The Joy of Comp Tickets: Enjoying Opera and Culture

I went to the opera last night. I got comp tickets from Cheekwood. A benefit of working for cultural organizations, nonprofits. Comp tickets. I took full advantage of comp tickets in my brief tenure at Japan Foundation, and was exposed to much culture that I never would have been exposed to otherwise. And I haven’t done a cultured thing in a minute, so, when I checked our company messaging to see if there were any updates I needed to know about, and I saw that tickets for the opera were up for grabs, I took ‘em. At the Andrew Jackson Hall, downtown Nashville, by the capitol building, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, Rosa L Parks Boulevard, Deaderick Street, and Union Street. In there, with the courthouse, and other legal, administrative buildings, and the Polk Center, I guess that would be James K. Polk? A president? (Yes.)

The show was “The Barber of Seville”. That sounded good enough to me. Sounds like some Don Quijote-type nonsense, which I am all about. And that turned out to be exactly correct. It was just like Don Quijote, except that it was totally about romance, which is okay. They did a great job. And it was special, after I had to get my special comp ticket reprinted, waiting at the will call (why is it called that, anyways? Who is Will?), the girls at the will call booth were quite flustered with various issues, and a long line of people trying to get into the show. I could hear them talking, and I knew everything that were talking about. Trying different codes, looking up different names, and the girl said, with mild frustration, “Someday I’ll be able to log into this computer.” I know exactly what you’re talking about darlin’. And, that bad, huh? But you know, even a simple computer log-in can be difficult, because the passwords change, or they might be different between computers. It can be a lot to keep track of and keep on top of. They apologized multiple times, I said, “It’s alright.”

I got in, sat down, I was the first one. We were all held up by the ticket problems, all of our Cheekwood group. Kate came in about five minutes later, and told me that she read that the whole thing would be in Italian. That would have surprised me quite a lot, if the show started and they started singing in Italian, and they kept singing in Italian, and they never stopped singing in Italian. That was pretty great, and actually, I never got tired of hearing the Italian. There was an annoyance—the subtitling was on a screen that was literally up on the roof of the auditorium, and you couldn’t see the stage and the subtitling, all in one scene. You had to flicker your eyes between the stage action and the words. At first it was annoying, I thought it was going to give me crazy, but my brain figured it out. If you were in the front row you would have had a bad time. I don’t think it would even have been possible. Hopefully you spoke Italian.

Don Basilio was a winning character. We was so good that earned a loud “Bravo”!” from someone in the audience, when he received his ovation at the end. He was the only one to get that big “Bravo”, and it was interesting to hear a bravo used in the real circumstance, where bravo was truly used, and is truly used. The exact context in which “Bravo!” was meant to be used. Don Basilio was tall, possibly 6’4” or taller, with incredible, curly, shiny hair, that had a silver streak in it, and an amazing moustache. He wore a red, velvet suit with subtle stripes, and a green shirt underneath, a color of green that you really don’t see, like an off-colored army green. There was some 60s, 70s kind of styling going on. When he first came on the scene, someone behind me said “Waluigi”, which was pretty accurate. He also looked just like Borat, and I was mostly imagining Borat being up on stage, Sasha Baron Cohen. He had that exact look, and the same energy, mischevious, funny, strong. His character was interesting, a counterpart to the doctor, but not so obviously invested in the outcome, and not entirely loyal. You knew he was at least slightly unscrupulous from the very beginning, and his overall visage did immediately suggest so, but his first song, which was my favorite song of the whole show, was about slander. He sung a wonderful song about the joys of slander, how it starts off as an innoculous little whisper, and gradually gathers strength, explodes into an all-consuming firestorm, destroying all before it. At the climax of his great metaphorical crescendo regarding the powers of slander, he was lording over the poor doctor, and making powerful, aggresive gestures, and the doctor was terrifying, and literally crumbling before the strength of force of Don Basilio’s words. And when the song is finished, and the doctor is catching his breath, Don Basilio having just made such an incredible case for the use of slander, and the doctor just says, “No.” We are not doing the slander.

I didn’t know what to expect, regarding the opera. I had no idea what would happen, if they would sing the whole time, if it would be a play or not. It was a play, yes, and they did sing the whole time. Nothing was spoken, the entire thing was sung. That’s pretty amazing. And also, we could do that all the time. I said that Kate after the show was over, that we could just be singing all the time, instead of speaking. And wouldn’t that be fun? That could really be a great thing for us to do. Just sing everything, all the time. As an experiment, you just wonder that would do for humanity, if we had, even one day, a national singing day, where everyone just sang instead of spoke for the day. That could really bring some interesting results. It would be like The Purge, but for singing.

One of our Cheekwood crew had opera glasses. $20 off of Amazon. They looked nice. The magnification was not so great, only 2x or 3x. You lost more from being unable to have any peripheral or even, mildly peripheral vision, when looking through them. But I’ll tell you what – they looked cool as hell. And somehow they added a totally new level of ambiance to the experience. Simply her having them, and holding them, was elevating the experience. You would be better off with a pair of binoculars though, although they wouldn’t look nearly as bougie.

I was enjoying being downtown, in one sense, seeing the fine architecture, the buildings, and even, we had these nice gardens, and I was studying the plants on my walk, lots of oakleaf hydrangeas, lots of nice trees, a bioswale, and permeable surfaces to allow water through the sidewalks. Things were labeled, the bioswale, and an American Elm, labeled as part of the Nashville’s downtown arboretum. That was great to see, and looked good, and showed some good initiatives, taste, investment. But then, on my brief walk to the theater, I encountered many homeless, unhoused, people who were down and out, getting drunk on the street. A guy walked right in front of me, a group of four, and he was holding a Bombay Gin shooter. I saw probably fifteen to twenty homeless people on that brief walk, three blocks, in this fine district of town. Some woman was ranting, you see a lot of the ranting. And after my nice experience at the theater, on my way back, laying on the steps by the elevator that took me down to the courthouse parking garage, there was a large, orange, rectangular tarp. I could see it before crossing the street. And when I crossed, and got closer, I saw the hand sticking out. There was a person in there, living here, sleeping there. Right on the steps. At the foot of their tarp bed was a baseball bat. And that’s a living human, right there.

That just doesn’t make you feel good. That just doesn’t seem right.

I was prepared to pay for my parking, and I had pretty much some of the best parking downtown, at the courthouse parking lot. When I pulled in, they had a sign that said, “Event Parking, $15.” I don’t know if that applied to me, but I read on their pricing sign, that the max you pay for parking there was $20, which was totally fine with me. $20 for parking downtown and a show, can’t beat that. But when I was leaving the lot, I pulled up to the gatehouse, there was someone in there, and there was a little sign that said, “Insert ticket in yellow box”. I had to examine that for a second, because the little yellow box was suspiciously old-timey, having no fancy bells or whistles, no LED screen or any glowing buttons or switches. I put the ticket in as instructed, and the arm went up. I looked at the gatehouse person, but they weren’t interested in me, they were preoccupied with cleaning or something, and so, I just drove right out. I got to park downtown, for free. I’ll tell you what, I was feeling good about that. I’ll take any win I can get.

Various Fall Writings

Subjectivity of Emotions On Writing and Creating

Everything is profound when you’re laying in bed at night. Every thought feels brilliant and innovative. Last night I was getting carried away by these brilliant thoughts, and they were all about a Tame Impala song. I figured then, laying there and thinking my genius thoughts, that I absolutely must write about this the next morning (which is now), and that I would call the post “Musical Analysis of a Tame Impala Song”, and it would be, as my thoughts were, brilliant and innovative.

And now it’s the morning, and the idea doesn’t seem nearly as profound. 😂

It’s funny how that goes. When writing my most recent story that I’m currently kind of editing and typing up, I thought at some parts, “This is the most brilliant thing that’s ever been written!” “This is pure genius, innovative and original!” And then I’m rereading it, typing it up, and I think—Wow, this sucks. This is just a blatant Alice In Wonderland ripoff and not nearly as good. Too many characters in too short a period of time. Description is mediocre, average. The whimsy is not nearly as whimsical and imaginative as I originally thought. And I was an idiot for thinking this was really anything special.

Well, that’s how it goes. We feel brilliant, then are immediately humbled. Emotions are fleeting and ephemeral. We are intoxicated with the feeling of creation, of falling in love, and then we look again and find that we are disgusted, we are bored with the very thing that we once loved so much. And then, you look at it the next day, and then you may think, with neither elation nor disgust, “Well, this isn’t so bad after all.”

One thing I’ve been thinking about a lot in recent days is again choosing a topic to write about. I think, if I could only write one more thing, shouldn’t it be the best thing I could possibly write? Shouldn’t I try and write something that is the most useful to people, the most groundbreaking or highest reward potential, instead of low-hanging fruit, which is often just whatever is happening in my garden or in the cafe?

But what is it? What is the best thing you can write about?

There is no best thing to write about. There is only what you feel compelled to write, or what you must write, in the moment.

I read Dracula and I thought it was brilliant and one of my favorite books ever. I still think that. But the other night, I picked it up, thinking I might want to reread it, and I got half a page in before thinking, “There’s no way I can read this right now.” and I put it down.

It wasn’t because Dracula was unworthy. Dracula is a masterpiece. It’s just not what I wanted to read at the time.

I pick up my Japanese novel, about three 6th graders who go fishing and decide to start a little fishing company, and find that I am engaged. I want to know about this harbor where they import foreign lumber. I want to know what it’s like to be 11 and go fishing for iwashi with your friends on the concrete wave-breakers. I want to read their story.

It’s not because Uwasa no Zukkoke Kabushiki Kaisha (うわさのズッコケ株式会社) is better than Dracula. It’s just because that’s what’s calling to me, right now.

The Dream

I’ve been having dreams again, or rather I’ve been remembering dreams again—and last night, I had a very vivid one. Not long, but vivid.

The dream: I was with some people, and they took me to a kind of underground illegal club/marketplace. I didn’t know the people but they were my friends, somehow.

Immediately when we entered, there were stockpiles of guns everywhere, enormous guns, including cannons. There were rifles, bombs, and giant cannons lining the walls. It was dim, and there were people everywhere. I was nervous, I remember that. We walked through a hall with the guns and into the central marketplace area, where a bit of sun filtered in through an opening in the roof, and there were people all around—dancing, trading, buying things. There was a long bar, and across from that there were a bunch of booths and seats. It was kind of like that scene in Star Wars, where they’re at the bar with the aliens on Tatooine. We were walking over through this hubbub, and then I saw approaching us, a couple that had several large, predatory cats on leashes—they looked like strange hybrids of tigers and leopards. These cats immediately pounced on me, and knocked me into one of the booths. I remember that one had a disproportionately tiny head for the body, and the other was just a St. Bernard-sized tiger. They were sitting on top of me, gnawing on me and playing with me like dogs do, except they weren’t dogs, and I said to the owners, “Are these cats going to kill me?” They laughed, and the guy said, “They’ll wait for you to let your guard down,” which was terrifying for me to hear.

I was smothered under these large cats, trying to hold them at bay with my arms, wondering what was going to happen, and feeling that they could legitimately kill me at any moment. Those two cats didn’t seem to want to hurt me, but suddenly another smaller cat, like a lab-sized white tiger came running over, leapt up onto my back and fiercely clamped its jaws on my neck. And then I thought, well, I’m dead now.

I think that the dream ended then, and then I probably died. Or at least I felt like I was going to die, so I had to end the dream.

End of dream. Now, why do I dream such a dream? I have no answers, except that several of my characters in the story are cats (tiger, leopard, and lion). But why should I otherwise have such a dream as this? That is the mystery of dreams.

I’m sure it is ripe for interpretation by any practicing dream interpreter.

Layman’s Analysis of a Tame Impala Song

I will now tell you about my analysis of the Tame Impala song, New Person, Same Old Mistakes, and we can see if it really is all that brilliant or interesting after all.

Last night, I had nothing good to do. I ended up putting on the Tame Impala record Currents, and playing along with the songs. Just the D side (the album has two disks), which has Reality In Motion, Love/Paranoia, and New Person, Same Old Mistakes on it.

I started noodling along with New Person, Same Old Mistakes. After dialing in the incredible bass riff, I was then trying to find the key. And I thought it originally started on G, and that’s how I was playing it, which worked—but that was the 5th. The riff actually starts on C. And after continuing to try and riff along with the song, I just kept feeling that this was such a weird song.

Some songs in my wheelhouse (rock), I can hack them immediately. But I was struggling to get a handle on this Tame Impala. I had to look up a tab—Ultimate Guitar said the key was F minor (which I think was just wrong.) However, the intro bass riff is C, C#, A# and G#. So, is the key C? But it has a flattened 2nd, so is this a Phrygian scale? Did he write this in C Phrygian?

Eventually I dialed it in, and realized that the song uses all of the notes of G# major. My question then was: Is the key of the song C Phrygian, or G# major?

Basically, my brilliant epiphany about this song is that it seems to be a harmonic, tonal hybrid, not really existing firmly in either C Phrygian or G# major. Because, what determines the key is not always the first note, but the tonal center. I thought about what the tonal center of the song is, and I couldn’t say. It could be C, but it could just as easily be that G# too. And why that matters for the song, is that the resolution of the progression is generally the note that the key will be in—but New Person, Same Old Mistakes never really resolves. The song continues to loop back around to that C, always, eternally, without ever really feeling settled. And the song feels like it could just as easily revolve around G#, but yet it doesn’t quite resolve there either.

It feels like New Person, Same Old Mistakes exists in a kind of tonal duality, and that might just be what makes it so mesmerizing. Your brain is trying to figure out where the music will go, hunting for that resolution, but you never really get it. It’s endless and looping, but not meaninglessly. It’s satisfying enough because it does have tonal centers, it does resolve—it’s just weird. And Tame Impala (Kevin Parker), probably felt that, because the song doesn’t end on any particular note at all. Fitting to the endless, looping nature of the song, the music just fades out. It never really ends, it never really resolves.

New Person, Same Old Mistakes is also the last song on the album.

There’s a switchup in the end, after the bridge, where the bass ascends in a crazy, unexpected way. I think that also adds a strong dimension to the song being unusually hypnotic and strange. It’s like, here we have these notes, here we have these resolutions, kind of, and now we’re just playing them, in a pleasing and exotic way, vibing out in this satisfying musical limbo for 6 minutes, that might as well be eternity. It’s a musical space that you can always simply return to, going on forever and endlessly.

I think the above could explain why this song is so captivating for me. Whenever this song comes on, I am immediately pulled into a kind of trance. Still, after having heard it a thousand times. I’m sure that it will never be boring for me. Last night, I must have listened to it 20, 30 times in a row, playing along with it, dissecting it, and yet I could still put it on right now and listen to it all over again.

What an incredible song, that is. And music, so fascinating. All of the little things that make a song a song.

Lifestyle Changes/Experiments

I did want to write about some of the ways that my life has evolved in the last two months, where I have had once again complete freedom in my life. This is mainly to track and keep a record, because I think it’s interesting to see what we get up to when we are liberated from having to work, and it’s good to see what kind of life you live when you are freed from the burden/obligation of making the money.

When I reflect on my recent brief but eventful period of personal freedom, I see that a lot has actually happened.

Conscious reduced consumption of plastic and production of waste
Cut out artificial light at night, darkness period, using candles
Minimalist (sparse) wardrobe, pairing down of wardrobe
“Prolific” writing (for me)
Good physical fitness (exercise almost every day: running, averaging 4-5 miles, climbing and weight-lifting)
Discovery of new hobby/interest (gardening)
No vice (binging, dissociating, frivolous spending, etc.)
Low alcohol use (only 4, 5 times in two months)

I think that when we are left to our own devices, we start to check in with ourselves, and live to our natural rhythms. I have not had to force myself to do any exercising at all—I crave it. I leaned away from alcohol just because I feel it generally does not serve me, unless I am really intentional with it. I’ve had time and energy to spare, which led to me discovering gardening, which has become a rewarding new interest and hobby for me. And “no vice” refers to the fact that in this period, I haven’t really done anything that could be considered bad, at all. I haven’t binged on any game (maybe I played Pokemon for a few more hours than I should have, twice). I haven’t had any mindless YouTube consumption. No wasted money, and no overindulgence.

I wrote earlier a piece from this period about having no thrill, that I was feeling a little bored with things, but I’ve worked through that. I took a day off of striving and achieving and expecting, and just went crazy on Pokemon. Then, the day after this Pokemon vacation, I attended the service at a local church (the only service I’ve been to in who knows how long), and somehow this combination seemed to just cure all of my ennui. And now reflecting on things, on the whole, these past two months have truly been a fruitful and healthy period for me.

The wardrobe experiment has been interesting because it had been lurking around in my mind for a while, and I finally tried it as I wanted to, again having spare time and energy. I find that I’m sticking to it easily and will keep going on in this way. And it came from, really, that I have all these clothes, as we all do, and I was constantly thinking about how when I was in Thailand, I lived easily for two months on only two pairs of shoes (and I ended up giving Ethan Beller one of the pairs, and had only my Vans in the end, which could do everything I asked of them), two or three pairs of pants, and four or five shirts, possibly not even that many. Basically, I didn’t have much, and yet it was never a problem. It worked just fine for my purposes, and I liked that. It made things easy. I had what I had, and it did the job.

I often think about that period, and about how little I really needed, and I see all of the clothes that I’ve since acquired, and I’ve thought, I know I don’t need these. I know I’ve done it before. I’ve made it work with 5% as much as I’ve got right now, and not only did I make it work—I liked it. So what I decided to do in the end, was assemble some core outfits, each serving a different essential role, and then everything else went in bags and suitcases. I didn’t get rid of it, because I didn’t know how things would go, and that seemed too much.

I ended up going with three pairs of dark jeans, two t-shirts, a set of workout clothes (two shorts, pants, and two shirts), a hoodie, a pair of pajama pants, and a pair of blue jeans and a long-sleeve for work in the yard. And one hat. I thought that I wouldn’t want to wear black every day, that that would somehow be too dark, or austere, or whatever, so I gave myself one other daily life outfit that wasn’t black. But surprisingly, I found that I like wearing black every day. It actually suits me. I left myself with a pair of dark jeans (but not black) and a grey shirt with colorful bikes on it, that had a little pop, and I wear that when I want to wear not black.

This wardrobe has worked without a hitch (and now that it’s winter, I’ve just added in a flannel or two into the rotation). Over time I’ve noticed that I subconsciously chose at the outset the clothes that actually fit me the best. Everything I chose for my core wardrobe fits perfectly, and some of the other clothes that I liked didn’t get chosen I think because the fit wasn’t as good. In this way, you could say that I may have improved my outfits generally, although I don’t know how much it really matters in the end.

By taking this time to intentionally choose my favorite and core outfits, commiting to them, I have possibly chosen the most authentic clothes to represent me, and I have also chosen what makes me the most comfortable, at the same time.

Now, I don’t have anything hanging up on hangers, at all. All 100 of my (plastic, *shudder*) hangers are currently tucked under my sofa. They have no use. I lay my clothes out on the rack in the closet, and the rest are on top of my dresser, or in the dresser, which I have also moved to the inside of the closet, to free up space in my room.

I should say I also have the suit, of course. The Japanese suit, rolled up in the dresser.

Since pairing down my wardrobe, I feel better about my clothing situation. It’s a subtle thing, but opening up that closet door and not seeing those 40 shirts stuffed in there, not having to hang pants up on hangers, and not having to hunt through my dresser for the exact pair of pants I want, or hunt through the hangers for a shirt—it’s a nice. It’s much simpler this way.

I thought I might get bored with what I had chosen for my outfits, and I would miss some of my more “fun” clothes, but it turns out that I just don’t care much about personal expression through clothing. Looking decent and having clothes that fit well and are comfortable is the most important thing to me. I thought I might end up thinking that I didn’t choose right, either, when picking those first core outfits, and that I wanted to use other clothes instead—but apparently my intuition was good. I’ve kept the same outfits this entire time (probably 1.5-2 months, now)(and now from my posting this, it’s been 5 months, and I have stuck to the same outfits still).

Autumn Euphoria

I really noticed it for the first time last year. I remember, for a week or two, straight, where we had the changing colors of the leaves, cooler weather, and blue skies, every single day, I felt giddy, even euphoric. And I thought, What’s happening to me? Is this just because of the weather? I couldn’t pin it down to anything else, and I thought that it must have all been because of the changing seasons.

Well, it’s happening again. I’m more conscious of these feelings this time around, and now it’s that same time of year, with the same conditions. The cooler weather, a break from the intense summer heat, the clear, sharp blue skies, and the changing leaves. And somehow, this combination is inducing a euphoria in me.

It’s weird. I’m not usually elated or euphoric like this. I usually have to have a reason, but there’s really no discernible reason for these feelings, except the weather and season. And I wonder, why does it happen? It can have that strong of an effect?

Well, we are in tune with our environment, and it has a real effect on us. Our body responds to these cues, it is very aware, and it seems this combination is particularly invigorating and joyful for me.

The autumn euphoria was hitting me again this morning. After waking up I stepped outside, bringing the guitar, and I strummed it in the soft morning light, chilly but not uncomfortable, the sky a perfect blue, the sun starting to heat things up—and I felt simply euphoric. This morning, playing the guitar in the sun, slowly, a joy was released in me, a deep feeling of contentment and peace. The cars racing past my house, treating our sidewalk-less neighborhood street like a drag strip, couldn’t even puncture my veil of tranquility. I was calm and peaceful, tapped in to life and present reality, unbothered and content. It was blissful.

And this is all because of the weather? That’s what’s so incredible to me.

Eventually, the euphoria passes—I contemplate on what I want to achieve for the day, the sun starts to blast directly into my eyeballs, my face feels sunburnt, and I move on. But it’s there, even now, at the cafe. I look at the window and see those blue skies, (I can’t say colorful leaves because these plants here are all still green) and something about it all feels very good.

This makes me want to say that autumn is my favorite season, but I remember all too well what comes after the euphoria. Grey, bleak, and cold. I think ultimately I am a summer man, although I appreciate every season for what it is. Spring is a great time of beauty and invigoration, fall for feelings of peace, contentment and gratitude, winter for introspection. But, if I could live in a permanent summer, well then I would.

The farthest thing from winter, yes please. Give me that.

Humanism

(Early January 2025)

In the spirit of having written every day on this blog, as in having written some kind of post every day for three days in a row now, which in the history of this blog is totally unprecendented, I will keep it going, and write yet another post. The challenge this time is, what to write about?

I am not much in the mood for writing, to tell you the truth. I am in the mood for living. But my environment is not currently all that conducive to living. Or, not living, exactly, but living passionately and with gusto, and savoring life and tasting the joys of life, as I kind of want to do right now, in some way.

I picked up the guitar, but I’m not quite in the mood. I am beset on both sides now, literally on both walls of my room, by people who I will be bothering if I unleash the beast, as has now happened multiple times. It’s dark, and I feel confined, in this room, and in my spirit.

Something I have learned about rock and rocking – you can’t do it without making noise. You must make noise. And if you are going to do it right, you must unleash. You can use headphones, but it’s not the same. We all know that. It’s not the same, and you’re bound to the headphones. It’s like a silent rave. Not a fan of the silent rave, even though I like the idea. But it’s not about being quiet. It’s almost the principle of the thing. It’s about making some fuckin’ noise. It’s about unleashing the beast, freeing your spirit, that’s what the fuck rock is all about.

I went to Gibson Garage today. I work in the same building as the Gibson headquarters, and their main store, the Gibson Garage, that has all the fancy Gibson guitars. It is a guitar player’s dream to be working in the same building as this Gibson Garage, and in the last week I’ve been in there probably four times. Today, again, I played the Kirk Hammett 1979 Flying V. The Epiphone verson. That guitar is absolutely amazing. I want it now. That’s the first one I was interested in, and I also have been interested in the Epiphone Extura Prophecy Explorer, but I picked it up today, and I just wasn’t that into it. But that Flying V, I picked up afterwards, and was once again, extremely into it. So that must be the guitar for me.

There is one other guitar that I really want to try out, and that’s the Fender Mustang, whatever. Some kind of Fender Mustang, with the racing stripe. I want to see what that guitar is all about. I first saw one at the Nashville New and Used Music store. Caught my eye, that one did. But I haven’t played it yet.

These days, I’m all into rocking. Punk rock, metal, heavy metal, grunge, rock of all of those flavors. That means Metallica, Nirvana, Sex Pistols, Ramones, Superheaven, Disturbed. Not much Disturbed right now, because I’ve already listened to it all and am waiting to crack into playing Disturbed. I have my hands full learning Nirvana stuff, and now just recently, Metallica. A completely different ball game. We are riffing the fuck out now. I LOVE it. I’ve been playing Blackened. Genius song, and genius writing, and heavy as fuck. The riffs outstanding. The Ramones and Sex Pistols is fun to play, but the Metallica so far is something else, because I’m actually getting to work the neck and do some riffing, some interesting fret work, that I haven’t done yet in my guitar player career, which is still pretty short. But today, at the Garage, I have been hooking into a $2700 Mesa/Boogie amp (the Mesa/Boogie Rectifier Badlander), and I played around with the knobs and settings, and with the Flying V, and I landed on a sound that was so heavy and chunky that I can say 100% it was the best sound I have ever gotten out of an amp/guitar combo. That was the sound for me. I need that sound in my life. I must have it. I asked the guitar pro guy, who’s name I should really remember, how can I get something like this sound but not pay $2700 for this Mesa/Boogie, and he recommended the Marshall DSL to me. And I keep hearing the name Marshall pop up, so I might have just found my next amp.

I titled this post Humanism because I had to think of something to title it, and I looked up and directly across the room in front of me was a small framed Keith Haring artwork poster, with this word written across the bottom. I can tell you a little story about this, the story of how I came to own this poster and three Yayoi Kusama framed posters. Here is the story, not the most riveting tale but mayhaps thou’ wilst enjoy it nonetheless.

When doing my Christmas shopping with my dearest sister we attended a local thrift store that I must have passed by many times and never noticed, although it was much further down Gallatin than I originally thought, so actually I have not passed by it so many times, and it looks like it would be a CVS or Wallgreens, and that’s probably what it once was, but it is not a thrift store, and I went with her to this thrift store that was so close to my house on Gallatin, and it was amazing and full of treasures and gems, and I spied a Yayoi Kusama poster, framed, for $18, that was calling to me, sitting in a wicker chair, all alone, and I thought, that this is here for a reason, but did I need it? No. And was I shopping for myself? No. I was there for other people. I was there to shop for other people, for Christmas, so I resisted and did not buy it, and I have often thought, if you aren’t sure, just don’t buy it, and if you are still thinking about it later, maybe then you can go back and get it, and be sure about it. That way you avoid making impulsive purchases. Well, guess what? After Christmas, and during Christmas, I kept thinking about that Yayoi Kusama poster. That frame. I wanted it, and I could justify it, because I am a Yayoi Kusama fan, with nothing to show for it, and it fills a niche in my room that I don’t have, which is any kind of connection to visual arts and the art world, that I do love and am interested in, and currently, you wouldn’t be able to tell if you looked around my room, except that I have one large handmade couch throw hanging on my wall, that I bought at a local Indian restaurant called Surya when I lived in Ozu machi, and then I have a fluid painting that I made awhile ago. So, my room is sorely lacking in wall art and especially of the art world, in the visual arts way, and so I wanted this poster, and I could justify it, and I had a little Christmas money to spend. Well, when I got back home to East Nashville, I went back to the thrift store to see if they still had the frame, and they still had it, and they had two others, and then they had the Keith Haring up on the wall, and I thought, I must buy all of these. I need to have all of these. I absolutely must, and this is important. And they were all $18. So now, in my room, I have three of these framed Yayoi Kusama exhibition posters, and one Keith Haring, and this was money well spent, and I don’t feel guilty at all. The reason being that it truly is a reminder and a link to the visual art and art lover in me, and I appreciate these frames and am reminded of that world every time I look at them. When I look at these Yayoi Kusama frames, I think about going to her exhibit when I was in New York, and I think about her story, from what little I know about it, and it makes me happy. My room, if it were going to be a representation of me, is now more complete, having these artworks. And someday, if anyone were going to enter into this room, they might say, “Cool pictures!” or they might say, “You like Yayoi Kusama?” and I would say, yes, I went and saw a Yayoi Kusama exhibit in New York, I love Yayoi Kusama. Keith Haring I don’t know much about and have not been to a Keith Haring exhibit, but I have always liked his work. I couldn’t say that I really knew his name or connected him with his art until I bought this frame, though. The Yayoi Kusama also ties in with my Japanese self, and that’s important. I have a nice bottle of Kagoshima shochu on my bookshelf, that also is a reminder. The word iconography has been in my mind, recently. The iconography of my room, that brings certain things to my mind. It is powerful.

I have been hanging out in my room more than I would really like to, because it’s winter, and after staring enough at these blank walls, I started to have ideas about how to decorate them. I have been leaning records against the wall, on the back of my couch, and I can display five records that way, which is amazing. After the Superheaven concert, I bought a record, which contained two copies of a folding album artwork, and I also got a free poster with my purchase, so here were two large rock visuals that I could tape to the wall, and then after doing that, I had the real brilliant idea, to rip up the picture book that come with my deluxe Bleach album (Nirvana), and stick all those pictures to my wall. I wasn’t looking through that book anyways, it was just sitting there in the record case. So I tore it up and stuck it all over the walls. Now I have had rock iconography, and I think more about rock, which is great. But the Yayoi Kusama and Keith Haring are something else, they give me something else to think about, and represent something else I care about, and love. So I’m glad I got those.