (Not Flying Toasters, y'know, the stars one...)
It's incredibly peaceful, too. Each flake lit by the headlights, causing a small reflection around it and a small bubble of pure white.
I love driving, and I love being out in a snow storm. For once, logic is right: I love driving in a snow storm.
As long as I've got no deadline and no cars around me who are being crazy. After all, I hate not being in control...
1) Windshield wipers are working
2) There aren't that many cars on the road
3) You're not trying to read street signs that are, of course, covered by newly sticking snow.
(Yeah; I had to deal with items '1' and '3' on separate occasions, but it was uneventful, in spite of said obstacles.)
There's something infinitely beautiful about going into a snow storm. When you're in a car, driving at 20-30 miles an hour, the snow comes at you, coming closer -- no matter which way the snow actually is falling -- but never actually touching you, thanks to the whole windshield thing. It's like being surrounded by one of the old After Dark screen savers. (Not Flying Toasters, y'know, the stars one...)
It's incredibly peaceful, too. Each flake lit by the headlights, causing a small reflection around it and a small bubble of pure white.
I love driving, and I love being out in a snow storm. For once, logic is right: I love driving in a snow storm.
As long as I've got no deadline and no cars around me who are being crazy. After all, I hate not being in control...
Sunday, February 15, 2009
So...why, exactly?
Today marks the 2 year anniversary of this blog. It is also, by no small coincidence, the 200th post.
Which brings up an interesting question that I have certainly been asked:
Why?
Honestly? I'm not sure any more. (Which, in a weird way, is the perfect answer.)
It started as a place to write my thoughts -- and to impress a girl (whom I dated shortly thereafter). She was a writer (I mean, I suspect she still is, but even when I dated her, she didn't do that much writing, so even if she calls herself a writer...well...I'll stop here before I say something mean) and I wanted to come across as literate.
Then, the depression I was trying to avoid admitting that I was already months into came to a point where I could not avoid it any longer. The blog was a way for me to work out my problems -- more for me than anyone else. I never really cared if people read it, but I liked the whole honesty thing and thought that maybe someone out there could relate.
It then became a tool for me to document my random thoughts and things that I've come across that caught my fancy.
Now? Well, it's me searching for the perfect use for it.
I've always gone through life knowing what I want, just not quite sure how to get it. While in some ways, I'm getting closer to figuring out how to fully achieve my dreams and goals, on the other, the more I learn the means, the less I'm sure of the ends.
I guess the only thing I am sure of is that I write in this thing. I guess it reminds the internet that I'm still alive.
Which brings up an interesting question that I have certainly been asked:
Why?
Honestly? I'm not sure any more. (Which, in a weird way, is the perfect answer.)
It started as a place to write my thoughts -- and to impress a girl (whom I dated shortly thereafter). She was a writer (I mean, I suspect she still is, but even when I dated her, she didn't do that much writing, so even if she calls herself a writer...well...I'll stop here before I say something mean) and I wanted to come across as literate.
Then, the depression I was trying to avoid admitting that I was already months into came to a point where I could not avoid it any longer. The blog was a way for me to work out my problems -- more for me than anyone else. I never really cared if people read it, but I liked the whole honesty thing and thought that maybe someone out there could relate.
It then became a tool for me to document my random thoughts and things that I've come across that caught my fancy.
Now? Well, it's me searching for the perfect use for it.
I've always gone through life knowing what I want, just not quite sure how to get it. While in some ways, I'm getting closer to figuring out how to fully achieve my dreams and goals, on the other, the more I learn the means, the less I'm sure of the ends.
I guess the only thing I am sure of is that I write in this thing. I guess it reminds the internet that I'm still alive.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Wise Words from an Eccentric Jew
Nope, not me. Woody Allen. More from Without Feathers, for no other reason than it amused me.
--
Of all the wonders of nature, a tree in summer is perhaps the most remarkable, with the possible exception of a moose singing "Embraceable You" in spats.
--
Once a lumberjack was about to chop down a tree, when he noticed a heart carved on it, with two names inside. Putting away his axe, he sawed down the tree instead. The point of that story escapes me, although six months later the lumberjack was fined for teaching a dwarf Roman numerals.
--
The true test of maturity is not how old a person is but how he reacts to awakening in the midtown area in his shorts.
--
It's not that I'm afraid to die, I just don't want to be there for it.
--
Money is better than poverty, if only for financial reasons.
--
Of all the wonders of nature, a tree in summer is perhaps the most remarkable, with the possible exception of a moose singing "Embraceable You" in spats.
--
Once a lumberjack was about to chop down a tree, when he noticed a heart carved on it, with two names inside. Putting away his axe, he sawed down the tree instead. The point of that story escapes me, although six months later the lumberjack was fined for teaching a dwarf Roman numerals.
--
The true test of maturity is not how old a person is but how he reacts to awakening in the midtown area in his shorts.
--
It's not that I'm afraid to die, I just don't want to be there for it.
--
Money is better than poverty, if only for financial reasons.
Security Blankets
We all have something that we use as our security blanket -- that actual physical thing that we turn to when times get a little tougher than we'd hoped. (And if you say you don't, you're either lying, heartless, or you die a little inside when a moment comes that would merit said object.)
Mine is a 2-inch stuffed dog that used to live in my pocket.
I'm not ashamed to admit this -- though I may be ashamed to admit when he's with me. But I'm not ashamed to admit the need of something so, well, juvenile. Whether or not a therapist would agree with me, I think that the ends justify the means.
I can only speak for my own situation, but I know that this dog comforts me because he grounds me through his innocence. (It certainly isn't a memory of a better time linked to this dog; I bought him at the darkest time of my depression in hopes to have such a security blanket object small enough to conceal on my person so others would not know.) The mere existence of something so juvenile reminds me that, sooner or later, I'll be able to just enjoy things for what they are -- as I did when I was 6.
And to have that desire to return to such a time of innocence is nothing I could ever be ashamed of.
And after all -- he's cute.
Mine is a 2-inch stuffed dog that used to live in my pocket.
I'm not ashamed to admit this -- though I may be ashamed to admit when he's with me. But I'm not ashamed to admit the need of something so, well, juvenile. Whether or not a therapist would agree with me, I think that the ends justify the means.
I can only speak for my own situation, but I know that this dog comforts me because he grounds me through his innocence. (It certainly isn't a memory of a better time linked to this dog; I bought him at the darkest time of my depression in hopes to have such a security blanket object small enough to conceal on my person so others would not know.) The mere existence of something so juvenile reminds me that, sooner or later, I'll be able to just enjoy things for what they are -- as I did when I was 6.
And to have that desire to return to such a time of innocence is nothing I could ever be ashamed of.
And after all -- he's cute.
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