I can be vengeful. That doesn’t seem to dissipate with age. I wonder if it’s because I am writing the Book of Blues prequel and I share this trait with the main character. Without doubt I question whether my personal growth is frozen in this moment until the moment is written. Either way, the only thing I have to keep at arms length is my career. Luckily it’s still enough to harness my instincts.

It’s because of the friends involved.

Last week another 12 friends of mine were forced to take the next step in their career. Even though it was seen coming a long time ago, to watch them endure agony was enough to enrage me. Because up to that moment, they had a choice.

Nothing is scarier than when a choice is taken from you.

And because of the acts in last week’s play, and the way it played out, I stayed away.

Sometimes you have to go off-Radar.

Last night I was sipping iced tea in a back room club at the pub downtown when I read on my iPhone something Tat said – yes – on Facebook. It stopped me in my tracks:

The thing about making a name for yourself by trying to take down someone else’s name, is that it becomes your legacy. Who wants to be remembered as that hateful bitter little person?

At first I was pissed. He just left and wasn’t happy about the discussions involving his career. He was holding it in. I thought this was his way of letting it out.

So I replied:

The old man with all the toys.

He quickly wrote back:

Why you gotta call me that LOL

Yeah, it might have been a signpost to me, but he was hitting a deeper wound. He didn’t know it. I couldn’t blame him. And after I realized that I laughed.

Sometimes when your guard is always up, you have a tendency to take aim on even the rabbits that cross your path.

There’s a fine line between Vengeance and Revenge. If a child spends his whole summer playing chess against his master before finally winning on the last day, is he a champion, or he obsessive? Should he not learn his opponents strategies? His/her openings, middle games, preffered situations to offer exchanges, and when they choose to bluff with a gambit? Not to mention the end game.

Does the ever student become the master? Every child becomes his father in some form or another. But the fine line between completion and transformation has always scared me.

Maybe it depends on intention, pending culture.

Maybe it depends on who’s the drawer.

Maybe it depends on the pencil.

Maybe.

But for my last batch of friends force to soldier on, I offer my warm prayer and a soft salutation.

And remember, when you have soldiered on, it’ll take your body about 6 weeks to adjust to the reduced level of stress. It did for me.

Speaking of soldiering on…

Speaking of Stress reducers, I met new friends tonight. Met them via my lawyer. We’re scheduling to do a little R&R up along the lake. I need it.

1. Vacation
2. “Research”

REMEMBER: If you’re gonna remember Gonzo, dabble in a little fear and loathing in a playland, you HAVE to have your lawyer with you!

No man is so foolish but he may sometimes give another good counsel, and no man so wise that he may not easily err if he takes no other counsel than his own. He that is taught only by himself has a fool for a master. - Hunter S. Thompson

(photo credits:  1.  Rogelaf & 2. Menno Ophelia via Flickr)

There wasn’t a part of my morning that wasn’t bombarded by a part of my professional life. The bombs came through email, out from twitter, along from Facebook, and standing along my my desk – all in multiple forms.

The phone even rang. That’s never good.

I had to cajole, negotiate, insist, persist, pistol whip, pray-for-rain, and hope-for-the-best but in the end it all trickled into a quiet evening in an alley cafe within the heart of town.

I started to write though, no, not on paper. The book of blues prequel is starting to shape up in my head. It’s playing like a three minute song. And though I often shun 3-minute audio retail, the fact it’s as quick and as fluid as it is surprises me. Frightens me. How delightful.

The iPad I’m testing was sitting in my car across the street. I couldn’t tell you what didn’t posses me to pick it up, bring it back over and start writing with it. The evening was too beautiful to waste an opportune moment.

Then again, the evening was too beautiful to waste staring at a screen.

My buddy Lacy wrote on Facebook today about the idea writing a book about how people who don’t sleep in on Saturdays are going to be more successful. Somehow the string parlayed into the idea where the work would instead be a chronicled adventure of life in Broad Ripple between 3am and 6am on the weekends. Tales from the BR, or something. We’d have to take a camera, or few, gonzo up a few notes and look at the wreckage after we wake up later that afternoon – cause that’s when it’ll all hurt the most (the song is still in my head).

I’ve never understood how people could write in such beautiful environments. I sit there, trying to soak it all in till I’m satiated and saturated, but I never get my fill of such moments. I usually can only write about such times when I’m in a confined space, dreaming of those beautiful moments. Only then can I  write accordingly.

Am I the only one who does that?

PS – Lacy, I’m ready when you are. That sounds like way to much fun.

(photo credit:  June 1777 via Flickr)

remembering the upside of working near the Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore - thanks to blogging

Just like how the Gutenberg Press helped bring reading to the masses, so has blogging been able to give anyone w/ access to the internet a medium to allow their writings to be seen.

For better or otherwise.

I use blogging to allow my head to dance around a thought.

Take yesterday for example.

This weekend has been a weekend of writing, though I have put very little to paper. Not all writing is done on paper. In fact, very little is done on paper.

In this case, the little writing I did was on this blog post. I was blotting the other major influence to my web presence – Otis Redding’s (Sittin’ on the) Dock of the Bay.

In a couple weeks, I’ll start working once again on my Book of Blues Prequel. And because of the thought that went into last night’s post, as well as the memories revived as a result of the thinkings, the beginning of my book of blues prequel will take on a different shape and feel in the beginning.

Less country, more soul.

And because of it, I figured out a way to put yet another scene along the water. And I can ease my way out into the valet parking lot and show how change sucks. And is killer on the knees.

Yes, it’ll make sense in time.

Do you use blogging to help your writings?

(photo credit:  Rexp2 via Flickr)

A quiet, unassuming spring night in April. The NFL draft is consuming traditional media like it’s the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament, and around here, people are preparing for the now-Famous Dark Lord Day at Three Floyds Brewery.

Life is placid for a few days. It only means one thing: time to escape to Big Country’s Garage State Park up in Duneland. The best place to relax, unwind, and catch up with childhood friends. Well, at least the best place within a gas tank trip. And given the cars driven here, that’s at least all the way to the next gas station.

On this week’s installment of Country’s Garage, Gag Halfront is spraying the MOPAR 440 engine from his 1962 Plymouth Fury before he rebuilds it, again.

If this was filmed for TV, the next 6 hours of footage would be found on the cutting room floor, but this is when the fun begins.

No computers.
No wifi.
No worries.

Just childhood friends, a car to work on, and music.

The selection: “Riddles Are Abound Tonight” by Sausage w/ Les Claypool & Tim Alexander.

Break…

If things continue to go well, I feel this will be a very quiet summer. Why?

Because them other books of blues won’t write themselves. And I’m getting too old to leave them dreaming in my head.

I’m too afraid of becoming Like the song now playing above and behind me: Mr. Bojangles as done by Sammy. Love the simple, structured rhythm jazz guitar. Gibson hollow body if I had to guess.

Too bad I don’t dance that well.

Here’s to hoping the road stays smooth and nothing unforseen is too daunting – for a change.

And for those who were kind enough to express their thoughts on Facebook about my update last night: that post was actually a prayer. There was no other way that story should have played out. I fumbled into another truth and was grateful.

But I thank you, sis, for the concerns (and I’ll take better care of Hector).

Mr. Bojangles, dance.

(post title is from Mr. Bojangles by Jerry Jeff Walker)

Today was a bittersweet day for me.

When I started playing around with Social Media tools, I used Picasso’s Old Guitarist as my gravatar – a filler till I decided whether or not I liked these tools.

But as with many things in my life, I got attached to the picture.

Then again, I’ve almost always been attached to the painting.

Growing up, my mama’s mama played the maternal role in me and my sister’s life. My mama played the paternal role as she worked and went to school, and my father “joined the merchant marines.”

Fought a lot with my mama’s mama. She wanted to make sure I never took my dad’s path. I wanted to make sure I never made my dad’s choices. We often disagreed on what that meant. Within our lack of understanding, our disagreements fostered a similar environment to what my father grew up in. And from that, I became just like my father in regards to our fear of domestication-related responsibilities:  he ran because domestication overwhelmed him when he hit a rough patch. I run from domestication out of fear of it overwhelming me – at least til I’m more secure in my career. Sad state of the economy at this time played is a mitigating factor.

One way or another, we become like our parents.

My mama’s mama was a painter, writer, sculptor. Even dabbled in stained glass. Ogden Gardens Community Church is still grateful. Whereas my Mecca sits on Clark and Addison, my mama’s mama’s mecca sits along Michigan avenue, guarded buy a couple lions.

It was 8:21 am, 4 minutes before I was about to brave the 6 inches of plains-blown snow which brightened the dulled facades of Denom U campus and head to the first class of my second semester. Weighed down my anxiety and Pleasant Valley misery, I was sliding on sandals when my mother called.

“Hi. I need to tell you something, but it’s alright.”

I felt it before I heard the news.

My sister came home the night before to find my mama’s mama suffering from a heart attack and stroke. Before I could adjust to the shock, my mom said to finish the school week out and then come home. Then whisked off the phone so I could class.

There are days when I wake up and still think I’m stuck in that 60-hour period between the time I got the call and the time I finally got to the hospital and at least see her presence.

Poetically, a month later my Fine Arts class, the class I was stumbling to when my mother called with the news, was taking a field trip to my mama’s mama’s Mecca.

The teachers gave us this sheet of things we had to find in the 3 hours we were there. So, me being me, I took the sheet to the information desk and had the lady there tell me where they all were at. Then me and a couple others had the next 2 hours and 50 minutes to do whatever. For book of blues references – this day marked the first of many adventures with one of the friends who inspired the character “Xavier.”

But in the short time we actually stayed in the Art Museum before sneaking out to gonzo along Michigan Ave, I had to go find Picasso’s Old Guitarist. I just learned about it a week or so before, and like so many before, I identified with it instantly. Since that day I used it for screen savers, pictures, logos. It was my endpoint. It reminds of that day on the phone. And it reminds me of what my mama’s mama tried to do with her life, of what she wanted both me and my sister to do: make everything beautiful.

In my room there hangs 5 of my mama’s mama’s paintings.

They’re my security blanket.

Like Picasso’s Old Guitarist.

The time was coming when my own social media presence was going to have to be used. So like with so many things in my life, I combined them. Sorta like when Picasso started over on the old guitarist and it looks like there’s a person hidden in the background…

Below is a sketch of my Twitter background. It is where my new gravatar derives. It is also the baseline for the site which is in redesign. Note the heavy amounts of blue.

I’m taking Picasso’s Old Guitarist wherever I go.

The theme, designed by Ryan Wake, is derived of 3 inspirations

1. Picasso’s “Old Guitarist” – “El Guitarrista Viejo”
2. Ft. Myers, Magaritaville

And as for the third inspiration, well that’s for tomorrow.

Here’s a hint:  the site is a great place to be “sittin’ here, restin’ my bones,”

(Image of Picasso’s Old Guitarist is copyright of the Picasso estate. The Twitter is Copywright Nat Finn)

It’s Saturday night. Max Power and I spent some time getting good work done. Sadly, it wasn’t on Book of Blues, but so it goes.

At the end, we started watching some baseball and saw Minnesota Twins highlights. Not that I care that much about the Twins so much as…

Max Power & I love baseball

The Twins got a new stadium. I’ve got a cousin in Minneapolis I haven’t seen in awhile. My cousin has a spare bed and a spare futon. Max is running out of time before fatherhood finds him.

A quick few emails to my cousin and Max and I are prepping to head to Minneapolis for a nice weekend of gonzo excitement and baseball in a new church.

But then it dawned on me:  I hadn’t fully planned my trip to Mecca. Part-Cassidy is making pans for me to go to the Mecca to meet her fiance for the first time, but it’s not my trip to Mecca.

I want a trip to Mecca and I want it now!

Power, sitting to my left and plugging away on his laptop, wasn’t feeling as inspired to go. It seems as though he’d like to play for his own baseball team tomorrow. Silly. Especially since his team doesn’t play in Wrigley Field tomorrow.

I told him, “We’d see about that.”

How to Convince Your Friend to Go to a Cubs Game at the Last Minute Even If His Wife Is Pregnant

• make sure you have connections
• show your friend a seating map of Wrigley Field and where y’all would be sitting
• make sure the seats are great
• map out the travel in advance
• use the train if possible

Then remind your friend that the time is running out before fatherhood is thundering down upon him, relentless, unforgiving. Time marches on and that his responsibilities will forever be multiplied by a factor of domestication that will forever rob him of these golden opportunities.

Max’s ears were open.

So, of course, it failed miserably. But the framework for success is set for future attempts.

Are you going to Wrigley Field in 2010?

Let me know. I’ll be a little jealous, but it’ll inspire me to go.

(photo of Wrigley Field by Rock Chalk Jayhawk Photographer via Flickr. Photo of Target Field by Jon McNab. Photo of Addison St. / Wrigley Field train station by Wally G via Flickr)

Some parts of my Book of Blues come from experience. And some parts of the blues book come from research. And there’s a little “other roads traveled” fantasies and truths cut-in for flavor.

And sometimes, my blues book ideas come from mischievous curiosity.

Take last weekend in Indy.

I went down to watch a reunion concert for an Indianapolis Metal band named Dent. The drummer, Jason Carr, is the co-owner of The Bean Cup – the place where I had my life-changing experience on Halloween.

One of my hometown friends who lives in Indy went with me.

We got to the theater to find there was no alcohol. The band didn’t start for another hour. Not that I need it, but especially for my friend – who isn’t the biggest metal head – he was gonna need something to get him a little high (in the “I get high with a little help from my friends” using-alcohol sense [Lennon/McCartney]). The Carrs and Karrs told us that the bar around the corner had, low and behold, GUMBALLHEAD.

We got to the bar, my buddy saw some goth, and instantly he wanted to drive back east five blocks to pre-drink at his buddy’s.

His buddy didn’t have Gumballhead but my buddy had the car keys. GRRRRR.

Pre-drink and the concert came and went. Whoops, hollars, weak attempts at mosh pits, pleasant “hello’s” and delightful “goodbye’s” flew by as scripted.

I had the car keys. It was time to go.

Typically this would scream “Broad Ripple,” but one buddy was having issues with his girlfriend and my ex from the area was having a birthday that night and would probably be there. Instincts said to follow the road elsewhere.

And the road lead us to a nice little place near my buddy’s condo on the north side. The place was quiet, had pool tables, and though they’d never heard of Gumballhead, they had a suitable substitute: hot waitresses.

I saw her. My buddy gazed at her. The two guys at the other pool table had already started to try and work her.

And the fun began.

Come to find out, if you spend an obscene amount of money at this place, they take your picture and hang it on the wall. It was worth it.

The guys at the other table ended up being Good people. A couple rounds of shots, a couple more pitchers, and all three of their bellys got so full that when they tried their best pickup line, they fumbled over themselves.

And that guy left over was the gentlemen who was willing to drive for a friend and only drank when the waitress “questioned” his constitution.

I admit, it’s fun when waitresses question my constitution. They’re the fun ones.

And I call that, “the advantage of the designated driver.”

That’s for keeping Finn away from Gumballhead!

Typically, hitting on the help is pretty classless. You won’t be their first and you won’t be their last.You won’t even be either on that work shift. But if you really want to pick up a waitress who isn’t a slut, you don’t try for it all in one night. That leads to disaster more often than not. You space it out over a few days. Let her realize you don’t suck as a person (unless you suck as a person, then study up on “The Prince”). And, make sure she’s a Good person too or you’re waisting your time.

So we went back the next day. My excuse to my buddy was the truth: the weather sucked last night, we were the reason she didn’t get cut early, and she had to be back at the place early the next morning. Besides, he was buying and I got to pick the place.

Apparently karma was watching.

We got to the place and, GASP, they didn’t have the Bears game on. I had no more bullets left in the chamber. If you’re from The Region and have ever cheered for Walter Payton, you have to abide by a couple rules. Rule #1: if the Bears are playing, the bar you attend must have it on on at least one screen. This place did not.

So we had to leave.

We’ll see if the road takes me back there next month.

And, for those interested, the above picture is NOT her. Images changed to protect the Good people.

(photo credit: Sublime via Flickr)

Since my 99 week pilgrimage started, I’ve had many people ask what my next steps are going to be. I’ve even gotten a couple projects from these conversations. I am grateful for the questions and appreciative of the concern, but I can’t say for certain, yet, as to where I’m going.

Sleepless nights, numerous conversations, and apprehensive afternoons have been fidgeted away because, like Max Power who had having trouble focusing on his last PPC Hero blog post, I’ve been gripping too hard to the question, “What to do next.”

Then something changed, a little.

1) Bless the cursed marketing promotion for John Mayer’s, “Who Says.” I’m not the biggest John Mayer fan. It’s not because of his talent. He’s a craftsmen. It’s because I haven’t been in his target market of 14-year-old girls. But in his song, “Who Says,” not only is it a well crafted, finger-picked song, but I’ll confess I relate to it.

“It’s been a long time since ’22′
I don’t remember you lookin’ any  better
then again I don’t remember you…”

The images in his video also captivate me:  the sharp lines and right angles of his European-styled apartment, latest fashion trends of his city friends, walking the streets at night, great food, good drink… But none of the scenes caught my attention more than the scene with the old wooden chair along a white wall with a Martin acoustic guitar in its lap 13 seconds in.

Most of us who fall in love with our guitars dream of this spot. Many of us work through our days to get back to this spot at night. I used to even turn off the lights so I wouldn’t watch my fingers.

2) After I saw the “Who Says,” video I stopped over at oldold man Finn’s house to check on his place. He’s snowbirding in Ft. Myers. I’ll be down there soon to visit.

I went into his house, checked the rooms, and saw my Martin guitar sitting in his living room. It’s been sitting there almost two years in its black hardtop case. I don’t have the space to store it and I didn’t have time to play it. I sat in the old dining room chair, pulled the guitar out of its case, and placed it in my lap. The first thing that hit me was the fresh smell of Mahogany. The second thing that hit me was how it felt like I was hugging an old friend.

Some people get into careers to feed themselves. Some get into their careers only as far as it takes to feed their family. I dove deep into my career so I could always have a space to play guitar and work on my book of blues. Once I got in there, I found my career, my guitar playing, and my blues books can all help each other. That’s why my topic of my site is:

“Live Music. Blues Books. Inbound Marketing, Social Media, SEO, Blogging…”

All my passions have become family. Now I have to bring my family together.

I still don’t know where the next step will be, but it’ll involve live music, blues books, and inbound marketing.

It has been a long time since 22. And don’t remember her looking any better, but then again I don’t know if I remember her anymore.

(Here’s a live version of John Mayer’s “Who Says”)

(photo credit:  Marite 2007 via flickr)

(I’m working towards this scene, but forgetting to rest as I go)

I woke up, got prepared for a meeting in New Buffalo, MI, and called to confirm. They answered, said it would be better if I backed it up a day, and I was none more thankful. Now I’m backing up my trip to Indy.

Heaven bless the nature of the business.

See the night before I went out with my old boss and a few co-workers. My old boss claimed it was my birthday and people flocked out. Imagine my surprise. Not only that, it was my third birthday this year. And a, “thank you,” goes out to all who came.

Sometimes you have to blow off steam. I forget that.

I don’t do it enough. I try to pretend I’m a machine. I think about how I’ve got 16 days before I go to Ft. Myers, Margaritaville for three weeks and then think I can work straight on till I board the plane.

I’m not a machine.

So when I went back to bed and didn’t wake up until 3pm, refreshed, invigorated, and mostly free from Gumballhead hangover, my body was trying to remind me to balance myself.

In sports, they would call my last few weeks, “playing to the level of the competition.” Some teams can give the best in their sport a run for their money on any given night and then turn around and falter to the league doormats.

If I can’t perform at my best every day, then I’ll never get to where I want to go. Right now, I have no real pressure or deadlines except ones I imply on myself. The best realize the only real pressure to worry about is the pressure to be the best “you” you can be. Everything is temporal and fades away with time.

I’m getting too old not to remember that.

And someday, I’ll be a craftsman.

Are you doing your best every day?

(Photo Credit: Pat Kono via Flickr)

I’m posting tonight from Terry’s Pit Stop just outside Lake Patoka State Park in Birdseye, IN, hidden within the outskirts of the Hoosier National Forest, a half-gallon of gas from the Ohio River, an hour west of Louisville and a million miles from reality.

Terry’s Pit Stop has the look and feel of a log cabin bar. Dale Earnhart, Jr. still wears Budweiser in this place. They honor him with POS (point of sale, jerks ) displays – full length cut-outs and glass paintings. Football, beer, white Christmas icicle lights and karaoke round out the ambiance.

The patrons are all older than I am – by at least a decade. I probably won’t find my future ex-wife in here but after sitting awhile proving my desire to fit in, I’m meeting many a Good people.

I can understand why it takes them a second to warm up to me. Many of them were in high school or later when the US Army Corps of Engineers submerged 9,000 acres of their backyard in order to make this flood-control lake that has become quite the wooded retreat. Now hundreds of thousands of outsiders fill their streets, forests, and watering holes each summer.

They handle my intrusion with grace and southern comfort – so long as I don’t get called up to sing…even though this is the Georgia Satellites!!! Now I’m gonna see my smiling face on the cover of the Rolling Stone! Living my life in a slow hell / wait a minute, Mr., I didn’t even kiss her…(lyrics are from Dr. Hook’s “Cover of the Rolling Stone,” KidRock and Sheryl Crow’s “Picture” and Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Gimmie Three Steps”)

This city boy’s never listened to so much KidRock and Kenny Chesney before. And I haven’t run screaming. Too many people are smiling, communing, and laughing for my cynicism to wax and wane because it’s obvious they know something I don’t about happiness.

How the hell did this city boy get here?

It started three days ago when I was in Orlando, FL, finishing my duties at the NBAA convention, savoring my first Kobe beef ribeye and watching the back of my eyelids flutter when I checked Twitter for updates. Douglas Karr tweeted, asking if anyone wanted wanted to go to a resort two hours south of Indy and blog the experience. Instinctively I jumped at the chance. I found out later that the assignment was on behalf of the Indiana Department of Tourism.

Hunter, leave me alone.

Maybe it was the not-cheap wine that had me tweet aloud my interest. Maybe it was the lack of sleep that comes from working a convention. Or maybe it was the chance to be more than 150 miles from the nearest friend, family member, or colleague for the first time, well, ever…Whatever it was, this turned out to be this year’s salvation decision.

I’ll write a draft on here tomorrow of my experiences at Lake before I submit my post to VisitIndiana, but as for right now I’m going to start good conversations, learn about life before the Patoka dam, and listen to how everybody down here has a connection to John Mellencamp.

And for the record, it took almost three hours before a Cougar classic. And for prosperity, it was Authority Song.

Douglas Karr, you’ll never know how much I needed this trip.