Smoke Beats Water

Lazy Sunday (minus the Chronic -What!?- cles of Narnia)

2006-02-12T19:50:00.000-08:00

I woke up today at 7:40 a.m., ground some coffee beans, and brewed a pot. I don't drink coffee, so that was kind of fun. Three other men showed up separately at my apartment: 8:30, 8:40, and 8:45. We sat down to have a talk. They drank my coffee. It was okay. 10 o'clock came quickly, and each of the men decided to leave for church. I did not. I instead took a very slow shower, 30 minutes at least. I got out of the shower and stared at myself in the mirror for 10 minutes and put on some boxer briefs (Maroon. It was the only color left. Why do they even put maroon in there?). I walked upstairs and sat down at my computer, checked my email, listened to some talk radio, and practiced the same riff I've been playing for the last week on my guitar. My neighbors are humming it through the walls now with me whether they like it or no. I waited for a phone call from a Friday night date for a follow up lunch. I thought about going to lunch on my own and put some jeans on, but then laid down on my bed.... No socks! (It's always hard to go from no socks to socks. No socks always has more intertia.) Started reading again. Read for 10 minutes until the chapter had ended. And I kept reading even though I didn't have the energy for another chapter. I made it about 4 pages in, but dog-eared the first page of the chapter I had begun. I thought about dying. I read everybody's blog but made no comments. Sorry. I was in one of those mouse only moods. Thought about going to lunch by myself again. Decided to wait until most restaurants had emptied their sunday school luncheons. Picked up my guitar. Played "Be Kind to Me", the way I would if there was large group of friends sitting around, sing along style. Wrote down lyrics to five songs that I had previously noted as good songs to cover last year. Put on socks and boots. Accidently found a good shirt in the bathroom, thin and old and soft. Put on my grandad's flannel insulated shirt. Walked into the bathroom again. Noted that my hair was getting long and that I should for once in my life allow it to keep growing freely. It looks kinda wispy like a young robert redford. Robert Redford in The Natural. Went for a walk. Walked for an hour. Thought about how I could just keep walking. How at any time as long as I was walking I almost always felt good because I could always just keep walking in a straight line. What's to stop me? I went to Blockbuster after drinking a smoothie and asked for a movie which they did not have. The clerk asked me who was in it. I said I didn't know, it starts with a K and sounds like Andalar, I said. He asked if I'd like to join the Blockbuster subscription club. No thanks, I said. You could get the movie you want if you subscribe, he said. No thanks.

Called my Friday night date to arrange for lunch this week. Left another one of my prototypical messages. Call me back, I said. It's 9:30, I said.

And now I have one wish. I wish that my room would break off the side of my house like a goodyear blimp and drop in the Colorado river. I'd float down the river. I'd wave to the kiddies for the first mile or so, but then I'd just sleep. And I'd just keep rolling along like that until I hooked up with the next thing.

Joe

2006-01-31T21:35:00.000-08:00

This happens every couple of weeks. I'll watch a movie or read a book, and when I'm finished, things are different. You know, like they would be if you had come back home to your family after a long trip to somewhere you've never been. And you're eyes are opened to someone else's world, the one created on screen or in the pages. I may cry, or speak very little, or start writing more songs that night, most of them with a half a verse and a chorus. But whatever the catalyst, the result of a more emotional state for me is always to remember what it was like to be a kid, age 7-10. I remember the sound of my own name, Joe...Joe Vaughn, (my parents disguised me as a regular guy) it was the weight of my own potential tipping me forward through 3rd and 4th grade. It is the purest kind of feeling I can recall. Now fast forward about twenty years. The same kid, a little less self conscious, but practically the same kid. What happened to all that potential?

(Okay I'm going to do it. Yes. Switch narratives on you. No complaining.) And what does he do about it? He goes to bed early so that he can get up early. He eats out after work with friends. He looks for opportunities to meet someone new and exciting. But mostly he goes to work and tries to appear worth more than he was last week. And berrates himself for not doing more with his time after 5:30 p.m. He makes promises to himself, but knows himself too well. He laughs as much as possible, inventing a new sense of humor about every little thing. Laughing helps a lot.

(I'm done with the third person now, thanks for that.) Every night when I sit down to write on this thing, I find it harder and harder to find something worth writing about. I always believed that writers were not primarily writers, but primarily something else about which they could write. So when I sit down here, there's a big window right behind my computer. It's probably the best view I've had from any window that has ever been in any place that I've lived. It covers most of the wall. I can see the downtown skyline from my window, about a mile away. And it has come to represent my land of milk and honey. I go there all the time. Literally. When I'm there, I don't think about it this way, only when I see it from my window. It makes me want to get busy doing something, something that I should be written about. Not to memorialize it, but because...a rose is a rose I guess. It just feels better to be doing anything that you love to do when you are inspired. And let me say, at the moment that I am not inspired. No, this is not good at all.

But wait!!! The great thing about being me, is that change is never too far away. A friend told me last night that 7 out of 10 Americans do not welcome change into their lives. A big reason, in my opinion, why it is hard for us to be a more spiritual society. Well if change comes a knockin' on one of ya'll's door, I've kinda got a hankerin', so pass the Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket. If you're not going to take the last drumstick, I certainly won't be shy about it.

Free Music!

2006-01-29T16:01:00.000-08:00

Hello everybody,

I've got a few new musical recommends because I just downloaded 50 free songs from EMusic.com (awesome!) and then canceled my account. If you're looking for free music, it's a pretty good deal and they have a lot of stuff I didn't think they would. So here's what found that I liked:

Dungen
Ta Det Lugnt

It's Sweedish psychadelia!!! With some sweet fuzzy solos. I really like this. Probably my new favorite.

John Doyle
Wayward Son

Celtic folk. It's awesome!! Some friggin' mighty powerful tales in there John. Good goin'.

Breakestra
Hit the Floor

Hip Hop James Brown style. Funkdafied!!!

Adios everyone.

4 Things

2006-01-22T19:40:00.000-08:00

4 jobs that I've had:

1. newspaper delivery boy - Sundays sucked
2. newspaper reporter - i learned a lot about brazos county crime
3. 6 year-old camp counselor - kids are morons - wasn't i a kid once?
4. wedding photographer - so, where's grandpa and grandma?

4movies I have watched on repeat:

1. The Natural - i get my childhood mixed up with this movie
2. 2001: A Space Odyssey - didn't quite make it all the way through the second time
3. Primer - Only because Tim had it on in the living room a few times. It grew on me.
4. Sneakers - not sure, i like the sound track

4Extreme Sport Vacations I'd Like to take

1.Bowling in Angola
2.Shrimp boating in the Meditteranean
3.Everest
4.Tip of South America to Canada on foot.

4Websites besides blogs I visit Daily:

1. Channel101.com
2. myspace (it's fun guys come on try it!)
3. kexp.org
4. gizmodo

4Foods

1. Mom's pineapple chicken with stirfry rice - mmm mmm
2. Central Market has these flat strips of candy, strawberry stuff - pretty good.
3. Mangias Deep Dish Pizza - pepperoni
4. Shiner, Lone Star, and Newcastle - for now

4Changes to my house

1.It would be my house
2.Skylights, with a tree poking through the roof.
3.no rooms
4.glass ceiling, tinted upon request

tags (this means you must do what I tell you to do):

1. Matt Graham
2. Autumn Rgrs.
3. Gibby
4. monilove
5. julesdwit

I'm Working On It!

2006-01-20T18:39:00.000-08:00

For the Sake Of the Song

2006-01-04T23:12:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago, I went to the Alamo Draft House (Beer, Gourmet Pizza, and Independent Film) here to see a documentary film about Townes Van Zandt. I did not own a single cut from this fella's large and relatively unnoticed discography. The film, Be Here to Love Me, has been stuck in my throat for the last couple weeks. Please do yourself a favor: Watch this film and listen to any of the early recordings from this guy. And if you are planning to drive anywhere in Texas further than 45 minutes away, please do not do so before requesting that I burn you a mix and overnight it to you. I am expecting at least one person to respond to my offer. You may be the first lucky one.

If you're interested:

Highway Kind

By townes van zandt

My days, they are the highway kind
They only come to leave
But the leavin’ I don’t mind
It’s the comin’ that I crave.
Pour the sun upon the ground
Stand to throw a shadow
Watch it grow into a night
And fill the spinnin’ sky.

Time among the pine trees
It felt like breath of air
Usually I just walk these streets
And tell myself to care.
Sometimes I believe me
And sometimes I don’t hear.
Sometimes the shape I’m in
Won’t let me go.

Well, I don’t know too much for true
But my heart knows how to pound
My legs know how to love someone
My voice knows how to sound.
Shame that it’s not enough
Shame that it is a shame.
Follow the circle down
Where would you be?

You’re the only one I want now
I never heard your name.
Let’s hope we meet some day
If we don’t it’s all the same.
I’ll meet the ones between us,
And be thinkin’ ’bout you
And all the places I have seen
And why you where not there.

Ssssmmokin'!!!

2006-01-01T21:44:00.000-08:00

What did I do for New Year's? Played sherrades of course with the old Mike Braeuer and Mrs. Mike Braeuer. By golly, it was humdinger of a sherrades (<---I have no idea) game if I've ever seen one. All said, I ended up twirling my shirt, which was previously serving as a cover to a large part of my body that had not seen the sun in a good while, above my head and doing the bull dance while drawing connections between the dinner pastries filled with chicken and my mothers own famous chicken pot pie. All this...before I started drinking...sprite...with a little bit of liquor...ice...on the side.

I finally got some of those wireless waves to make their way to my computer. And you know what that means--yep, time to make the donuts. Oh, and I may write a few words now and again here. But don't you worry about getting to the bottom of this thing called "life" in Austin. You won't be needing to discern the truth from the smoke and mirrors or trying to figure out who's blowing somebody's smoke up somebody else's arse. Because it's all about smoke beats water here. Right? Well then, get on with it.

One Side of the Call I Placed to Jay Farrar

2005-09-13T08:37:00.000-07:00

Me: Hi Jay, do you know who this is?

Me: Its been a long time hasn't it?

Me: Yeah, I can't remember when we last talked either.

Me: So dude, you kick ass man. And I just wanted to let you know that I'll be there on Friday.

Me: On Friday, remember? Your playing a concert and I just payed $20 to be there. Remember? Oh you didn't get the email notification. What? You already used your 2590 MB of webmail storage? That's insane!

Me: Okay well, I just wanted to ask you if you might be able to play the best show of your career because well...$20 for me is like a huge investment man.

Me: I know, I know. You always give 110%, but I was wondering if you could juice this one up a little. Like maybe you could say a few words in between songs or something.

Me: Well yeah, but "Thank you" is a little expected don't you think? I mean we all know that your grateful to be up there.

Me: Yeah, that's a good idea too. "How's everybody doing tonight?" does have a nice ring to it. But I was thinking of something more along the lines of "the meaning of life". Or maybe an exegesis on why we must send the capitalist system to the darkest pits of hell.

Me: Yeah, I understand, you've got a family to support.

Me: Wait wait wait.

Me: I have one more thing. Do you think that you and Jeff could do a benefit concert for Katrina victims? I mean, I realize that he tried to steal your girlfriend of seven years and ruined your life. But we've got to pull together right now man.

Me: Jay? Are you there?

Me: Jay!!!!?

Slowly, Then Suddenly

2005-08-15T17:18:00.000-07:00

There's this bridge, which marks for most of the town lake frequenters, the end and the beginning of a run. 3 miles, 4 and a half, 13, they all tend to terminate the exercise at this one particular bridge. And it's the obvious choice because there's fresh water trucked in everyday by Run Tex at the juncture. It's beautiful, shady, and there are plenty of good parking spots.

At the end of the 3 mile loop-around, no matter how tired I am, I always like to run the last little bit as fast as I possibly can. It works better when you have somebody running next to you because nobody says anything, you're both kind of just jogging, and you're both thinking about how good it would be to just start walking, but then one starts running a little faster. And then the other one catches up. And people running the other direction, start to look at you. They don't look at you funny, or like, "what the hell?" They just look. And we both have a slight grin on our face. It gets bigger as each challenges with a little faster pace. I always have at least one more gear to use. I can always go a little bit faster. And so can the the guy who runs next to me. I wait for the last 30 yards, and then usually just decide to win. The next gear is always there.

Yesterday, I was by myself and have had this tendon injury in my left knee, probably because of one of these crazy finishes, so I was taking it easy around the last section coming up on the afore mentioned bridge. As I was walking across, I saw a couple. Now, in my 7 or 8 months out on the trail so far, I have not seen anyone else performing these sprint finishes.

And then "boom!", there they were. Fellow sprint finishers. The young man was running, probably ten yards, in front of the girl. And they were both running as hard as they could. To the finish. They smiled at me, but not really at me. They were just smiling when they looked at me because the were using it all up. I mean, why not? You've got to use it up. There's no saving it for later. You're at the end of your race. I loved these people. There wasn't anything more natural for me to do as these expended bodies strode by, nothing more appropriate, than to whisper, "Yes...yes."

Get Up! Believe That!

2005-07-31T20:25:00.000-07:00

Hey. Yes, you with your right hand poised on the mouse, left hand pulling your cheek off the side of your face. Can we just...you know, talk? Off the record?

Wait wait wait wait. Before you decide you already know what I'm going to say, just pretend like we haven't really talked about this okay? Because we haven't! I mean we have, but we haven't. I know you think that we looked at this from every angle, discused all possible permutations and exhausted the length and breadth of its importance. But!!! What if we were wrong about the way... (mmmm hhhmm, I'm not going to mention any names, because I know that you can't handle that right now) but yeah, what if the very first instinctual response was the right one? And all the other attempts were just our insecurites and fears working themselves out? You know? I mean what are the chances of us having nailed it...first try? Just, like, some how known implicitly that what we were doing was going to lead to this, this "question" of right and wrong.

Well, yeah, you said so, but that's what I'm saying man. Don't you get it? It's like coughing or sneezing becuase some foreign object or substance has found its way into your system. And you don't even need to think. You just...eliminate it. Automatically. Well why not, right?

But you see that's the thing, is that what comes most naturally will most naturally lead to our destruction. So you have to fight it with, ahh yes, the super natural. You have to yell at yourself in the mirror on occasion. Really get into it you know? You've got to write speeches to yourself. Deliver them from behind a podium, in front of a mirror. Use your hands. And don't blink. And you have to watch little children. Watch them, when they don't know they are being watched. And write notes on your palm. And practice your speeches in the mirror before you do it for real. You have to dance. When everyone else is asleep. You have to keep on dancing and being loud. And you have to find the other people who are bobbing their heads to beats at night on the sidestreets that have two or three people walking up and down them, finger tracing the bricks. And get those people. And bring them inside.

But most importantly, you must find someone who really needs something? Somthing the size of a thumb tack. And give it to them? Because you have one.

Life And Death Are Set Before You This Day

2005-07-28T19:17:00.000-07:00

I had my first ever casting role today in a show written for a screen about 1.5 inches in diameter. It's the advent of mobile televsion people.

My appearance lasted for approximately 5 seconds, and was extremely natural, organic even. I just get out of a car, a very expensive gas guzzler, and then get slapped in the chest by a cop who is handing out parking tickets. I was brilliant! You have to see it.

Nah, I wasn't really that good. But you'd laugh if you knew me. And maybe you do know me. So you'll probably have a nice chuckle. Other than that, life is clipping along at an alarming rate. I'm 25, (yes, can you believe it?) and still searching for a dramatic means by which to change the world, knock it off its axis, give it a good kick in the pants.

Really though, if I could literally knock the world of its axis, I think it would be an act of self discipline to stay my hand from the lever. Levers are are the next best thing to pulleys. I'm just sayin'. So maybe if I rig together some pulleys and levers... I could leverage some pull with some of these high profile government leaders around the world and get them to see that what the world needs now is love sweet love...and more efficient sugar cane distribution. And just plain forgiveness. Which comes only through the letting of blood.

Hmmm...Of course at this point they will diagnose me with "the crazies" and shove their hands into pockets so as to not give themselves away. But then, I will tell them of how I wear a gray sweatshirt and blue jeans 5 out of 7 days a week in the winter time, and substitute white and gray pocketless tees for the sweatshirt in the summer time. Then I'll have their undivided attention, and do you know what I will say next? Other than the obvious, niether do I. I'm not sure I would have anything too say at all. But I should. Shouldn't I?...have a speech filled with convictions and beliefs ready to go, ready to devliver with quivering cheeks and tears to a room filled with political minds, some slowly deteriorating, some murdering, some neutralized.

Instead, I will enjoy some hard work and savor small conversations with dots on the map. With balloons that slip away from the grips of children and are eaten by the sky. With potholes that jar my insides every morning at the same time on the way to work. I will let go of the unseemly successes we are driven to behold, and instead look for those opportunities streaming underneath noses. And linger in the footsteps of others who eventually found their peace.

Way To Go Danielson Famile

2005-07-16T18:37:00.000-07:00

Village Voice (4/8/97, p.65) - "...passionate, tempestuous, messy music....This music has a hallucinatory, surrealistic poetry of intimate faith, unfiltered by organized religion....After 45 minutes of nearly psychotic excitement, the staunchest atheist may find herself muttering "I love my Lord..."

Now that's what I'm talking about.

Just One More Time

2005-07-07T20:07:00.000-07:00

This fourth of July, I spent at least half of the day lounging in a swing on the deck of a good friends lakehouse deck. I sat underneath a slow spinning fan, blades drooping, and dozed underneath the bill off my lake water soaked hat. But for the other half of the day, I was doing figure eights wherever I could find some free water out on lake travis. I'd take the gas powered dolphin out there straight across the middle of the lake and just give it a as much juice as I could, looking both ways of course to make sure one of those fountain monsters wasn't racing from one end of the lake to the other. I'd just squeeze the throttle, stand up and jut my chin out closing my eyes once or twice, water spitting and stinging my chin, and wind dampening the other noise of boaters and kids playing in the water. For some reason wind in your ears and hair always feels better when there's a little bit of water mixed in.

So I'd gun it, and then throw the handle bars to the right or to the left and let the rear end slide around and start sinking, stalling (this doesn't look as cool as it feels from far away). It couldn't keep up with what I actually wanted it to do. It wasn't novel or anything like that, but everytime I slowed down to let the thing slide back into the dock entrance, I'd look at everyone on the dock, me smiling, them smiling but not really paying attention, and then I'd throw the handle bars and squeeze the throttle (SUPRISE!!) which looks almost exactly like the brake that you might find on a bike, motorcycle, moped and many other modes of two wheel transportation. Don't ever drive a moped right after you get off of a waverunner. Very dangerous. So like I was saying, I just couldn't let the thing slide into the dock like you're supposed to, I'd always think, just as I was pulling into the "no wake" zone, that I should go spin around a few more times, that I might not ever get to spin around like that again. And it was so hard to just let the engine idle and bring it in, put it to rest.

No no no!! One more spin, I'd think to myself. And then spray the people on the dock, the nose pointing about 45 degrees in the air for the first couple of seconds. It just felt better to come in when the gas light was down to the last bar, that's all. And I didn't understand how anybody else could resist the urge to steer themselves back out away from the "the end of fun". I was amazed at every rider who simply turned off the engine floated in on the very first time. What self control these people had.

Stunted

2005-07-06T09:06:00.000-07:00

We need more funny commercials like this. We need more stunts in our everyday life. Why didn't I become a stuntman? I'd thought about becoming a stuntman, but then I went to A&M. Why didn't they have a Bachelor Of Amazing Everyday Stunts?

Take It To The Next Level, Yo!

2005-07-01T12:05:00.000-07:00

I'm sure that you guys, being the blogosphere savvy individuals that you are, have heard of this new video blogging concept, or not that new really, but becoming more typical for blogs. I think that every last one of you smoke beats water readers is well suited for vlogging...simply because, well, you read my blog don't you? I like this idea a lot, and as soon as I can get my hands on one of those...what do you call those things? Video cameras. Ah, yes, video cameras, I think it would be fun to take you all along on a Day Trip to Ryan World. What do you say? Would you like to come along on an informative look into the real life of a rough around the edges 25 year-old single guy who has made the aquantence of many normal but fantastic individuals and lost his best friend to a female miniature shneiu...shcneu...how the hell do you spell shneuzier? Yes, I think you would too.

Oh, and here's a link for your general relaxation:

http://www.izpitera.ru/lj/tetka.swf

Working Man

2005-06-29T12:21:00.000-07:00

I just worked a 9-5 40 hour week for the first time in my life. What a let down. I enjoyed this weekend more than maybe any other weekend I've ever had, and I savor the walks in the sun from my car to the building and from my building to the car. Maybe it just takes some getting used to, this work thing.

In An Attempt to Testify

2005-06-08T19:37:00.000-07:00

I gave my testimony last night. I've been asked to do this many times before: youth group disciple now weekends, worship nights, mission trips (translators involved, very frustrating), when I was baptised (three times now, woo hoo!), and various other instances when someone wished that I could somehow convey exactly what happens when you are transformed by the power of God from something bad into something good. But this...this was different. This was a different group of folks who wanted to know my life story in its truest form, my testimony. And I decided that it would be best for everyone if I just be very honest about all of it.

I talked about small moments that peak out above everything else, moments that don't seem as significant as they claim to be, a dream or a song that made me cry and stay up late and write things down that I didn't want to forget. And now when I think back on it, I wonder if I documented the right things. It's people's faces and the conversation inbetween that holds it all together for me. And those people, most of them gone from my life, make up a multitude of longings, sharpened and relieved by the history of friendship or love. But most importantly for me, it was a chance to be honest about my doubt in front of everyone.

I don't like it. I don't want it to win. But it's there. And it was good to talk about the great dissapointments that settled when I graduated from school. I wanted to kill myself. Or maybe less kill myself as much as lay down in a grassy field and be swallowed up into deep purple three-dimensional clouds by an F5. But that's a tangent that I like to talk about and nobody really likes to listen to much. So yeah, I was talking about how, no, I cannot deny that there is a substantial relationship between me and my concept of God, or God as he actually is, but that all of this christianity stuff, so far as I have seen, starts to get on my nerves. I want to run from it. Point out all of its American failures. I can't read the bible without remembering the dull felt cutouts on a flannel board illustrating Peter's Fishing trip in Sunday School. I can't remember church without hearing DC Talk's "I Want To Be in The Light" at youth group playing in the background and knowing that no one really knew how to change the small world they lived in. But oh how I wanted to be a hot and focused source of energy, sending shivers and sighs of relief throughout the crowds of hungry and desperate people of my generation.

And if the most valuable thing to God other than himself is people, why is he wasting all of these people? Why don't they know what I know? Why are they going to hell for reasons they don't know? Meanwhile Christ died for us.

Last night was the first time I was able to discuss this kind of testimony with my body of belivers.

Then came the questions:

-When was the last time God spoke something over your life?
-I don't know.
-Do you feel like God still speaks to you?
-Yeah, everyday.
-How? What was the last thing he told you?
-I don't know.

Then came hope. And prayers. And love. And all of the things that drew me to God in the first place. I sat a little confused and unaffected by everyone with their hands on shoulders and legs huddled around me. The only thing I could think of was how I wanted to get in my car and drive for hours with the windows down, silent, without the radio. Instead I stayed and laughed along with everyone else...believed that these people loved life. And I wanted to love it too, so I ate guacamole and chips and played music in my car all the way home.

Comeback, Comeback, This Little Blog of Mine

2005-06-05T13:09:00.000-07:00

The tips of my fingers have been too raw to type a single blog entry in the last month. I wonder what my wpm is nowadays? I recently finished the critical commentary job that was so graciously and undeservedly bestowed upon me. And I must say, I was amazed at my own ability to pump out 70 pages of literate snobbery. Now ("Now" is just a formal way of stalling and transitioning to the next topic that I will talk about here, especially when I don't no what that topic will be), on to less prententious writing ventures. Some of you may remember me talking about this after school writer's workshop idea that I've had. Well, I might just get my shot at bringing an 826-style non-profit venture to Austin. But first, I've got to take a trip out to San Francisco to see how this 826 stuff works.

I'm really looking forward to this, and I can already see how additions to the program would appeal to students in High School and Middle School. I love this age group. It's the weirdest time in your life. It's often the most ignorantly experiemental time in your life and I'd like to put all of that raw experiment prone creativity to good use. Hopefully it will turn into a slick channel for different professionally skilled artists to converge with talented young pre-college students. Comic books, screen writes, video edits, digital photography, short stories, whatever...I want to provide unconvential prompting for a socially engaged community of motivated young students. How does that hit you?

Also, I've taken to apartment shopping this month. It's kinda fun. I can live almost wherever I want in this great city, cept for the expensive parts. Fun fun fun. So fun I could throw myself against the wall and pretend like I'm getting electricuted (little reference for you Egger fans, namely Timothy Douglass).

So come visit. Unless you have 4 or 5 kids I should at least be able to find you some floor space.

And for Gikas: Don't worry I won't make you drive all the way back to Granbury at 1 a.m. in the morning. You can stay. You can actually stay.

Titles of Sermons

2005-05-03T06:24:00.000-07:00

Titles of Sermons to Which Congregants Might Actually Pay Attention.
BY JASON KELLETT
- - - -
"The Ten Commandments—Loopholes And Safe Harbors: The Technicalities You've Never Thought Of"

"Adultery: God Says 'Thou Shalt Not,' and That's Especially True for Pastors' Wives. Did You Hear That, Vile Woman?"

"Gross Is Good: The Lord Shall Smite the Net Tithers"

"The Death Penalty—Yea or Nay? Your Guess Is As Good As Mine"

"Our God Is a Bearded God"

"Holy Crap! It's the Holy Ghost and This Place Is Haunted!"

"Hey, What Is the Deal With Transubstantiation? I Mean, Am I Right, People? That Guy Knows What I'm Sayin'"

"How Much Good Would the Good Book Book If the Good Book Could Book Good?"

"The Book of Revelation: From Whence Came the Beginning of That Bitchin' Johnny Cash Tune That Played Over the Opening Credits of the New Dawn of the Dead Movie"

My Boots Have A Demon

2005-05-01T18:44:00.000-07:00

Six years ago, I went to Cavenders boot city and bought a pair of Wolverine boots. The ones with the durashock soles and the tassel. Last night, I was getting dressed for a dinner rehearsal here in Austin, and noticed that the invitation said that everyone should feel free to wear western attire, which means there will be root-bruskys and shiner for everyone. Anyway I seized upon the opportunity to wear the boots that I have not worn for a very long time. I put them on a felt proud that I had known how important it was to have such a pair of boots, at such a young age too.

So we arrive happily at the rehearsal and I get out of the car with a couple of friends, but as I am walking across the parking lot I notice that my feet are lop-sided, like I had stepped in some mud or something. So I started stomping my heels to get the mud off. Then one of my friends says, "Hey it looks like you stepped in some tar!" I turned in a circle to see where I had stepped and saw what looked like fresh asphalt piled in little clumps along the way. Finally, I looked at the bottom of my boots and realized what was going on. My boots were crapping asphalt all over the place and needed to be replaced. No I'm kidding. Actually the bottom of my shoes were just crumbling off like an old cookie or something, leaving this black soot everywhere. These are durashock soles mind you. About an inch thick. It was kinda creepy. I thought my feet were going to start crumbling off too, so I yanked those suckers off as fast as I could, tied the shoestrings together, and threw them over some telephone wires at the resort overlooking Lake Travis.

It was just one of those things that happens to me every once in a while.

I don't know dude. Still looking for an explanation.

Trying (Inspired by Rahabs and Gomers)

2005-04-26T06:27:00.000-07:00

Look at that guy. It's all wrong. I mean there's at least one thing wrong with him. I'll prove it to you. He should not have let his hair get like that. Who cuts his hair? Did you see the way he pretended that nothing was wrong with his hair? Yes, some people have weird hair, but he should have stayed with the normal cut, joined the army or something. Do you see the way he tried to make that girl laugh? She almost laughed but then she would not talk with him. He should not have tried to make her laugh.

I've seen a lot of talented folks come by this way. And let me just say that this guy, he does not look like he will make it to their ranks. No, not even close. And he should know that. Someone should inform him that he will not make it. That he should stop pretending to be happy. Do you see how he continues to enjoy failing? Stop failing already. Sit down for a minute. Close your eyes and relax. This guy did not get the memo. It bugs the crap out of me that he does not understand how far he is from the rest of the guys doing what he does. Sure, there are complete failures who realize their mistakes, but they look good as failures, you know. They sulk along the shoulders of the path and fulfill a certain kind of beautiful poverty aesthetic, and they don't bother me so much.

This guy, they only thing I can do is to laugh. I don't ever laugh out loud, but I'm constantly chuckling on the inside of my head. I take consolation in the inevitable, that one day he will get this surprised look on his face and wonder what it was he was smiling about. The moment will flash like a camera bulb and his eyes will adjust to see that every face he thought was smiling was only laughing.

From One Blogger To Another

2005-04-23T17:39:00.000-07:00

Guys, I'm not abandoning my post here a smoke beats water, just silently peering above the trench line for now. I really appreciate the readership that has accumulated to about 30 hits per day whether or not I post; that's dedication.

So how's about some musical recommendations for now until I get back into the swing of things. Or how's about two really really good musical recommendations? Yeah? Come on. I can't hear you.

All: WE WANT YOUR RECOMMENDATIONS!

Alright. That's better.

Ryan Vaughn - Turn Me Over
Just kidding but come one guys drum me up some business over here.

Okay for real:

Top 2 albums of this month for me:

1. Arcade Fire - Funeral
2. Loretta Lynn - Van Lear Rose

You can listen to some samples at www.waterloorecords.com. Okay so now everybody knows I'm still alive right?

All: RIGHT!!!

Okay then. Carry on.

Me and G

2005-04-12T11:28:00.000-07:00

G sits in the corner everyday. Not because she's shy, just to get a better look at things. This is a problem for me. She is extremely observant, notes every time that I leave the room for a drink, walk into the break room and stare at the bulletin board, or stand next to the bookshelf looking involved in my work. It's nothing personal. She notices that I stare at everyone in the room as well, except for her, looking up from my book every paragraph, especially when it's work related. I would be staring at her too if it weren't for her strategic position, nothing personal, not yet at least. It's entertaining, but she's figured out that it is entertaining as well.

Now I know you're thinking, "Who the hell is G? Greta? Gabriel? Gloria?" G is a dangerous way to go for a girls name. But seriously, G is her name. Just G. Pronounced jeeee. Like it sounds. As in, "What's up G?" I've not figured out what to do about this yet, she doesn't seem to understand that I don't have anything else to do for four hours, and cannot allow for someone to watch me watching other people. I can't have someone aware of my secretive operation. And it wouldn't be as big of a deal to tell G to buzz off, except that she knows what a waste of money my job is sometimes, and has written me notes, detailing my schedule from 8 a.m. to 12 p.m.:

Ryan,

8 a.m.- Nobody in the room yet, check e-mail and blog posts for an hour
9 a.m. - Boss comes in, sit down with book in the middle of a bunch of students needing help with algebra
10 a.m.- Nina arrives, she's older and you can chat with her without looking idle, it looks like you're being trained...or something.
11 a.m. - Help attractive girls with their algebra (you don't know algebra).

Yours,

G

I've swiftly crumpled the note and tossed it in the trash can on the way out this morning, and then glance tiredly at G there in the corner. I'd rather not wait for the elevator, so I take the stairs, six floors worth, and walk through the automatic doors, out of breath. I turn after walking from underneath the shadow of the lawyer-firm-office-turned-ACC-headquarters and see her smiling there just underneath a window washer at the 7th floor. He has no shirt on and dangles in the reflection from the glass in a sling. I wave. At the window washer.

Cheap Gas

2005-03-31T06:46:00.000-08:00

I try to buy my gas on Mondays and Wednesdays, because I have to drive out of Austin near the lake where the price has leveled at $1.95/gallon. Wow...what a deal. Still almost two bucks. Hey it's better than $3. So yesterday I was filling up the tank when a man refueling his Ranger next to me walked up and asked if I would look inside of his ear.

"What?" I said.
"Would you please look inside my ear."
Me staring.
"I felt something fly inside my ear, and I think it's still there."
"Oh."
"Could you look to see if it is still there?"
Me cautiously looking around to the side of his head. Should I grab hold of his head and turn it toward the light? Should I stick my finger in there to find out what was buzzing around. Does this guy do this to pick up young boys off the street?
"Nope, all clear."
"Awhh, I guess it musta flewn away."
"Yep."
"Thanks Mister."

It really is a predicament. You can't see inside of your own ear. Glad I could be of assistance.

Check This

2005-03-30T18:31:00.000-08:00

I spend a lot of my day up a the VTV studio looking for cool sites, trying to get an idea for what's out there (I'm relatively new to this professional arena, so I'm learning how to write for the web from some of these other sites). Most of the stuff I'm looking for is community based. Here are a few that are kind of interesting. Neiteher Ryan Vaughn nor his God necessarily endoreses any of the views expressed at these particular sites.

Also of note, we are working on a new site at VTV which will be live most likely sometime this week, so I'll post a link for that too eventually. We tested it all day today. It's pretty fun to navigate. Very communal.

www.fuse.tv
Eye candy site. MTV on steriods.

www.gnn.tv
Created by a couple of guys who worked for MTV and found out that it sucked.

www.fuel.tv
Fuse TV on steriods.

www.gawker.com
Simply entertaining. That's all. An online publishing company that hires bloggers to write a few pieces everyday.

www.buzznet.com
Photo community.

www.lifeswitch.org
Weird, find a new country to host your personality profile.

More coming...what do you guys think of all this? We consume so much entertainment media. Yikes.

Open Letter to My Nose

2005-03-27T19:58:00.000-08:00

Dear Nose,

You are so weird. I could walk behind a street cleaner in Maryland after the last winter's snow for five hours straight and you wouldn't so much as twitch. But every single night when I get out the tooth past and the tooth brush you are indignant. I've never seen so much consistent tooth-pastey-saliva-on-the-bathroom-mirror in my life. You are so random nose. What is your problem? Why must you thrust an entire days worth of carcinogens and dirty grim through those two little holes when I fill my mouth with tooth paste...Every night. I mean its kind of funny once or twice you know, but COME ON dude. Get it together, or I'm getting another nose, maybe one of those nice thin jobs.

Okay, okay, I'll admit that a good sneeze is next to a good bowel movement, and a good bowel movement is next to bad sex, and well, bad sex is next to good sex, and good sex, ha, is next to godliness. But that doesn't give you any right to create so much extra clean up work for me to do every day. Stupid nose. I know your always telling me to pick on somebody my own size, but now it's my turn. Now it's my time. I don't want to hear so much as a sniffle the next time I slather that Crest on the diverging bristles of our eight-month old tooth brush with purple and orange stripes. Believe me it is in your best interest to cooperate. As I said before I'm not asking that the sneezing cease altogether, just try to keep it to normal times, like when walking into a Linus dust cloud or something okay? Okay.

Love,

Ryan

The Silent Type

2005-03-25T20:57:00.000-08:00

Living at home again has brought out a very silent me. I've lived alone once before in my life, and when I would come home, it was peaceful, quiet, because there was no one to talk to but myself. This is different. I think I talk less now than I did when I lived alone.

I can remember thinking at different times in my life, especially in college, that I just have no reference for what to say in certain situations. I couldn't remember observing my parents having said much, or gotten themselves into many confrontational situations, particularly verbally. So a lot of what I would say would come from books or what I'd seen my friends parents saying.

Now being around these silent types so much again is really bringing this side out of me. I'm not talking much to anyone any more. It's rather contagious. When friends ask me to go out lately, I say that I'm probably going to stay in. I don't want be around a bunch of talking and laughing people having a lot of fun, because I know that I'll have to pretend that I'm having fun too.

Funny thing is I think we're all chatter boxes once we leave the confines of our dinner table. It was always weird to me, to hear my brother on the phone right after we had spent all of dinner in Chili's, the only words spoken to the waitress. All this silence, and then we're in the car and Jimmy gets on the horn: "Yeah bro. Well call Brian, he can fill in, yeah, right on, give me a call later okay?" Next phone call: "Is Sarah there? Sarah, can you tell Trav to be there at 10. Yeah, then afterward we'll get some grub. Yeah, I can probably get you in. Are you gonna be there tonight?" Then beepity beep beep beep. And we're all back to Vaughn mode in the car on the way home from dinner.

And I've been blaring the lyrics to a song lately with my sunroof popped at night, no sun, and no where to go, which say something like this: "When I used to go out, I knew everyone I saw, now I go out alone, if I go out all."

Art Fart

2005-03-24T16:53:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I keep getting these worship gigs. I'm doing one this Sunday for Easter. And I'd really like to be doing more of them, but it takes a lot of time, which I don't have right now, to do it well. I feel like every time I've lead worship for some group, that it's always half the practice, and half the heart (my fault). But then there's another side that make it kind of difficult as well. A lot of the time, people just call the week of and are like, "Hey, can you be my worship leader for such and such? We can't pay you at all, but I know you're doing it for the Lord anyway. " Well, the Lord ain't payin' nothin neither pardner.

Not everyone is like this, there have been some very gracious and heartfelt interactions that I've had with folks in this regard. In fact I really like the pastor of the church that I'll be playing for this weekend. But overall I think that artists and musicians are seen as people who have to do what they do as a hobby, in your free time. Not just in the church, but I mean where do you think we get the term "starving artist"? It's because if you're an artist, there's a good chance you're an artist who is bagging groceries or waiting tables, just open on Thursday night at the Chuggin' Monkey. People who are so-so at selling cars still get to sell cars for a living because it brings in money that is so-so. But a musician who is really good might have to get a full time job for a long time before he figures out a way to make so-so money with his music or painting or whatever. I'm not trying to get rich here, though I wouldn't mind getting rich, just want to not worry about that stuff so much.

And then again, maybe it's sort of good situation to be in, creating from a difficult, dark and dank place. The artists' income in America is so polarized that it corrupts some of the best and starves the runners up. I guess it would be nice for there to be a value placed on art in a way where we realize that without inspiration and creation for the sake of expression as opposed to marketing, we will live our lives with less awareness of its preciousness. That way ordinary artists can do what they love to do and have a family.

A World Without Tears

2005-03-22T21:47:00.000-08:00

If we lived in a world without tears

How would bruises find

The face to lie upon

How would scars find skin

To etch themselves into

How would broken find the bones

If we lived in a world without tears

How would heartbeats

Know when to stop

How would blood know

Which body to flow outside of

How would bullets find the guns

If we lived in a world without tears

How would misery know

Which back door to walk through

How would trouble know

Which mind to live inside of

How would sorrow find a home

If we lived in a world without tears

How would broken find the bones

A Song By Lucinda Williams

Not Dead But Dying

2005-03-21T20:41:00.000-08:00

What if I died right now? What if I just...died? No sons or daughters or love of my life. Or what if while driving to the community college tutoring lab with the radio turned on softly and the sunroof cracked only halfway, I just slumped over and flew off a bridge or something? Would that make sense? There has always been this thing with my hands and things. Every time I look at my hands, they say whatever it is that the rest of my body could not bring itself to. They are the most telling thing about me. And now when I look at my hands on the keys, the numb tired pulse of blood, I think, "That would make sense. Yeah, that would make sense." My hands...divorced from purpose.

This illogical conclusion hovers, instead of love, like a vulture over my wasted mind and settles like bags of sand on my shoulders and throat and chest and stomach. And I'll just sleep again with my neck craned uncomfortably on my pillow until the morning reminds me of what I knew I could not forget:

Selfishness, when it comes to this, is not gratifying.

Good night.

Uh, Next Post Please

2005-03-20T08:58:00.000-08:00

I went to see this band last night called The Black Tie Dynasty at Habanna Calle on 6th. I think I've finally formed at solid opinion about the 80s as a result. In some ways the 80s were like a bad cyberpunk movie, produced by folks that were not technologically savvy enough to handle the modernity and futuristic ideas that were being put forth. But, I feel, some found a way around this problem in the music industry by tweaking the timbre of their vocals and the style of their play. The most successful ones, U2 leading the pack, created a timeless kind of new genre.

Ambient and emotional guitars backed by solid rock and roll bass and drums, a synth here and there, all conspire to draw you in. It's almost as if the music is asking a question that you had not dared to ask yourself for fear of the answer. Can we change? What do we really want to?

Well, happy spring break everybody. It's high-ho for me; I feel rested and ready.

McSweeney's List

2005-03-18T09:43:00.000-08:00

Sorry guys, I haven't written in a long time, and instead of spilling my dramatic guts about all of the emotional highs and lows I'm in the middle of, I wish to leave you with these funny thoughts. ( I will post dramatically within the next couple of days here, watch out it's kind of touchy feely.)

McSweeney's List
Cinematic Expressions of Inner Self-Loathing If There Were No Mirrors to Smash.
BY ROSS MURRAY
- - - -
Junkie jazz singer sees self in back of spoon; uses clairvoyant powers to bend it until it snaps in two.

Actress who clawed her way to the top catches reflection in pond; uses nearby backhoe to drain pond.

Woman who married for wealth rather than love looks at photo on driver's license; goes to DMV to ask for new photo.

Politician who has forsaken his grass-roots values discovers potato in shape of own head; mashes it.

Burnt-out rock star looks down at himself during out-of-body experience; refuses to go back in
body "until we start seeing some changes around here, mister."

Aging supermodel has plaster cast made of face; backs over it in SUV.

Alcoholic author looks at reflection in a tumbler of Scotch; drinks Scotch; pours another to see if he looks any better in this one.

Clocks Ranked According to the Ease With Which One Can Tell Time From Them (Easiest to Hardest).
BY ALLIE OESTREICH
- - - -
1. Digital
2. Not Digital

Names Gas-Station Attendants Call Me That Leave Me Feeling Both Slightly Superior and Subtly Overwhelmed.
BY ROB ECCLES
- - - -
Chief
Boss

(this one's for Zach).

Learning To Love Jay Farrar

2005-03-07T20:42:00.000-08:00

I recently posted at Mark's blog about having trouble really getting into the Beach Boys. Well, here is a guy who I didn't like very much at all either when I heard him the first few times. So there may be hope yet for future relations between Brian and I.

I mean I really was looking hard for something to like about Jay's music at the time I was introduced to it, and I just couldn't find anything. He sounded sad, his lyrics often weren't the kind that you found coming out spontaneously in the shower, mostly because I couldn't remember words that I didn't understand, or because they didn't rhyme. But after going back and listening to some the first things that he recorded when he lived in Belleville IL, I began to be interested in the guy, Jay Farrar, and the making of his musical intuition less his actual music that I didn't care for.

Now Jay's music may be the most comprehensively familiar tunes that I have in my head. The way I took a liking to Jay happened in sort of the same way friends of mine might like my music because they have a history with me. Or because they know where I'm coming from. Only I had to work backwards with Jay. There are some people that were able to identify the timeless timbre of Jay's vocals, the prophet like delivery of the songs, and the gift of songwriting. But all I could see were the same simple chords with a shaky delivery that didn't exactly get me pumped up in the morning on the way to work.

In the end, I've found that I love what God did when he gave man the gift of music. And the more I've attempted to tackle the craft of songwriting, the more I respect the idea that songs are gifts and work best when they are received as one.

Here's a list of his recordings if you are interested in checking any of his stuff out (The Son Volt albums are the easiest to get into I think):

Jay Farrar Solo Projects

Sebastopol

Thirdshiftgrottslack EP

Terrior Blues

Son Volt

Trace

Wideswing Tremelo

Straightaways

Uncle Tupelo

No Depression

Still Feel Gone

March 16-20, 1992

Anodyne

89/93: An Anthology

Vollmann's Rising Up and Rising Down

2005-03-05T15:31:00.000-08:00

Rising Up and Rising Down, William T. Vollmann’s seven-volume, 3,000-plus-page moral exegesis of violence, took 23 years to accomplish, involving sittings where apparently he wrote for 16 hours straight. Any body heard of this guy? Tim, Mark, Kevin, Ryan, John, Justin?

We could try to read through the whole thing on a scheduled basis so we can comment on the same chapters everyone else is reading at the same time.You know, like one of those read-through-the-bible-in-a-year things, only this might take like 7 years. We'd all have to come up with an extra couple 'a hundred bucks to purchase the volumes as well which most likely means "count me out", and for me probably means, "nevermind".

I'd like to take a peak inside at bookstore or something though.

Or we could just read through the Bible. Admission: That doesn't seem so exciting to me right now. Don't get me wrong, the Bible is great, but I haven't been able to get outside of Proverbs for the last 9 months or so.

Binge

2005-03-04T07:11:00.000-08:00

Forewarning: This is a very indulgent entry, so if you'll excuse me while binge write. When I sit down to compose one of these entries, there are so many things to deal with. First I look at that title line. It's blank, like a static-y television station that's lost it's feed. For me, the title is the connection to the rest of the story, post, poem, whatever. One look at that flippin' title line, and it's complete chaos in my head; similar to the way a local network turns into a frenzy of technical babel and wire checking when they don't have any audio with their six o'clock news broadcast.

And that's only the beginning. Usually, I don't get that taken care of, I don't find a title, so the rest of the writing process is performed in the hum of that confused noise. Then there's my fingers that start to jam up and and jerk around (they don't know what they're doing, stupid fingers, like little wild caged cats)...then, DELETE, DELETE, DELETE. Uh, I need something to drink. Crap, I forgot to turn off the oven. Wait, no I didn't. I remember taking the pan out and then turning the knob from bake to off. Oh, just go check the oven dufus. So I check the oven, and of course it's been turned off.

Back to the blank screen. So full of potential. There's this little flickering neon sign that I see in my mind as well, that says, "prize writer" or "you are the writer". But it's really far away, not dominating the view or anything, and fading. So I have to go find the switch to that damned sign and turn it off. I'm not sure what that is all about, but I would imagine it has something to do with finding voice. Writers should not be writers first. Writing only shows us who we are and what we have to say about something else. Unless of course you wish to write about writing. Then I suppose it is recursive, teetering along the edge of helpful and annoying.

So I'm dedicating this post to freeing myself from these expectations (that I've placed on myself) to identify with other great wordsmiths in the world. I'm not a wordsmith, just a guy who likes words and think that they are very useful when chosen carefully.

And another thing. There are some odd road blocks to get past inherent within this art of blog writing, if you want to call it that. What makes a piece honest? How can I be honest without being careless? If our art is inspired mostly or partly by what is happening in our real lives, then how will we protect those we love? So, it seems the point of this blog, for me, should not be to discover as much what is going on in my personal life, rather to comment on it.

So then, now that I've decided this, what will determine honest or true work? For instance, I was talking to a painter friend of mine who was doing portraits of homeless people from photographs he had taken here. After visiting an old professor to get some feedback on the work he had done, he was forced to take an "honest" look at his work. The portraits were more or less what he thought would be good material for him to reproduce with paint, but perhaps what he really saw best were the friends, family, and percieved enemies around him. In the end, what he found was most interesting at the time were these composed photos of people huddling around at bus stops. And I believe he found that his work was more inspired after locating what he was most interested in.

Honesty in art is determined by the author's willingness to deal with subjects that are truly within his perspective. From there the path may lead to addressing the subject that he or she thought they "should" be portraying, but for now, honesty will affect the audience (no matter how diminished) more profoundly.

The Law of Apostrophe Conservation

2005-02-25T08:58:00.000-08:00

"For every apostrophe omitted from an it's, there is an extra one put into and its."

Lynne Truss explains in her new book Eats, Shoots and Leaves that the number of apostrophes will therefore remain constant; commas may never be created nor destroyed, only borrowed.

Another Don Quixote

2005-02-23T20:48:00.000-08:00

This post was inspired by the Motorcycle Diaries, a film that reminded my of this short essay I wrote as a submission for a contest last year. I've felt inspired similarly only by one other movie. I think I cried for 45 minutes after Life as a House.

Windows down, and the radio playing softly, the needle points to full. Nobody in the passenger seat, and nothing in mind but the hum of spinning wheels, I pulled on to the frontage road, and mouthed the words of a familiar song which fluttered almost too faint to hear above the flapping shoulder strap. The wind started pealing away the leaves and pollen which had accumulated on the roof and hood of my car over of the previous stagnant two weeks, as sped down the entrance ramp onto the state highway. Ah, now I was getting somewhere. My restless mind simmered at about three thousand revolutions per minute, and I began to see where I was headed.

For most of my adolescent life I have fought this itch to move somewhere, anywhere really. I would scratch the itch a little, only to find that it became more and more irritated. And when I could not put it out of mind, I would leave wherever I was for a small walk or a short drive, arriving, a short while later, at the place which I had started, honestly feeling much better. But the feeling, as I said, would not last long, and my feet would get to tapping again after a few weeks lunch and dinner at the same restaurants. Every time I left the place which contained my life, my problems, my ex-girlfriends, my church, my bed; I felt that possibility which every person longs for, a new start.

As writers, part of our commission, our calling, is to create a sense of movement or travel for the reader. To take someone on a journey that they otherwise might not be able to take on their own is a marvelous accomplishment, a gift, when received, that is not repayable. Most readers find great joy in seeing, if in their minds eye, what they have never seen before, and so we make our living as storytellers, journalists, researchers, news writers, and the like, taking them to the places they cannot get to on their own.

* * * * * *

An interesting experiment, performed by Dr. John Bowlby, was noted by Bruce Chatwin in his travel log entitled The Songlines. When Bowlby constructed a machine, which imitated the motion that a child might experience in the arms of a walking mother, he found that an upset child would cease screaming if the rocking motion of the device was to be accelerated to fifty cycles per minute. When the machine was set at lower speeds, had little effect on the child. It appeared that the simple sensation of movement pacified the cries of most normal children. This experiment alone was enough to convince Chatwin that man is primarily a migratory species. While in the same travel log, I came across this Old Latin aphorism: solvitur ambulando, meaning 'it is solved by walking'.

* * * * * *

As long as I'm standing in the same spot, I will remain in this off-balance state, dodging punches thrown at my already dizzied soul. I must move. Like a bicycle which gains stability as its velocity increases, I was finding my feet were more confident with each step in the same direction: out of town. More often, this movement becomes a remedy, a solution, which brings the traveler eventually to the place where he or she started; the only difference is, direction, velocity, and momentum have value. As travelers, we are no longer standing at a particular location, but moving through it, both figuratively and literally. It's not the movement that we ultimately crave, but the sense of purpose that it brings. The trip we take, whether it is around the block, around the globe, a few minutes, or an entire chapter of life, allows all of those tangled and echoing voices to grow fainter and fainter, swallowed by the volume of roaring wind in our ears. And we hear instead the voice of our heart, many times bringing us full circle to see we were at home all along. It's the travel itself that does the simplifying. The seams in the road, the steady broken lines, the pulse of ground underfoot, and the passing of day into night, all conspire to fill the sojourner with an understanding that they are closer to their goal (wherever they are headed) than they were just a few hours ago. A new place signifies a new day. When traveling, it is hard to misunderstand that we are not where we were yesterday, that we are progressing toward something, often the place where we began. And yet, we arrive there anew.

* * * * * *

It may be only to create the illusion that we are informed of our purpose, but however we can, we love this notion that we are moving forward. We, being the descendents of a nation which wished to fix its old problems by conquering unknown territory remain obsessed with calculable progress into the darkest regions of human understanding. There are thousands of accounts of some American traveler who wished to leave his home and find his home at the same time. America learned from its experience, forging itself a new constitution, heeding the call for a new breed of poet, and constructing a horizon which cut and gouged the sky. America was less interested in educating its inhabitants of their past. Instead it wished to show them how to leave it behind, to pierce the edges of their own boundaries.

America from the start it seems was an event of great disappointment. Winthrop and company left for this new world, zealous to show the rest of humanity a bright and shining city on a hill. Instead, they found themselves performing one of the greatest failed experiments ever attempted in the history of the globe. So many colonists and explorers left their homes to be set on this global stage. They arrived rather disappointed to find the lights turned out and curtain closing quickly.

So then the question, "What does it mean to be an American?" becomes uniquely American in itself. Culturally, don't the French know what it means to be a Frenchmen? Would and Italian find difficulty if asked what it meant to live in Italy? They know exactly what it means. But to be an American means precisely that we are on a journey, passing through our narrow alley of experience, learning piece by piece, just who we are. As travel essayist William Least Heat-Moon suggests, "Maybe America should make the national bird a Kentucky Fried Leghorn and put Ronald McDonald on the dollar bill." We are a nation without tradition, built on the broken fragments of each other's heritage.

A traveler's success is due solely to his ability to see the strangeness of a new place around him and perceive it as potentially familiar all at once. A desert or an open grassland prairie is indiscernible at first glance, but if I inquire into its purposes, its plants, and lives that make it a home, I find myself a spokesperson for the hope that is embedded there. Hey, look here, there's something that makes sense about this desert. Absolute hostility, such as the desert projects, serves simultaneously as a deterrent and as an invitation. Within the desert there is a fascinating web of interdependent creatures, an ecosystem of mutual giving and receiving that largely ignores the human race.

Meanwhile, getaway vacation homes, and fast food chains chomp across the land, blighting many of the attempts to understand the desert and its independent existence. In the wake of these bulldozers and contractors lie the remains of purposes undiscovered. Lesser purposes defeating greater purposes pose questions that morality must answer. Like the protective coloring of an insect or fish, the desert preserves itself from destruction by projecting such a howling wilderness onto the minds of its outsiders, and those not willing to humble themselves before entering will not learn of its secrets.

I, for one, have become more and more disgusted with our latest abstractions of these kinds of discovery. I went, this summer, to a theme park in Florida where they had assembled a ride famously termed, 'Rhino Rally'. The ride consisted of a Discovery Land Rover equipped with special locking bars and guide. The underutilized vehicle was to proceed along a track of steel rails constructed in a slightly discombobulated figure eight. I thought to myself, "Has the American adventure been reduced to this?" And as I left the ride confused, I considered shouting to the hundreds of adults waiting, corralled inside a maze of ropes, each sweating out their two and half hours: TURN BACK NOW, IT'S NOT TOO LATE. It's likely they would have found more novelty driving their four-door mid-size sedans around the block.

Wonder and discovery go hand in hand with our traveling itches. And yet the power of curiosities to lure our hearts into some deep crevice of interest will almost always pull our roots down with it into the people and places we decide to love. These individuals we find along the way which we love are the ones we owe the most to. They soothe the itch, they share a peace with us, and they give us an immediate and acute feeling that we are here because they are here. These tangible, contiguous connections we make with a specific and almost measurable progress are the kinds of relationships or purposes which we find easiest to believe in. Purposes which cannot be seen, those which are much grander than our limited first person view, are more difficult to embrace, and even more difficult, those purposes which we serve without ever knowing.

Everything and everyone that exists is discernible by the certain patterns and rhythm which give those things and persons purpose. They interact with other persons or objects in a certain way, and this relationship is purpose itself. Valence electrons race around a nucleus at the rim of a molecule, waiting for an opportunity to meet and interact with other molecules. Planets trace their orbits around the sun, ours at precisely three-hundred and sixty-five days per round trip. And there is always a tension between the patterns which tend to stay the same and those which are always wishing to break the rules. This tension is a delicate balance, and some will find their purposes at odds, but without this movement, without this change, wouldn't we find ourselves lost in a dissonant pool of stagnant disarray? Perhaps we would not find ourselves at all.

Still, what is this obsession with finding ourselves in the other's shoes? Why must we always sleep in a different bed, or better yet, abandon our beds altogether? It is because when we move, we find that we are left in the hands of God. For some, this may be the easiest way to the deal with the question of what to do with oneself. The choice which we recoiled from is no longer ours to make. When we place ourselves on the path of destiny by moving in the line of a single direction, we will inevitably arrive where the road takes us.

I too have begun to think that I simply need to edge past the boundaries of my own familiar ground. I want to leave, not because I have an appointment somewhere else, but to let the fingerprint of a trip take me where it pleases. So, I packed a bag and headed to the gas station, where I filled my tank completely. This is a rare occurrence, mostly because I don't use much gas to get around the small town I live in, but also for fear that I might need the money to buy something else (writer's income). Still, I felt the joy of a completely filled new tank of gas. I knew by the time it was spent, I would be somewhere else.

Poetry Logic

2005-02-18T19:43:00.000-08:00

I went to a reading this week on Valentines Monday, attended primarily by dateless students and poetry addicted instructors of Austin Community College. We celebrated love's (primarily the erotic kind, philosophically speaking, Mark you remember that class) woeful and blessed way of bringing persons, who were by all practical purposes dead, to a revelatory awareness of a beautiful and new kind of existence with their newly found object of obsession.

One by one, a poet walked to the stage and stood illumined by a street lamp hung against the brick wall, marking the edge of the coffee venue. Some of these readers became the poems they were reading, finding emotions somewhere inside themselves that were not there a moment before. One woman, asked to read as a special guest, weaved her way from the back of the crowd reciting her first poem. We played along with her, watching as she moved from table to table before finally reaching the wooden platform. She was no less lyrical when she put her poetry down.

One man felt it more appropriate to sing his words. A nervous student hid behind his sketch pad. Most rallied around the idea of, "once upon a time I had sex with this ivory statue." And if there was one thing that all of these poets had in common, it was this aim to retell what some other poet had already said, only differently. Poets who have something new to say and who and who say it well are rare. Poets who redefine what we mean are priceless.

But what about this idea of "love" being "sex"? It just doesn't make sense. And if there was one thing that did make sense the whole night to me, it was what one young man said before reading a poem about a close friend of his. What about all the other kinds of love that we leave out on Valentines day? Where are their days? I think we should devote more than one day to exploring this idea of heartbreak and heartthrob.

What is one your most uplifting or devastating love moments?

Two Mirrors

2005-02-17T19:34:00.000-08:00

Living at home again with my parents has been an interesting study in Fathers in Sons for me. I find myself constantly staring at my Dad wondering how I am so much like him and nothing like him, both at the same time. There was a moment yesterday when I walked into the bathroom downstairs in the office where we keep our computer and library. My Dad has pretty much set up shop in there and is always working on something that requires precision, something I know little about.

When I walked into the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and wanted to compare my face to my Dad's immediately. It wasn't just the features that I noticed were similar, but what they indicated: secluded, intense, unimpressed. The blue light from the computer screen encased my Dad's face, making it look older than it really was, frozen. He wasn't moving much either, which added to the effect. I don't know if he saw my staring at him and then back at the mirror, but it's likely he wouldn't have reacted (he's not interested in such things) even if he did.

I saw myself there, him, dead and alone. I saw what I loved about that. It's peaceful. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw the me who refused to be my Father, always drawing attention, always laughing and inviting people to dinner. The images never mix, never collaborate. They shove and slink away from each other, assuming kingship over the vessel, both wanting ownership, an imprint designating permanence.

Both are spirits wishing to take the wheel. But mostly it is me, realizing that what I want most is to be my Dad, and at the same time realizing that I cannot, that I must not, that he must not let me be him. It is in his presence that I find my knees the weakest and my hands groping for definition.

Badass Benefits Blogger

2005-02-14T14:50:00.000-08:00

Some of you may remember, from the early blogging days, that I posted a letter to a really really cool guy who drove a monster truck around Bryan-College Station. I wanted to let all of you know that if you have been praying for my relationship with that Badass, rejoice, your prayers have been answered. We are like really good friends now, or something.

It turns out that the Cousin of Badass lives here in Austin. Who would'a thunk it? She's really down to earth, drives a Miata, and has three tattoos, that I know of. I was downtown trying to get across the river yesterday for church, when a long strand of sweaty and dog-tired looking folks with numbers plastered on their chests just started running down the middle of the road.

Two police men were walking across the from the adjacent side-walk with orange barricades and fencing, but not before one of the runners stumbled over the front fender of my car, which was poking it's nose a little too far into the intersection beyond the crosswalk. The runner never saw it coming and neither did I. She slid across my hood, smearing her sweaty body across the silver paint, and then collapsed with a squeal in a heap at the front my car. I thought I had just killed an Austin marathoner, that is until she poked her head up from the ground to wave in apologetic fashion.

Funny thing, you won't believe this. She was wearing a tank top t-shirt with a picture of the Badass from Bryan-College Station standing in front of his truck, all covered with mud, save the confederate flag license plate which he had wiped clean for the shot. I offered to give her a ride to the hospital for good measure when I notice the photo screen-printed on her shirt. I think she thought I was staring at her boobs. I explained.

Well it turns out she has this friend who works in the used car business and said that really weird people are always showing up there because they don't do credit requests or criminal background checks. The dealership keeps an extra key to every car and maintains accurate records on where each car-buyer lives. So, when a payment doesn't come in, a car does instead. They just steal it back. When you walk onto this car lot all you need is a Blockbuster Video rental card to roll home in a citrously scented vehicle.

I told her I've been looking for a job that draws some odd ball characters into the picture for a short story collection that I'm hoping to begin this month. She offered me the job. All things work for the good I guess.

Ryan Recommends

2005-02-14T08:16:00.000-08:00

Living at home with your parents at twenty-four is highly underrated. Sure, women aren't exactly thrilled about the prospect of "living together" in your old room with the bunk beds, but PEEOOPLE, build a bridge. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner are free and almost never cold. You get to feel like you're not growing up. Who wants to grow up? Please. And when they're gone, you have a sweet pad off which you may launch almost any kind of large group gathering event that you want. Off the chain, off the hook, off your rocker. Whatever you want man.

People be lookin' at me these days all sappy. Sayin' they's sorry for my unfortunate hand of cards. But I ain't complainin'. They say that I've about hit rock bottom, and that maybe that'll turn me on to the right thing. But peeps...how's I'm sposzed to hit rock bottom, when all'z I gots is me and this nice padding everywhere?

Live with your parents. It's alright.

Panhandlers Move To Austin

2005-02-10T16:29:00.000-08:00

In a place where sound, image, weirdness, and creativity have fought for decades to drown the invasion of clean sidewalks and corporate suit shops, an elaborate population of homeless beggars jockey for position at every major intersection. People pace, each with personal advertisements: some, containing thoughtful phrases of experienced panhandlers; others, simply asking for beer or cigarettes.

A middle aged man holds a sign every day typically at rush hour announcing that he can no longer take care of his wife and kid. He stands strategically at the mouth of one the wealthiest communities just west of Austin on Loop 360. Westlake, my old stomping grounds, has long been known for its sea of expensive cars, privately owned independent school district and winning football program, which now accepts students who wish to pay for "better" education and dominant Caucasian demographics. But scraggly men with camouflaged utility pants and thread-bare backpacks don't seem to be taking the hint. Barriers of expensive restaurants, and even more pricy clothing stores line the 7 mile stretch of Bee Caves road and are meant to keep the unwanted out, but homeowner associations and community planners could not foresee the migration which has slowly siphoned street sign holders from South Austin on Lamar north toward the suburbs.

Now, these homeless are treated like an flock of overpopulating geese. If we could get rid of them with blanks and flares, we would. But there are laws against such tactics. So these homeless profit, or get by at least.

Absurd indulgences brings with them a sense of guilt, if for a while, and there emerges a willingness among local country club members here in Westlake to pay for some temporary relief of their tortured souls, one dollar at a time, a small price to pay. Landrover's windows open a crack enough for a hand to reach through while others in line sigh with relief as the light turns green.

For me though, there remains a gulf unbridged between these people and myself, a gap, created perhaps only by a different line of blood. And the longer I observe this increased distance between poor and rich, the more I realize there is something greater at work here. Why do the poor get poorer and the rich get richer?

Thoughts?

Listen To New CD, Ryan Vaughn: Turn Me Over

2005-02-10T13:44:00.000-08:00

Brick By Brick HiFi LoFi lyrics
Magic Mountain HiFi LoFi lyrics
Hey Hey HiFi LoFi lyrics
I've Got To Go HiFi LoFi lyrics
Underwater HiFi LoFi lyrics
Sweet Complication HiFi LoFi lyrics
Tell The Truth HiFi LoFi lyrics
Dislocate HiFi LoFi lyrics

Brick By Brick

when my eyes are out of focus
i like what i see
flesh and blood are hard to stomach
can you bring a wall down

brick by brick

black and white
she keeps talking like she does
sheets pulled tight
i dreamt i was wandering

i didn't travel very far
for a stained glass poem
and a shining star

Magic Mountain

i've no alibis
yes i've told some lies
but do my feet fit the shoe
cause i'd like to wear something new

take me up a mountain up so high

it's just the scenery that i've failed to notice
and the road signs i ignore
my heart won't skip a beat
but i can't keep it from giving in to this damn gravity

take me up a mountain up so high

i've seldom found a path that was kind
but there's always another road that winds
right through the trouble
that has made itself a home in your mind

Hey Hey

god i need some answers
cause i don't believe in luck
and i've been takin' orders
out the back of an 18-wheeler truck

i'm hoping for a reason
i don't want a place to hide
when all my thoughts come back to me
they echo of the other side

hey hey...

night train pushing through my mind
dirty stories that i've been told
haunting tales of a real life mess
and i'm only 223 years-old

scatter-brained, can i borrow a buck
can you help me out
cause i'm just plain stuck

give a little, take a little, make a little
make a little love last long
touch the other end of a trail-blaze baby
little more love won't do you harm

I've Got To Go

i've got to go, i've got to spend my time alone
and no one knows, just who i am all on my own

there's no way out
there's no sound when i shout
in these empty rooms

tongue in my cheek
there's no sound when i speak
and you make me laugh

tables and chairs, but there's nobody there
my music spills into your head
faces and spaces with harrowing eyes
and books that i've already read

Underwater

love revolution kicks out all your prop-up solutions
photograph session in the red-light kitchen
and you play me 'til i'm all strung out

death comes softly on the radio
and laughter is the sole conclusion

i can feel you in this pain
broken people on a screen

underwater movie screen
voluntary drowning dream
laughter is the sole conclusion
when pages are already filled

the sun stopped shining
the sun shone again
somehow it moves me
out the door, into the wind
which of these strangers
will make me love again

Sweet Complication

six years now
has it been that long
i've forgotten how
many memories

black lit moon
doesn't mean that the sun won't shine
but that's how it is
between you and me

a sweet complication is all that you are
it's all that you are

it's okay to cry
even if you don't remember why
come to think of it
you're the reason why
i can laugh out loud

one little stone
a weeping world wipes her eye
never knowing love was a dream
that could come to life

you could have dropped it anywhere
but you left it in my lap
that's how it is between you and me

Tell The Truth

she doesn't look that much like her momma
she don't have her daddy's eyes
she doesn't think she has much potential
that's alright it's just a lie

she's growing wings just like an angel
but you won't notice them when she passes by
all the boys are out to get her
she'll stay with the same man every night

someone should tell you the truth
someone should see inside of you

people don't pay her much attention
disbelief has swallowed all her pride
simple smiles are all she offers
all she wants is a simple life
she gave up crying just like piano
she keeps her blue notes bottled up inside

Dislocate

i can always smell the rain
even though there's sunshine
it can take a dirty rock
to make a diamond ring

i love to watch the snow flakes
if it ever starts to snow
they remind me of how much
there is to get to know

i'm trying hard
not to let my heart dislocate
it's all i can do
to keep my mind of this dull pain

god bless the poor and weak ones
with their dirty hands and feet
i believe the ones
god would really like to meet

keep the things that make you love more
get rid of all the rest
keep the things that you're for sure
will endure the fiery test

i'm trying hard not to let my heart dislocate

I Guess It's Goodbye

i won't forget where i've come from
or where i've been
some of my mistakes are still chasin' me
but don't let that bother you

i wish i could wash you
with each of the purest tears that i've cried
i wish one would fall on your skin

i'm working to hard to come up
with these things that i just don't feel
and there's too many miles
between the towns we're living in

what is it i want
something i need to say
i guess it's goodbye

of all the places i'd like to visit
wouldn't you think i would know myself
sad faces are made before their time
too many books put on the shelf
before you've even read one line

You Were Right

careful that the future
is not a prison for you now
sometimes the plans you make
will blind you,
'til you can't find your own way out

careful that the life you live
is not just a stepping stone
sometimes it's hard to read the wisdom
in another man's broken bones

maybe you were right
how will we survive

i know you miss the erie rhythm
of those steady broken lines
you miss the hum of spinning wheels
the road they leave behind

coughing up your money
is not a sign that you are sick
it's the hope stuck in your throat
that makes your broken heart
hard to fix

Music For the Chicken Cooped Souls

2005-02-03T20:50:00.000-08:00

I'm always handing out new music to people. Even if I don't like the songs myself, I love to hook people up with music I think they jive with. So, listen up, I've listed a your name below with a link to a section in this post with my personal music recommendation for each one of you. If you find that your name is not listed, leave me a nasty comment for being a negligent friend if you like, and I will promptly add you to the list of folks. When I hear some music that reminds me of one of my fine blogging blokes, I'll just put it right here. I'll also try to put a link to a sound clip or something so that you remember how much I love you. Alright?!

Mike Braeuer
Zach Campbell
Tim Douglass
Mark Douglass
Kristi Dozier
Jonathan Gibson
Brian Hudson
Kevin Still
Jimmy Vaughn
LinF

Zach's Music

Uncle Friar: Mother Load

Tim's Music

Citizen Cope: The Clarence Greenwood Recordings
Jango Rhinehart

Mark's Music

Flaming Lips: The Soft Bulletin
Ray LaMontagne: Trouble
Vince Guarldi Trio: Charlie Brown Christmas

Kristi's Music

West Indian Girl
Citizen Cope: The Clarence Greenwood Recordings

Brian's Music

Jonathan's Music

LinF's Music

Stage Prop

2005-02-01T23:05:00.000-08:00

stage fright stage right
two... three... four...
refuse my muse
more vocals please

don't know me
don't want to
i'll chew
the microphone next please

get it? write.
what do you mean nest?
what do you mean song?

a moving sidewalk
no words. no sound.
conversation grounds

try this suit case on
face=blank screen
heart+mouth=ouch

aren't you meaning full?
why do you need all that?
someone shouts
on the next hill top

Open Letter to Mysterious Entry in my Cell Phone

2005-01-11T21:09:00.000-08:00

Dear Mysterious Entry,

Last week I was filing through all of the numbers in my cell phone address list when I came across an unusual name, one which I do not remember entering data for. Who are you Ms. Katrina Felger? Your sensuous name sounds as if it should evoke in me a tumble of memories. Rrraaeerrrr...But I have not one recollection of the interaction that led to my having your phone number. Perhaps you were that flirty middle aged woman (I don't know anyone my age named Karina), who sat on the bench next to me at the post office, number 53 in line behind my 48 I believe it was. No my mom does not still tuck me in at night! Did you put your name in my abandoned cell phone while I was paying for my overnight package? Shame on you. Sly, but shame on you. Or was it you, the cross dressing gregarious creature that you were at the airport. When I asked you to please watch my things while I go to the newsstand for a magazine, I didn't mean help yourself to the contents of my backpack. I usually give people the benefit of the doubt. But I will have to think twice, or thrice maybe, before I let another sexually confused person keep an eye on my personal belongings.

As I said I was filing through the names last week, looking for someone to go to the movies with, not necessarily a date, just good company. I thought about giving you a call, just to find out who you really were. I dialed and let it ring once, twice...You picked up before the third ring. Karina, you must have had a cold, because you sounded like my Dad when he's got something caught in his throat at the dinner table. I'm sorry I didn't say anything back to you. I guess I really didn't want to talk to you that much in the first place. I was just wanted to see if you'd actually pick up. So anyways, congratulations because as a result this new SIMS card technology your name will always come up, probably for the rest of my life, right next to my old pastor's name, Paul Fowler.

You're sick. You know that?

Ryan Vaughn
Austin, TX

Open Letter to My Blue Jeans and Gray Sweatshirt

2005-01-08T18:41:00.000-08:00

Dear blue jeans and gray sweatshirt,

I love you guys. For the last two weeks you've made life much simpler for me. Whenever I have to go somewhere, I just wear what I've got on, you. Thanks for being there in the bad times and the...well bad times really. Anyway, thanks for being there.

When I wake up in the morning, there you are lying quietly on the bed next to me, just waiting to envelop my arms and legs again in warmth and practicality. I know you deserve to be washed more than once a month, but come on, you're made of cotton and denim, what do you care? The more coffee stains, the better.

If I had known about you earlier in life, I would have stocked my closet with 6 other pairs exactly like you. That would have been nice wouldn't it? The perfect work schedule: Twenty-four on, one hundred forty-four off. But you haven't complained at all, because you're an inanimate object. You're just an unselfish, heartless, brainless, son-of-a...of-a...well it seems you've eluded the engendering process altogether. You're above that sort of thing.

One of these days you're going to be famous blue jeans and sweatshirt because what people don't realize is that everybody has at least one pair of blue jeans and a gray sweatshirt somewhere. And eventually they will acknowledge that these are the only things they've ever really wanted to wear.

Deep down, they feel it every time they open their closets, the urge to put you guys on. But you've been shoved down to the end of the closet, hidden behind the sixties theme party get-up. Again, not that you care or anything. It's just Why?...Why don't we all come to grips with the simple truth? Look at the old foagies walking around the neighborhood. What are they wearing? Exactly.

It's inevitable, and the sooner we all realize what we were made to wear, the sooner we will be able exist harmoniously in our most natural clothed state. I salute you jeans and sweatshirt (I realize that you do not feel honored or anything).

Vainly,

Ryan Vaughn

No Trouble Here

2004-12-29T11:32:00.000-08:00

I went to Cheapo a few days ago, a new and used record store here in Austin on South Lamar, with a list of six new albums to pick up (new to me). In no particular order they were: Ray LaMontagne, Trouble...Okay, stop right there. That is the only album I should have picked up. I should have walked straight to the Ls and then straight to the cash register, but nOOOuooo. I have to ravage through the rest of the other 25 letters to see if there are any other names that ring a bell, maybe something I was looking for a few months ago but never found.

Though I do allot myself a research stipend for this sort of thing, I am just not picky enough. I throw down fifteen bucks like its crowding the space in my wallet or something. Actually it is, with all those flippin business cards. I've only called like two of those people back who've ever handed me a card. It's like I need the potential to be in contact with people. I've got people. I've got numbers. I've got this guy in Jersey right: "Heyyyyy! Mista Vaughn. How ya doin'?...No problem I'll cancel the dinnah...Yeah, I'll book the flight tommarra." I mean really, I should hang on to those those cards.

So Trouble, by LaMontagne. This guy is a miracle. He grew up in a family with one mother and six brothers, all from different dads. He said he has only talked with his birth father for a minute and a half in total over the last twenty years. While trying to take care of the family alone, Ray's mom found a roof for the kids wherever she could. This wound up being in a variety of places including but not limited to: the backyards of a friends, in cars and tents, a cinderblock shell on a Tennessee horse ranch, and a New Hampshire chicken coop.

After graduating from high school, he left home and worked the graveyard shift at a shoe factory in Lewiston, Maine. He described an experience that occurred four years after leaving his family when he awoke to Stephen Stills' "Tree Top Flyer" on his radio alarm clock:

"This was a particularly dark and weird time for me," he recounts. "I never saw the light of day for months. One morning, after I'd worked there for about a year, I had my clock set for 4 a.m., like always, and I woke up to this amazing sound coming from the clock radio. I just sat up in bed and listened. Something about that song just hit me. I did not go to work that day; I went to record stores and sought that album out. It was called Stills Alone. I listened to it, and I was transformed. It killed meit was huge. You don't know how those things happen. I just knew: 'This is what I'm gonna do.' That morning really changed everything-my whole life."

I've listened to those songs at least once almost everyday since I bought the album and, I've been pressed to the verge of tears nearly every time. The songs about his mother are wrenching. Once while I was in the car listening to Burn, the fifth track on the album, my entire body felt like it was falling through my gut. The marrow in my bones felt as if it were lava and then ice, and then I felt as if the middle of my body were an infinite space. It's a good pain to feel, the kind that reminds you of the endless nature of the heart. The feeling of finding and then losing somebody you love can destroy you, reduce you to a pile on the floor, and then send you packing a changed man or woman in less than twenty four hours. LaMontagne shoves that emotion through 10 songs lasting fifty minutes or so.

Bravo Mister LaMontagne. Bravo.

Ryan Recommends

2004-12-25T18:49:00.000-08:00

From time to time I'll be posting a short message about things that I am recommending, I stole this idea from www.mcsweeneys.net. That's my first recommendation to you, check out the site.

Check these guys out too:

Smoke and a Crepe' -- Tim Douglass
Steinbeck and Shiner Bock -- Mark Douglass
Rahabs and Gomers -- Kevin Still
Julie Whitaker -- Julie Whitaker

Open Letter to the Kid Who Showed Me Up at the Climbing Rock

2004-12-21T23:46:00.000-08:00

Dear Kid,

What's the big idea? I show up at Bull Creek boulder with a couple of worn out climbing shoes and a bag half full of chalk, and there you are strutting around with your little kiddy water shoes making those fart noises every time you take a step. It's distracting kid. Take off the darn shoes if you're gonna hang around like that. And just because I look cool, doesn't mean I've got giant suckers at the end of my arm instead of hands. Your telling me to scale the impossible routes on the wall because you saw some girl do it last week only makes me want to take your little fart shoes and shove them in your mouth. Oh, and kid, leave my keys alone. I don't want to have to yell at ya anymore for using my Volkswagen keyless entry device as a pocket knife to scare your little brother, especially when I'm about to solve the most difficult bouldering problem of my life. See ya around kid.

Whatever,

Ryan Vaughn
Austin, TX

We Seem to Be One in the Same

2004-12-21T13:40:00.000-08:00

I had a flashback two days ago which forked in a fuzzy choose your own adventure kind of way. Two blocks up from where I live, there is a trail that weaves into the thick green forest of the Austin Hill Country. I took off late in the dusk of evening as the sun was growing deep red, so as to make the trek a little more melodramatic (What if I get lost? Huh? What then?). The path I was on runs for a quarter mile or so down the length of a row of houses next to the middle school, and then suddenly leaves you isolated from civilization, dropping steeply in a zig zag manner down one of side of the Barton Creek ridge. My feet felt light and quick as I skipped down the steps, avoiding a broken two-by-four here and there, constructed against a slice of rock which enabled the final plunge down to the creek.

All I had to do was keep throwing one foot out in front of the other. My breath sounded desperate. Raspy and rhythmic bursts of air turned to puffs of smoke around my flushed face. The crunch of rock and leaves echoed against the trees. The creek made noises louder, and then softer, and then louder along the trail where I was now running in the opposite direction, against the flow of water. The air was cold in my lungs and stung the back of my throat. The more I ran, the more the cold air seemed to clean my head of excess thought; I felt again, as I often do when I run, what it was like to be a kid.

When I emerged from the forest at trail exit, opposite the one which I had begun, it was nearly dark. I passed in front of an old friend's house not too far up the street. This friend of mine was an unusual one, maybe one of the more mature of my friendships at this age (11 to 13). It seemed purer to me than other friendships that I had at the time, perhaps because we had no practical reason to be friends. We weren't in basketball or soccer together, we didn't go to camp together, etc. We simply made for good company.

As I was walking in front of his house last night, I thought of a time when we had hiked together through some of the same old trees and brush that I had seen on the trail. We weren't following a particular path though, and we snapped and discarded any branches that impeded our passage. Eventually, we came to a cliff's ledge that was too steep, making it impossible for us to continue. Rather than viewing the long drop as a possibility for instant death, my friend and I attempted to slide down the hill skidding to a stop as close as we could to the edge without falling off, often halting with various appendages dangling over the side of the sharp decline.

Now this is where it gets kind of interesting. I know that one of us slid to the edge that day and was not able to hang on. One of us fell 25 feet or so and hit, hard, on the next small dirt ledge. But I can't tell you which one. And in fact, I don't believe that it matters which one of us actually fell off the edge. The event was recorded so furiously in my mind that I seem to have both perspectives seared into my recollection. On the one hand, I can see myself staring up at my friend wondering how I am still alive after such a spill. And then it's also as if I remember being the one who was looking down at my friend, wondering if he was hurt, wondering if I was going to have to drag him home, or if I would have to run for help. What was I going to tell his mom?

Now I know that it's not physically possible to occupy two points in space simultaneously, but my perception of the fall was some how recorded from both sides. The outcome and implications of the hurt or possible injuries that might have resulted meant the same to me either way. It was just weird; I was unable to divide our dichotomized perception of reality.

Here's what I was thinking as I walked the rest of the block past my friends house: perhaps the reason I'm always a little melancholy is because there is always something to mourn even if things look dandy from where I stand; and at the same time, I'm always hopeful that the smiles and laughs that resonate in the collective body of believers will cause us to rejoice with one another. I'm beginning to look a little harder into the eyes of the people I hug and kiss these days. They look familiar.

Dispatch From the Writing Center

2004-12-16T19:19:00.000-08:00

I work here at the writing center. A "writer's consultant" is the title they have given me, just a nice name for the underpaid tutor who works with the freshman composition students. Saddled with various pitfalls, the junior college, where I do most of my consulting, which feeds Texas A&M University, one of the largest agricultural think tanks in the world, has repeatedly amazed me. Much of our time and energy in the writing center is hopefully spent for the purpose of "making better writers," our proud motto emblazoned across the top of our dry erase board. Rather, it seems we are law enforcers of a kind.

Not surprisingly, most of the students which breeze through the door are not ziners, or bloggers, or newspaper writers, or short literature authors, or anything else exiting that has to do with careful word choice. A large portion of these students may not have any desire to be in school, and yet they are here, either because they are not ready to face the world of life-after-high-school-without-a-bachelors-degree or for the purpose of soaking up financial aid and then wringing it out steadily each weekend. Not all of the students I have seen are this way, but it is certainly a rare exception when a student arrives with innovative ideas spilling off the page. Instead paper after paper is sloughed across my tutorial desk, and I am told to "read over it; see if it's good". To date, I've received exactly 240 papers on abortion, 404 papers on affirmative action, and 220 papers on racial profiling. Oh yeah, and there was that one about an all-in-one nutrition bar designed to eliminate world hunger.

The problem it seems, is that these students really believe that they have little, if not nothing, original to contribute to the ongoing rhetorical discussion. For all the conventions good academic writing is expected to contain, at least in these classrooms, there is little talk about what really makes a quality piece of writing. How can we teach students that they must follow such and such a rule, when employing devices such as words to convey meaning, which are extremely volatile and subjective, is the primary means of our communication?

I'm not advocating that we retract all of our useful tools in teaching writers to put their thoughts into something more intelligible. But as in any art form, good writing must be inspired and coaxed (sometimes crushed) from the author, but not by placing them inside a maze of helpful hints.

Open Letter to Badass

2004-11-30T11:48:00.000-08:00

Dear bad-ass with the 2003 Chevy Tahoe and 7-inch lift,

I know its not your fault that you and I pull up to the same
intersection at the same time every morning. It's just that I think
you know very well what this all means. When you peer through your
ominously tinted window, down through the top of my open sun-roof, all
chances of us ever being friends are dashed to peices, your two-step
beat pouding the small skeleton of my efficient sedan (I don't mind
country music, but what's the point of having four twelves, if your
not going to play hip hop?). My silver four-door hatchback may not
suit your tastes, but listen pal, it gets 20 more miles to the gallon
than you will ever see. Oddly, the light to which we must both succumb
at 29th and Carter Creek Pkwy is red 95% of the time. This means that
we will be seeing a lot of eachother. May I suggest that we have a
very important decision to make. That light, no matter how insiduous,
will either be an obstacle, or a door into a world of wonderous
opportunity.

I won't pretend to understand the hardships of maintaining such an
image as the one you must slave under. What do you do when your
feminine side starts to show its pretty little face? You must
internalize, right? Who is going to listen to a guy with tobbacco
stuck between the cracks of his bottom front teeth blubber about his
feelings being hurt? No one. Not when you must travel the same asphalt
7 inches higher than the rest of us. And especially not when you are
wearing those steel-toe boots, oakly sunglasses, and an American Eagle
shirt that says, "Beaver Lake Lacrosse".

Despite our differences, I want you to know that sometimes I really
feel for you. I think, "What would I do with all that money to spend
and not enough time in the day?" There's no turning back once you've
dedicated your life to such bad-assdome. Please realize, I'm not
asking you to turn back or be someone your not. Just be your bad self.
Let's simply try to make the best of things the way they are.

I'll make a deal with you. You need a break from carrying the
responsibility of being so hard, right? And I need til at least after
lunch to deal with that kind of intimidation. If you want to let down
the facade for a few moments, I won't tell. In return please don't
look at me unless your are going to smile. And it would be nice if I
didn't have to listen to that David Allen Coe crap until noon. Though
it would make for an exellent feature in the paper (Local Badass Finds
Difficulty In Maintaining Image), I wouldn't take advantage of you
like that. I will raise the other four fingers and juxtaposition my
palm in friendly gesture, if you will. Do you realize what kind of
mutual relationship we could have? I suppose you think I'm joking, but
look at my face next time we meet, the very defiinition of grave.We
can make this work!

Sincerely,

Ryan Vaughn
Bryan, TX

Dave Eggers Rant

2004-11-29T23:00:00.000-08:00

This is an excerpt from an interview with Dave Eggers in which he was prompted to rant by the phrase "selling out". Please post your comments. I expect some heartrending pieces of mind-blowing brilliance. Know what I mean?

I know this stuff is kind of dumb, but it's still fun to read. Personally, I think that "no" can be a "yes" to something else, but in general "yeses" are something that everyone should try out. I think he is on to something. If you must say no to something, counter it with a yes. God is a God of yes.

--wanderboy

First, a primer: When I got your questions, I was provoked. You expressed many of the feelings I used to have, when I was in high school and college, about some of the people I admired at the time, people who at some point disappointed me in some way, or made moves I could not understand. So I took a few passages from your questions--those pertaining to or hinting at "selling out"--and I used them as a launching pad for a rant I've wanted to write a while now, and more so than ever since my own book has become successful. And the rant was timely, because shortly after getting your questions, I was scheduled to speak at Yale, and so, assuming that their minds might be in a similar spot as yours, I read this, the below, to them, in slightly less polished form. The rant is directed at myself, age 20, as much of it is to you, so remember that if you ever want to take much offense.

You actually asked me the question: "Are you taking steps to keep shit real?" I want you to always look back on this time as being a time when those words came out of your mouth.

Now, there was a time when such a question--albeit probably without the colloquial spin--would have originated from my own brain. Since I was thirteen, sitting in my orange-carpeted bedroom in ostensibly cutting-edge Lake Forest, Illinois, subscribing to the Village Voice and reading the earliest issues of Spin, I thought I had my ear to the railroad tracks of avant garde America. (Laurie Anderson, for example, had grown up only miles away!) I was always monitoring, with the most sensitive and well-calibrated apparatus, the degree of selloutitude exemplified by any given artist--musical, visual, theatrical, whatever. I was vigilant and merciless and knew it was my job to be so.

I bought R.E.M.'s first EP, Chronic Town, when it came out and thought I had found God. I loved Murmur, Reckoning, but then watched, with greater and greater dismay, as this obscure little band's audience grew, grew beyond obsessed people like myself, grew to encompass casual fans, people who had heard a song on the radio and picked up Green and listened for the hits. Old people liked them, and stupid people, and my moron neighbor who had sex with truck drivers. I wanted these phony R.E.M.-lovers dead.

But it was the band's fault, too. They played on Letterman. They switched record labels. Even their album covers seemed progressively more commercial. And when everyone I knew began liking them, I stopped. Had they changed, had their commitment to making art with integrity changed? I didn't care, because for me, any sort of popularity had an inverse relationship with what you term the keeping "real" of "shit." When the Smiths became slightly popular they were sellouts. Bob Dylan appeared on MTV and of course was a sellout. Recently, just at dinner tonight, after a huge, sold-out reading by David Sedaris and Sarah Vowell (both sellouts), I was sitting next to an acquaintance, a very smart acquaintance married to the singer-songwriter of a very well-known band. I mentioned that I had seen the Flaming Lips the night before. She rolled her eyes. "Oh I really liked them on 90210," she sneered, assuming that this would put me and the band in our respective places.

However.

Was she aware that The Flaming Lips had composed an album requiring the simultaneous playing of four separate discs, on four separate CD players? Was she aware that the band had once, for a show at Lincoln Center, handed out to audience members something like 100 portable tape players, with 100 different tapes, and had them all played at the same time, creating a symphonic sort of effect, one which completely devastated everyone in attendance? I went on and on to her about the band's accomplishments, their experiments. Was she convinced that they were more than their one appearance with Jason Priestly? She was.

Now, at the concert the night before, Wayne Coyne, the lead singer, had himself addressed this issue, and to great effect. After playing much of their new album, the band paused and he spoke to the audience. I will paraphrase what he said:

"Hi. Well, some people get all bitter when some song of theirs gets popular, and they refuse to play it. But we're not like that. We're happy that people like this song. So here it goes."

Then they played the song. (You know the song.) "She Don't Use Jelly" is the song, and it is a silly song, and it was their most popular song. But to highlight their enthusiasm for playing the song, the band released, from the stage and from the balconies about 200 balloons. (Some of the balloons, it should be noted, were released by two grown men in bunny suits.) Then while playing the song, Wayne sang with a puppet on his hand, who also sang into the microphone. It was fun. It was good.

But was it a sellout? Probably. By some standards, yes. Can a good band play their hit song? Should we hate them for this? Probably, probably. First 90210, now they go playing the song every stupid night. Everyone knows that 90210 is not cutting edge, and that a cutting edge alternarock band should not appear on such a show. That rule is clearly stated in the obligatory engrained computer-chip sellout manual that we were all given when we hit adolescence.

But this sellout manual serves only the lazy and small. Those who bestow sellouthood upon their former heroes are driven to do so by, first and foremost, the unshakable need to reduce. The average one of us--a taker-in of various and constant media, is absolutely overwhelmed--as he or she should be--with the sheer volume of artistic output in every conceivable medium given to the world every day--it is simply too much to begin to process or comprehend--and so we are forced to try to sort, to reduce. We designate, we label, we diminish, we create heirarchies and categories.

Through largely received wisdom, we rule out Tom Waits's new album because it's the same old same old, and we save $15. U2 has lost it, Radiohead is too popular. Country music is bad, Puff Daddy is bad, the last Wallace book was bad because that one reviewer said so. We decide that TV is bad unless it's the Sopranos. We liked Rick Moody and Jonathan Lethem and Jeffrey Eugenides until they allowed their books to become movies. And on and on. The point is that we do this and to a certain extent we must do this. We must create categories, and to an extent, hierarchies.

But you know what is easiest of all? When we dismiss.

Oh how gloriously comforting, to be able to write someone off. Thus, in the overcrowded pantheon of alternarock bands, at a certain juncture, it became necessary for a certain brand of person to write off The Flaming Lips, despite the fact that everyone knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that their music was superb and groundbreaking and real. We could write them off because they shared a few minutes with Jason Priestly and that terrifying Tori Spelling person. Or we could write them off because too many magazines have talked about them. Or because it looked like the bassist was wearing too much gel in his hair.

One less thing to think about. Now, how to kill off the rest of our heroes, to better make room for new ones?

We liked Guided by Voices until they let Rick Ocasek produce their latest album, and everyone knows Ocasek is a sellout, having written those mushy Cars songs in the late 80s, and then--gasp!--produced Weezer's album, and of course Weezer's no good, because that Sweater song was on the radio, right, and dorky teenage girls were singing it and we cannot have that and so Weezer is bad and Ocasek is bad and Guided by Voices are bad, even if Spike Jonze did direct that one Weezer video, and we like Spike Jonze, don't we?

Ooh. No. We don't. We don't like him anymore because he's married to Sofia Coppola, and she is not cool. Not cool. So bad in Godfather 3, such nepotism. So let's check off Spike Jonze--leaving room in our brains for--who?

It's exhausting.

The only thing worse that this sort of activity is when people, students and teachers alike, run around college campuses calling each other racists and anti-Semites. It's born of boredom, lassitude. Too cowardly to address problems of substance where such problems actually are, we claw at those close to us. We point to our neighbor, in the khakis and sweater, and cry foul. It's ridiculous. We find enemies among our peers because we know them better, and their proximity and familiarity means we don't have to get off the couch to dismantle them.

And now, I am also a sellout. Here are my sins, many of which you may know about already:

First, I was a sellout because Might magazine took ads Then I was a sellout because our pages were color, and not stapled together at the Kinko's Then I was a sellout because I went to work for Esquire Now I'm a sellout because my book has sold many copies And because I have done many interviews And because i have let people take my picture And because my goddamn picture has been in just about every fucking magazine and newspaper printed in America.

And now, as far as McSweeney's is concerned, the Advocate interviewer wants to know if we're losing also our edge, if the magazine is selling out, hitting the mainstream, if we're still committed to publishing unknowns, and pieces killed by other magazines.

And the fact is, I don't give a fuck. When we did the last issue, this was my thought process: I saw a box. So I decided we'd to a box. We were given stories by some of our favorite writers--George Saunders, Rick Moody (who is uncool, uncool!), Haruki Murakami, Lydia Davis, others--and so we published them. Did I wonder if people would think we were selling out, that we were not fulfilling the mission they had assumed we had committed ourselves to?

No. I did not. Nor will I ever. We just don't care. We care about doing what we want to do creatively. We want to be interested in it. We want it to challenge us. We want it to be difficult. We want to reinvent the stupid thing every time. Would I ever think, before I did something, of how those with sellout monitors would respond to this or that move? I would not. The second I sense a thought like that trickling into my brain, I will put my head under the tires of a bus.

You want to know how big a sellout I am?

A few months ago I wrote an article for Time magazine and was paid $12,000 for it I am about to write something, 1,000 words, 3 pages or so, for something called Forbes ASAP, and for that I will be paid $6,000 For two years, until five months ago, I was on the payroll of ESPN magazine, as a consultant and sometime contributor. I was paid handsomely for doing very little. Same with my stint at Esquire. One year I spent there, with little to no duties. I wore khakis everyday. Another Might editor and I, for almost a year, contributed to Details magazine, under pseudonyms, and were paid $2000 each for what never amounted to more than 10 minutes work--honestly never more than that People from Hollywood want to make my book into a movie, and I am probably going to let them do so, and they will likely pay me a great deal of money for the privilege.

Do I care about the money? I do. Will I keep this money? Very little of it. Within the year I will have given away almost a million dollars to about 100 charities and individuals, benefiting everything from hospice care to an artist who makes sculptures from Burger King bags. And the rest will be going into publishing books through McSweeney's. Would I have been able to publish McSweeney's if I had not worked at Esquire? Probably not. Where is the $6000 from Forbes going? To a guy named Joe Polevy, who wants to write a book about the effects of radiator noise on children in New England.

Now, what if I were keeping all the money? What if I were buying property in St. Kitt's or blew it all on live-in prostitutes? What if, for example, I was, a few nights ago, sitting at a table in SoHo with a bunch of Hollywood slash celebrity acquaintances, one of whom I went to high school with, and one of whom was Puff Daddy? Would that make me a sellout? Would that mean I was a force of evil?

What if a few nights before that I was at the home of Julian Schnabel, at a party featuring Al Pacino and Robert DeNiro, and at which Schnabel said we should get together to talk about him possibly directing my movie? And what if I said sure, let's?

Would all that make me a sellout? Would I be uncool? Would it have been more cool to not go to this party, or to not have written that book, or done that interview, or to have refused millions from Hollywood?

The thing is, I really like saying yes. I like new things, projects, plans, getting people together and doing something, trying something, even when it's corny or stupid. I am not good at saying no. And I do not get along with people who say no. When you die, and it really could be this afternoon, under the same bus wheels I'll stick my head if need be, you will not be happy about having said no. You will be kicking your ass about all the no's you've said. No to that opportunity, or no to that trip to Nova Scotia or no to that night out, or no to that project or no to that person who wants to be naked with you but you worry about what your friends will say.

No is for wimps. No is for pussies. No is to live small and embittered, cherishing the opportunities you missed because they might have sent the wrong message.

There is a point in one's life when one cares about selling out and not selling out. One worries whether or not wearing a certain shirt means that they are behind the curve or ahead of it, or that having certain music in one's collection means that they are impressive, or unimpressive.

Thankfully, for some, this all passes. I am here to tell you that I have, a few years ago, found my way out of that thicket of comparison and relentless suspicion and judgment. And it is a nice feeling. Because, in the end, no one will ever give a shit who has kept shit "real" except the two or three people, sitting in their apartments, bitter and self-devouring, who take it upon themselves to wonder about such things. The keeping real of shit matters to some people, but it does not matter to me. It's fashion, and I don't like fashion, because fashion does not matter.

What matters is that you do good work. What matters is that you produce things that are true and will stand. What matters is that the Flaming Lips's new album is ravishing and I've listened to it a thousand times already, sometimes for days on end, and it enriches me and makes me want to save people. What matters is that it will stand forever, long after any narrow-hearted curmudgeons have forgotten their appearance on goddamn 90210. What matters is not the perception, nor the fashion, not who's up and who's down, but what someone has done and if they meant it. What matters is that you want to see and make and do, on as grand a scale as you want, regardless of what the tiny voices of tiny people say. Do not be critics, you people, I beg you. I was a critic and I wish I could take it all back because it came from a smelly and ignorant place in me, and spoke with a voice that was all rage and envy. Do not dismiss a book until you have written one, and do not dismiss a movie until you have made one, and do not dismiss a person until you have met them. It is a fuckload of work to be open-minded and generous and understanding and forgiving and accepting, but Christ, that is what matters. What matters is saying yes.

I say yes, and Wayne Coyne says yes, and if that makes us the enemy, then good, good, good. We are evil people because we want to live and do things. We are on the wrong side because we should be home, calculating which move would be the least damaging to our downtown reputations. But I say yes because I am curious. I want to see things. I say yes when my high school friend tells me to come out because he's hanging with Puffy. A real story, that. I say yes when Hollywood says they'll give me enough money to publish a hundred different books, or send twenty kids through college. Saying no is so fucking boring.

And if anyone wants to hurt me for that, or dismiss me for that, for saying yes, I say Oh do it, do it you motherfuckers, finally, finally, finally.

--Dave Eggers

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