I keep looking in the wrong drawers. They aren't the wrong drawers in any existential sense. I mean, as a drawer, they're perfectly right. They are drawers and drawers are what they are. They just lack qualifiers. And that's the problem — we can't just say, "Put it in the silverware drawer." Because, so far, there is no "silverware drawer." There are only names like, "To the left of the sink" and "I don't know, baby, wherever you want to put it is fine by me." And those just aren't good names for drawers. It leads to a bit of the confusion. And so I keep opening the wrong drawers. Like when I want to find a spoon. Or the beer opener device. But I really don't mind. Because they're such awesome drawers. And opening them and closing them is actually kind of a beautiful thing. And yes, I'm surprised to find myself using the word "beautiful" as a way to describe the closing of a drawer. But I can't help it. I like the way that these drawers don't slam shut. Instead, they magically stop, just short of a slam, and then they sort of ease closed, nice and gentle. Like they're making love to the countertop. Just a love tap is all it is, really. Nothing hateful. Because even though our house is from the 1940s, the kitchen is all 2006, love. And, oh man, we've lived in a pre-90s kitchen for long enough.

And so, as you may have guessed, we're completely moved in. Which means we're now residents of the great state of New Jersey. In fact, Monday it became official: we got our driver licenses. And since we never wound up doing that in Maryland, and since Hoshi still has her DC plates, it kind of feels like Baltimore never really happened. And I'm okay with that, honestly. I always sort of felt like a foreigner there. And so when people here ask me where I'm from, I don't even mention that little post-industrial mecca of drugs, crime, potholes, and crazy people. I mention the diamond-shaped, 13 story tall, NPO-filled, power-political (yet ironically, non-represented) neighboring district just 50 miles south. (Which also happens to be in no short supply of drugs, crime, potholes, and crazy people.) Ahh. Yes, that one. Because in my head, I think maybe I'll always be from DC. And, who knows, maybe I'll actually reside there again someday.

But maybe not. Because, weird as it is for me to be saying this, I really dig it here in Jersey. Things are clicking here in ways they never did in DC . . . or Baltimore. First of all, the actual move was so smooth, I could have seen my reflection in it. It was that early-morning, only-boat-on-the-lake kind of smooth. The kind where you just throw your line in and watch the sun rise slowly and you just feel good in your gut and right with nature. If you ever need to move in NY or NJ, I've got the company for you. These guys were real pros. And since this was a relo (and we weren't paying for it) we had them pack and unpack us and, let me tell you, that's the way to go. These guys knew what they were doing. They packed and loaded us last Tuesday, then unloaded and unpacked us on Thursday. And Thursday night, after an early dinner, C and I even had time to get the bedroom somewhat organized. No wading through boxes looking for that one damn thing we needed but had no idea which brown, square, taped-up thing it was in. Because everything was all out and in plain sight. And so all we had to do was find a place for it. And put it there. And there are lots of places for putting things here.

But it's not just the move that's been smooth, brother. Or the kitchen. It's everything. Like the way the JCC is so close and new and modern and it's got all this great new equipment and, at the same time, is so reasonably-priced. And they even have a lounge, with a cafe and, get this, WiFi. Sorry Y at 17th and Rhode Island . . . this JCC has you beat.

But mostly it's the people: The way the guys at the Mazda dealership call you "Buddy" and resurface Hoshi's front rotors for free. The way the washer/dryer installers help you out with recommendations on a place to watch The Game on Sunday. The way the pregnant woman at the Shop Rite says to me, in her thick, slightly nasal, New Jersey accent, "Excuse me, very tall, un-pregnant man, could you reach that for me" as she points to the top shelf in the canned vegetable aisle. Then to C: "Do you mind if I borrow him for a second?" God, I wanted to kiss her.

Here, people have first names like Frank, Mario, and Sal. And last names that tend to end in "o" or "elli." And even though they may still need to know how to spell my own last name, they don't hesitate with the pronunciation of it, or remark on how they've never heard it before, as tends to happen in other parts of the States. They're completely unimpressed, in fact. Because here, Italian last names are about as common as "Smith." Here, the grocery stores stock dozens of brands of spaghetti sauce, not just Ragu or Newman's Own. Here, you can't drive five miles without running into a pizza joint.

This is the way the world should be. This is home.

And so I'm sitting here, my brain awash with blood and oxygen from my first workout at the JCC, the first good workout I've had since September, and marveling at how interesting it is to have my brain awash with something besides alcohol. (Did I mention I've started carrying a flask?) Actually, now that I think about it, maybe that's why I keep opening the wrong drawers.

link to this | comments (7) | File:  NJ  Moving  Ho_Hum  House 

Well, tomorrow, C and I will be closing on a house in West Orange, New Jersey. A lot has happened in the past month, so let me briefly get us up to speed. Since this post, we wound up putting an offer down on the above-mentioned place. Then we went through some negotiations in price, followed by inspections and contingencies, and settled on something pretty darned good, both for us and (I think) the seller. It's nice when everybody comes out happy on these things. At the exact same time, we wound up receiving an offer on our place in Baltimore, and that had it's own set of negotiations, inspections, and contingencies. I think everybody is happy on this one as well. But it was dicey for a bit, and all this made for an interesting holiday filled with back-and-forths between us and various agents and attorneys.

I haven't written much about the new house until now partly out of a superstition that once I type the words, the whole deal will suddenly fall apart. And I'd really hate for that to happen because it's a great house and we're even more excited than we were last time we bought one of these domestic abode type doo-dads which — wow — I can remember it like it was yesterday, or — oh, I don't know — seven months ago. But there, I've had these words on my screen for a couple of minutes now and . . . nope, no phone calls. Looks like we're still good. But just in case, why don't we all find a little wood and knock on it.

Nice. Thanks.

And so begins another frenzy of disruption and change. Utilities canceled at the old place and re-ordered at the new one. Addresses swapped out again, one by one, for a long list of magazines, credit cards, insurance companies, and other subscription services. And as this whole process did the last time, it once again alarms me how much my name and address is tied to. And, while I'm happy and grateful for all of the things I have, I've lately found myself longing for . . . nothing. Or rather, I do long for something and that something is nothing. Maybe nothingness would be a better word. Whatever. What it boils down to is this: I long to be off The Grid. Floating anonymously, far from the the dock of obligation or identity. In fact, this now holds the number one slot for "wildest fantasy" in my mind, which when you think about it, is a pretty sad commentary on the state of my imagination and, let's be honest, my libido.

But I can fantasize all I like. I'm firmly rooted in The Grid now. There's no getting around it. My name is already on multiple loan documents, and while it will be released from one of those at the end of the month, it will be added to another tomorrow. So it's a wash from that standpoint. Then, there are the legal identifications. I just renewed my passport (which is totally unrelated to the move, but still relevant to the theme here) for another ten years so that I can travel to Mexico in March without being detained on the way back in (my current passport is set to expire during the trip). And when we move to Jersey, one of my first stops will be at the DMV, where I will register with the state so that my identity can be firmly emblazoned on a piece of plastic, along with my photo. And maybe I'll receive another combination of numbers that people can use to identify me, in addition to the nine I already have. And I will tell the state — and by extension the federal — government where they can find me at all times, you know, just in case they need me. And I'll also let them know which cars they can find me in, in case I ever decide to skip town, because I'm helpful like that. And that reminds me: on Saturday, while I'm still punchy from signing a ream of papers and writing checks to people, I'm going to acquire a second four-wheeled A-to-B device. I'll do formal introductions later. For now, I'll just mention that it is a truck and I can't wait. At the same time, though, it's yet another thing to register. So while it symbolizes a certain amount of flexibility and freedom, it also chains me even tighter to The Grid. Damned irony.

And that's the central tension I feel in my life these days. That split feeling of excitement and dread at each turn. The excitement of new digs, new wheels, new jobs, new adventures. And the simultaneous anxiety these things create. And the way each of these things serves to "root" me . . . in place, in time, in a role. And I guess that's what life boils down to: a never-ending series of trade-offs between having the personal freedom to do what we wish and the compounding responsibility and obligation we assume as a result of those pursuits . . . our "rootedness." The more "independent" we become by acquiring the things and assuming the roles that make our lives easier and more "comfortable," — the more dependent we become on the network of utilities, services, and social constructs that keep those things going and the more fixed we become in those roles. Which makes things like moving, however exciting, a huge pain in the ass.

And now that I've ventured down into this murky, moderately depressing territory, let me step right back out of it and say, I can't wait to get on with it, already!

The next couple of weeks will be spotty with the Internet access. There will be the move, of course, and then once we get to the other side, it looks like it's going to be a week or so before our FiOS gets installed. (Speaking of being tied to The Grid, I'm totally psyched to finally be able to get FiOS!) Maybe not having Internet at home for those first couple of weeks will be good for me. It'll force me to get the new digs organized. It'll also no doubt force me out to a nearby Wi-Fi spot so I can occasionally do that pesky thing called "work." But hopefully there won't be anything terribly urgent to attend to, and I'll be able to just stay offline a bit. Off The Grid. Untied. Whatever. I have no doubt I'll gravitate back to it the first chance I get. Because I guess, when it's all said and done, I kinda like being tied up. Crap, how did this come back to fantasies?

link to this | comments (1) | File:  NJ  Moving  House  BMore 

I've always fancied myself an aficionado of the pop culture, particularly of any variety born or raised in the 80s or 90s. And while I'm not the encyclopedia of information that my friend Mitch is, I am, perhaps, something of an abridged coffee-table reference. Or maybe a pocket dictionary. I remember once playing Trivial Pursuit, 20th Anniversary Edition with C's family several Christmases ago and being given the following question: "Who was the front-man for the 80s rock band Twisted Sister?" I remember how they had all looked at each other like maybe they hadn't read the card right, or perhaps it was written in a different language or something. And whoever had read the question began to put the card back in the box and pass the lot to the next person because, you know, what the hell was a "Twisted Sister" anyway? And, whew! sometimes this game really tossed some crazy shit out there, and well, better luck next time, Dave, and . . . "Dee Synder" I said, confident and matter-of-fact. "I'll take a wedge, please." They all looked at me with wonder and awe. And I sat back and smiled, basking in the glow of my own pop-acumen, a byproduct of my grueling after-school regimen of MTV and Fruity Pebbles. It was tremendously satisfying given the fact that I normally have to sit on the sidelines of most of C's family's discussions because they're apt to involve the finer points of business strategy or physics, subjects which often render me completely mute.

But C got me back last night. After watching our old NFC-East home team get beaten by our new NFC-East home team, C told me to fast-forward past the post-game recap and sideline interviews with Eli and Romo and get on to the next show. We always TiVo football these days so we don't have to watch the commercials. I didn't know it at the time, but C had extended the record time to be sure to catch the show that came on directly afterwards, the pilot of The Sarah Connor Chronicles.

I zipped past Eli in his shag cut telling Pam Oliver how his brother's loss earlier in the afternoon was "tough." Translation: Suck it, Payton. This time I'm the one going to the Championship. Then, I slowed things down when the next show started. At this point I still wasn't sure what the show was. But C seemed excited about it, so I watched the first minute or so. And after seeing a bit of the opening sequence, which involved lots of gun fire and a frightening, indestructible robot, it dawned on me: "Oh, this is that Terminator thing, right? I think I heard about this."

C nodded and eyed me suspiciously. It was as if I had just uttered, "Oh, shoes are things people wear on their feet, right?" — something ridiculously apparent like that. "Yeah," she said, "The Sarah Connor Chronicles."

"Was Sarah Connor one of the characters in the movie, then?" I asked.

Again, I detected some skepticism from C, if not downright distrust. She paused the show. "Yes," she said, minor annoyance brewing. "She was the mom. Remember?" She rewound, then started the action again. Clearly this was not a time for talking.

"Oh sure," I said. I immediately recognized that "the mom" probably should have sufficed as an answer, not — as it did for me — open up more questions, like: You mean there was another character in the movie besides Ahhhnold? Wanting to keep my pop-culture cred in tact, I kept this one to myself and instead decided I'd just let C watch the show in peace and maybe sneak upstairs and look up "The Terminator" on IMDb. I started to get up from the couch. C paused the show again.

"What? You're not going to watch it with me?"

I hesitated. Weighing my options. "Sure," I said, "But . . . you know . . . I . . . " It was time to come clean with her. After all, she was my wife. She'd understand. "You're going to have to bring me up to speed." C looked confused. "I've never seen the Terminators, okay?"

I can't be positive, but I think this was the most outrageous and hilarious thing C had ever heard uttered from anybody's lips, let alone mine. She erupted in laughter, betraying her complete incredulity and wonderment.

"You've never seen the Terminators?"

I shook my head.

C's hilarity gave way to stunned silence and an aw-shucks sort of bewilderment, as if this piece of information was actually making her doubt my very existence. As if she was thinking, by God, who is this man and how did he wind up seated across from me in this living room?

"What else are you going to tell me?" she stammered, clearly disturbed and perplexed over this tragic revelation. She almost seemed sorry for me. Like I had been deprived in some vital way. "I mean, did you ever see . . . Sesame Street? Or how about drink water?" Her eyebrows raised. "Is that something you ever did in your life? Did you ever breathe?"

And that was about the crux of it: For C, a life without science fiction was akin to a life without water or air.

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Pop_Culture  Music  Movies  Football  Cowboys  Cath 

It was fitting that I was in Montréal the day Oscar Peterson died. It's weird, because I've actually discovered a number of interesting parallels between my life and the life of my favorite piano player. Of course, there's the obvious one in that we both loved the piano. (Though there is an entire universe of difference between what he heard and produced with that instrument and what I hear and produce with it.) But here are a few other similarities: Peterson was born and got his start in Montréal, which is a city that, for an entirely unrelated set of reasons, has become dear to my heart in the last 10 years. Peterson's birthday was the same as my mom's (though he was many years her senior.) He lived the latter part of his life in Mississauga, Ontario which is where C was born. He had a life-long interest in photography (Quicktime Movie). And get this, he was a freakin' blogger, which is something I only recently discovered. How cool is that?

And you might say: Come on Dave, these are just coincidences. Millions of people, for one reason or another, love Montréal. And so what if he had the same birthday as your mom. Or that he blogged. A lot of people blog these days. A lot of people enjoy photography. Don't you think it's a stretch to call these things "life parallels?"

Well, maybe . . . okay, okay . . . probably. I mean, yes, I hear what you're saying. But I've always believed there are no coincidences in life. That lives cross, planets align, systems spin . . . because they were meant to. And if given the chance, things will ultimately come full circle. But this post isn't about all that . . . well, not outwardly, anyway . . . though, in a way, I kind of think . . . well, isn't every post about that in one way or another? Okay. Sorry. Enough.

Let's focus on the important thing here: Oscar Peterson. He was quite probably the best jazz pianist, hell the best pianist period in our lifetime. And perhaps ever. And I know . . . this is a whole lot of hyperbole I'm throwing out. I mean, this kind of thing is subjective, after all. Isn't it? Calling an artist or musician "the best" is like an Italian kid calling his grandmother's meatballs "the best." One day that kid realizes that every other Italian kid he meets thinks their grandmother's meatballs are "the best." There are definitely people out there who are not crazy about OP's style. They think, perhaps, that he played "too many notes." This is a criticism which I think is crazy, by the way. I do happen to think there are jazz pianists out there who play too many notes. But that's only because they're the wrong fucking notes. When the notes being played are all the right notes at all the right times, there can't be too many of them. It doesn't make sense. It's like somebody complaining that there are too many gorgeous women in skimpy two-pieces at the beach. What are you saying? Do we speak the same language? Sorry . . . I tend to get emotional about this stuff. I will just have to concede that not everybody loves OP's style. But I think you'll find that, even among OP's critics, there isn't too much debate about his reign as a technical virtuoso on the keys. And when you add that technical expertise to his impeccable sense of rhythm and his natural talent for improvisation, which he always seemed to make sound more like an "instant composition" (his words) than some random, conceptual mixture of scales, what you wind up with is somebody more akin to a modern-day Beethoven then perhaps any other pianist/composer since his time. There. I said it. You disagree? What, you think your grandmother makes better meatballs than mine, too? Okay, that's fine. It's just that, unfortunately, you're wrong. On both fronts. But that's okay. Really. Don't feel bad. We can't all be right about everything. There's plenty I've been wrong about as well. Just read my archives.

For the record, I had several false starts in writing this post. For one thing, I didn't want the tone to be too heavy or somber. It's sad news that Oscar Peterson died, but he was 82, after all, and I kind of think he wouldn't want people drowning in tears or anything. His music was celebratory. The other problem I had getting this post off the ground was that each time I wound up going off on this conceptual, academic-sounding tangent about improvisation and competition in jazz music. About how all great art comes from these elements and Peterson is a prime example of that. About how, in Peterson's words, improvisation and one-upmanship allows "moments of great beauty to emerge." And this is all great stuff, to me. I kind of love talking theory when it comes to art and the creative process. And believe me, I'll definitely find ways to work this stuff into future riffs (and do it in a way that hopefully does not induce sleep or glazed eyes). But for this riff here it seems less important to dwell on that stuff (even though I just did — damn I need an editor) when what I really want to talk about is Peterson's music, and the great effect it had on me over the years, and how yeah it's sad he's gone, but how wonderful it is that his music will stay with us indefinitely, and how lucky we are that we live in an age where all of those many improvisations are recorded for history, unlike with Beethoven, who's stuff only survives on the page.

I figured the best contribution I could make to the fray of voices out there on blogs who are all writing about Peterson's death and what it means to them and to the world of music would be to simply describe why I liked his playing so much, and why it had the effect on me it did. And that seems easy at first. But it's not. The problem is that it's always difficult to describe why art appeals to you, or to explain the emotional response you get from a certain artist, or "art object" or performance. It usually boils down to some version of "I like it." That's really as far as you can go with the thing, because you can't "implant" the feeling in somebody else. You get a little closer to being able to describe it when you find other people who appreciate the same piece of art. Then, you have a shared language with them. Or rather, the communication doesn't rely so much on the language. And you get that affirmation. That conversation might go something like this: "Shit. Do you hear that?" And the response: "I hear it. It's good." Ah, sweet validation.

The best way I've found to describe that moment when a piece of art hits you in all the right ways is to say it's like I'm catching glimpses of God. Now, I'm not particularly religious. I mean, don't get me wrong, I do have a "spiritual side." But I haven't managed to consistently dedicate myself to going to church or anything. I've just never felt that going to church and "practicing" religion would necessarily make me any more liked or disliked by what I believe to be a benevolent God. I can't imagine that an all-knowing, all-seeing Being would be that petty. And if God isn't benevolent? If he's all brimstone and damnation? Well, I guess I wouldn't necessarily want to be loved by that kind of God, anyway. I like to think God is the type of God that would just show up at your door one day with a really cool object and just be like, "Hey man, take a look at this thing I brought you. Isn't it fucking amazing? I'm partly responsible for it existing, you know. Don't forget it, brother." And what I can tell you — and it would be the truth — is that when I listen to Oscar Peterson, I believe I'm running into this kind of God. Because I can't imagine any other way those sounds could be produced other than through some divine communion. And when it happens, when I'm witness to this kind of thing, my reaction is usually a combination of wanting to laugh and cry at the same time. And my heart races a little bit. And it's hard to breathe. And for a moment I think there can't possible be anything better in the world than this right here. And yeah man, I hear it. I won't forget.

So there it is. And instead of talking about it at any more length, I'm just going to point to a couple of my favorite Oscar Peterson recordings. The first I happened to find video for on YouTube, which is very lucky and convenient. Hopefully it'll stay up there for at least the next couple of weeks or so. It's a recording of "You Look Good to Me" and it's from a session he did at the Montreux Jazz Festival in '77. There are two great Oscar Peterson live recordings that came out of the festival that year. One is titled, simply, The Oscar Peterson Jam. In this one, he's joined by Neils Orsted Pedersen on bass, Bobby Durham on drums, Dizzy Gillespie and Clark Terry on trumpets, and Eddie "Lockjaw" Davis on tenor sax. It is an unbelievable session. The other is titled The Bassists, and it's just Peterson playing with the two bassists he played with most often in his career: Ray Brown and Niels Orsted Pedersen. The clip below is from that session and it's great to watch because it really cuts to the heart of what I love about jazz — the tension between the two types of games being played here, one of just having fun and "getting high," the other a good natured competition propelling things forward. Watch their expressions. The sweat. The casual trade off of licks. (If you've got headphones, plug 'em in.)



The other recording I wanted to share is one I couldn't find already online anywhere, so I'm putting it on my server. It's the first time I've posted music on my site and it could prove to be a bad idea. But I love the track and had to include it in this post. This track plays like a story to me. And just for the record, if anybody out there with an expensive lawyer ever wants me to take this recording down, I'd be more than happy to do so. Just let me know. :-). The track is called "Peace for South Africa." It's a bluesy ballad Peterson himself wrote. This performance was recorded during the "Live at the Blue Note" series he did with Ray Brown, Bobby Durham, and Herb Ellis in 1990. I highly recommend any of the CD's from this concert series, particularly the first one, which is where this recording comes from (note: if you're in a Feed Reader, you may have to click through to the post to listen):


A few years after this concert, Peterson suffered a stroke which laid him up for a couple of years. But eventually, even with limited hand strength, he still continued to play shows in the late 90's and early 2000's. Peterson died of kidney failure on December 23rd, 2007. He was 82. Thank you, Mr. Peterson for your music. And I hope wherever you are you're still jamming, and catching your own brief glimpses of God.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Serendipity  Oscar_Peterson  Music  Game_Theory  Art