In the 2.5 years since we last spoke...
1. I got married.
2. I semi-quit my job in an effort to find something more fulfilling.
How are you?
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Sunday, January 3, 2010
See you around, Vic
Just a heads-up: After reading this a few times, it sounds a little lofty at the start. Bear with me, it calms down a bit.
I think there’s an inherent sadness that comes with being a southerner, a burden unique to the American south. It can be one of the most beautiful places in the world, though it must carry with it a past of unforgivable crimes. All too often, those sins and attitudes are still present here today. For all that, you will find some of the kindest people in the world here and a history that contains much to be proud of as well.
This place creates an atmosphere that gives rise to artists that channel this spirit, this dichotomy of beauty and terror, of pride and shame. Twain and Faulkner loom above them all, but the hits keep on coming: Flannery O’Connor, Larry Brown, Eudora Welty, Truman Capote, John Seawright…and those are just a few of the writers. The music is another beast entirely.
Athens, Georgia is a special place, one that perfectly captures the duality of the southern thing.* A place with a vibrant, thriving arts scene, a place also overrun with the mentality that college football rules all. For some of us, there is room for both points of view. Athens is where I started the road to becoming who I am now: a somewhat mumbly fellow who’s handy to have around on trivia night.
The music in Athens affected me as no other art has. R.E.M. was a force in my life before I even moved there, but once I was in my new town, the floodgates opened. There was music being made all around me, not to mention acts from all over the world playing every night of the week. Of the local artists, one name was mentioned with special reverence: Vic Chesnutt.
I knew the name before I moved there, having seen the documentary Speed Racer: The Lives of Vic Chesnutt on PBS. But once in Athens, I finally had access to the music being made. (Kids, the Internet was still a new beast in those days and you couldn’t just hear about an album and own it 30 seconds later.) I bought my first Vic Chesnutt album from Big Shot Records (now School Kids Records). I always gravitated to Big Shot. I didn’t feel cool enough to shop at Wuxtry. Still don’t, really.
Is the Actor Happy? exploded across my brain, in a way that only an album of mid-tempo folk-country-rock songs can. I’d never heard anything quite like Vic’s voice—the voice of a child who had already developed a taste for liquor. Someone smarter than me once wrote hat the cadence of his speech made him sound like someone who learned English after growing up speaking Gaelic. That’s about right.
I’d never heard songs like Vic’s before—he captured the south that I knew. He had the gift for sense of place that Springsteen has, but applied toward the places I had been around all my life. Country music as I knew it then never did that—this was the time when country pop was all the rage, and I hadn’t yet explored beyond what I could hear on the radio. Vic’s songs told the story of the sadness and greatness of my world. He mentioned people by name that I had never met, but had known all my life.
Those first five albums changed my life. I inhaled them, and they helped start me down the road to who I was going to be. I can hazily remember being drunk on rum, with “Where Were You” on repeat after getting dumped by my girlfriend. My roommate wisely stayed in his room that night. That opening to “Isadora Duncan”—who the hell had ever heard a sound that mournful before, not to mention the knockout “I can’t believe you own this attitude” refrain? Smiling on the bus to class as “Latent/Blatant” played. Then his debut on Capitol—just insane that he was on a major label. You could tell even he thought it was nuts when he titled the album About to Choke. Listen to “Disintegrate” and tell me how much you think he choked.
After I left Athens, I kept buying Vic’s new albums, but they never hit me as hard as the first ones did. I was already on my road and didn’t need the map like I used to. Still, there was always at least one song that reminded me of why I’d fallen under the spell of his music in the first place. He’d capture some piece of human experience I had never considered,** and I was 19 again for a while. His albums were always a place I could turn and learn something.
Vic tried to kill himself on Christmas Eve and died Christmas Day. He’d tried it several times before, but there was no coming back this time. As an outsider, I have to assume that a lifetime spent in a broken body and battling the bottle finally caught up with him, and he had to have a way out. You have to wonder what he would have given us if he’d been whole, if he had the same abilities that so many of us never give a second thought. You can play the “What if?” game all day long and never score.
I’m writing this while sitting in Manuel’s Tavern, a landmark that carries its own place in southern history. You can kind of feel the years wash over you while you’re in here (It should be noted that most of the time when I’m in here I’m not thinking about its cultural significance. I’m drinking beer*** and thinking of dumb ways to make my friends laugh.) I think about the stories that Vic might have told about the people sitting around me right now. I think about how terrifying and heartbreaking that Christmas Day between when he took the pills and when he died must have been for his family. I think about where I was 15 years ago when I first his music and where I am now.
Thanks, Vic. Somewhere, rabbits are cooking breakfast. You’re probably with them, getting ready to tell another story, while we all go about our lives writing our own.
*Phrase stolen with great affection from the Drive-By Truckers.
**I rewrote that sentence several times and it never came out any less pretentious. The same goes for the first couple of paragraphs. My apologies.
***Though I’m drinking coffee while I write this. I think even Bukowski said he couldn’t write when he was drinking.
I think there’s an inherent sadness that comes with being a southerner, a burden unique to the American south. It can be one of the most beautiful places in the world, though it must carry with it a past of unforgivable crimes. All too often, those sins and attitudes are still present here today. For all that, you will find some of the kindest people in the world here and a history that contains much to be proud of as well.
This place creates an atmosphere that gives rise to artists that channel this spirit, this dichotomy of beauty and terror, of pride and shame. Twain and Faulkner loom above them all, but the hits keep on coming: Flannery O’Connor, Larry Brown, Eudora Welty, Truman Capote, John Seawright…and those are just a few of the writers. The music is another beast entirely.
Athens, Georgia is a special place, one that perfectly captures the duality of the southern thing.* A place with a vibrant, thriving arts scene, a place also overrun with the mentality that college football rules all. For some of us, there is room for both points of view. Athens is where I started the road to becoming who I am now: a somewhat mumbly fellow who’s handy to have around on trivia night.
The music in Athens affected me as no other art has. R.E.M. was a force in my life before I even moved there, but once I was in my new town, the floodgates opened. There was music being made all around me, not to mention acts from all over the world playing every night of the week. Of the local artists, one name was mentioned with special reverence: Vic Chesnutt.
I knew the name before I moved there, having seen the documentary Speed Racer: The Lives of Vic Chesnutt on PBS. But once in Athens, I finally had access to the music being made. (Kids, the Internet was still a new beast in those days and you couldn’t just hear about an album and own it 30 seconds later.) I bought my first Vic Chesnutt album from Big Shot Records (now School Kids Records). I always gravitated to Big Shot. I didn’t feel cool enough to shop at Wuxtry. Still don’t, really.
Is the Actor Happy? exploded across my brain, in a way that only an album of mid-tempo folk-country-rock songs can. I’d never heard anything quite like Vic’s voice—the voice of a child who had already developed a taste for liquor. Someone smarter than me once wrote hat the cadence of his speech made him sound like someone who learned English after growing up speaking Gaelic. That’s about right.
I’d never heard songs like Vic’s before—he captured the south that I knew. He had the gift for sense of place that Springsteen has, but applied toward the places I had been around all my life. Country music as I knew it then never did that—this was the time when country pop was all the rage, and I hadn’t yet explored beyond what I could hear on the radio. Vic’s songs told the story of the sadness and greatness of my world. He mentioned people by name that I had never met, but had known all my life.
Those first five albums changed my life. I inhaled them, and they helped start me down the road to who I was going to be. I can hazily remember being drunk on rum, with “Where Were You” on repeat after getting dumped by my girlfriend. My roommate wisely stayed in his room that night. That opening to “Isadora Duncan”—who the hell had ever heard a sound that mournful before, not to mention the knockout “I can’t believe you own this attitude” refrain? Smiling on the bus to class as “Latent/Blatant” played. Then his debut on Capitol—just insane that he was on a major label. You could tell even he thought it was nuts when he titled the album About to Choke. Listen to “Disintegrate” and tell me how much you think he choked.
After I left Athens, I kept buying Vic’s new albums, but they never hit me as hard as the first ones did. I was already on my road and didn’t need the map like I used to. Still, there was always at least one song that reminded me of why I’d fallen under the spell of his music in the first place. He’d capture some piece of human experience I had never considered,** and I was 19 again for a while. His albums were always a place I could turn and learn something.
Vic tried to kill himself on Christmas Eve and died Christmas Day. He’d tried it several times before, but there was no coming back this time. As an outsider, I have to assume that a lifetime spent in a broken body and battling the bottle finally caught up with him, and he had to have a way out. You have to wonder what he would have given us if he’d been whole, if he had the same abilities that so many of us never give a second thought. You can play the “What if?” game all day long and never score.
I’m writing this while sitting in Manuel’s Tavern, a landmark that carries its own place in southern history. You can kind of feel the years wash over you while you’re in here (It should be noted that most of the time when I’m in here I’m not thinking about its cultural significance. I’m drinking beer*** and thinking of dumb ways to make my friends laugh.) I think about the stories that Vic might have told about the people sitting around me right now. I think about how terrifying and heartbreaking that Christmas Day between when he took the pills and when he died must have been for his family. I think about where I was 15 years ago when I first his music and where I am now.
Thanks, Vic. Somewhere, rabbits are cooking breakfast. You’re probably with them, getting ready to tell another story, while we all go about our lives writing our own.
*Phrase stolen with great affection from the Drive-By Truckers.
**I rewrote that sentence several times and it never came out any less pretentious. The same goes for the first couple of paragraphs. My apologies.
***Though I’m drinking coffee while I write this. I think even Bukowski said he couldn’t write when he was drinking.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Hey, kids! Plays!
Look! My friend Matt's directing a play! It's going to be at Dad's Garage and you should all go and see it.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Bread and couches
First off, great big giant Rooms To Go outlet. Look around for a bit, then spot something I like. Big, comfy looking couch. I’m looking for maximum nap support. I sit in it, stretch out a bit. This is definitely in the lead. There’s also a bed shaped like a pirate ship that I swear to God I would have bought five years ago. Stupid maturity.
BUT—only a fool buys the first thing he sees. So, I’m off to the next place in the Jimmy Carter Blvd
Nothing until I go back to the warehouse, that is, where I find a skee-ball machine. So very tempting. I will find a way to make that work someday. On the way out, I see a guy wearing a somewhat familiar-looking t-shirt. In the early 90’s, Taco Bell had a promotion where if you ate enough tacos you could trade in your punchcard for a Bullwinkle t-shirt. I got one, of course, because I was a fatass and I liked Bullwinkle.
The guy in the parking lot was wearing that shirt. I couldn’t believe it. It was in pretty good shape, too, for being at least 15 years old. My hat’s off to you, sir.
I think I’m on my back to the Sharkfinhatcave, but then I pass an art store. My favorite painting is Edward Hopper’s The Nighthawks, and I’ve been meaning to get a framed print of it for a while. I pull into the art store and the first thing I notice is a painting of Heath Ledger’s Joker. Okay. I go inside, and there’s no one there. No customers, no one working, nothing. I walk around the showroom for a minute, than back into the warehouse. Quiet as a tomb. I’m in there for nearly 10 minutes and I never see a soul. At this point, I figure I’ve stumbled across a crime scene and I hightail it out of there.
Back home to regroup and snooze for a it. After a call to the mighty Justin, he tells me where and he and Mrs. Justin got their couch, so I head over to American Signature.
Ladies and gentlemen, may I present The Hawkeye.
I believe we have a winner, but I still don’t want to jump too soon. I head back home after a quick detour through the World Market. Another phone call to Justin, and I’m meeting him and his sister Lindsay down at IKEA. I look at the couches there, but nothing compares to the Hawkeye. Justin locates the shelves he needs, and we’re on our way after an aborted attempt to eat in the IKEA cafeteria.
To be continued…
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Requiem
The Georgia Theater burned this past Friday. Chances are that if you read this site, you already know the place. If not, it was one of the biggest music venues in Athens. The 40 Watt gets the glory, but the Georgia Theater was a fantastic venue and it makes me incredibly sad to think what's happened to it.
I spent a lot of time in that room during my four years in Athens and did my fair share of legal and illegal drinking there, almost always Purple Haze. The shows I went to see and the time I spent with friends helped turn me into the music nerd I am. The bands go by in a flash--countless Dayroom shows, Dick Dale (once when I was a freshman, once when I was a senior--cyclical!), Mishap, Squat, Ben Folds Five, Fuzzy Sprouts, Jump Little Children, Deadeye Dick (fuck you, it was the 90's), Mel & the Party Hats, Strutter the KISS tribute band...it goes on.
They would show movies on nights they didn't have bands. That was where I first saw The Big Lebowski. I saw Chasing Amy, Swingers, and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas there again and again. I didn't know it then, but a lot of my outlook was being shaped in those moments. On game days, you could go there and watch if you didn't have tickets. Seeing the theater in the light of day was always a little unsettling. But then that 2nd beer took care of any reservations you had.
The girls always wanted to go to the late night dance parties there, so you would, because you did what the girls wanted. Doing my little shuffle dance, trying not to make too much of an ass out of myself. Looking across the room and realizing I'd gone to summer camp with the girl I'd just locked eyes with. Laughing my ass off with my friends. Attempting to say something clever to the fire-juggling merch girl for Jump. Stopping a friend from going through what would have been the biggest hook-up mistake of all time. New Years Eve and a friend deciding she wanted a piggy-back ride without telling me first. I've still got a scar on my lip from that.
I keep up with who's playing in Athens every week. I often think about getting over there for a show. Then I get a big deadline at work and I go to bed around 11, because I know I need to be on top of it the next day.
RIP. Rise again.
I spent a lot of time in that room during my four years in Athens and did my fair share of legal and illegal drinking there, almost always Purple Haze. The shows I went to see and the time I spent with friends helped turn me into the music nerd I am. The bands go by in a flash--countless Dayroom shows, Dick Dale (once when I was a freshman, once when I was a senior--cyclical!), Mishap, Squat, Ben Folds Five, Fuzzy Sprouts, Jump Little Children, Deadeye Dick (fuck you, it was the 90's), Mel & the Party Hats, Strutter the KISS tribute band...it goes on.
They would show movies on nights they didn't have bands. That was where I first saw The Big Lebowski. I saw Chasing Amy, Swingers, and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas there again and again. I didn't know it then, but a lot of my outlook was being shaped in those moments. On game days, you could go there and watch if you didn't have tickets. Seeing the theater in the light of day was always a little unsettling. But then that 2nd beer took care of any reservations you had.
The girls always wanted to go to the late night dance parties there, so you would, because you did what the girls wanted. Doing my little shuffle dance, trying not to make too much of an ass out of myself. Looking across the room and realizing I'd gone to summer camp with the girl I'd just locked eyes with. Laughing my ass off with my friends. Attempting to say something clever to the fire-juggling merch girl for Jump. Stopping a friend from going through what would have been the biggest hook-up mistake of all time. New Years Eve and a friend deciding she wanted a piggy-back ride without telling me first. I've still got a scar on my lip from that.
I keep up with who's playing in Athens every week. I often think about getting over there for a show. Then I get a big deadline at work and I go to bed around 11, because I know I need to be on top of it the next day.
RIP. Rise again.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Another comic book joke...
Okay, I got a HUGE spike in pageviews from posting the Swamp Thing jokes. So, unsurprisingly, my main audience is comic book fans. Never let it be said I don't give the people what they want. Here, my right hand to god, is a conversation I had a couple of weeks ago:
Friend: "I don't know, man. I think that girl is more trouble than she's worth."
Me: "Oh, yeah?"
Friend: "Yeah. She's kind of a tornado."
Me: "So, when it's that time of the month, she's a Red Tornado?"*
Friend: "GOOD LORD."
It's not like I like me, either.
Actually, here's a question for you. I haven't really read a comic book in years. I pick up whatever Evan Dorkin puts out and I buy Peanuts and Popeye reprints, but that's about it. Any recommendations?
*Please see this link for an explanation if you, unlike me, had a life in high school.
Friend: "I don't know, man. I think that girl is more trouble than she's worth."
Me: "Oh, yeah?"
Friend: "Yeah. She's kind of a tornado."
Me: "So, when it's that time of the month, she's a Red Tornado?"*
Friend: "GOOD LORD."
It's not like I like me, either.
Actually, here's a question for you. I haven't really read a comic book in years. I pick up whatever Evan Dorkin puts out and I buy Peanuts and Popeye reprints, but that's about it. Any recommendations?
*Please see this link for an explanation if you, unlike me, had a life in high school.
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