I am no doubt a dreamer.  It is, as I’ve said before, an important part of the writing process I believe.  And I’m seeing a creative pattern that is both very interesting and somewhat troubling, though being very clear I believe easy to rectify.  We’ll see.  It will be a matter of discipline, which is just not in abundance this morning.

I have found that when I read fiction, I have difficulty writing fiction.  Thus, when I read non-fiction the same is no longer true.  I am a well, deep and full of ideas and words.  Uh, huh.  But this week I’ve been reading fiction, and what does that tell you my friends?  You guessed it, bupkiss.

The fiction?  Jack London’s immortal The Call of the Wild.  Now, I’m not one to generally use the term bucket list.  For me it lacks something, a certain je ne sais quoi.  Oohh, I do know, actually.  It lacks style.  Or, in keeping with the French theme, panache. I love, love, love the idea, it just needs a new title.  But I digress.

Anyway, though I don’t often use the term I do actually have a list.  Writing was and will always be, on that list.  Why, you ask, when I have already written two novels, a book of poetry and am close to finishing a third novel?  Because I have a liste de seau of stories I’d like to write (and we’ll stick with French for now).

I also have a list of stories I’d like to read.  The Call of the Wild was on that list, but I knocked that one off as of last night.  And I enjoyed it more than I thought I would, actually.  Let me digress (yes, I’m sorry…again) for just a moment.  I’ll read anything about adventure, and will devour anything about mountaineering, and after reading Jon Krakauer’s epic Into Thin Air, I actively sought his equally epic Into the Wild.  In the latter, the tragic young man was heavily influenced by London, Tolstoy and Thoreau.  And, anyone interested in reading tales of adventure is sure to run across the name Jack London, and thus I was compelled to read the veritable classic The Call of the Wild.

It is short (about 87 pages) and quite easier to read than many other works of literature that are considered classic.  The pacing is great, the descriptive narrative keeps you wanting more, and the story itself is, as I said before, compelling.  It is a story of a ranch house dog in sleepy northern California who becomes something more once thrust into the wilds of Alaska.  It is a story of change.

Change, huh?  Something I’ve been exploring recently in my own life.  So it turns out that I can relate to a dog.  I’m okay with that.  There are worse things, and even still worse people to relate to, right?  Published in 1903, the themes of self, of abandonment and of a feeling of destiny are all as current in today’s clime as they were at the turn of the last century.  And I as write, I am suddenly overcome with a flood of emotion when I realize this blog posting has taken a turn I did not expect…

I began this page with an intent that has become but a faint memory.  In its place, an awakening and revelation have filled the chasms and shards of what was once but an exercise in writing.  To become fulfilling and what’s more, promising.  In the desire to quell the appetite that has ravaged me, I have truly discovered that which sustains me.  Hey, I told you last time I wouldn’t get all existential on you, but that was last time.

Insert New Age Music Here

Ok, I’ll be less poetic with my prose.  I have this curiosity to shake my own tree, and thus free myself from what is comfortable and experience the new (so maybe I won’t curtail the poetic prose).  I don’t want to stagnate, to become pallor in a life less ambition or desire or excitement.  I crave new things as if my life depends upon them, because I have realized (both before and now) that my life does indeed depend on new things.  Well, a balance really.  A balance between that which I know and love and need with all my heart and soul (my family and friends) and that which I have no knowledge or understanding of (the unknown).  But it is within the unknown that I am beginning to truly understand myself.

I guess maybe I should have settled in, as it seems there is no end to my writing this morning.

C’est la vie.

I will try to wrap up.  But first, a lesson I taught many of those that worked for me for twenty years, of whom I was charged with motivating and guiding and mentoring.  As adults, we have forgotten the newness and playfulness and excitement that was our youth.  More specifically, that was our childhood.  Life as a child is dynamic, both a descriptive word and theoretical process that I am completely in love with.

Dy.nam.ic            adj         \di-‘na-mik|

a: of or relating to physical force or energy

b: marked by usually continuous and productive activity or change

We are alive as children because everything is new. We know nothing, so the world around us is fresh and exciting.  Not always in a good way, I understand, but let’s focus on the positives for now.  Our lives are dynamic, and for many (nay I say most) of us it is what caused us to smile so damn much.  Dynamic is good.

But as we grew, we knew more and thus our lives became less about learning and more about repeating.  Repeating is good for a great many things.  But repeating isn’t as good for the mind or the heart or the soul as is continuous and productive activity or change.  So how do we achieve that dynamic life that we so enjoyed as toddlers?  We explore the unknown, we teach ourselves to return to a constant state of learning.  Once you re-train your mind to actively seek a constant state of learning, you will begin to see a dynamic change within.  I have taught this principle for years in business, and I have seen it work firsthand.  And it does work.

But all that knowledge and experience didn’t prevent me from failing to do what I was instructing others to do.  At least, not as it related to my professional life.  But as this evolution continues, each day I have discovered that though the future is unknown (and a little scary), that it is good for me.  My life in reboot!  So this evolution continued as I turned the last page to Jack London’s truly classic saga. I realized that in my desire to seek the unknown I had in fact discovered a little more of myself.

I am Buck, the protagonist canine of the story in whose existence on the sunny porch as a youth gave way to a life ruled by the law of club and fang only to find salvation in his heart among the wolves that arched their muzzles toward an endless sky and freely and spiritually released themselves to the call of the wild.

“Choose a job you love and you will never work a day in your life.”

Can you believe Confucius was to have said that, some 2500 years ago?  Seems pretty forward thinking for a time in history that didn’t quite have the advances in technology, communications, medicine, commerce or infrastructure that we have today.  Was it really possible that people were choosing jobs that weren’t fulfilling?  If that is true, then I guess the more things change the more they stay the same.

Or do they?

For me, not so much.  I’m a caterpillar waiting to bust out!  Now…but it hasn’t always been that way.   I’ve worked since I was in high school (earlier even, but we’ll save that story for later) and up until my thirties education wasn’t important.  Graduated from high school, followed a girl….worked jobs I hated and thus my performance met with my enthusiasm and soon the whole charade came crashing down.

I moved back home and fell in love, but continued to work jobs I hated because the money was good and I was good at it (this is the short version of my story anyway).  But one job turned to another job, and thus into another job.  Seeing a pattern?  Me too.  I have worked many days in my life.  My father warned me of this. I’m sure he and Confucius went to school together.  Ha ha ha…ahem.  I kid because I love…

But it was true.  I worked for money and for no other reason, and I wasn’t satisfied and misery is a pretty tall mountain.  When you’re up there, you have a tendency to kick rocks downhill.  On the things you do love, and more importantly on the people you love.  Including yourself.

I gained over fifty pounds over a twenty five year period.  And I’m short, so fifty pounds is like strapping a Yugo to my waistline and trying to act normal.  It isn’t.  It wasn’t.  I had chosen to let my goals in life collect dust while I sat, unmotivated, and working jobs I hated because it was easy.  Achieving goals and chasing your dreams isn’t easy.  But it’s healthy…

And we can all agree that being short and fat isn’t healthy.  And since I’d made a life altering change in my life at thirty by choosing to quit smoking, I could make a life altering change in my life at thirty eight to get in the best shape of my life.

Ok, so this won’t be a short tale of motivation.

I’ll digress for a moment.  Here goes…I smoked for fifteen years.  Ages fifteen to thirty.  No kidding.  I won’t stand on my soapbox about the dangers of smoking, but I will say I knew it was killing me.  So, without much fanfare I chose to quit.  In October.   My advice?  Skip the New Year’s Resolutions.  They don’t work.  They never did for me.  I tried quitting in January for years.  I wasn’t ready, and the pressure to fulfill a resolution is the wrong kind of motivation to do something.  You need to do it because you need to do it.  Forget what anyone else thinks, says or does.  Do for you, now!

Seriously.  I am a HUGE procrastinator and I can rationalize with the best of you.  But I was embarrassed for myself that I LET something like smoking control my life.  I LET it have that kind of power over me.  So I quit and didn’t tell anyone I had done so for a week.  After that first week, with nobody cheering me and doing it all alone, I knew I could do it and so it happened.  So when I decided to lose weight I used the same principle.  I quietly started changing my habits and my diet.

Albert Einstein defined insanity as “doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”  Ahh…that man was a genius!  A snappy dresser, too…

Change starts with change.  And if you’re reading this (and I know only three of you are), then you have access to the internet which means you have access to all of the information you could possibly need to achieve your goal.  I did, anyway.  I’m now a healthy thirty five pounds lighter than I was at my heaviest.  I look great (so I’m told) and I feel AMAZING!  Here is what I did.

Lose the stigma of losing weight for someone else or to meet someone else’s expectations.   I did it for me.  And I don’t want negativity in my life, so I won’t have negativity in my life.  Each day I woke up and said to myself “I’m doing this!”  Not…”I’m going to do this.”  It is not a “going to” or a “try” mentality.  It is a “I’m already doing what I need to be doing.”

This change game is mental, folks.  Remember that.

Oh, and by the way…I’m not rock hard abs and totally buff chest and arms guy either.  Healthy weight doesn’t have to mean looking like that person in the magazine who works out for a living.  LOSE THE STIGMA!

Next, I learned about food.  Still am, actually.  And I love it.  I’m experiencing new things, new tastes, new dishes.  It’s great.  But I had to start simple, so I cut all alcohol out of my diet.  I was dropping weight without doing anything else but not drinking alcohol.  I’ve cut out unnecessary food as well, like fast food and sugars I don’t need (candies, donuts, sweetened drinks).  Now it’s a matter of eating the right foods at the right time.  Carbs, proteins, fats…I eat them all.  But not in the same sitting and not all day.  Portion control is important too, but let me tell you that I’m not hungry all time.  I will have seconds at dinner if I want it, knowing the food I’m putting into my system is going to get processed correctly.  For me, it was about getting educated so that I can make decisions that are right for me and my body.

It is important to exercise, too!  Walk, climb stairs, climb mountains, lift weights, do push-ups, yoga, do something…get your heart rate up and try to break a sweat at least four times a week for about 20-30 minutes.  Your body will thank you for it.  Oh…and you can sit there and mutter to yourself that you don’t have the time to do it but you’re wrong.  I know.  That’s what I did.  Seriously.  Like I was trying to convince others who had done it that I didn’t have enough time in my life to get fit, muttering to the computer screen.  In the time it took me to read their articles I could have done my exercise!  Your favorite show or game or barstool or whatever excuse isn’t going to help you get fit and be healthy.  I know…tough love!  But your body will thank you for it!

The people who’ve said that anything worth doing was not going to be easy were right.  It’s going to be an effort.  I dreaded that because I was lazy, lazy, lazy.  But I needed to take responsibility for myself because I realized that nobody should be taking responsibility for me…

So now that fear of change is lessened, but I won’t say it’s gone.  I still have the same fears anyone does.  I’m just not going to let them dictate my life.  I’m doing different things and expecting different results.  Like choosing a job that I love so I don’t have to work another day in my life.  I’ve stepped into the unknown and it’s scary, but it’s a change.  And change is good…

I like to start each day with a little inspiration, and earlier this morning I stumbled across this gem.  Those who know me know I have a absolute love for the music of Sam Cooke!

Truth be told, I actually have no idea what I’m doing.  But I have a sense of humor about it, so I guess I’m fine.

Ok, it’s not that I have no idea.

It’s just that feeling of being lost.  Like you know what you want, but it is so off the beaten path that you doubt even yourself.  That stigma I’ve talked about, the one where others define your life for you.  Yeah, that’s the one.  I’m between two worlds and neither seem real.

I’m not even sure where to begin.

My grand adventure is supposed to be a journey that is neat and fun and exciting and challenging…So many adjectives.  And it is all of those things, in theory.  But one of the challenges I have set for myself is writing about the process.  The journey.  And as with everything I write, I have to have a beginning.  Seems logical, right?  To have a beginning?  And where I think this journey is about climbing mountains and surfing oceans, I can’t help but feel it’s about something more.

I’m doing research on the mountains near my home, a mountain range that has offered me countless hours of joy as I hike and climb and generally get lost in my thoughts and dreams as I wander.  The San Gabriel Mountains in eastern Los Angeles County.  I’m researching what history I can find on the high point in the range, Mt. San Antonio or known locally as Mt. Baldy.

The aboriginal Tongva tribes of the area called the mountain Yoát or Joat, (according to Wikipedia anyway) which means snow.  The official moniker refers to Anthony of Padua, an Italian priest and patron saint of lost articles.  Good stuff, huh?  The summit rises 10,064 feet above sea level and is the highest point in Los Angeles County.

A great climb, actually.  Challenging and fun, in the winter time it provides a great alpine experience when our Southern California winter allows for snow.  You’d be surprised, actually, we can get quite a bit.  But I digress.

The goal is to climb the mountain, drive the forty or so miles to the Pacific Ocean and surf, all in the same day.  Challenging right?  Completely within the realm of possibility, not something I’ve ever done before, so on and so forth.  A great adventure…

Here’s the thing.  I know on the surface why I’m planning it.  I want the adventure, the physicality of the journey.  I want to film it (I am an amateur filmmaker, with a capital A) and I’d like most to write about it.  I want all of this…but I don’t know what it will mean.  And something keeps eating at me that it has to mean something.

I was up on the mountain just yesterday, as a matter of fact.  A training hike to get the ole legs moving and heart pumping.  High on the mountainside I had an opportunity to look out and see something I’ve seen countless times before.  The greater Los Angeles basin.  All those people.  And I began to wonder, as I have for the past few weeks, where is my place in all of that?

I think back to the Tongva tribe that lived here before us, that named the mountains I call my home.  What was a day in the life for them?  Did they stop to think about their place in the world?  Was there a stigma attached to their thoughts and feelings?

In all practical sense the Tongva people don’t exist any longer, and that gives me pause.  It is time for me to shake those stigmas and begin writing a new chapter…

It’s easy to find there is a stigma attached to nearly everything we do in life.  Success means being young or thin or rich.  Having the latest gadgets makes you cool.  Or hip.  Like Rome trying to satiate the mob. We’ve all seen Gladiator, right?

Well,  we’ve heard this all before anyway.  I’ve talked about it with my kids for years.  The answer I’ve always given them?  You create your own cool, nobody can define it for you.

And yet, I still feel washed over with this sense that I’m doing something wrong or that I should be doing something else.  Like some imaginary person out there is defining my life.  Like someone wrote out a blueprint of the way things should be and somehow I’m just not following it.  And it’s crazy, because we alone define who and what we are.  I’m beginning to recognize an imbalance in my life, and I feel change happening.

It’s taken me twenty years to figure out what I would most like to do as a profession.  Write.  I have a passion to tell stories through my perspective, and to share it with anyone interested in reading my work.  So, in my late thirties I am making a go at a career in writing.  It is a dramatic change from the life I’ve led to this point, a change that is both invigorating and exciting and ridiculously scary.  But I’m happy.  Happy that I honestly know this is what I should have been doing my entire life, and happy that I’m making the commitment now.  Better late than never, right?  But there is a weight that bears down on me still that I cannot yet put to words.

I’ve been a dreamer forever.  It’s one of the reasons I enjoy writing so much, and to some degree that I’m good at it.  I could dream all day.  My daydreams are filled with the stories I’ve discovered through reading.  And when I read, well…Countless pages of books have taken me away to far off places seeking excitement and adventure.  Adventure.  The word alone stirs an emotion inside that lifts that weight just a little.  But only a little.

As a result, I have sought out the corners of my own little world seeking adventure, tugging at the shirt sleeve of my friend to join me in my quest.  And together we have found adventure in varying degrees of difficulty and success.  But still that weight persists.

So, inspired by our favorite adventurers, we’ve conjured up a plan to have a grand adventure and share it with the world (or at least the three people who read my blog).  And though we are still in the planning stages, I am already feeling like the journey is more far reaching that I had ever imagined…

But I digress, as I sit and write my thoughts continue to stray back to the first live show I can remember.  Do you remember yours?  Did it have a lasting impact?  I can undeniably claim that my first memory of a live musical performance (that I wasn’t in, of course…but that story is for another time) begins in the summer time.  But it did not have a lasting impact, other than to say that I remember it.  It was mid-nineteen eighties, though I don’t recall the exact year.  Lasting impact, ha!  I was but a lad, and visiting my cousin Kim who lived at the time in Bloomington, Illinois.  Ahhh, yes.  Illinois.

In my youth I spent two weeks every summer visiting family in Illinois.  One week with my maternal grandmother in Galesburg, and one week with my cousin Kim in Bloomington.  Kim is a year or so older than I, but growing up we were very close even though we lived twelve hundred miles apart.  I have many, many fond memories of my time in Illinois as a young boy, but alas I digress yet again.

The first live performance?  Yes, yes…I remember.  Klymaxx, that soulful eighties all girl band.  At the Illinois State Fair in Springfield.   What can I say?  I’m not their demographic.  It was summer, the air was warm, the sweet smell of something gooey and fried hung on the air.  I was at a state fair, of all places.  Not exactly sneaking over the wall as a teenager to catch a Led Zeppelin show my parents forbade me to see.  Nope, no such adventurous tales for me…

And so, my journey to the ultimate rock concert took the better part of thirty years.  A journey that led me down the road of some amazing shows with incredible stories and lasting memories.  Years of reggae concerts; of seeing legends a little past their prime; of seeing legends considerably past their prime.  A pop/rock concert or two.  I was asked recently if I’ve seen a lot of shows, and the answer is yes.  But that ultimate rock concert had eluded me until only recently.   And I waded my way through a spring of country music to get there…

Here in California, we have a number of festivals that offer an aficionado’s ear a delectable variety of music.  Which is to say there is something for everyone.  In 2011, that something for my wife was the Stagecoach country music festival in Indio.  A two day, artist packed weekend that would be sure to delight the big hat, pointy boot wearing fan for miles and miles.  I was a little skeptical.

I grew up on Merle Haggard, Kenny Rogers and Barbara Mandrel.  My first guitar was black because I’m a huge Johnny Cash fan.  I can sing along with Alabama, and The Oak Ridge Boys or Ronnie Milsap.  But to say that I’m a country fan would be misleading.  I’m not.  Being stuck in the back seat while your parents tuned the radio to Dolly Parton doesn’t qualify me as a fan.  It is a part of me, but I’m a little bit rock and roll…

But the times they are a changin’.  Partly due to Kenny Chesney, if I’m being honest.  That man has a pretty darn good thing going, and if you need a soundtrack for your summer he’s got it.  I’m only a mild fan of Jimmy Buffet, but I’m becoming a huge fan of Kenny Chesney.  Sometimes he’s a little on the rowdy side, but I sure do love his music.  Tap your feet, crack a cold one, head down to the beach and put your toes in the sand.  Yeah, I’m there…

So when he was listed as one of the headliners for the festival, I eagerly agreed to go.  Joining us would be our dear friends Matt and Ky.  Now, along with my wife, Matt and Ky are huge country music fans.  Big hats, big buckles, those pointy shoes again…

I arranged a hotel for the four of us (dudes in one room, chicks in another…like camp all over again) and I drove us all down Friday night, getting a little lost on the way but finding the hotel after I finally admitted that everyone in the car but me knew where they were going.  We settled, had dinner and went lights out only after a great night of hanging out and talking.

Stagecoach is a festival.  On a huge field.  In the desert of California.  What you are reading right now (though the words may look a little different) is huge crowds, traffic, lots of waiting, hot, windy, blah blah, huge crowds.  Welcome to a two-day hee-haw!

Everyone was dressed so much alike that I had a little trouble distinguishing the crowd.  Even I got into the spirit of the event and bought a big hat (though I stuck to my guns and wore my usual uniform of t-shirt, shorts and flip-flops).  To be honest, with so much western wear I was a little disappointed to not see any cattle.  And then we were let into the gates, and my desire to see cattle emerged before my very eyes.  Can you say cut-off denim and bikini tops?  I knew that you could…

Modesty has its place in the world, but apparently not at Stagecoach.

They did have music, though, and plenty of it.  From Saturday, my favorites were The Cleverly Trio.  They may have been my favorites from the entire weekend.  From the very beginning you know these guys have shaken something loose just by the name.  The Cleverly Trio.  There’s five of them.  And they are HILARIOUS.  They covered Cee-Lo Green’s “Forget You”, Beyonce’s “Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It)” among other current hits.  In their twangy bluegrass, they were a definite highlight for me.  They had the crowd hollerin’ and clapping and laughing.  Absolutely good stuff.

Now, Saturday had Steel Magnolia and Chris Young on the main stage as well.  I enjoyed both shows.  Recognized a tune or two.  We watched from within the mob.  A lot of sun burns and red solo cups.  As the day wore on, our tolerance for the mob became less and less.  It seemed to many that the music was secondary for their reason for being there.  A shame, too.

But, we managed.  Darius Rucker played just as the sun was setting and the night began to cool what had been a weather beaten day.  He sounded incredible, had a great rapport with the audience, and of course had more than a few hits to entertain the crowd with.   We enjoyed every minute and sang along with every song.  The Hootie hits included.

But the day had been long, and the crowd (most notably the group directly in front of us) was growing increasingly rowdy.  Sitting on a lawn in the middle of the mob isn’t my idea of a good time.  Our energy and enthusiasm began to wane.  We stayed put for the beginning of Kenny Chesney’s set, but a song or two in we made for the exit.  It took some time, and we stopped more than once to hear a favorite song and sing along.  An hour or so into his set we had positioned ourselves close to the exit and after agreeing we had heard nearly every song we had wished to, we bid the legions adieu and retired to our hotel.  I will say this about Kenny Chesney, he sounded amazing.  But I will also say that he did not live up to the hype from those I’ve heard speak of his shows, and coupled with our disdain for the crowd I would have to say his time on stage was a bit disappointing.  I will leave total judgment open for an opportunity to see him again.

Day two?  Sure, much of the same.  A lot of photographs of, well…I’ll be kind.  Let’s just say we took a lot of photographs and were quite entertained and amused.  We watched Josh Turner and Easton Corbin on the main stage and a few bands on the side stages that were…eh.  It was clear the festival crowd was not for us.  We aren’t big drinkers and that seems to be the pre-requisite for such an event.

Carrie Underwood was the highlight of Sunday.  She looked amazing (from nearly the back row where we chose to sit and avoid the mob), and she sounded incredible as well.  A little love, a little tenderness, a little rock and roll.  Walk This Way?  Uh-huh…she did.  I’m not afraid to say that I think this girl is something special anyway and her time on stage only affirmed that notion.

By the time Rascal Flatts came out on stage, our weekend was over.  Sun dried, wind blown, a little too much of the hedonistic party crowd.  Yeah, I’m not a prude but sheesh…leave SOMETHING to the imagination.  If only a little something…

So based on my experience with the rowdy country crowd at a two day festival, you can imagine my reluctance to get too excited about our tickets to see the Zac Brown Band two weeks later.  Was I to expect a repeat of the wily ways of the big hats?  A little liquid courage, a Saturday night, an oversized buckle or two?  What was I to expect?

Well, the venue held me in check and the memories of Stagecoach soon became short and faded, much like the itty-bitty shorn blue jeans of many a dude or two. 

Hold him closer, tiny Wranglers…

I think these were the athletic fit...

The venue for Zac Brown Band?  The Hollywood Bowl.  Probably my favorite place to see a concert.  And yet, I’ve only seen two artists there.  John Mayer (twice), and now Zac Brown.  But the venue is something special for sure.  We take a bus from close to home so there’s no dealing with parking, the seats are great for the price (though I think most concerts are too spendy) and the atmosphere really puts you in a mood to enjoy whatever show you’re there to enjoy.

World Famous Hollywood Bowl

The Zac Brown Band did not disappoint.  I put his music on par with Kenny Chesney as my favorite in country music.  Probably even a little better than that.  It has legs and depth.  The music takes you places.  And for me, anyone who sings about the Stars and Stripes and freedom in a song and visits the troops as he has done is aces in my book.  He’d have to do an awful lot for me to turn my back on him now…

His band is a no frills kind of band, in the sense that he just wants to entertain you.  No high drama, no flashy light show.  Zac and the band just walked out on stage and started playing.  Good, good music.  All of the hits, a bunch of the new stuff.  He weaved a tale from here to there by mixing a melody of Where the Boat Leaves From with Van Morrison’s Crazy Love to Kenny Rogers’ Islands in the Stream and back to Where the Boat Leaves From.  It was the first of two samples of Van Morrison, as the encore included a melody of Free with VM’s Into the Mystic.  Have I ever told you that Van Morrison’s Moondance album is in my top five of all time?  Another day then…

He gave us a little bit of everything.  The Devil Went Down to Georgia?  Sure, why not?  A little Tom Petty’s Won’t Back Down during the encore?   Uh, huh…it was there.  My absolute favorite of the night?  A full version of America the Beautiful before beautifully bridging his way into Chicken Fried.  I get goose bumps even now as I write this.  I’m a sucker for baseball, apple pie and America the Beautiful…

May be one of the best shows I’ve ever seen.  The crowd was awesome, the music was engaging and fun and incredible.  My favorite venue.  Sharing the whole experience with my beautiful bride made the night perfect and an experience I’ll never forget.

And yet, just days after the show I already had my heart set on a day five months to the day in the distance.  At another venue I’ve been before.  To see another show.  Another concert.  Anticipation grew as the country spring I was experiencing became a warm and lazy summer.  That elusive ticket was nearly in my grasp…

My brother was heavy metal growing up.  Long hair, puffy shirts, tight pants.  THE LOOK.  But to some degree he lived the life, too.  Nights on Sunset in the clubs seeing the bands.  Going to the stadiums to see the shows.  My brother was that guy out there doing it.  It wasn’t until years later that I wished that I had done it too.

I’ve run into people who tell me the stories of their first show.  Teenagers hopping fences.  Friends piled into cars and going on road trips.  I met a kid who spent a summer following the Grateful Dead!  Not someone who grew up with the band, but someone who wanted the experience…I’ve been in awe of many of these stories.  Sometimes I feel my musical journey has been less than exciting or adventurous.

Until October 14^th.  The Foo Fighters @ The Great Western Forum.  Home of the Showtime Lakers.  Now a church and concert venue.  A concert venue for one of the greatest rock bands of this generation.  Of all time?  You could argue that.  Some might disagree.  Hey, you might disagree.  But this is my story…

Sometimes you're having too good a time to take a really good picture...

Just me, my best friend and eighteen thousand of our closest friends.   It was hot, the crowd was a mix of young and old.  Mostly young.  Long hair, short hair, no hair.  Rockers and Dockers.  But the energy was electric!  You could just feel that we were all here for one purpose.  It was a following…

Cage the Elephant opened.  They played one song, and the reverb coming off of the walls was so loud that you really could only get sense of the beat and rhythm and not really of the words being sung.  Or in the case of lead singer Matthew Schultz, you couldn’t really tell what he was screaming.  Did I care?  Uh…not one bit.  My ears were ringing, the music was super loud, everyone was shaking like Edison had plugged us in.  The song was over, and Shultz begins telling a story of how their regular drummer had to have an emergency appendectomy, and they would like to bring out a guest drummer if that was ok.  Was it ok?  Sure, what do I care what you….huh?  Is that?  It is! It is!  The crowd goes BEZERK!

Dave Grohl steps to the stage, gives Shultz a hug, waves to the crowd and takes his place behind the kit.  At forty-something, Grohl hasn’t missed a step.  It was like watching old video of Nirvana being replayed to different music.  The hair flew, the kit shook, the arms rose and fell with speed and fury.  The beat coursed through us like a blacksmiths’ hammer.  I didn’t know the songs well, but I soaked in everything.  It was one hell of way to begin the show…

The Foo Fighters.  Their most recent album, Wasting Light was recorded live on tape, in Dave Grohl’s garage.  Old school style.  You can tell it’s something special.  You can sense this band remembers the days when the vinyl used to crackle when you’d spin the latest from Jimi, Plant and Paige or Mick and the boys.  You can tell.

I stood the entire night.  Grohl announced that we had better settle ourselves in because this wasn’t going to be an ordinary show.  And it wasn’t.  They played for three hours.  Every hit.  Every riff.  The screaming, the pointing to the crowd.  The jumping up and down.  For three hours it was musical nirvana, the enlightenment of releasing anything you had in your thoughts and letting the music transport you.  And in the end, you feel alive and new…

The stage had a runway and Grohl used it with aplomb.  The entire set felt interactive.  We were a part of the show.  A part of the music.  A part of the journey.  This only became more so when the band disappeared and Grohl appeared alone, on a rising cone with his acoustic guitar and a microphone.  In the middle of the floor crowd.  He rocked every song he played.  One man giving everything he had, heart and soul, to every chord and every word.  Eighteen thousand fans rapt.  It was a following…

I could probably write for days.  Of the energy, of Grohl’s weird Prince story, of the Tom Petty cover Breakdown, the encore.  I could sit here and press play on my iTunes and relive each moment.  But I think I’ve done enough for one day.  Maybe too much.  It’s worth every moment to get out there.  If only once.  Hopefully more.  Much more.  But still, you have to get out there.  What was that dream you were telling me about?  Yeah…go do it.  Find a way.

Just because life got in the way doesn’t mean that dream moved on.  It’s still there.  Waiting for you.  What are you afraid of?  That it actually is still there?  That it will happen?  Me too, once.  Until that one night, nearly my fourth decade in life, when I became that teenager who hopped the fence and went to see that show my parents forbade me to see.

Fun, simple, inexpensive (in fact, most times FREE). I’m all about the micro-adventure.

I’d like to share mine, and I’d like you to share yours.

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My troubled ear could not define, a simple sound most refined.  I was lost inside of shadow and confused.  Alas!  My equally troubled mind does have a history of playing tricks on me.  Though I sat for some time, still my troubled ear could not define that simple sound most refined.  I crossed my legs and eased myself back into my chair, sipping my warm brew.  The cool November air chilled me so, but I was thankful for my coat and boots, as well as my warm brew.  Still the sound I heard (or did I?) left me unnerved and cautious.  I looked about the boulevard, the fallen leaves strewn along the walkway.  It was most definitely autumn; a melancholic time if I may say so.  I do prefer spring, as it were, as a season of life and renew.   But I digress, my day was a mess and my troubled ear decidedly stressed.

I had been a writer for years, as a vocation.  Though the earnings left much to be desired, I found the work invigorating and therapeutic.  I guess the son of a cemetery grounds-keeper can be too poetic about his chosen profession!  However my father was less so.  He often spoke of his own work as honourable and spiritual, of which I thought odd from a man who never in his life stepped a foot inside of a church.  But as a small child I recall with much clarity walking past the grounds on my way home from lessons and seeing him eat his lunch in the middle of the headstones.  Peaceful and alone.  I made many attempts to liken my work to his once I became a young adult, to my frustration and failure.  I do believe once I had refused his arrangement with a friend in town to become an apprentice cobbler our understanding of each other waned.  That my earnings left much to be desired only affirmed in his mind that I had made an exigent error.

I have found people to be quite strange, if I am being honest.  Strange to the affect that I am most comfortable within the confines of shadow on such a cold and dreary autumn day.  But again, I digress and still my day was a mess.  I have not written for years, as a vocation.  I have occasionally put pen to ink and noted some random thoughts, but rarely have I assembled such prose as I did in my youth!  I simply do not have the inclination, if again I am being honest.  Much time has passed and many trials I have endured.  As I sat alone, confused, my mind grew weary with the thought of such trials.  And still my troubled ear could not define, a simple sound so refined.

My father had passed on a cold, winter day not unlike the autumn day of which I sat.  My regret was that he was alone and not surrounded by his only family, a literary son whom had fallen to his disfavour.  It had been years since we had spoken and many more since we had expressed a caring for one another.  That, too, remains my biggest regret.  The melancholy remained, though I could no longer sit for such an occasion.  I rose from my chair and fixed my coat, and slowly walked the path toward my home.  My troubled ear had eased a bit; the simple sound had removed my regret.  I smiled as I walked on through, and heard my father’s voice whisper again, “I love you”.

Copyright © 2011 Greg Morton

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