Picture Time #2

For Picture Time this week, I want to share some pics I snapped this past weekend down in Cary, NC, at the Avett Brothers show. These guys are, hands down, my favorite artists out today. They are pretty much why I love music.

Anyway, all of this can be a topic for another day. For now, here are a couple of my favorite shots. Enjoy!

Sold out show at the Koka Booth Amphitheater, Cary, NC - 7,000 strong


Scott Avett (left) and Seth Avett (right)


Scott Avett


Seth Avett (bending that B string ferociously)


Bob Crawford - bassist extraordinaire


From Left to Right:
Joe Kwan (cello), Bob Crawford (upright bass, vocals), Scott Avett (banjo, vocals, kick drum), Seth Avett (guitar, vocals, hi-hat cymbal)

For more on these guys, check out their Myspace page, or look them up on YouTube. Videos from their live shows truly show the energy that they put in to each and every performance, day in and day out.

Afternoon at the Coffeeshop

So there's this coffeeshop near my house, and I recently learned that they feature live music from time to time. As a slowly-developing musician, I decided to stop by this afternoon, to sort of case the joint out and get a feel for the atmosphere, the people, how Feng Shui the decor was. You know, normal activities for a Friday afternoon.

Having been here now for a good hour (you could say I'm "reporting live"), I have managed to observe a good number of interesting things.

For starters, there's this guy sitting a couple tables behind me, facing my back, also on his laptop. I am 95% sure he has been watching my erratic internet-surfing habits, and is probably watching me write this about him. It's really awkward. (HI!!!!! <-- message for him/you, [you meaning the guy]).

Anyway. So I ordered my standard large iced coffee, with cream only to make two equally unfortunate realizations almost simultaneously. 1) I had only $1 in my pocket (the shots of Jim Beam from last night are likely to blame for this). 2) there is a $5 minimum on credit purchases. My coffee rang in at a whopping $1.99 ($2.14 with tax).

Talk about a pickle. Grudgingly, I supplemented my order with a piece of blueberry coffee cake. As the barista readied the cake square (I regretfully declined the option to have it warmed up), I had my fingers, arms, legs and toes all crossed, hoping my order would now eclipse the $5 mark.

No dice. $4.83. Damn you independent, non-Starbucks coffeeshop and your affordable prices and friendly, neighborhood appeal! Why is your heart so gosh darn apparent? You and your chalkboard menus and Sharpie marker-written display case price tags! And free wireless internet connection?! Corporatize, will you? After all, this is America.

Even though the girl behind the counter insisted that it was "close enough," I felt obliged to add another item to the order to ensure that I reached the posted minimum. As an honest citizen and, more importantly with today's economy, customer, it was my duty to obey the store's rules. And buy more.

So, I threw on a bottle of water as well. Bottled water - now there's a patriotic and economically-responsible item. Is there a better example of brilliance in terms of commercialism? Of the three human survival priorities - food, shelter, water - the latter is without doubt the easiest to commoditize. Why learn how to purify water on our own, when there are companies (Coca-Cola's Dasani, Pepsi's Aquafina, etc.) that are offering to do it for us? Sure, it might cost anywhere from $1.25 (gas station) to $6.50 (professional sporting event), but can you really put a price on convenience? I sure can't. That's what the big corporations are for.

So, finally, I had made it past the store minimum for credit purchases. I could enjoy my random assortment of drinks and food with a clear conscience, knowing that not only did I satisfy my desire for cold coffee (which, mind you, was available at home, leftover from my roommate's morning brew), I also managed to help out our ailing economy when it's needing me most.

And no, your thank you's are not necessary. I know you are thinking it. And, in turn, I am thinking up one big "You're welcome."


Side note: awkward guy who was sitting behind me just left. I think he got agitated by the seeming lack of direction in this post, and, that I stopped writing about him. That selfish bastard.

Lightning

It is late. And I am tired. This became particularly apparent to me moments ago, when I honestly sat and thought for a good 30 seconds what the title of this post should be, and the best I could come up with is this. Lightning.

Now this post-naming process is one that you, as the reader, are not otherwise privy to. Normally, you just read the title and get crackin' on the content. But tonight I thought I might get the ball rolling with that quick anecdote. To break the ice, so to speak.

As the deep and intellectually-stimulating title suggests, I am about to talk about a topic that rates in my top 5 of Most Favorite things in the World. I'm serious here. (the other 4 can be a future post)

Now I know it is well past midnight, and I am - for some reason - still awake. While listening to some music in bed (Fruit Bats are dominating my iTunes as of late), I heard what I mistakenly, and frighteningly, thought to be a person banging on our front door.

Taking off my headphones, I tiptoed to the front door, and then out back, to learn the rumbling noise to be of a distant and rapidly approaching thunder storm. As mentioned, lightning is one of those things in life that entertain, mystify and just flat out cheer me up to no end.

As I stood on the back deck of my house, facing the westward sky I watched the lightning grow closer and more massive with each strike. It was one of those moments, like in the movie Twister, where the air is eerily calm aside from the cool breeze that is slowly building. The wind is all you can hear in between each roll of thunder. The sky is a black onyx in between each lightning flash.

I was reminded of those summer nights as a young kid when my dad would pull us out of bed and round us up on the screened-in porch at our house in PA to watch lightning storms. I think this tradition is likely where my obsession with them stems from. The smell of the summer rain showers, the tremors that you feel even in your stomach from the passing thunder, the futile efforts to calculate how far away the storm was by counting the time in between lightning and its thunderous shadow.

It was from this same porch that I used to post up, camera in hand, and wait for that perfect National Geographic-esque photo of a ginormous lightning bolt dissecting the midnight sky. Too many times, I was too astounded by the enormity and magnificence of the lightning to remember to click a picture.

What's funny to me now, is how quickly I am reminded of home by such a geographically-neuter occurrence. I'm sure I have witnessed similar storms in a wide variety of locations (instantly, I can think of: Tallahassee, FL; Orlando, FL; Albuquerque, NM; Nashville, TN; Philadelphia, PA; Montego Bay, Jamaica; etc.).

What's even funnier is my childish attraction to it all. Like an infant discovering its foot, I am endlessly enthralled by the concept of visible energy streaking across the sky. I can admit it. The fact I am able to write this right now is a feat in and of itself. I was forced to cut deals with myself to even pull myself away from the porch, bargaining that "after the next one I'll go in...." That turns into "after the next one", and then the next one, etc.

Luckily, Mother Nature took care of me and played the trump card: rain. So now it's off to bed for this guy.

Goodnight yall.

Picture Time

Very recently, I have found myself with a good deal of extra time on my hands. Without getting into the particulars, I am endeavoring to invest this free time into some constructive hobbies. For instance, I have been spending more time writing music, writing on this here weblog, maybe do a little reading, and finally getting back into the photography thing as well.

And so, ideally once or twice a week, I am going to combine two of those activities in the above list and post some recent photos on here. If there is a story behind any of them, I will put it out there as well.

So, for the inaugural photo-post.... (drumroll)

(Yankee Candle top turned into an ash tray on our back deck)


(my guitar on my wall)


(incense burning)

That's all for today. I'll have some more up later this week.

The Pluot

While at the friendly neighborhood Giant grocery store yesterday with some friends, we happened upon one particularly friendly and outgoing employee whilst gallivanting around in the produce section. As my friend and I discussed the age-old peaches-versus-nectarines argument (I've been on a huge nectarine kick as of late), this employee interrupted asking if we had ever laid taste upon the pluot, admittedly his favorite fruit.

The pluot? Was this some sort of joke?

Yes, the pluot. And no, no joke. In the spirit of unnatural fruit collaborations and alterations (a la Oceanspray's cherry-flavored craisins, or those genetically-altered giant tomatoes, or, even, the mythical and yet-to-be-seen bananaberry), the pluot is the offspring of a plum and an apricot. In fact, the name "pluot" is even a registered trademark of Zaiger Genetics.

What's interesting is that the plum-apricot marriage goes by many names. For example:

- 75% plum / 25% apricot = Pluot
- 50% plum / 50% apricot = Plumcot
- 25% plum / 75% apricot = Aprium

In fact, some pluots are reported to resemble dinosaur eggs (go figure, right?), and so in many circles they are referred to as such.

I'll admit, I was a bit skeptical of this whole pluot business... While I've never been a huge fan of either apricots or plums, when the friendly Giant employee offered me one of these suckers to try out, I couldn't help but take a bite. And then another. And then another.

These babies were delicious. The texture of a nectarine with the inside coloring of a ruby-red grapefruit. Not too sweet, and not sour at all. I was convinced. The only way the situation could have improved would have been if the guy gave me a free sample of some napkins. I had pluot juice running all down my hands and chin. Yummmm.

So there you have it. Just when we thought that nature had given us all we needed in terms of fruits and vegetables, some guy named Floyd Zaiger (dubbed the "Albert Einstein of Stonefruit") came along and taught us that Mother Nature just wasn't good enough.

So hats off to you, Floyd. And work on that bananberry. Please.

Adult Swim

No, not the Cartoon Network's finest line of programming (for those of us over the age of 7). I'm talking about the real deal, the original, the defining moment of adulthood - the public pool's lifeguard-sanctioned Adult Swim.

I realize this is quite the random topic to address. So what? Today, while visiting my sister and her two little ones, we embarked on an afternoon at the swimming pool in her neighborhood development. Along with my mom, who was also visiting from PA, the five of us strolled into the gated oasis with as the hot hot heat pouring down on us.

In between the screams and shouting of what appeared to be an endless number of toddlers, I heard the faint shrill of the lifeguard's whistle, followed by the two words that for a long time in my life brought chills to my insides, and tears to my eyes...

Adult Swim.

This was quite the moment. For the past 4 or 5 years, I have been lucky enough to enjoy the luxuries of private pools at friends' houses, or even the coveted guess past at the local country clubs. For these reasons, I imagine, I have been quite detached from the emotional distress caused by the party-pooping meanness of those lifeguards who - I assumed at the time - had the sole purpose of raining on the parade of every small child splish-splashing around in the pool, making us exit and sit alongside the deck with our feet in the water for 15, sometimes 20, minutes at a time. All so a bunch of old people could swim laps or stand waist- or chest-high and talk about things that they were most likely talking about just moments before in the comfort of their lawn chairs.

Didn't they know how much fun we were having? Of course they did, and that is why they were, as mentioned, a bunch of cold-hearted meanies. The lifeguards, that is.

Well that all changed today. With that whistle, I was instantly liberated from a pool filled with ball-wielding, diving ring-retrieving, foam noodle floating, Energizer-battery-using kids, as I found myself embracing the serenity of the overly-chlorinated pool water as it shimmered under the hot sun. It was glorious.

Instantly, it all made sense. The years of anguish and hatred for those red bathing-suit donning Baywatch-wannabe-lifeguards was immediately transformed into loving acceptance, and, commendation for their having the presence of mind to keep it real for us older crowd.

Yes, I am only 23. But dammit, I am an adult.

Confessions of a Mustacheer

As only someone who has been within 5 feet of me in the past month can tell you, I have been growing a mustache. In case you missed what should be a blatantly obvious hint, I use the term "growing" as a technicality, as this small garden on my upper lip has failed yet to become the amazonian rain forest that I had hoped for, if not expected.

So there. I've said it.

The criticism - as I am sure you can imagine - has been plentiful. Even at work, where this all started when I managed to challenge a sizable portion of my coworkers to a mustache growing competition. You would think they would commend the cultivation and encourage in order for a more competitive contest. (Note: Judging will take place tomorrow. I will update with the results.)

Also, I visited with some old college buddies over the weekend in New York, and even they were less-than-supportive of my ragged lip-warmer. "Not again, Mike," they warned. "Didn't you learn your lesson last time?"

Last time, you see, was what I still view as an almost-successful run at a quality mustache. Most did not share in my optimism. (It should be mentioned, however, that I did manage to garner the endorsement of my brother's band. But, as you can see, their opinions aren't exactly expected to be any different.)

So now, it's my turn to respond. I have heard your grumblings and criticisms and all around pessimistic jabberings, and instead of my usual "Oh just you wait, ha ha ha" sarcastic brush-off, I am just going to come right out with it.

Seriously. Do you think these things just happen? Did the Great Wall of China show up over night? Was Manute Bol born that tall? Was Michael Jackson always white?

No. These things take time. (Yes, I know I was given a week and a half handicap headstart at work, but you know what I mean.)

It's simple, really. Somehow my body got confused along the way and forgot that it was 23 years old. What am I supposed to do about that? I am powerless. Best I can do is just work with what I got. If I have to put up with these shenanigans, then you will too.

So please, realize that I am very much aware of the fact that the patch of hair camping out beneath my nose is a weak excuse for a mustache. I get it. In fact, I am faced with this every time I look in a mirror, store window, computer screen, extremely polished wooden tabletop, or upside down spoon.

Personally, I am dedicated to the fact that this could maybe, possibly, hopefully be a freakin' sweet mustache. I will continue to battle and push forward in cultivating it and helping it to achieve its fullest potential without hindrance or interference. After all, the Grow must go on.




*** Update - due to a combination of the fierceness of my mustache, and the fact that everyone else dropped out and shaved prior to judging (Sallies, all of them!), I was crowned victor of the first annual - and likely last ever - office mustache-growing contest! Huzzah! ***

Habits - the Good kind

Yesterday, I came across a recent New York Times headline that peaked my interest. There it was, number 15 on the NYT's Most-Emailed articles top 25. Unboxed: Can You Become a Creature of New Habits? This topic hit somewhat home to me. As someone who has darn-near mastered the art of "I want to do this, but I'll start later", fostering new habits has been a goal for me for some time now. (I swear I've been doing my push-ups in the morning).

Written by Janet Rae-Dupree, the article dives immediately into it, citing research and studies that have "discovered that when we consciously develop new habits, we create parallel synaptic paths, and even entirely new brain cells, that can jump our trains of thought onto new, innovative tracks." Long story short, thinking outside of our daily routine can stimulate creativity. How cool is that?

Rather than fight to suppress what we may deem "bad" habits, the article contends that creating new habits will result in the creation of new thought tracks in your brain which will oftentimes run parallel with the more procedural and subconscious routines that are ingrained in our psyche and ultimately bypass them.

Quoting M.J. Ryan, author of the 2006 book "This Year I Will...", the article states: “This breaks the major rule in the American belief system — that anyone can do anything. That’s a lie that we have perpetuated, and it fosters mediocrity. Knowing what you’re good at and doing even more of it creates excellence.”

Further, Ryan describes the positive effects that creating new habits has on our mental and physical health: "It turns out that unless we continue to learn new things, which challenges our brains to create new pathways, they literally begin to atrophy, which may result in dementia, Alzheimer’s and other brain diseases. Continuously stretching ourselves will even help us lose weight, according to one study. Researchers who asked folks to do something different every day — listen to a new radio station, for instance — found that they lost and kept off weight. No one is sure why, but scientists speculate that getting out of routines makes us more aware in general."

While I have never taken one psychology class in my life, I have always found the human psyche vastly intriguing. This just furthers this opinion.

I recommend not only checking this article out, but also that you challenge yourself to do what it says. Identify that thing in your life you wish you did more, or at all. Truly dedicate yourself to following through with it. And best of all, enjoy it!

Comments welcome: Got a suggestion of a new habit or activity to adopt? Any personal reaction to the article? Let's hear it...

Tall Former NBA Basketball Players that Have Oddly Come Up in Conversation Recently

I do not think it is humanly possible to explain the content of this post any further than the title of the post has done already.

So.

....

#00 - Robert Parrish


#11 - Manute Bol
(ironically standing with Mugsy Bogues, and inexplicably wearing a suave fedora and holding quite possibly the boxiest bass guitar ever, connected to an amp 1/2 the size of dear ol' Mugsy, and, is that a small cartoon hippopotamus playing the drums in the corner?)

(added bonus - Funniest Song I've ever heard - Ballad of Manute Bol)


#76 - Shawn Bradley


#55 - Dikembe Mutombo

(hmm, lots of Sixers...)


#11 - Yao Ming


#77 - George Muresan

Finally, I somehow stumbled upon this, kindness of the folks at NBA Giants :

It should be pointed out that over 90 percent of all NBA players in the modern league era are listed by their heights with shoes on. However, all NBA players have the option of being listed by either their height with shoes, or without shoes. In the cases of all 5 NBA giants above, they were listed by height without shoes.

Chuck Nevitt, Yao Ming, and Shawn Bradley, all chose to be listed by their barefoot heights. Nevitt would have been listed at 7'6" with shoes, Yao at 7'7" with shoes, and Bradley at 7'7" with shoes, had they opted to be listed by the NBA at their height with shoes on.

Bol and Muresan chose to be listed at their heights with shoes on. So Bol, who measured at 7'6 3/4" barefoot when he entered the NBA was listed at 7'7", his height with shoes, rounded down. Muresan was 7'6 1/2" when he entered the NBA, so he was then listed at 7'7", his height with shoes, rounded down. Bol grew another 1/4" to 7'7" even barefoot, and Muresan grew another 1/2" to 7'7" even barefoot as well.

Thus, their heights with shoes on, then should have been updated to 7'8" by the NBA. However, their heights were simply never updated by the NBA. So they too ended up being listed at their barefoot heights. Many people incorrectly believe that the heights for these 5 above players are their heights with shoes on, since that is how the vast majority of NBA players are listed. But in the cases of the 5 NBA giants above, they actually were/are listed by their barefoot heights.

It is comforting to know that someone else has taken the time to think about and discuss this topic. As I had said in the title, the above tall former NBA players (and one current, I now realize..) have all come up in conversations that I have had with several different people over the past week or so.

Hope you enjoyed this as much as I did.

Stick it to me

I love this time of year.

Why now?

Here’s an extended metaphor:

It’s January. Two days ago, the temperature was in the 20’s. Yesterday was just as bad. Then, all of a sudden, you wake up to a beautifully sunny day. Clear skies. 70 degrees. Sun is shining. Birds are chirping. Bees are trying to have sex with them (at least as my understanding goes).

In that moment, all you can think about is summer. No matter how far away it might be, it is all that is on your mind. You smell the beach air. Taste the lemonade. Feel the sun warm on your face. For all intents and purposes, at that moment, it is summer.

Alright. Metaphor ended. So why am I loving this time of year?

Because it is primary season.

Now, to be honest, I am not any sort of political pundit. Hell, I’ve really only voted once in my life. (Stupid Green Party registration, can’t vote in the stupid primaries.)

What cracks me up is the lengths to which people go in campaigning for their candidate of choice. The annoying, all-up-in-your-grill pamphleteering. The “deep”, oftentimes alcohol-induced late night political debates that result in someone’s feelings getting hurt. The buttons, shirts, headbands, dog leashes, hot-air balloons, billboards, beer-coozies, candidate-shaped cookies, etc. etc. etc.

It’s nuts.

What I want to focus on here, though, is the bumper sticker. (Here is where the metaphor comes into play)

All of this campaigning and candidate touting (or defaming), it is primetime season for political bumper stickers. And as far as my senses are concerned, all I can smell, taste, hear and feel is the hilarity I am bound to experience come next year, when all of the electioneering is complete, and that ’98 Accord drives past, covered in Ron Paul or Rudy Giuliani stickers.

It’s great. Really. I cannot wait.

The best part is that even after their fave candidate loses, they keep those babies up. Sure, they could cover that Kerry sticker up with one bragging about their child's academic or athletic achievements, or maybe a Phish decal. But no, he sticks to his guns. And his sticker.

Yes, few things amaze me as much as the phenomenon of the bumper sticker. Not just political ones either. Music groups. Social thoughts. Sports teams. Calvin peeing on (more) things (than R. Kelly).

The bumper sticker is just so timeless. So genuine.

“Wearing your heart on your sleeve” for motor vehicles?

You bet.