It's A Match!

Begin Act 1.

Fade in: It's just dark. Like AFI back in 2003.

So life as we know it, it’s just weird and full of itty bitty coincidences that make me giggle, but also some that make me do a double take. Well, if I start out by stating that there is a coincidence then you’ll be hunting and pecking through this piece until you realize that, just like waiting on her to text you back, it may never come. * Cue John Williams * Dating in this day and age is awkward. It’s full of pixilated tension and electronic epistolary slumps. I’ll go ahead and say it, I’ll confess – I have a Tinder. If you don’t know what Tinder is then just imagine a dating application for your iPhone or Android that the insanely curious or desperate sign up for in order to meet new friends or the one nightstand of their life. It’s a rapid fire “Hot or Not” that can disappoint you as fast you can say, “nope.” Each time you are matched with a mate, the app allows you to then talk to them, and then stores them in a little column for your convenience. Kind of like an embarrassing little black book. Or better yet, watch this informational video!

 With that said, I am that guy who swipes right on gorgeous amounts of cleavage and left on “Roll Tides!”(Is it hockey season yet?) I’ll swipe right on the nerdy and left on the dirty and girthy (Showers are helpful before taking intentional glamour shots). Also, before you get peeved at me, I am an equal opportunity swiper. If you got “dat butt” or call your self a “Whovian” I’ll say yes too (Perhaps regrettably). I’ve been using the application since February of this year and I’ve felt ashamed ever since.

First of all, I’m convinced that men should not be privy to the notion that there are THAT many women out there; ready to mingle, ready to harpoon a single. It’s just mind-boggling. Every time I open it I feel like an instant dick. Here I am judging these girls based off of five to six pictures and their 500 character bio (which most of the time reads like a 5^th graders letter to Santa). I now know how many girls in the greater Chattanooga area need either a strong shoulder to cry on or a sexual experience as timely as a Woody Allen film. I have a hundred plus matches on this little application. Out of that hundred I’ve probably talked to 30 and out of that 30 there are only five that I’ve had an adult conversation with. If you’ve ever used Tinder you know that you only get matched with people who have also swiped right on you. So my hundred plus doesn’t even include the amount of women that I’ve “liked” and have not “liked” me. This pattern is addicting. Often, if I get matched within seconds of swiping right, I click the appropriately titled button that says, “Keep on playing?” “Oh why yes, yes I shall!” and I continue on my merry way. It’s this proverbial idea that the next girl could be hotter or the next dame could have Star Wars listed as one of her interests. Or even better, she is in the Princess Leia slave gear from Return of the Jedi! I better keep playing! And damn right, I keep on playing.

I’ve met a total of four girls off of Tinder and each time it was just... weird. First of all you have to get to the point where your electronic “icebreakers” lead her onto the next phase of, “Okay, well what do we do now?” I mean, when one is at this juncture it is established that both parties have already acknowledged that they are at least remotely interested. So you’d think that you don’t have to fight for their interest, because obviously they’ve noticed you, but you’re wrong. Now you have the hardest battle ahead of you, you have to fight for their attention.  To break the digital ice I’ve said a multitude of curious and/or embarrassing things. They range from, “We should get jerseys... because we would make a great team...”, or “How many tickles does it take to make an Octopus laugh?”. But then there is my favorite, “Hey, I bet I’d beat you in a fist fight.” The last one always makes me giggle. Oh, and by the way, it’s ten tickles. Each time I’ve either gotten responses that are equally as interesting or one that resonate like a dead pigeon hitting the pavement. You might also be surprised to find out that some girls block me on the spot.

Oh, do I hear your woes.

Woah!

Wait!

Girls block you?!

But you sound so charming and cute. I know, thank you. I know I do. * kiss kiss – call me *

But yes, they block me! I was under the impression that they were interested. It’s not like I’m actually going to fight them and no, I’m not shooting for a deep seeded sexual innuendo when it comes to aquatic life. Pfft girls are weird aren’t they? But if they don’t block me then I am stuck with their response, just as they were forced to deal with my witty charm. One girl responded to the “fist fight” statement with, “Oh yeah? Well who’s your trainer?” To which I responded with, “Yoda. Yoda’s my trainer. He told me size doesn’t matter.” (Yes I am that retarded) One could make a strong argument that I don’t take this seriously, I mean should I? On the other hand though, one girl responded to my octopus line with,

“You can’t hear an octopus laugh. They are... like really deep in the water. But just tell me anyways....”

“Um, ten tickles.”

“OH! That’s cute.”

“Yep...”

And that is where I awkwardly stare at my phone screen for about two calendar days wondering what the fuck happened to saying hi in public. Oh to be bck in middle school where my hands would shake before I called her house. I’d pray to the Lord above, “please don’t let her father answer. Please oh Lord, let her be home and bored enough to enjoy my candor." But that’s beside the point because we are no longer living in that age. The point I am going to make is that sometimes the universe allows you to have what you want, and once it’s there you must stand quietly before making a most ridiculous choice. I met a girl off of Tinder this weekend and it wasn’t crazy, but it caused me to seriously examine my personal growth over the years and how my love life ended up here, on an application for the casually desperate or curious.

            It all began when I was at my fathers 60^th birthday party out by Harrison Bay on Thursday evening. The sun was chill, just bobbing and weaving around the mountaintops shinning on the water. It was as still as the breeze and the ducks would paddle their way across the waves and land for bits of hot dog buns (after I stopped chasing them of course). It was cozy. My mother had worked hard on this party all week. She set up camp under a wooden veranda. Everyone wore Hawaiian shirts; the bubble machines were pummeling the park bench tables with suds and there was a palm tree raft filled with ice, drinks and h’ordeurves. If most of the people there were my age I would have opted to buy three or four cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon and let my wild side rip, but I didn’t. Besides the presence of my lovely sisters I had two friends with me that might as well be brothers, Robert and Geoff.

Robert has a rather large ego and I probably don’t need to bolster it any farther, but he is a good-looking fellow. Robert is tall with dark brown scruff and has features that I’d picture that most women within the ages of 25-30 would want in a reliable partner. We’ve been all over the globe together and have a plethora of rated-R stories that have bound us for life. Geoff is about Roberts’s height except clean. Geoff is a clean-cut dude and you should expect that from him since he is in the National Guard. He rides a motorcycle, has a nerdy chuckle and enjoys old 8-bit games on his Wal-Mart laptop. So standing in the middle of these guys I’d often feel a tad inferior. Geoff and I have also traveled the globe together. If you ever get us together, as us about Japan and we'll never stop laughing.
Geoff’s built, Roberts the good neighbor next door and then there’s me; I am short, tattooed, socially awkward and most of the time inappropriate. My friends have often joked about the “Brady Test”, as if I am a litmus exam for future prospects. Not many have passed. Either way, we were sitting on a bench by the lake as the party was winding down when we began to discuss Tinder.

            Robert was giving Geoff some pointers about the Tinder world, and as he should have – he has over 300 matches. In the distance my sisters giggled and my father told stories of old over a plate full of hot dog remains. It was the perfect silence of a moment. Geoff joined Tinder earlier that week and was already going on a date the next week. I guess when you’re muscular the system works fast for you. “What you need to do is put a picture of you on your bike man. You’ll be flooded with requests... if you know what I mean.” Robert said with a sly grin while giving him a quick click of the cheek. Geoff chuckled but then took a serious mental note. He’ll probably call me next week in hopes that i’ll snap a few shots of him on his crotch rocket. While Robert was educating Geoff about the “dos and don’ts” I was scrolling through the potential girls I could match with, like you do.

Blonde, brunette, Black, Asian, Southern, power lifter, hunter, nursing student, mother of three and so on. I’d periodically swipe right on ones that were cute or I presumed would be a decent human being to share a drink with. I wasn’t really paying attention when a girl named Claire came upon my screen. My first impression was: tattoos – okay, swipe right. Next girl please. Oh wait! It’s a match! I opened up Claire’s profile and the first thing I noticed was that we had a common interest that was pivotal -- we both liked Star Wars. In my mind I was doing a booty shake twerk dance thing, but then continued on. She was covered in gorgeous ink, from her chest to the tips of her wrists. Her hair was long, a roasted toffee color that complimented her cream complexion and matched her small but soft eyes. From what I gathered from her photos was that she was small, cutely petite and ready to mingle! Booyah! But there was something about her that I couldn’t quite place... If I were a Jedi I would have said that the dark side is clouding my thoughts, but something is amiss (Bum Bum Bummm foreshadowing!). Oh well! I sat there for a second before I alerted the boys to my most recent catch.

            I nudged Robert, “Hey, check this girl out.” He snatched the phone from my hand and began to assess the situation. He’d let out murmurs as he scrolled through her photos, “Yeah...MmmHmm... Okay... Okay. Yeah man, she’s a cutie.” Geoff then took my phone, “Hey wait! Let me see.” He did the same thing and passed me back the phone in a congratulatory nod. I could tell by the look on his face that he wouldn't mind matching with her either (Haha sucka!). Then Geoff asked me, “Well what are you going to say to her?” I froze. I honestly didn’t know what to say. Opening lines are so pivotal; they might as well mirror peace talks between two awkwardly aggressive countries. “Okay, ‘Country A’, do you agree not to be an asshole to ‘Country B’ anymore? Come onnnnn. Shake hands. Please?”

            After a few terrible suggestions I decided to go with, “Hey, where do you get your work done?” I landed on this choice because I didn’t want to sound creepy by asking how many tattoos she had or where they are placed. I didn’t want to give off the rapey vibe and tell her that she was stunning or be lame and just say, hi. I mean when you tell a girl she's beautiful she either loves it or stamps you with the "creepazoid" mark, and dudes, that shit is hard to wash off. And there was no way I would risk the Octopus joke; I needed certainty.  Like any good woman, she waited.

About 30 minutes had passed and had to leave the party to drive Geoff back home so he could be at work. Third shift at the city jail -- woof! After I dropped him off and I was cruising home with the wind in my face my phone bleeped, it notified me that I had a message from Claire. Oh, sweet joy! She responded with, “West Palm Beach, Florida.” And that was it. Nothing else. I was left hanging with a big large, “uhhhh” hanging from my jowls. I had to act fast and strike hard, I quickly said, “Oh yeah. Florida’s as hot at Tatooine. I get mine done in Atlanta.” (Nice! You like that Star Wars nod? Yes... no?) 

As quick as my mind could work she responded again and told me that she had just moved to Georgia and didn’t where to go for future tattoos. Being the gentlemen that I am, I fired off into the night sky with a list of places to go and my readiness to be her helpful tour guide. In retrospect I’ve learned that if you ever let a female know that you are “ready to be their immediate friend/whatever” it doesn’t work. I don’t know why, but that’s just the way the universe conducts their behavior. But Claire didn’t run, and from what I understand now, she is no runner, Stella is a diver. Claire went on to say that she didn’t have any friends, to which I opted to be a new one for her and that I’d show her around, drinks on me. She then hit me with the best message that you can get off of Tinder, “Text me??” (The double question mark must mean that she is excited, right??)

Mentally I thought, Oh yes, yes I will text you. (EvenThoughIHateTextingBecauseICantStandWaiting)

            We began texting that evening. I introduced her to Fanboys, which is a comedy that every Star Wars fan needs to see. We talked about stand up comedy and even body fat content, which resulted in her sending me a picture of her belly. Weird -- but sure, why not. So far so good I guess. I felt like I was winning this digital haze of hormones. Throughout our texts she told me that she was coming to Chattanooga then next evening and that she would take me up on my offer for a drink. It took me a second to really process the fact that a complete stranger, who is exceedingly attractive, hasn’t blocked me due to poorly timed social cues and then insisted that we meet up. And I didn’t even use my octopus joke! Huzzah! So there it was. Tomorrow evening we would go to a free concert together in downtown Chattanooga and follow that up with a drink among friends. After we were done texting, a.k.a. she stopped responding, I shot Robert a message. “Pookie! I am meeting that chick tomorrow” to which he immediately responded with, “That was fast! Huzzah!” 

Time for bed.

Time to rethink over every little thing I said and panic because it just seems like this is going to happen. *gulp* 

            End Act 1.

Fade out: I’ll laugh until my head comes off... (Radiohead)

"Prolegomenon" As the Boss would say...

 "Prolegomenon" As the Boss would say...

 “Come up for the rising.

Come on up for the rising, lay your hands in mine”.

Like all good Americana music, as to when Bruce Springsteen croons, a spirit is summoned. This spirit is better known as “memory”.The spirit of memory has a very tricky handshake as well. It's no Loki, but it might as well be just as blind as Lady Justice. I do not believe that I've ever listened to a song by Bruce or anything from the Americana genre and not have been immediately taken back to a distance place, firm and/or loose handshake. For me, personally, that’s also how I’ve felt about my writing. I can’t talk to you guys about baseball, GTA 5 (hookers) or how Mother’s should raise sons, but I can write about music, how it takes me back and hopefully you as well.


Even though the chorus section of the song "The Rising"  is the most “blast” worthy, as in “crank it to eleven Bruce!”, it’s not the part that hits home for me. Home is where the heart is, I am homeward bound and the Boss knows that I have kept track of everywhere I have been. At the very beginning he sings,

“Lost track of how far I've gone

How far I've gone, how high I've climbed…”

I remember when I was in Scotland and I hiked to the top of Arthur's Seat, the highest point in the city of Edinburgh. Like a retard, I didn’t dress the part for hiking… I had converse, some tight/skinny jeans and I even went shopping at the record store before hand. So like some portly kid, toting a shopping bag that invited himself on the adventure at the last second, I scrambled up the mountain. I took several photographic opportunities, or as the angel on my shoulder might say “a very sinful, angry but yet protectively mumbled rant”. When I got to the top, the wind touched my face with a cool smile and the city below was quietly humbled. I had totally forgotten about the struggle I had just experienced. I just stood there holding my bag of records taking in the beauty of nature. Life is like that sometimes. Everything from here has been a journey. From discussions of how Mum could be the “made for adult ears” version of Death Cab For Cutie or to how the song Night Moves still may be the most perfect jam to belt at the top your lungs while facing an uncertain dusk, top down and cold soda in hand; I’ve come a long way, and hopefully you have too. So here is your informal invite to start the ending of two series that are close to my heart, Keeping Track of History and You Already Know How I Feel: The 5 Songs We Use Not to Talk. The double feature is coming and I hope you're ready.

You maybe wondering why I am ending KToH, well that's just a surprise for you later down the road, but you can expect them to make a comeback with some different "clothes" next year. As for The 5 Songs... that one is kind of obvious, but hey, you still have two left after this one is done spinning.

As I was writing the other day (which was a Sunday in case you were curious) I couldn’t help but feel as though these two stories belonged together. Over my many years of "womanizing", (if you dare to even call it that -- I'm such a sweetheart) I don't think I've ever experienced more infatuation and stress in such a short amount of time than during the summer of 2012. There are a couple of things that you should know about the "2012 Effler" though. I had just returned from my study abroad in England and my beard was getting larger than my ego; all the beard wanted to do was make-out and write “glitorious” pop-music. I wouldn’t say that I deserved the lovey-dovey heart palpitations or that post-crack-fix stress twitch that this girl caused, but I could be guilted into thinking I needed both. I don't think this is the appropriate use of the term "hot flashes" but it might as well be the male equivalent. Our "hot flashes" could be defined as the relentless weakness to both strangle and in the same beat daintily adorn with silk-baby-bottom-soft rose petals our current beloved. These hot flashes are also how I feel about Robin, the boy wonder. I never understood how Batman dealt with "them", but for me “they” always caused both intense frustration and merriment.

Either way, there are only two types of girls that could cause such a brouhaha for me: Any girl cos-playing* as Princess Leia and this swank sexy Russian by the name of Gitte Kendel. Now to avoid connections, such as an angry phone call and/or letter-bomb, I changed the names for the consideration of others, well… just Gitte's. But you guys seem like a smart enough crowd to know that Gitte is Bavarian name, which suits her because her hair swung like a heavy obsidian axe while her matching eyes would have brought any retired jewel thief back to their shadowy feet. Gittie was a babe, she knew it, she owned it, I was snared and now she is part five of KToH: The Legend of Iron Curtain. Gitte is also how I stumbled upon number three for the The 5 Songs… series: the Karaoke. The Karaoke happens in the middle of the story, and I'm most positive that everyone can yoke my experience to when we've felt young and foolish. So from hot flashes, hopeful glitter ambitions, robin the boy wonder and one sexy Russian, this is really a summer's tale with a more awkward John Travolta. It's basic, guy stares at girl, girl ignores guy and by some freak accident, sparks fly. But this summer loving has a totally different sing along, it's all about flaws.

So later this week expect a rather large update. Your homework assignment is to re-read posts, tell me what you liked, what you didn't like and also send me some of your moments. I'm also playing with the idea of how I'm going to write this piece, so don't be bashful. I'm about to start responding to fan-mail/"dude this is my jam letters", so get involved.

*Cosplaying: short for "costume play", is an activity in which participants wear costumes and accessories to represent a specific character or idea from a work of fiction.

5 Songs We Use Not to Talk. Pt. 2

#2 The Fragmented Sentence.

Built To Spill // You Are

"Everybody knows...

Everybody knows...

That you..."

It was early September of 2011, during my last full semester at Lee University, when the trees had just begun to malt -- shearing colors of gold and orange. The wind was perfect, as if the breeze was a tiny little boy who had happily gotten lost in an open air super market, dashing from side to side clustering my hair. It was perfect. I was happy, I was content and I was looking forward to the future. I wasn't day dreaming like any normal 23 year old dude at the time. Instead of thinking of ways to pull pranks on my friends, what kind of beer I wanted that evening or if it's to early to call my girlfriend to make out -- rather I was thinking about a career, my upcoming semester in England and if Target had any gnarly sweaters on sale. (or pea-coats! I love pea-coats!) But then my phone rang, it was father on the other line. He sounded pensive and serious, but this wasn't far from the norm so I said "Hey/What's Up" and he responded with "Poppy died...".

I attacked the phone receiver with a battalion of untrained soldiers equipped with the standard edition rifle tears. These are my tears, there are many like them, but these are mine. Each sentence was more whimpered than the last. My eyes had contracted a fever, and it wouldn't go away. That day, like my grandfather, I couldn't leave the same way I came. I needed my car and roads I had never seen before. My tongue was riding as fast at it could on the phone, but when silence is your best friend... it's not very fast at all. I don't know how many phrases I belted out on the phone, there are so many that one seems to use when dealing with death that it get's annoying fast. So I'm sure you might be able to relate to my list, contracted like a disease:

• How did it happen?
• But why? 
• I just saw him!
• I don't fucking believe...
• Is Mom alright!?
• I'm coming home right now.
• ...shit 
• What should I do?
• I... I ... Are you okay?

After I hung up the phone I thought about running, just running. To my car, I don't know, perhaps. Any direction will do. Motion, it seemed like a good idea, a much better idea than standing in the middle of a christian campus swearing like a sailor and craving a cigarette. If I just ran to my car, maybe I could... maybe I could... I don't know but maybe I could just fucking... do something, but what's the point, he's dead and it's not like we had a dinner reservation.
So I just walked.
I popped in my head phones and started slowly. My feet felt like fat slippers soaked in kerosine as I tromped to my vehicle. All the trees seemed so repugnant as if it's not a big deal to have an arm full of dead droppings. The hot sorority girls laughing on the corner looked fatter and I could feel the lack of depth permeate from their skulls, as if they were empty boxes of soggy light. God that walk sucked. It wasn't until I got into my car that it really hit me, I need to call my girlfriend.

She picked up the phone

"Hey! What's up?"

"My grandfather just died..."

"The one out in California?"

"Yeah... Poppy."

"Are you gonna be okay? Do you need to see me?"

"No, no... I'll be okay. I just needed to hear your voice..."

The conversation didn't last much longer than that because unlike my feet, my tongue couldn't put one foot in-front of the other. It was stuck in a suffocating pattern dryness, sealing it's self to the roof of my mouth.When I got to my parents house later that day it didn't get any better. I had no words, just... just a mouth full of pythons and a fist that needed to placed properly in a door. I kept on trying to comfort my Mother, but I couldn't say anything good. The next day passed and the funeral arrangements where being made. The family decided that my mother and my sisters would fly out to California to be at the small family gathering where they would spread his ashes in my grandmothers garden. The night I found out I wasn't going I cried like a child who had seen his blood for the first time. As We Were Promised Jetpacks would say, it was a far cry from all that was dead inside. I couldn't go because I had "exams", so I had to write a letter to give to my grandmother. My condolence letter. My hated for school spiked significantly that day.

My girlfriend at the time, who was much younger than me, tried her best at comforting me but it just wasn't working. She was lost in the torrent of choice-less words and my hot-n-cold comfort zone. I had no way of communicating. It was like I was deaf and trying to tell her that I was having a heart attack, it was useless. After the deluge of "I'm sorrys" and "is there anything I can do" I left her place. I went home to write that letter.

I dug through my iPod while it was on shuffle, pecking the skip button and getting pissed after every track. Sometimes I think I torture my self for no good reason and love it.
I would scream at it,
"No. I don't want to listen to Damien Rice right now you twat!"
"What! No! Frighten Rabbit and Copeland are OUT of the question!"
I was secretly hoping it would jump to Guernica by Brand New because I wasn't going to pick it my self. That song always upset me, and I wanted to be the distorted hum of one sad and lonely alcoholic. And if the fate of the shuffle wouldn't pick Brand New then my second wish was that it would land on Pedro The Lion's "Suspect Fled The Scene". I just knew from the the bottom of my heart that if I picked those songs on my own that I'd be inflicting a ridiculous amount of pain on my heart, so I was hoping fate would do it for me. When your as sad as wordless poet, you don't argue fates cruel and provocative hug, you just accept it with a pinch of poison. But then shuffle did it again, it saved my soul. It landed on the one song that I usually associate with the moment when the prettiest girl smile, the whole "cat's got my tongue" thing, where she's just to beautiful to look at. The sliver rectangular angel started to play "You Are" by Built To Spill.

 The fragmented sentence, an iota of tangibility, the mouthful of crumbs that came dribbling out of my face and my figures began to scoop them up like puzzle pieces. I played the song over and over and over and over and over and over. I sent it to my friends, my girlfriend and anyone that would listen. I felt like a seventh grader trying to tell his parents that he got shoved in a locker at school yesterday. I wanted to shout the guitar patterns, break windows to the drum beats and steep in the memory of my grandfather while the guitar solo painted every memory I had with him. This hot sense of odd pleasure drove me to room for hours.

There are only five words in the entire song. "Everybody/knows/that/you/are" but the way it is sang invokes an irresistible amount of feelings. Doug Martsch, the lead singer goes in rounds as if he knows, this is all he's got and this is all he can say and it's the only way he can tell you, so it's odd, but it's perfect.

It's perfect.   

And it was perfect.

Here's a small portion of the letter that I wrote: "...throughout my childhood Poppy played a key roll in my developing years. I couldn't think of a memory that encompassed what he truly meant to me. Poppy was much more than a memory to me. He was a legacy of ideals. Ideals that started me down the pathe of being an artist, an artist that encapsulates mystery in truth and love through nobility. Poppy was an artist and now so am I. He gave me the inspiration to play each key with fervor and integrity. Each string to be strummed with an intimate passion and an ear to always listen closely to my heart... Poppys brush strokes have painted the most beautiful foreground and now it is my duty as his grandson to take up the brush and make something beautiful for the world to see and for the world to feel..."

The fragmented sentence is one of the most powerful songs we can express to an individual. It's the moment when words aren't enough, we've lost the ability to even define our selves and the situation, so we let our most powerful form of express take control -- for me, the music. As a young man I find my self in phases in my life where I am left with nothing but the music, and I'm sure I'm not the only one. Whether it's the death of a close relative, the lowness from exiting a relationship or the metaphorical Triton in the road, because let's be real, these days it's no longer a fork, and we are left with invisible character defining art. In these phases our internal soul cries out to others in ways that we can not express. We might even feel guilty or angry because there's an unfulfilled tension that is created deep within our psyche, but there's a way out. Don't say it, just play it.

Now when ever I hear this song I think of two things. The first is that sometimes in life the best way to tell someone that you love them is through art. The second thing is this: your art will inspire, cultivate and move people in ways that you never knew and perhaps will never know. I never told my grandfather that I started playing music because of him. I never told my grandfather that he taught me to look for beauty in all things. But I told him I loved him and I'm sure that rolls over into heaven. 

What's your fragmented sentence?

 

5 Songs We Use Not to Talk. Pt. 1.

#1 The Daywalker

Shout Out Louds // Very Loud.

“But I wanna change, change the way we always have

And to make different plans and try not to make this sad…”

As I teetered into my room, cane in one hand, cup of coffee in the other, I turned on the light and just stood there for a moment. Whether if it was due to the medication or just because I naturally stop to dwell, I froze and non-verbally judged my room. There were pants, socks, cards, candy wrappers, record sleeves and just random shit… everywhere. It’s one thing to lose your zen in a place that is your own, but it’s another to lose it when you are forced to move back into your parents’ house. Yeah, this was my old room and I moved back there due to medical reasons.

The last time I lived there was about a year ago when I was in transition from one apartment to another. These transitions happened only a few times because once I was 18 I out like a candle. I never tried to stay longer than I had to either, their place just wasn’t where I wanted to be. Being at my parents was always an internal struggle, so whenever I vacated, I did it in a hurry and always left much behind. Transitions, they’re not my favorite card in the deck that life seems to give me often.

"My room’s a fucking mess…" I thought to myself.
I sighed and decided that something must be done. You ever get that wild hair up your ass, the one that says, "Gosh I should clean?” well I did. And the thing is, I rarely clean my room! It always self-implodes hours later, so I preemptively came up with a strike plan; I had to make another mess before I could start cleaning! My mind needed retrospective destruction, so I opened my closest and began to dig through one of the old boxes that I had left in there years ago.

I didn’t exactly know what I was searching for, but I knew there was something in this box that would satisfy. After digging through old hats, Star Wars posters and “How to Learn Japanese” cassette tapes I found it, my old CD wallet, a.k.a. the bible. Back in its heyday the wallet was bursting at the seams. CDs were double stacked on each-other, crammed into those clear cd slips and album art inserts cushioned the back like a stack of pillows. The variety ranged from the Japanese punk boy-bands like Mongol 500 and the Garlic Boys to deep and classic cuts like Johnny Cash’s vault collection and Live’s “Throwing Cooper”. But then I saw them, The Shout Out Louds. Enter the Daywalker…

When I listened to love songs back in 8th grade I was defined by butt-rock, such as Course of Natures “Supercalla”, America Hi-Fi’s “Flavor of the Week”, and even “Hero” from the Spider-Man soundtrack, written by Chad… Kroeger… (Oh, did I ever get saved). I was your “A-typical” 14 year old, with his mind pockmarked by my female colleague’s newest addition, breasts. And I thought breasts loved butt-rock, so my song with my first girlfriend was “Caught in the Sun” by Course of Nature… She broke up with me the day I got out of the hospital, so perhaps that wasn’t the wisest choice. But all that changed when I started to listen to bands like The Shout Louds, Wolf Parade and Green Day (RIP). My perspective on love songs changed, my relationships lasted longer and breasts became more metaphorical foreplay than attack and defend. Love songs, they don’t have to sound like… complete and utter butt-hurt-bull-shit. 

Derp...

I squatted on the floor and shoved the CD into my record player like it was a parrot and begged it to talkback. It came to life, but before it even had the chance to blink or even play the first song I mashed the next button to my favorite track, track two, “Very Loud”. As soon as the rolling drums hit, that’s when it happened, the sweet beast herself, nostalgia. In a constant hum of musical rubble and re-enhanced oblivion I remembered I wasn’t alone.

The static in the air shrank and I heard my friend Amy stir who had been sitting on my bed the whole time. She had been over to help me organize my room, rearrange it, beautify it, etc, but I was lost. As soon as I stepped into the unintentional need for reconnection I unknowingly brought her along with me. Like the good Dr., Amy had unknowingly stepped into my Tardis and was now experiencing a time shift that she couldn’t see or understand, teenage Me.

I tried to explain to her how I moved up and down the genre ladder like a drunk fireman. How the paradigm shift in music was like moving from dove soup to juicy couture and then back. The change affected my relationships, my driving, smoking, etc… but the fragmented rambling, it felt useless. So I just let the song play, over and over again. As it played I could feel her understand what I was trying to say and little by little my secret world, and she was day walking*, just like me. To use the daywalker is to slip into a world that is outside of our time but yet to still common in the present. We are listening to a jogging dream, a bookmark for a reserved seat in a museum, we are vampirically feeding during our nap time, we are not talking. But, just because we are using this song to “not talk” does not mean we are not communicating, in fact for some it may be the most significant moment of that day, week or month. The transformative language of this type of song will happen in movements, just as it did for me. At first I became lost and unaware of my surroundings. I discovered, relapsed into memory and then followed it to wherever it lead me. I honestly could have had this moment with other songs, and that doesn’t make the Shout Out Louds any less significant, but I had it with them and it was destiny. 

So what’s your daywalker? What song do you use not to talk about the past, but to feel it, experience and share it?

“But I wanna smell, smell the way you do

And to wear those clothes, the clothes your friends do

But I always choose another way

So this is why this love can't stay…”

- Shout Out Louds // Very Loud.

Sonic-naut

She's Out There // Honeybus.

Talking about productivity on the internet can be dangerous.
How dangerous? Well, I tell you this because as an artist I think you'll understand...
Cat photos are everywhere and they are the captains of time consumption and productivity.
But I'm going to try and tackle it in the only way I know how; musically! Productivity, what exactly is that? Let's start with an example of what it does not look like.There are some days where I barely get out of bed mentally but my body tends to wonder the apartment floor like some lost soul. I either get stuck to my computer watching cat gifs, or I'm glued to my TV because I am on my latest fix of How I Met Your Mother. But if I'm feeling really lethargic I revitalized my X-box  or Nintendo and I put in an unhealthy amount of hours working my way to becoming the next Sith Lord, Dragon King or Pokè-master. It's safe to say that I am barely productive when these days occur, or at least what I'd like to call "productive". 


The dictionary says:

the quality, state, or fact of being able to generate, create, enhance, or bring forth goods and services.

So lets go with the "bringing forth of goods" section of that definition. Therefore, I want to be "sonically productive". To go forth within this techno world as a crusader. I want to discover new worlds, cultures, languages and bring them back for your listening pleasure. When I am being sonically productive I know that I haven't wasted a moment finding out what the hell is out there, and I find my life to be more enjoyable when I am sonically productive. I love it when I find new music that revolutionizes what my ears have been used too.
I am a hunter and gatherer.
I am man, hear me double click!
I peck around till i find little gems, like free bandcamp.com downloads My most recent and proud discovery :) Damn Robot!
<---
I have gathered a couple of sites for you to use, just as I do. So be ready to dive right in.
"Yoo-Hoo shit head!"
:) Happy hunting
<---


1) TasteKid
When you first stumble on this website it will look like a normal search engine, but its not. This site is built kind of like pandora but no audio player. Another exception is that it recommends music, movies, book, television etc... You type in your favorite band, movie, what ever it is and it gives a list of similar bands, movies that you'd be interested in. In the image below I typed in Neutral Milk Hotel into the search bar just for an example.


Granted... I don't think I would have placed Panda Bear or The Antlers in the similar category of like styles... but hey at least its suggesting good stuff!
This is really helpful if you are really trying to zero-in on a musical style or genre. You may have to be careful though, when using this for making mixes, because not every band belongs there. But the cool thing is that you can save your "likes", "dislikes" and "Mehs" on to a profile. Once you save it, that artist or movie no longer pops in the que.

Here is a screen shot of a part of my profile.

I hope you sign up and enjoy collecting as I have done. It's totally worth it.

2) Chart Attack

This is a website that I am still getting used to, but it is full of amazing indie and undiscovered music. You can stream full albums and they also have a sub-group called MP3 round up. It delivers a ton of videos that you'd have to hunt for otherwise on Vimeo or Youtube. They have interviews, artist of the month watch live concerts, like when Bon Iver and Radiohead preformed at Austin City Limits.

What initially attracted me to their website was an article on the "best" time wasting online music creators/generators to which you can find HERE. I definitely recommend Chart Attack when you feel that righteous vibe and need to water that buzz before you get all harsh, dude.

3) Sputnik Music

I absolutely love this review site. It's a lot like punknews.org or pastepunk but associates it's self with more genres. They have 7 different sections: Metal, Punk, Alt/Indie, Rock, Hip-Hop, Pop and Other. Their contributing writers are a lot better than the "hit or miss" that you might find looking else-wear. Sputnik Music also allows their users to write reviews as well, and whats exciting about that is a message board begins to percolate, brewing a decent discussion. Their user reviews also review albums of the past, which is awesome! They have discussion boards, sound-offs and you are able to keep track of reviews that you have liked and disliked. Forward thinking users unite!!!

I usualy hit up this site about twice a day, just to see what's come out that I have missed. So far, I am more glad that I have, than I haven't. Take some time to read their reviews and you won't regret it.
Ever imagine how Taking Back Sunday's - Tell All Your Friends or Pink Floyd's - Darkside of the Moon would be received today?
Well now is your chance.

4) Brain on Fire

Do you love free downloads? I would hope so. Brain on Fire is a Blogspot based site that endorses new music and provides links to Bandcamp.com. Most of these bands will allow you to download their music for free or you can donate how ever much you would like. It's rather simple... You see band, you read "like" bands, track listing, can listen to them right there on the spot or go to their bandcamp site.

Above is a screen shot of Damn Robot!'s little piece, but the most important part for me was the highlighted DOWNLOAD link. I have found many bands to be appealing, ranging from prog-post rock to metal. Now be warned, you might like everything, so use your excellent judgement based on album art...
Last but not the least.

5) 8tracks

The human imagination is an amazing machine of emotion and ingenuity. A girl, dark and beautiful once said to me:
"Brady, mix cd's are you love language, aren't they?". I responded with the most proud and blushed face I could muster and said, "It's how I tell you i love you with out saying I love you. It's how I cry in front of you, it's how I laugh with you, it's how I talk to you... with out even saying a word. Mix cd's are a gateway into our soul."
At 8tracks anyone can make a mix and post it and I love it.
There are tens of thousands of mixes for you to sort through. You'll never get through them all, its impossible... that's why you should listen to mine! (ha... but no please?)

With 8tracks you can create a profile. Once you have done that you can like mixes or just individual tracks. Your profile keeps track of your activity and provides you with a direct youtube link to the songs. You can also follow particular individuals and be notified once they post a new mix. This is a great way to get into the heads of the people around you and also friends of yours.


So now that I have told you some of my secrets, it's time to implement them. Go forth and discover music. Let me know what you find, what you like, what you hate, but most of all tell me that you have been productive. My little sonic-naut :)



My name is Brady Effler and I am currently unemployed because I am going through chemo treatments. I was diagnosed with Multiple Meyloma at the end of July 2013, and now I'm fighting the good fight. If you liked what you read, please feel free to donate. I am currently trying to pay off my student loans and other bills (pills, hospital visits, etc...). Anything you give is awesome. Thanks again for reading. I'm not begging, or trying to pull the wool over anyone, just being honest.

Keeping Track of History Pt. 4: Dream Catcher

Keeping Track of History Pt. 4: Dream Catcher

It isn't often that I get lost in a piece of music, but today it happened again and it was hauntingly beautiful.

The rain was cluttered at my window, pawing at the pain of glass; as if my cat was begging to get in, a soft gray mood waited patiently as I was illuminated by my computer. It was a typical friday afternoon, plenty of energy and nothing to do. As I scrolled through the series of pages I typically explored for new music I saw the image of Charlie Chaplin, all in black and white with the caption, "Material Of My Own." I clicked the white play icon and as Zacho Fraser crooned I was reminded of this story from my childhood.  

When I was 16 years old I went to Japan for the summer for school. Whether by ornate curiosity from the instructors or blind luck I was selected to be a part of a small squad of students that would participate in a exchange program in Iwate, Japan. At 16 I was five foot four, golden blonde with a disheveled grin and dressed like a Hot Topic ad before there was such a thing. Frankly, it's always an embarrassing moment when a female interest finds these photographs that mother and sister have stashed away like the easter bunny. I went with several friends and soon to be friends as well, but my two closest comrades were Geoff and Jacob. Before we left for Japan Geoff, Jacob and I barely knew anything about each other, but now we can safely say we know what we look like in our skivvies and would trust each other with our lives, or pokemon card collection -- at the time of course. Geoff usually had his dirty blonde mop kept in place by one large red sweatband. He wore large cargo pants, black combat boots and you could always hear him coming with the amount of necklaces and metal bracelets he wore. If you ever got this poor boy talking about electronica, gameboys or obscure anime, good luck shutting him up. 

Geoff was an electro junkie, listening to Dieselboy and Daft Punk. Jacob on the other hand shared similar qualities, such as anime, video games and general interest in the female body, but they look like polar opposites. Jacob was small, had a brown bowl haircut (that his mother probably cut for him) and was Jewish. Jacob was quiet and had a chuckle that seized his body. Jacob always made me feel funny or like the comedian of the group, so I often tested out my jokes on him. We were the three amigos full of sexual angst and without even the slightest clue or definition of what that even meant.

There's something odd about being sent to a country that is both highly sexualized but yet conservative when one is fully engulfed by the quicksand of puberty. All the girls were cute, I wanted them all, and the condom and cigarette vending machines told me I could have them all too. Japan was just one giant illusion of subservient ants bluffing the carnal and untamed sexual drive of the King of the Jungle. But I guess once a suit hits the floor, it no longer makes the man. I guess that's how it works, right? Well one day we were in Tokyo and the guys and I decided that we would go to Akihabara, or a.k.a. "Electric Town". It was the perfect place for kids our age. On every corner there was an arcade, comic book stand, video stores and tons of girls walking around in adorable schoolgirl outfits -- stockings and all. 

After browsing the comic book stands, Japanese Radioshacks and novelty shops, which by the way contained the predicted amount of henti and "engrish" products, I felt overwhelmed and slightly sick. My senses were bombarded with products supposedly used by a human being, black and white pencil drawings of girls being seduced by bipedal humanoids, videos with bold pink lettering covering up what seemed to be children and the smell of burnt plastic over hot wires. Soon all the stores seemed to blend together like a poorly stitched music video, cigarette burn in the top corner and the same extras in every background. I couldn't take it, so we hopped on a train.

Ever wished you could slow down time? Well you can, or at least not intentionally. In the metro station below the bowels of Akiabara, the trains were lined up parallel to each other like the gigantic locks of a linoleum dam. One train the middle, separated by a sea of people flooding the on ramp, transferring the weight from box to another. The doors opened like shutters on a space shuttle, out of sync but in a musical rhythm let out puffs of unsterile air in white fragile clouds. The men held parcells, dirty magazines and the women clutched their bodies. It was as if they were trapped in the headlights of the floor, muscle memory and darwinian logic kept them safe. 

I was standing in the middle of the metro car, holding onto a metallic poll as the door to my left geared open and a mass of people poured in like squishy marbles. Geoff fought for a seat, swishing from side to side as his beads clanked on tapped bystanders. He was victorious and claimed the seat. Geoff pulled out his walkman and turned it on, lost in the beat of some volatile break beat Once Geoff had his head phone one, he might as well be deaf. Only shiny objects and earthquakes would break him out his deep electro trance. Jacob on the other hand, who had also been successful in finding a seat was caught between the only two obese people on the car. Imagine the smallest amount of frosting between two large oreo cookies, that was Jacob. He looked miserable. I knew not to look at him because there would be a good chance he’d start laughing, get embarrassed then start looking for the quickest exit to escape his lack of social ques. 

Then the door on my right popped, then clicked and gasped and finally opened as if the gear-grease was made of sticky sugar. More squishy marbles gushed past me, back out into the sea of people. As they exited, the door on the train parallel to us opened, succinct timing for the wave to transfer from one box to the other. 

It was gross.


I had an open line of sight from where I was standing to the other train car across the sea. My peripheral vision was cut off, I could not see Geoff. I could not see Jacob. I could only see straight ahead of me. The claustrophobia of the parted sea walls were closing in -- and in that moment time stopped, and I was alone. I gaze drifted across the way and to my surprise I found that I was staring into the eyes of someone. Someone one beautiful.
She had been looking at me the whole time, or well, that's at least what my body had told me. Gentlemen, she was radiant. 

I must have been staring at her for longer than I had realized because my hands had molded to the poll by the clammy sweat of palm. Her eyes were like dream catchers, so unique that I could only see it in my sleep. Her skin was fair hair, auburn; bobbed and curtsied just under her jaw. She clutched the poll and had rings, metallic rings. There were embers painted below her eye lids and pale lips that were curving into a smile... a smile. She was looking at me, and as soon as my brain had sent the signal of realization to my body time found its proper place. It was like waking up in the middle of a high speed motorcycle chase or bracing for light speed. The doors sucked them selves as if to quarantine and the train took off like a slingshot. I was smiling, but it was too late because the only person that could see it was me; deep within the reflection of the protective glass of the train car door. As I stepped off the train moments later at the next stop, I gathered my thoughts and went home.Some moments in life are like this.
A dream and only a dream.

Zacho Fraser is an independent artist from Auckland/Wellington, New Zealand and composes music that lures you into his world. To quote two bands, it's like slipping into a fever and the sound of sugar pouring into tea -- simply good.

Find a pair of headphones or find a quiet place to chill. You'll need to be alone to fully absorb this one.

P.S. You can download his music HERE. 
You're welcome. 





My name is Brady Effler and I am currently unemployed because I am going through chemo treatments. I was diagnosed with Multiple Meyloma at the end of July 2013, and fighting the good fight. If you liked what you read, please feel free to donate. I am currently trying to pay off my student loans and other bills (pills, hospital visits, etc...). Anything you give is awesome. Thanks again for reading. I'm not begging, or trying to pull the wool over anyone, just being honest.

Keeping Track of History.

Keeping Track of History.

I remember burning my first CD. I was ten years old and it was for the cutest girl on the block, Sarah V. She had the perfect amount of freckles, made bracelets for boys she liked and enjoyed the original Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six computer game, I was in love. Now Sarah V. is forever a part of my music history because the CD I burned for her was Britney Spear's debut album ... Baby One More Time. I don't know how I did it, because burning CDs back in the 90's was a process, much like how I imagine making a custom leather belt could be -- but I did it and it was wonderful. Also, now that I think back on it, I wonder why no one thought it was odd to see a ten year "blonde puff" straining over a Britney Spears record... I should have a talk with my family. 
But, back to the story. 
So, I rode my bike over to her house and parked it around back, next to the huge oak tree. She was waiting out side on the wrap around porch with the little boombox that she'd had since she was five. I placed it in the tray and pressed the play button. I'm fairly positive that this is still, to this date the sweetest thing I have ever done for a girl -- the boombox had a microphone attachment, I had to sing along. 
And I did. 
I even danced for her. 
Music -- it will do crazy things to a ten year-old boys heart. 

Now at 25... sadly, I haven't sang in a long time.

I can't remember the first mix that I had received, but I want to say that it was from my now Brother-in-law, John-Michael. Now when I say I can't remember when I received it, that doesn't mean I don't remember what it felt like. I took that silver disc out of its thin jewel case and placed it into my shitty Sanyo boombox and my ears were refreshed. JM has always been my inspiration for music, especially when it comes to making mixes. So, if I had to blame anyone for my insanity when it comes to finding obscure bands... it's him. 
He taught me a very valuable lesson about mix CDs: 

They will always mean something to somebody.

Most of the time, they mean more to the craftsmen then the listener.

There are very few things that I stress over, but yet find relief through that actual stress, such as: making a cute girl laugh, writing music, encouraging friends through a hard time and making a mixtape.

All of these share the same bond with my heart, and a bond not so easily ignored - progress. When Ever I feel progress I feel good, and when I feel good, I rinse and repeat. Crafting a mix is a delicate process. I dive deep into my feelings and get my heart dirty.  It's much like sticking a hand into a pile of toys to see if  you find some distant and forgotten ... thing at the bottom. I've been practicing this self exploration for 15 years now and I have piles of distant and forgotten ... things that I've found at the bottom.

When I start the process, I begin with the foundation. It's like leading a girl up the rooftop to propose, the entrance has to be either mysterious, deceiving or inviting. You can't just blow your wad at the front door. So, it makes sense that most (good) albums start of kicking and end with that subtle acoustic track that could have been mistaken for a b-side.
But... no matter the person, place, theme, rhyme or reason, I still have many questions that roll through my head when a mix is starting to be conceived. 

How do I start it? 

Do I start the mixtape off with what I am trying to communicate? 

But what if the feeling or idea that I am trying to communicate is too heavy and boisterous, it might drive off the listener or fragment the message so they never really get the idea... 

The list goes on, and that is just for the first song. In the movie High Fidelity Barry, Jack Blacks charecter makes a mixtape and I always crack up during this scene. This might capture what I am talking about.

I'm sure you're familiar with the saying, don't judge a book by it's cover -- well don't judge a mix by it's first track. Mixes mean more than just what they look like on the surface. When music is made, it's cultivated by experiences  and often experiences that are deformed and contorted so the public can understand them. There's no way I can really grasp what Bob Segar ment in the song Night Moves, but I can guess and with that guess I can use take it as my own. 

Lovers of music spends hours, days, even sometimes weeks critically assessing the music. Rob, played by John Cusack, in High Fidelity said that we are using someones else's poetry to communicate what we are feeling. So to be the proper curator requires not only an understanding of the music, but understanding of the person it is intended for.
  

I take the time to say all of this is because I care. I care about my friends. I care about the world and how we listen to it. Mixes are one of the best ways to gather thoughts and feelings. Its one of the best mediums that we can use to display our humanity, all packaged into one little neat piece of plastic. Humans, being highly emotional, I think should take the time to understand we have the ability to talk about the difficult emotions through a mix. 

So I have crafted a couple rules in my time of "mixing". Obviously there is no bible or "how to book" on mixes, so you really don't have to take these to heart. And you are also more than welcome to email me and tell me your rules. But this is what I mentally check off when I still down in front of my stacks of CDs or files of mp3s.

1. Never repeat a band and/or artist. But only repeat an artist when the flow of music calls for it. EX: Oh The Impossible Past --> Nice Things (track #9 & #10). Track #9 is 1:33 and bleeds into track #10. Beautiful trasnition. 
2. The first three songs set the mood, don't forget that. Once the mood is set, it's hard to escape that, unless your listener just "shuffles" the mix. (asshole!)
3. Know your audience. EX: Don't make a track list based on "Oh Girlfriend" by Weezer for your Dad.
4. None of the tracks should be alphabetical order, unless you are compiling favorites from "A -> Z".
5. 70% of the mixtape should be new music for the recipient. (Unless it's just to have sex, cause really...)
6. Localize the core of the playlist. Pick a song to certain around.
7. Never have more than two cover or remix songs.
8. Always pick more songs than necessary so you have more options when it comes to cutting and/or replacing.
9. Listen to your mix several times before you even give it or post it.

My passion for music constantly challenges me in ways I never thought to imagine. 
If you have received a mix from me now you know why it took forever. I've been using the website 8tracks, so be sure to check that site out every once in awhile. I post a new mix about twice a month now.

Here's a treat for you too.

22// Night Beds

I Should Live in Salt

Trouble Will Find Me // The National pt. 1

I Should Live in Salt // The National

23 The sun was risen upon the earth when Lot entered into Zoar.24 Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the Lord out of heaven;25 And he overthrew those cities, and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and that which grew upon the ground.26 But his wife looked back from behind him, and she became a pillar of salt.

So the swell begins.
Like an old phaser breathing heavy, the first track of the National's new album kicks off, or rather -- gently lets go of the dock and drifts out to sea. The technicality of the music is much like of Boxer, swerving around time signatures like drunk bees; deep simba beats likend to "Lemonworld" off of High Violet and a sincerity of "Mr. November" from Alligator (minus the screaming). The National are truly evolving and bringing the best parts of them along. Matt Berninger, the front man, never ceases to amaze me with his writing and this is just the beginning.
"I Should Live in Salt" immediately captured my attention, lyrically drawing parallels from the biblical story of Lot's wife. Berninger hums, in his soft baritone voice, as a doxology to his memories; lamenting in glory to what has passed.

"I should live in salt for leaving you behind.
Behind"

I have been a National fan ever since I've heard the opening of Boxer - Fake Empire, and I feel like I have gotten to know Berninger fairly well since then, so for him to chant that we should know him better than that, births a sinking feeling. A feeling that I and most people should be familiar with: Don't you know me yet? He croaks about large visualizations, such as the term, "writing it on the wall" but there is not enough room, or turning the television down because there is to much "crying". It creates an atmosphere that the end is near and there is nothing that can be done about it, a finale or a judgement that is about to occur. And in recent events, such as the tornados in Oklahoma, school shootings or even the war overseas, it's freakishly fitting.

Much like Lot must have felt, when he begged to stay or escape to the closest city, I imagine he was trying to communicate to the angels, you know me better than this. A common place feeling of abandonment, we've all wished to be the pillar of salt rather than the one we loved.  But the angels didn't give up on him and ushered him to safety.

So will the rest of the album usher us to safety or will it be a continuing biopic of "Lots" remorse? How far down the rabbit hole will we go, and what will Berninger show us? I'm excited.

The next piece will be on my two favorite songs: Fireproof & I Need My Girl.