Walking along the sidewalk, day old snow crunching under worn boots, and he is crackling with energy. The city around him is filled with wonder and life, and he can feel it pouring into him, each passing second another moment closer to what he remembers being.

It wasn’t so long ago that he was so close to what and who he dreamed he could be: bold and adventurous, cautious but unafraid to step into darkness with only the enbers of his cigarette to light the way. There was a passion in him, one that drove his life, pushed his writing and his music, gave him dreams. And he hadn’t realized that all that had slowly slipped away from him over time, not until he walked the city and felt it pulling him inside. That unique thing that he had held, what he had always felt had defined him, had been bled from his system, drops at a time, so little here and there that he had never known it was happening.

Rear-view mirrors, though, are wonderful things.

A billion stories run through his head, and he doesn’t even bother wishing for pen and paper. Lyrics pour like a flooded river behind his eyes, chord changes filling his ears over the cacophony of the traffic and the people, and no instrument in the world could suffice. And none of it fazes him, because he knows that there is plenty more where that is coming from, and in time, he would capture what he was supposed to capture, pulling the tales and songs from his head like fish from a stream.

Once again, his heart and his head pulse with passion and fire, and he smiles, huge and carefree, feeling a bit like a child in the womb of the world and letting that feeling wash over him, tearing away the old dead skin that had kept his self from the sun for so long.

And he sees her, as beautiful as he had ever imagined, more beautiful than he ever could hope to dream, looking exactly as she was supposed to even though he had never defined her clearly. He feels her fingertips on his forearm, brushing across his skin featherlight, slow moving arcs of a cold fire that light up his nerves. Her voice is everywhere in the city, echoing the sweet, exotic notes of her orchid song, and without even trying, he calls her laughter into his mind, and can’t help but smile, even wider, completely unconcerned with anything in the world.

He’s glad that she’s a part of the city, this city, the city that calls him so loudly that he can’t believe he ever ignored it before. He thinks of finally getting an inherited coat, and finding hundreds of dollars stuffed in the pocket, forgotten and found. Could things get any better for him than finally finding his home? He thinks that maybe they can, and are.

Home is where the heart is, he thinks, and maybe he’s gotten lucky enough to find both. And if not, if it all falls apart, he thinks, at least he knows that he’s back on the right road, and headed toward the dreams he never meant to quit chasing.

And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
-Max Ehrmann, Desiderata, � 1952

If there were any lingering doubts about my decision to move, they were erased last night at 1 AM, when I crossed through the Gary, Indiana toll booth on 90.

I’ve spent the morning wandering, aimlessly but not. Thanks to Wade for providing the iPod last birthday, and Neely for reminding me that Porcupine Tree is perfect wandering music; the past hour’s walking through random streets has energized me, brought out the determination to make this happen. And, as Wade predicted, probably sooner than the original plan. Not before I’m ready, mind you — unfortunately, I’m not at a point where I can just pack my shit in a truck and go (though if that lottery ticket hits, or a screenplay magically sells, the three day countdown is on).

It’s overwhelming to me, and I can’t decide if it’s the city, the context, or the idea of transplanting myself. I’m not uncomfortable, on the one hand; I’m built for the city. Especially this one, that makes me feel so much more at home than I do where I keep my stuff. On the other hand, I feel like a country yokel at times, stopping to grin uncontrollably at all the snow on the sidewalk, staring off at the skyline (ohmygod, there are buildings higher than 12 stories here!). I’m sure this — like the rest of the intensity that is washing over me even now, back in a quiet and could-be-anywhere place — will fade, given time.

But then, part of me hopes it doesn’t, because one of the things that is so attractive to me about this city is the intensity. Chicago feels alive. Things are happening here (even if some of those things suck, like the city council approving an additional $1 per pack tax on cigarettes — looks like I’m quitting, or finding someone to ship them to me from Birmingham), and not at some sad, tortoise-like pace. I think southward, and I feel like Birmingham is where you go to die, or at least nap for a long time…

It’s going to be a major adjustment, in some ways, but maybe not so much as I think. In fact, I kind of hit a weird calm spot just exactly as I was typing that sentence out… There will be the issue of finding new places to get all my things, new bars, new friends, but I think after I get moved and find a job, it won’t be nearly so scary as I keep trying to make it out to be.

There’s a lot to do, and I’m not entirely sure where to start, so I suppose I’m just going to drop my finger down on the list and go from there.

Ending up in web design to make my living was something that happened almost by accident. I’ve been doing design for years now, since ‘97 (which, I think, makes me ancient in Internet years — perhaps even dead and awaiting burial), but more as a hobby / experiment in vanity. I knew that I wanted to work in new media, but that was more because it’s the perfect playground for someone with such a mixed interest in both the creative side of life and computers (from a purely technical hardware and programming standpoint).

And so I made my way from waiting tables to writing for Hecklers Media and each of their various websites, back to waiting tables and bartending, and finally into the university world, doing (ostensibly) web design and programming and whatever else they ask me to do (the joys of being a jack-of-all-trades).

Unfortunately, as much as I love the mixing of technical and creative, of problem-solving and algorithms and visual design… Look, the long and short of it is to tell you this: NEVER get involved in a situation where you will be designing for a committee. Especially not one where the hands don’t necessarily talk to each other.

I love designing sites for clients. You have them state the goal of their site, whether it’s advertising or e-commerce or dynamic content. You present a solution. You hammer it down until your happy and they are. And most of the time, since I’ve learned to listen to the client, I get it 95% right the first time.

I hate designing sites for groups, no matter how large or small. The minute you hit two people having equal input into anything creative, you’re in a danger zone — because opinions clash. Especially on a level of university or corporate or government work, because every needs something different from the site, and everyone is convinced that their department’s needs are priority (when, in fact, none of them really matter).

The other bitch is that you can find yourself stuck in the middle of places you have no purpose being in in the first place. People will see that you’ve only been on payroll for a year (not realizing that I spent plenty of time here, albeit quietly, for three years before that), and try to pull rank or throw their perceived weight around. What they apparently fail to realize is that, at the end of the day (and even just before lunch), I REALLY DON’T CARE.

I don’t play politics, and the people that have known me for any real amount of time (which is to say, anyone who pays any attention at all to me) know that. So the fact that you’ve got pull or seniority or the President’s ear? Meaningless. What matters to me is a) the quality of my work, which will not get compromised because someone who doesn’t grasp the technology wants something different but outside-of-best-practices-and-standards; and b) what my boss wants, and his boss, too. Guess what? You don’t make sure I get paid, nor get me raises and promotions, nor reward extra effort — they do.

The bigger the corporation or government or educational entity, the bigger the committee — and the bigger the committee, the bigger the pain in the ass. Double up the number of people that want something different, double the screaming and the threats of horrible things and whispered promises.

Honestly, it all just makes me tired, and wanting to go back to running my freelance business.

The one tattoo on my body that is visible to the viewing public is on my right forearm, an “x” with electrons revolving around it — very elemental. It’s the logo that I designed for the Exhibit(s) a while back (maybe, what — two years ago?), and although it hasn’t been used anywhere else outside of our website (which is so badly in need of redesign and upkeep that I’m hesitant to provide that link), it’s come to symbolize the band in my mind.

Last night’s show was one of the best — definitely one of the most intense — that we’ve ever played. The set list was fairly common, though we started off much heavier and louder than we normally do (with Tenacious D’s Explosivo, and a paricularly punky version of Delia), but regardless of that, it just felt good.

One reason that I got the tattoo is that this band is the best thing I’ve ever done musically. Sure, other ventures have been more successful on traditional levels — with Lunasect, for instance, as a part-time stage player and studio assistant, I played on a nationally released cut (on a Radiohead tribute disc — man, those customer reviews are brutal), and played some great shows. But nothing has met my artistic and creative goals, musically, as much as playing with Eric and Chance and Carlos over the past three years.

I always thought that it would require me having my own band, under my control, playing my own songs, to make me really happy. But I think that situation would leave me feeling too pressured. Make no mistake: the Exhibit(s) is Eric’s band, through and through. All the songs are his, the cover choices come down to him, and he’s easily the most charismatic of the four of us.

But I don’t know that this band would be as well-recieved (or, dare I say [of course I do] good) if you removed any of us from the picture. There is a unique chemistry between us all, and it was there almost from the beginning. Chance and I have always had a really intuitive connection, very important for a rhythm section; Eric’s playing and song structure is well suited to my bass style. Carlos and Eric both play off of each other well. Each of us comes at our respective instrument from an odd angle, and, fortunately, it works. Pretty damn well, most of the time.

We aren’t playing week after week to secure a record deal or to try to get laid. I don’t think any of the traditional rewards for musicians would be lost on us; of course we’d tour if we had an opportunity that was financially stable enough (Chance and Eric are both married, so it’s not like we can go on a six week starvation tour), and I’m sure we’d all love to have better distribution for our discs. But it’s more about a pure joy of playing. We get paid, as often as we play weekend gigs (it’s definitely been the most successful band I’ve been in, from a per-show amount perspective), and we usually walk away with a healthy band tab for ourselves. But it’s more about showing up every week, doing some drinking and playing music with friends; we just happen to be fortunate enough to have people interested in watching us.

I think everyone that does anything creative should be fortunate enough to find themselves in a situation that allows them the same contentedness that I’ve found with the Exhibit(s). There are other goals in my life that I’ve checked off my list with a less-than-perfect accomplishment; as far as music goes, though, there’s nothing more that I ever need do to feel like I had everything that I wanted.

I’ve always thought that it’s best to quit while you’re ahead - leave the stage before the audience starts yawning and looking impatiently at their watches. You make your exit while things are still going strong, and people remember you at your peak. You always leave ‘em wanting more. But doing that is hard. The tempatation is to milk a situation for all it’s worth.

Not this time, not for me. It’s going to be hard, leaving this behind, but I just have to remind myself of how much better STAR WARS would have been without the second/first trilogy, or how much more fondly we’d all remember Van Halen if they had stopped about 1984, or how Buffy should’ve ended with season five.

Yeah, that’s right. Nerd, right here. But a nerd who knows how to enjoy life day to day, and to appreciate what he’s got while he’s got it.

Someone wanted to hear a drunk story, and I’m the most obliging soul you’ll ever meet. She got her own copy, and first — aren’t you jealous you’re not her? — but you guys are at least good enough for sloppy seconds.

It occurs to me that I don’t have that many really good drunk stories, mainly because I’ve been pretty good about never getting *that* drunk. And those few times that I have gotten *that* drunk, I get ****that**** drunk where there aren’t any stories to tell except that one where I vomit, pass out, and then rise from the dead three days later. A little like the Messiah stories, only more painful and a lot more expensive. Oh, and replace the chorus of angels with obnoxious voices in my head.

There was the first drinking party I ever went to, of course. I was 15 or 16 (keep in mind that I started school a little early and skipped first grade, so remembering how old I was at specific points in high school is disorienting sometimes), and there were a bunch of us at a friend’s house on a Friday night. Parents out of town, liquor cabinet stocked and loaded, and there was a package store in a rough part of town that would have sold to my baby sister if she was carrying cash. We were well set up.

This, coincidentally, contains the source of my dislike for all alcohols except vodka.

Specifically, the evil game called quarters, which, much to my dismay, I am terrible at. It seems that 10 years of soccer playing and training is not at all helpful to a sixteen-year-old aiming a coin at a shot glass.

So the night moves on, as does my liver, getting it’s first real taste of what’s in store for it later in life. (Hey, at least it had finally found it’s purpose, right?) Too many rounds of quarters, and everything’s starting to get a little fuzzy around the edges. I can feel the potpourri of gin, tequila, scotch, and rum bubbling inside of me, warm and happy and I’m seven feet tall and bullet-proof.

The house we were in sits on top of a tall and fairly steep hill, with (for reasons I still can’t figure) no stairs. Just a long driveway and plenty of grassy slope. On reflection, being that drunk and thinking that I should go get something out of my car (parked on the road) was probably ill-considered, but what’s a sixteen year old to do (ah, I was driving — that settles the age issue)? The downhill wasn’t the problem, but rather the return trip; climbing that driveway was akin to mounting Everest. Much like the climbers who have conquered that peak, I apparently decided that I needed a rest about three quarters of the way up. A rest, and perhaps a good vomit. Yes, that’s exactly the ticket.

Thank god that my friend Jason had been standing at the front door of the house, waiting for Godot or something equally random. He was able to get to me and roll me over before the river of my stomach was able to creep back down the driveway into my almost sleeping self — forgetting about the little thing called gravity, I had thrown up uphill, and then laid down for a short nap.

Siesta interrupted, we went back inside the house and, as all good teenagers will do, proceeded to refill me. Can’t have anyone paying attention to the signs their body gives them, now, can we?

More quarters, and before too long, I’m in the back of the kitchen, refusing any more rounds for myself. Everyone else is still going strong, though — strong enough that someone has started using shot glasses as ashtrays, and no one notices (or maybe minds).

We suddenly notice that Tony, the biggest and surliest of the bunch, is missing, and has been for a bit. Someone recalls him going to the bathroom, and so Jason and Greg and I head off to find the missing drunken Italian (think Penn Jillette, squashed down a bunch). We hear moans coming from the closed door of the bathroom, and so, as good friends will do when concerned… we knock. And we hear what seems to be a cross between retching and a strangled “WHAT?” Silence, then we knock again. “Tony? You okay?” And once again, that horrible cross between speech and gagging.

Turns out that Tony was just trying to purge a little, but in his irritated and drunken state, had forgetten that he was about to vomit, and so turned annoyed toward the door both times to say “what?” Once to his left, and once to his right… Apparently determined to cover the of-dubious-taste wallpaper. Job well done…

The clean up for that party must have been a bitch and a half.

———-

Okay, not as funny as I thought. But it beats the time that I fell asleep in my apartment with the front door wide open. I woke up to go to work, and couldn’t find my car. Or my pants. Turns out that I had decided, about three blocks from my place, that I was too drunk to drive the rest of the way, and so walked uphill the last three blocks (I had already driven about fifteen miles from the bar). And for some reason had taken my pants off about a block from my house and left them hanging on a fence.

That story’s probably hilarious, at least to whoever knows what really happened that night.

That was the last time I got blackout drunk.

But, hey, the future is wide open…

Iranian paper seeks Holocaust cartoons: “A prominent Iranian newspaper said Tuesday it would hold a competition for cartoons on the Holocaust to test whether the West extends the principle of freedom of expression to the Nazi genocide as it did to the caricatures of the Prophet Muhammad.”

Good for them. Someone should be searching out the most offensive hilarious cartoons about Jesus as a drug addicted Klan member, a retarded steak-loving Buddha, and Kung Fu Tse as a gay wife-beater in blackface.

Seriously. I’ve been reading blogs all week challenging everyone to post these cartoons everywhere. And I’m all for the freedom of speech. So let’s take this all the way, and make it equal opportunity HaHa. Let’s put The Aristocrats to shame with decadence and unabashedly mean jokes at the expense of someone’s heartfelt beliefs.

Look, words and cartoons and movies and music lyrics only have as much power as you are willing to give them. If you let people know that you’re offended by a cartoon that makes fun of your god, or derogatory terms for your race or gender or sexual orientation — well, you’re only feeding that beast. If you ignore the offending material — and after all, it’s just that and nothing that can really hurt you, by the way, and I’m pretty sure that gods are capable of taking care of themselves — then you starve the beast that taunts you, and eventually it shrivels up and dies.

But on the other side of the net, while I’m all for everyone’s right to say whatever they want, funny or not, there’s a line at some point, and it’s not easy to see. That line is drawn from intent, and this is where it gets sticky — how can we really know what someone’s intent is? We can’t, always — but in this instance, it’s clear to me that people know this is pushing buttons with many Islamic believers, and so they’re pushing harder. “What, this bothers you? So I guess when we put it everywhere, it bothers you more? Like this? Really?”

I remember seeing someone on BULLSHIT! saying that people have the right to say whatever they want; people don’t have the right (no matter how much this may crush you, it’s really not in any constitution, amendment, or law book that I know of) to not be offended. I can tell jokes about pedophiles or the Special Olympics all day long, with a picture of Hitler on my t-shirt and a tattoo of Jesus getting a blowjob from Moses if I want; if you don’t want to hear the jokes or see the shirt or tattoo, no one is forcing you to look or listen.

Repeat, for emphasis: NO ONE IS FORCING YOU TO LOOK OR LISTEN. STOP ACTING LIKE IT’S NOT YOUR CHOICE TO BE THERE.

But if I start telling those jokes with the express intent of pissing someone off, or hurting someone’s feelings, or putting it in your face … well, then I’ve crossed a line.

Does any of this make sense? Yeah, I know its a huge gray area, and that there are slippery slopes involved. That’s life — very few binary arguments to be found in the real world. Sorry, Christian Right.

But to those that are pushing to rub this cartoon in the face of Islam — you’d best be willing to laugh when it’s your god that’s the source of the HaHa. And you’d also best be ready for whatever comes out of your egging the situation on — you know what happens when you fuck with even the friendliest animal enough?

Eventually that animal is gonna fuck back. And you better hope it’s not one of the ones with a barbed penis.

Holy shite. Is this really Birmingham?

I’ve been warned that Chicago will be cold when I arrive this weekend, and I’m totally fine with that. Looking forward to it, in fact; one of my biggest gripes about living in the south is that we don’t really get winter. Ever. Once every few years, you get a week or two of sub-freezing temperatures, but for the most part, it’s a perpetual half-spring; just like everything else in the south, the seasons only have so much energy, and they only get half there.

This is one of the aforementioned weeks, apparently. While I would love it, normally, it comes after a week of what the weathermen have been referring to as “unseasonably warm temperatures.” Which is total bullshit, because January is also known as “time to start pulling out the summerwear.”

I still remember coming back from Chicago three years ago, where we had driven through ice and snow and played in constant twenty degree temps. We returned on a Sunday afternoon, and I had to run into the office for some inane reason or another, and I wore shorts and a t-shirt, and still got a little warm.

600 miles should not make such a difference, but it did. And does. Watch — I’ll return from what I’m forewarned will be lows in the teens to highs in the upper 60s or lower 70s. And once again, I’ll wonder why it was that I came back.

Been thinking about this a lot the past few weeks, especially since this weekend. Once you start telling people about your plans or intentions, those plans and intentions become solid and real, no longer ideas that you might give weight to later but something that you’re actually setting in motion. I needed to do that, the talking; I’ve put this off for years, eleven, twelve now, thinking about a move but never getting any further than that, and I apparently needed to kick myself in the ass to get the ball rolling.

I will miss some things, I’ve been realizing. A lot of things, I’m sure. I think the only irreplaceable thing is the Exhibit(s) — Eric and Chance are unique among rarities, and the three of us and Carlos have a chemistry and a combined perspective that I’ve never found and can’t imagine ever finding again. There are things like Sidewalk (and my fairly intensive involvement over the past few years) — but that’s growing well into it’s own entity now, and there are still plane tickets for sale in September.

As much as I realize that friends and family can come visit, I count you guys in the category of things that would make me stay. I’m going to avoid using names, uncommonly — it’s really getting too confusing to remember which of you bastards are pseudonymous online and which aren’t. But I love you all; you’ve really shown me over and over that my cynical attitude towards mankind might be a little misplaced. Probably just ahead of it’s time, but I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. For now.

Except you, Wade. You’re a heartless bastard, through and through, and I leave both cats to you in my will. And my old wedding rings. And I use your name shamelessly.

Most of you know, even if you don’t admit it, that friends don’t come along very often. Acquiantances, sure — some of us have a billion of those. But real, true friends — not so much. And I’ve got my share plus two or three other shares worth. You should all know that I recognize that, and when I’m rich and famous and ruling over the midwest with Chicago as my fortified stronghold, you can all be part of my entourage.

If you need to prepare for the cold weather up there, that snow and ice and bitter chill that you’re all trying to warn me about (forgetting that cold is where I’m my best) — just come hang out at this apartment for a night. You’ll be all set.

He looks out of his window, the sill extending to the roof thanks to the snow that fell during the pre-dawn hours. As far as he looks, the street and the yards and the houses and the cars that line the hallways down the hill are blanketed in a pure, clean white. He’s thinking of a world overpopulated by angels, or maybe children in spring church clothes.

The sky from edge to end is still thick with cotton, but holes here and there reveal the rising sun. It’s going to be a beautiful morning, he thinks; an inch or two of powder wouldn’t stop any other city, but here in the south, life will grind to a halt for a day or so.

He wants to call her, to tell her about the snow, but his chldlike enthusiasm wouldn’t go over so well at 5:15 in the morning. Especially about snow, something she sees everytime she walks out the door.

But it’s not really the snow that he wants to talk about. It’s not really talk that he’s interested in, as much as hearing her voice on the other end of the line. Her beautiful voice, something in it that he can’t quite pin down, but it’s a voice that he imagines people fall in love with, that he could easily fall in love with. And that’s before he even thinks about the laughter, and her eyes, and her smile, and everything else about her.

The computer speakers sing about plane rides and time slipping through. So much work to get done, and so much play, too, but the moment seems right to just sit and stare at the slowly brightening winter painting just past the glass. Headlights in the distance are a sign that someone blocks away is putting tracks in the smooth white cover, and he remembers how quickly the real beauty in life can pass. He’s learned to focus, to pay attention to the rare, to slow down time in the moments worth living, but even that requires recognition.

At some point closer to normal waking hours, he will call her, just to hear her voice, and maybe a laugh before she goes.

Wishing for snow in the deep south is somewhat akin to jumping alleyways from short buildings. If you make it, happy day. But if you don’t, you’re just gonna end up miserable and wishing you had never thought about it in the first place.

And so here it is, about 38 degrees and raining a lot. That’s a lot of fun.

Waiting for vacations is never fun, but toss in weather like this, and the 3 1/2 days between me and the twelve hour drive out of here is just going to drag like no one’s business.

But on the other hand… Chicago calls, and who am I to refuse? That city is big, and I have no doubt would kick my ass if I got insolent and said “no,” so… Hell, that’s what new cars are for, anyway, right?