You tube?.... I don't. Guitar snobs be wary.

This was supposed to be a 'Yay' commentary about me purchasing some amplification equipment and a microphone/stand to start writing music once again. In researching amps, I did decide to go with a Fender amp, I read review after review about it's 'reliable, louder than it should be' reputation, and many messages from experienced to inexperienced musicians praising the clean channel as well as the distortion. I mean, in this day and age, what musician wouldn't consider distorting the sound of their acoustic guitar if their artistic integrity was on the line? 

Imagine my surprise that even now at 45 in 2012  it's a popularity contest. For some people it's appearance; No one wants to be seen in a Toyota when they could drive a Mustang. For others they've gone all psuedo technical with their own jargon and specifications and whatever the hell tubes are. Who'd know in the high school that is music and my life, my equipment is still the 'Irkel', the 'Skippy', the 'Horshack', the 'Screech'.... in other words? I purchased and now own outright 'dorky' equipment.

I was a bassist for years <gay, 80's style, you dig?>... years ago now, and picked up an acoustic guitar in 2006 for the simple reason that no one ever says to a bassist; "hey, crack that bad boy out and play us a song....". If that ever occurred, I'd be certain I had crossed over to bizzarro world, the notes are too low to stand alone, and they're empty to sing to without percussion, and while you're at it... 'Where's the freaking guitar?!?' Bass guitars fame alone belongs to five second snippets during Seinfeld, which were fresh twenty years ago and still sometimes if you happen to be caught during a rerun. But alas, the bass player in most bands is the unsung geek who is only doing his job properly when he perfectly blends into most of the song, sings backing vocals only, and in my case was originally hired not because of ability but because my hair was longer than anyone else's in the factory we were working at. Did I mention it was also dyed blue? No, I tend not to mention that, but in my defense, it was 1986. I played the part well; I had some talent, but not enough that I couldn't completely screw up the second set depending on how much I was drinking that night, but really who cares? It was a time when people really weren't listening too much to our playing, other than a steady drum beat, and the guitar solo in the middle, and it sounds just like.... well, it sounded like something we've heard before. Heavy metal, simply so simple that the louder you play it, the more talented you sound. Amen.

Flash forward to when I gave up my dreams, enlisted in the service, got <thrown> out and moved to Boston and took a job in an.... gulp!, accounting office, where I languished until 2002 and found other priorities, which we hopefully all do by about thirty, right? Wrong, I guess. In searching for equipment, I've found that people who've not won a Grammy, released an album they haven't had to give away, or have hardly dusted equipment to open the basement vault and expose it to the fresh air and sun are 'professional musician status'. They alone know what is boss and what to avoid at all costs. I think the status is attained when you can finally afford those high priced ticket item toys you read in the guitar mag's when you were fourteen and indeed purchase them, then play with them and adjust your sound to perfectly imitate Yngwie J. Malmsteen, and only you <and whomever's basement you're inhabiting> ever hear the 'soft fuzzy feeling of the tubes., and the 'secret dragon oil subtleties' of... or whatever the hell you believe. 

Standing in  the music shop, I actually heard someone say they wanted a particular amp because it was orange, and that made it sound better. It was an adult which makes it that much sadder. What made it tragic is that the employee agreed that the orange one was way better for it's orange-ness. The amps were virtually identical in a different color cabinet, but of course employee's pander to someone who's spending over a thousand dollars on mindless crap. I didn't want anyone in the store to ask if I needed anything, I was quick, had a list, and bought every generic cord, strings, stands and made a hasty get away, to be greeted by a friendly redhead at the register who was laughing at pretty much the same things I was, including the worst version of Eruption by Van Halen I've heard played by a rather ambitious teenager. I'm not sure it was a teenager, but I was afraid to look over and find out it wasn't. If it was someone my age playing that sloppily in public <at home is different> I'd have cast my equipment down and run out in front of a moving car. 

The musician's prayer?

 "God, I know I may not be the most talented person in the world, but please tell me I'm better than THAT schmuck. Amen."

I went to another store directly after that I'd researched on the web. I'd seen the amp I was looking for for two hundred dollars less than the store in Sydney, and the price was only thirty dollars more than a used amp <same model> had sold on e-bay only days before. Although it was a piano shop, they said they specialized in guitars and violins. It wasn't easy to find the location but the service was impeccable even when they had no idea if we were there for picks only, and when we weren't it was an easy purchase anyway. I told them what I wanted, they agreed it was a great amp for it's price, and didn't try to upsell, downplay the solid state circuitry, or casually lure my view to the 'orange' one. They saw my purchases from the other shop, and apologized for the horrible customer service they assumed I'd received there. When asked who helped me I said 'noone, I had a list and moved with stealth, the only person who talked to me was a sarcastic redhead and we laughed at stuff. Wouldn't you know it? The redhead was his girlfriend, and you could immediately agree with the connection. Quiet guitarist meets quirky redhead, happiness ensues, at least til the end of University. I feel the same way about my equipment, although I did see a canary yellow Ibanez guitar that I hope makes it around my neck. What can I say? I want to play my three power chords and have someone look at me and say 'see that guitar? that guy must be awesome.'

Perkiness: A Survival Tactic

Anyone who knows me outside of Facebook, my notoriously bad first impressions, or instinctively defending a friend without knowing all the details knows that once you break through the deliberately placed initial sour taste you get in your mouth, I ain't such a bad guy. In spite of me, it must be true. I still have friends or so they tell me.

Free loving, tree hugging, nauseatingly tolerant expectations I may drudge up in your imaginary flower child scenario's be damned. I have few shades of gray when it comes to belief's I hold dear so far as morality, manners, and loyalty. I see things in black and white, right and wrong, and yes and no. No gray, no ties, no maybe's. I can be a rigid son of a bitch <what did you call my Mom?>.

I'm not a saint by a long shot, and I also make mistakes on a regular basis, so much so that it'd be easier to say 'wow, I really Brian-ed that up, huh?' but in the moment, and when it comes time to act, I'll grant as much time to logic as I can possibly muster, try to be more like 'Touched By an Angel' than 'Judge Judy', and will react in appropriate time with an apology or justification of sorts.

I have to confess that I've felt the sting of being judged wrongly without prudence, been excluded based on appearance <which always amazes me, considering how highly I regard myself>, and feel like from initial introduction, which is the easy part, that it's an uphill climb for me to overcome whatever subconscious message that's harbored in your hippie fantasy. Yes, I have tattoos, No, I haven't been to prison, capisce?

Let's face it, when someone says 'My gay friend is coming over, and he's smart, funny, and cute' {assuming that's what people say, it tends to be what I hear in my head, ha ha} I'm pretty sure the last person anyone expects to walk through the door would be a guy who represents as a tattooed, long haired, fat guy. I'm hardly your conventional looking person and I make no apologies for this. As a gay guy, I right off the bat offend many a straight friend or stranger in a party environment, and have learned to counter every request right out of the gate- such as <"Don't be starin' at my ass, dude, I'm not a homo'> with a quick retort. 'You don't have to worry, I'm only interested in men' is one of my favorites. 

What you may not know, unless you're a gay guy, is that gay men turn selective thought and stereotyping people into an art form. There's no winning a room over when the wheels of a witch coven starts churning the pot. What's worse is you can't beat those people up; mentally you're too buzzed or caught off guard to be quick with words, and fisticuffs is not an option; These people have been tortured in gym class for years and know how to dramatize and over dramatize for drama's sake. My nightmare is having to defend my sexuality on a stand in court, trying to convince a jury that I'm 'gay enough' to not be eligible for conviction of a hate crime, and 'THAT queen deserved a smack and noone who was there would deny it' is kind of a weak argument unless you're lucky enough to have a gay jury. If I could dream a dream, my jury would be in complete drag, comprised of Tanya Tucker's, but that's a story for another time.

Having confidence in the face of adversity takes many years of overcoming having no confidence in the past, and I'm lucky enough to know a handful or so of people who remember me as the quiet guy who just wanted to be left alone throughout my scholastic career who can appreciate my evolution to sarcastic smart ass that defends not only himself, but causes of a personal nature. I tell John all the time that I'm not right about a lot of things. We can agree on that, and I don't need to close my eyes to see John's head nodding with that expression that says 'if you only knew how often and how wrong you can be'.

I've also told him that when in a crowd, I may tell everyone the sky is green, and that regardless of it being correct, it's his duty to concur. I have agreed to reciprocate. There's plenty of time to be wrong, like when we're at home and he can explain to me why I'm mistaken, preferably over white wine. 

What's your perception? We could be seen as the 'distorted facts couple' but I like to think of us as 'blissfully and idiotically united'. The way I see the world because it always makes sense to me and no one gets hurt. As soon as John surrender's to my logic, it will be utter harmony.

Free Bird is no longer my signature song.

In the last twenty years or so of my life, I've noticed a pattern of leaving both common and proper nouns in my wake as I've hightailed it into the sunset. The Schoolhouse Rock definition of 'noun' must be sung, and I indeed do 'find it interesting, a noun's a person, place, or thing.' That chuckle aside, and after some forethought or hindsight <whichever makes me sound more inflective>, I can say for the most part, I may not miss the places, I may not miss the people, but damnit, I miss the stuff!

I've left entire apartments full of furniture, clothes, and electronics, CD and book collections, movies in so many formats I couldn't play them if we were ever reunited, and a myriad of other possessions in a mad dash to liberate myself from drama or situations I was partially or totally responsible for  in one way or another, and let's face it, if you don't have a beast of burden or at least an F150, these are things you can't pack in your bag and hit the road with and make a clean getaway.

By the time I reached Wisconsin, and got a new job and apartment there, I wouldn't be able to physically or mentally make a purchase of more than tv, laptop, stereo, and futon for months in fear that I wasn't going to commit to living there much longer and  my mood changed from day to day. It was a great job with lot's of potential, downtown Sheboygan may seem like a tiny town, even to the locals who called it 'Sheer Boredom', but it had everything you would look for in a small city; the pubs all had happy hours that lasted four hours, cigarettes were under four dollars a pack, and it was on Lake Michigan. If you can imagine a salt smell it's as close as you can get to being on the ocean without being anywhere near one.

When I would shop for anything other than food, the internal argument would start with the 'do i want this?' phase of the purchase, which is pretty much self explanatory. I'd then graduate to the 'do i need this?' phase of the purchase, and I'd imagine the many uses and benefits of purchasing a  <let's say> couch for my living room in the event I decided to have people over and not have to pretend to notice the expression of awe on their faces when they walked into my two bedroom apartment that with the exception of a 'nerd nook' was completely barren. The last and most crucial phase of the purchasing procedure was the 'can i leave this?' phase. It entails not spending so much money or getting emotionally attached to anything that you couldn't easily leave behind if you couldn't take it with you. It would be a real strain to pull out my checkbook and fork over an entire paycheck for something that was ultimately going to make my neighbors dream come true once it was fished out of the dumpster area. I had to make sure I was willing to make the temporary commitment while also reminding the couch at least weekly that 'this is only a temporary thing' and when it got too comfortable or I sensed it was too needy, I was quick to give it the 'you knew what this was about when we got together' speech.

I really like to think I'm over this phase of my life now. Married to a better guy than I probably deserve, I've managed to become an international traveler, and have relocated hopefully for the last time <and yes, I pretty much left all my stuff to donations when I broke my lease and said I wouldn't be coming back to the States as early as I had originally intended> and am settled in our new home situation in Australia which is also subject to it's own fair share of idiosyncrasies as far as permanence. We lie in bed, and chat about where we could go, where we could live, and when we'll be able to afford to travel back to the States, a formidable expense in any budget of any size income. I'm making my first major purchase this week, I'm buying a new guitar amp so I can practice guitar, plug in a mic, and hopefully get comfortable enough to either recruit a band or put cymbals between my knees and be a model 'geek'. It weighs over 50 pounds. Even if I could get it back to the States I wouldn't be able to plug it in due to European socket configurations. It wouldn't fit into my bag if it had to. It's taking a lot of thought to relax and say to myself 'if i buy this amp, I'll never need another.' I can't quit smoking, I still drink. I still believe, however, that this is one habit that it's definitely time to break..... maybe.

Happy Fall! in April....

I stopped at a tavern yesterday afternoon and saw a friend I know from the complex John and I live in, it was nice to see a familiar face, the weather was great, and the tables and ashtrays <yay, ashtrays> were paired up on the openfaced cafe style seating in front. My neighbor was born here, and likes to fish early mornings, he's a bit 'not quite right', but he's harmless, eloquent, and doesn't ask for cigarettes or beer money. I've learned to like that latter aspect of people a lot. He doesn't apologize for being unmedicated and usually his wife will catch him before he does or says anything politically incorrect or illegal. I really admire her for that, and John too for that matter, but that's not my point.

He introduced me to a mate of his, a tattoo artist from Beverly Hills <they have one here, they're not similar at all> and with the three accents plugging away; one Australian, one Irish, and my butchery of English which is the American way, it would be an understatement to say our conversation was frequently punctuated with 'aye?', 'what's that?', and 'say again?' for two reasons. One was the obvious clash of tongues, but the other was we had clicked right away on a variety of subjects from Iron Maiden, skateboarding, New Zealand, fishing, tattoos, and each of us had a lot to say and wasn't really waiting for their opportunity to speak. We spent the last hours of the afternoon covering topic after topic, and what was funny was each of us at one point or another had said 'Australia is an interesting place because there are so many different kinds of people who've made it home'.  It's not uncommon to hear more foreign languages in your elevator here than you do at a party in America at the same time.'

Having been given that forum, it's great to hear a different take on not only political and economic situations, but also what is popular in a range of cultures so far as music, celebrity, and sport. People will come and tell you right out that they 'hate America, but like Americans' here, I'm still working out what that means considering I've heard it from not only strangers, but from people I consider 'friends I've made' since I've been here.

So, while sitting in this convention of minds that were differently molded from three different corners of the globe, I wondered when at home how often this would happen, and was feeling evolved in the ways of international diplomacy.... That is, until I looked in the glass of the tavern store front.

I was pulling a cigarette out and lighting it, and brushed the hair away from my face. I hate the smell of burning hair and ponder often why God would put hair so close to where my cigarette and fire utensil collide. I caught a glimpse of the three of us in the glass and said to myself  'If I were a casual observer, I'd be curious as to what kind of conversation three pony tailed, bearded, tattooed, middle aged white men, drinking outside a tavern well before the end of a work day afternoon were having'. I wonder how it would go.

The laughable exchanges of the likes of Beavis and Butthead, Cheech and Chong, and even Ren and Stimpy went through my head, and I excused myself, got up and went home to cook dinner. I guess I still have to work on that positive thinking thing, and to not be concerned as I am about what imaginary people are saying or what generalizations they're making. My therapist would be less than pleased. You know, the one I haven't seen in four months since I've been here. I also would  have sworn I heard someone utter 'Dave's not here, man.' as I departed from the table.

Past, Present, Prose

I remember the fights, the scars and the bruises.

I remember the names "you're the king of the losers."   

                                                                            

All the scenes in the streets when the drinks ran amok,                                                                                      

the "I never loved you's" the "I don't give a fucks!"

And then in the middle of a nightmare like this,                                                                                           

I stop and remember the one perfect kiss.    

                                                                                                  

My hand on your face and your head tilted down,                                                                                         

That was fireworks and passion stirring around.

Memories like this make me look to the sky,                                                                                        

you're no longer with me and I don't know why.        

                                                                                   

But I think of this kiss and remember the taste,

because it's this, your sweet kiss, that I

never could hate. 

iTunes? Yes, I will.

Since coming to Australia, I've discovered that iTunes is not as bad of an idea as I had once previously thought. Rather than download for free half versions, trojan tainted versions, and some of the worst live versions of my beloved favorites, I can now own studio version quality of most songs for a modest price. I still refuse to spend over fifteen dollars on a new album, but I regularly peruse the classics, looking to replace the cassette collection of my youth. That is, of course, if the album <yes, i call them albums, gawd i'm old> passes my admittedly stringent screening process. For the beginning of the collection, I had to ask how many times I'd bought and worn out the cassette listening to songs so often that my friends rejoiced when the batteries went dead on my overpriced, oversized, and overloud portable stereo. Call it a boom box and you lose a testicle.

I bussed too many tables for too many icky people saving up money for that Panasonic Platinum Series Stereo. Believe it or not, my first car would cost one third of what I spent on that stereo, and the batteries per week cost more than I spent on pot. I prided myself in the fact that everyone knew I was coming well before I was even in view, and timed my arrival to guitar solos, drum rolls, or heavy metal screams to accentuate the importance of the 'intelligent, dorky, progressive' music I was listening to at the moment. Sure there were crowd pleasers for hanging out in the afternoon, at the beach, or in the woods on Saturday night, but if I had to not only carry the four beers I had left when the police made their regular surprise visit to the couch we would have sworn noone would see burning from the road but also carry a forty pound monstrosity that I could turn off in the dark with my eyes closed to cloak my location, then it was  DJ Iron Brian that was choosing the song list. People would be arrested for underage consumption, possession, and even take horrific spills in the pursuit of our great escapes from the police, but that PPSS fared better than most of us did, I believe I was more concerned with it than with my own safety or clean record, and once the music was back on in whatever backyard, backlot, or living room we found ourselves feeling safe in, the party was back on, no harm, no foul, just a little bit of an interesting excursion from the night before.

I'd fallen out of love with music or the pursuit of a career in music in 1991 and joined the Navy, a plethora of stories for another time, thank you very much. But while in the Navy, I'd still go to concerts and shows, and made one of my more solid relationships based on what music we were listening to and what books we were reading at the time. Titles of music and books at the time we were enjoying then are now too embarrassing to list, but in general, the book and the music were dark, reflecting the doom we were experiencing in our lower middle class existence, and we felt evolved for not being spoonfed the commonplace titles of people who were reaping the benefits of the end of the hair metal days, or the invent of electronica. The less the musical style, lyrics, or authors were understood, the more eclectic we were convinced... er... we were. 

After the service, music became something that was in the background, and though I may have enjoyed it, danced to it, and felt strongly about it, I was never strongly compelled to carry it around with me at 100 watts peak power in a forty pound box pointing it directly at people who may or may not have been able to make out who I was listening to, sending my message of doom towards whomever needed to hear it not for selfish reasons, I was making them aware that other genres of music did indeed exist if they researched a bit, and it was not all about who was my 'cherry pie', or making damn sure that Billy Jean knew her kid was 'not my son'.

For such a quiet guy, which I was at the time, the music spoke for me, and I thought long about which music defined me, logically, socially, and unconventionally. I still cringe thinking about it now.

Don't even get me started on Facebook

So, if you're not gay, or you live under a rock, there exists a place on the internet where you can stay in the comfort of your own home and still experience the discomfort of letting people who are completely imbalanced into your... er, home. The online 'Chat Room' to the rescue. In a place like Boston, and I'm learning all over the world, the chat roon has wreaked havoc on the bar population; what with the convenience of you being able to stay in, save money, and still be disappointed by people in a myriad of ways. It has led to a state of loneliness in the world that's kind of sad, but then, have you been out in the world lately?

It's no wonder no strangers meet romantically on trains or flirtingly share jokes at work. When was the last time someone stared at you while you were in a public place and you didn't squint to see if you recognized them from your last restraining order issued before checking between your teeth for an embarrassingly rogue piece of spinach from your breakfast croissant? Oh, I mean before you predialed 911 on your cellphone convincing yourself that if someone's showing interest in you they're at very least matching the tones of your skin to the frock they're feverishly trying to complete on a sewing machine at home? Today it seems we live in such fear of shortcomings, be they our's or someone else's, that meeting a stranger can only induce anxiety, and I remember a time when it wasn't like that, and have observed it being erased more and more thoroughly with each passing generation.

When I was a kid, I had NO imaginary or real friends named Amber, so no alert was necessary, if we went missing it was because we'd clearly had a disagreement, and had run away for the umpteenth time. My Mom was worried at first, but by the time I was seven her only real concern was that I get home and get over whatever drama had led to this current uprising. Family and neighbors may have been involved in the search, but there was, in her own words, 'no need to bring any kind of government agency into our family problems'.

As a middle age person, I think I know what I'm talking about since I believe I'm entitled to. Now surrounded by friends into their 50's and 60's, it's been very important for me to reach an age where age can validate my wisdom. As a fortysomething year old guy, I can tell you the last place you'll find validation for your wisdom is when you're surrounded by people in their 50's and 60's. I have run into problems for appointing myself wise for starters, then middle aged, being so young myself. I find the saying that 'sixty is the new forty' to be as believable as the Hogwarts Academy or the Twilight Series. Excuse me? I don't have any one hundred and twenty year old friends, aquaintances, or chat room buddies. Funny, in the chat room's, all my friends are blonde, tall, with swimmer's builds but for some legendary massive appendage that adds too many seconds to their 100 meter time to qualify them for the olympics, according to them. Apparently I really don't have to jump to Rowling to find something less than credible in my life to compare realism.

Maybe I have some 120 year old friends after all, I've heard Advil makes it easy to type with arthritis. So, maybe I've digressed into babble, a sure sign that middle age is where I now dwell. But in my experience, if you have something important to say or an important story to tell, dim the lights, set the mood, and make sure that what you are going to say is understood with a mix of forethought, ramblings, and a preamble of sorts.