It has been said that music has been critical to the development of the human race. In many instances throughout history one could look at music and realize the profound effect it had on each respective civilization. Scholars maintain that slaves communicated with the aid of music and more specifically with drums. Imagine that - people having conversations by simply and rhythmically beating a drum. As a child with self-diagnosed A.D.D. I had to drum, I needed to become fluent in that conversation.
I wanted to be remembered by one name. Drums would just be the tool I used to carve my name into the history of music. I would be mentioned in the same breath as Keith, John, and Ginger. Without these guys there was no Baba O'Reilly, no Fool in the Rain, no Sunshine of Your Love. These distinguished gentlemen were the heartbeat, the pulse for some of the greatest music ever composed. An alcohol and drug fueled fury would see these savages attacking the skins with reckless abandon, and I was hooked like heroin. Drums, rhythm and beats were my drug of choice.
I joined the school band in fifth grade and took to my practice pad. I worked on my rudiments and was anxious to advance to a real snare. My parents were so happy that I had taken to a creative outlet, and had no problem encouraging me. When I came to them requesting private lessons, they obliged. I worked hard on the drills and exercises in countless books with a bigger picture in mind. One day I'd be on stage assaulting a drum kit of my own, a barrage of tom-tom thuds with intermittent symbol splashes. I'd be shirtless twirling around like Tommy Lee (sans hep. C) keeping perfect time, or better yet I'd be with Anthony, Flea and the other Peppers fashioning only a tube sock while keeping the beat like a metronome, accented by the most intricate fills.
My teacher liked my progress but didn't think I was ready for a drum set, which devastated me worse than any lover ever could by claiming I was inadequate. I convinced my Dad that I needed a drum set if I was going to be the next Bonzo. He agreed. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was trying to walk before I could crawl. I couldn't understand all of the delicate nuances of percussion, which translates into a partial understanding of the drum set. It didn't matter, I was a natural, I needed to graduate to a Premier kit. Again, my parents caved and justified it by claiming it was purchased in the name of "creativity".
Years passed. I practiced, and played in countless jazz bands, tried to start a band with friends, and even played the quads in marching band. Needless to say, I've traded in Vic Firth dreams for Wall Street's poisonous reality.
Today I sit here punching the keys to this blog, sobered by the fact that people know me by one name - Pathetic. Here's to creative outlets.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Lead Balloon
"This text conversation went over like a lead balloon. Goodnight" - Sat., Dec 20 9:31 PM High School Crush.
The prior statement was the result of an entire text conversation that occurred between me, the girl that I had a crush on in high school, and our cell phones.
I had been conditioned to think of cell phones for emergencies, they weren't used to text - and certainly not to text entire conversations where one would convey any type of emotion. Or so I thought. In 2000, I was an awkward Junior in high school. I had just been informed that my 1989 Toyota Camry, a ride that my grandparents had gifted me, would be replaced by another chariot. I upgraded to a 1984 (the year I was born), sky-blue Honda Accord, compliments of my other grandparents. This "upgrade" became the catalyst for change in my social life. My mother was finally convinced that I needed a cell phone, in case something ever happened to that fine machine carrying her beloved baby from point A to B. I was finally on the family plan. Freedom! My parents no longer had an excuse to listen to conversations I was having with girls. I finally had my own Zach Morris Nokia - the candy bar shape with the antenna that extended.
I never went over my minutes, all throughout college I adhered to a strict "after 9 PM policy and weekend talk-a-thons." I took pride in never going over my allotted time or amounts. I graduated college and as a gift my parents took me off the family plan. I didn't care; I was an adult. No, better, I was a contributing member of society. I was earning a paycheck living in the greatest city in the world.
I went out a few weekends and met some new people. Then I opened my first cell phone bill. It was egregious. I had a $7 text message fee on my bill. In Boston (college) we never sent texts. If I wanted to see my friends I'd call and say "Cactus Club. Margaritas. Done." I soon learned in NYC, it doesn't work like that. People have entire conversations that divulge more details than location and time. Like a chameleon, I adjusted.
Now I have 65/35% ratio of texts to phone calls and actually the thirty five percent is devoted to family members (who refuse to text) and close friends where emotion needs to clearly be communicated in each conversation.
Fast forward to Thanksgiving weekend: I had been on a few dates and become accustomed to fashioning texts for all occasions. I meet up with a group of high school classmates at a local bar and exchange numbers with my high school crush. I immediately think to myself: this girl has no idea what she has just gotten herself into. She must be out of her mind if she thinks I'm ever going to call. To my surprise she had no desire to call me either. She, too, had become skilled at the art of the text message. The following is the type of verbal foreplay gone wrong one might expect as two people who really don't have much in common try to use their cell phones to correspond via text:
Sat., Dec. 20 7:38 PM, High School Crush: Hey high school boyfriend have you thought about what you will be getting me for christmas? :)
Sat., Dec. 20 8:30 PM, Scriptural Apothecary: I didn't think we were exchanging gifts. Settle for me coming to A***. That's my secret, Santa. [of course I thought that message was witty, but I know the comma usage went over her head]
Sat., Dec. 20 9:07 PM, High School Crush: You just can't think of a clever gift how lame of you:)
Sat., Dec. 20 9:14 PM, Scriptural Apothecary: My presence is present enough [my word usage was on point, but it obviously went unnoticed]. You should be flattered. Go have fun & play in the snow.
Sat., Dec. 20 9:17 PM, High School Crush: Why would I do that at this time of night that seems unadvisable and you dont live in a*** so how would you find yourself here
Sat., Dec. 20 9:25 PM, Scriptural Apothecary: That text just went over my head. Have a good night. Be happy with my gift to you.
Sat., Dec. 20 9:27 PM, High School Crush: I was responding to you telling me to play in the snow- have fun tonight
Sat., Dec. 20 9:28 PM, Scriptural Apothecary: G'night. See you soon.
She was right. The conversation was similar to water-boarding, but the sad thing was I voluntarily engaged in the practice. This is just one example (the most recent example) of a string of texts gone wrong, but I try to convince myself I'll get better with practice. If a 65% is failing, I think I got a 57% on my most recent text exam.
Question: Why am I such a miserable failure sending texts? Answer: It's too easy to send texts. I remember when my Mom had a "car phone in a bag" in our '94 Ford Explorer. In order to dial out she had to enter a six-digit pin. As a result we never used that useless piece of technology. The pin code was a deterrent. Entering the pin made the would-be user really consider how badly he/she needed to communicate with another individual. I take responsibility for the senseless words that my fat thumbs type, but it's too easy. I'd write more, but I've gotta go check my cell phone. At the very least she better wish me a "happy new years;)"
The prior statement was the result of an entire text conversation that occurred between me, the girl that I had a crush on in high school, and our cell phones.
I had been conditioned to think of cell phones for emergencies, they weren't used to text - and certainly not to text entire conversations where one would convey any type of emotion. Or so I thought. In 2000, I was an awkward Junior in high school. I had just been informed that my 1989 Toyota Camry, a ride that my grandparents had gifted me, would be replaced by another chariot. I upgraded to a 1984 (the year I was born), sky-blue Honda Accord, compliments of my other grandparents. This "upgrade" became the catalyst for change in my social life. My mother was finally convinced that I needed a cell phone, in case something ever happened to that fine machine carrying her beloved baby from point A to B. I was finally on the family plan. Freedom! My parents no longer had an excuse to listen to conversations I was having with girls. I finally had my own Zach Morris Nokia - the candy bar shape with the antenna that extended.
I never went over my minutes, all throughout college I adhered to a strict "after 9 PM policy and weekend talk-a-thons." I took pride in never going over my allotted time or amounts. I graduated college and as a gift my parents took me off the family plan. I didn't care; I was an adult. No, better, I was a contributing member of society. I was earning a paycheck living in the greatest city in the world.
I went out a few weekends and met some new people. Then I opened my first cell phone bill. It was egregious. I had a $7 text message fee on my bill. In Boston (college) we never sent texts. If I wanted to see my friends I'd call and say "Cactus Club. Margaritas. Done." I soon learned in NYC, it doesn't work like that. People have entire conversations that divulge more details than location and time. Like a chameleon, I adjusted.
Now I have 65/35% ratio of texts to phone calls and actually the thirty five percent is devoted to family members (who refuse to text) and close friends where emotion needs to clearly be communicated in each conversation.
Fast forward to Thanksgiving weekend: I had been on a few dates and become accustomed to fashioning texts for all occasions. I meet up with a group of high school classmates at a local bar and exchange numbers with my high school crush. I immediately think to myself: this girl has no idea what she has just gotten herself into. She must be out of her mind if she thinks I'm ever going to call. To my surprise she had no desire to call me either. She, too, had become skilled at the art of the text message. The following is the type of verbal foreplay gone wrong one might expect as two people who really don't have much in common try to use their cell phones to correspond via text:
Sat., Dec. 20 7:38 PM, High School Crush: Hey high school boyfriend have you thought about what you will be getting me for christmas? :)
Sat., Dec. 20 8:30 PM, Scriptural Apothecary: I didn't think we were exchanging gifts. Settle for me coming to A***. That's my secret, Santa. [of course I thought that message was witty, but I know the comma usage went over her head]
Sat., Dec. 20 9:07 PM, High School Crush: You just can't think of a clever gift how lame of you:)
Sat., Dec. 20 9:14 PM, Scriptural Apothecary: My presence is present enough [my word usage was on point, but it obviously went unnoticed]. You should be flattered. Go have fun & play in the snow.
Sat., Dec. 20 9:17 PM, High School Crush: Why would I do that at this time of night that seems unadvisable and you dont live in a*** so how would you find yourself here
Sat., Dec. 20 9:25 PM, Scriptural Apothecary: That text just went over my head. Have a good night. Be happy with my gift to you.
Sat., Dec. 20 9:27 PM, High School Crush: I was responding to you telling me to play in the snow- have fun tonight
Sat., Dec. 20 9:28 PM, Scriptural Apothecary: G'night. See you soon.
She was right. The conversation was similar to water-boarding, but the sad thing was I voluntarily engaged in the practice. This is just one example (the most recent example) of a string of texts gone wrong, but I try to convince myself I'll get better with practice. If a 65% is failing, I think I got a 57% on my most recent text exam.
Question: Why am I such a miserable failure sending texts? Answer: It's too easy to send texts. I remember when my Mom had a "car phone in a bag" in our '94 Ford Explorer. In order to dial out she had to enter a six-digit pin. As a result we never used that useless piece of technology. The pin code was a deterrent. Entering the pin made the would-be user really consider how badly he/she needed to communicate with another individual. I take responsibility for the senseless words that my fat thumbs type, but it's too easy. I'd write more, but I've gotta go check my cell phone. At the very least she better wish me a "happy new years;)"
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