The Baltimore Diaries

Journal Excerpts.

I keep a journal now on the train.  I started Monday.  Here are some excerpts from it.  Grammar and other problems intact from the original.

 

16 Nov 2009

Matthew 22 For many are invited but few are chosen.

 

I have become apathetic.  I am letting life happen to me rather than experience it.  Last Wednesday at small group, I had a glimmer of life, of conversation, of men challenging men to be better.  I miss that challenge…I need to challenge myself more spiritually, physically and creatively.  God has blessed me with a sense of peace, and I am apathetically squandering the opportunity.  In the absence of outside forces, I need to force myself into discipline.  Father, I want to be amongst those chosen at the wedding ceremony.

 

17 Nov 2009

Books I’ve read since coming to Baltimore:  A Canticle for Leibowitz, Memorial Day, Midshipman Horatio Hornblower, The Greedy Bastard Tour Diary, The Hidden Man, Children of Dune, Then We Came to the End, If Chins Could Kill.

 

Current:  40 70lb curls, 20 70lb shoulder press things, 500 crunches: 40 minutes.

Goals by Christmas:  50 70lb curls, 30 shoulder press things, 750 crunches: 40 minutes.

 

Now that I have a journal again, it’s like I have thoughts again for the first time.  Only they are rushing in so fast, I can’t possibly quantify them or articulate them on the page.  It’s okay.

 

Listening to: METALLICA:  Live at Donnington Download

 

The streets of Baltimore are the stomping grounds of numerous drug-addled souls.  They walk with eyes so closed, I’m surprised they can see anything let alone navigate streets dominated by speeding cars and trucks.  Who needs advertisements showing fried eggs when you can stroll near Lexington Market and see the symptoms of a brain on drugs:  clothes that don’t fit and aren’t clean, a wake of amused or disdainful looks, nearly closed eyes, brown teeth, blotchy skin, sores on mouth, hands, faces.  It simultaneously makes me sick and makes me angry and makes me feel so bad for them.

 

Matthew 23

Matt must match walk to talk to walk/He cannot speak without an appropriate movement of feet/An appropriate degree of belief (That’s faith by the way, and I say so I must also walk that way)/Matt must speak that which he believes/It’s not enough to walk the sidewalk and not exclaim the reason he came, to step upon it from the antithetical society-type fast lane./CARS CAN’T EXPLAIN, BUT A WALKING MAN CAN EXCLAIM!/TREES PASSING WINDOWS BLUR BUT WALKING MAN CAN PROVIDE EACH PINE A FRAME!/Matt must match talk to walk to talk.

 

18 Nov 2009

They change the direction of the escalators sporadically.  I can’t tell you why and it’s only a problem when what was the up elevator becomes the down elevator or vice versa over the course of the day.  Have you ever tried to step on an escalator expecting to go down only to have your feet shocked into backward motion?  It’s almost enough to make your torso launch forward kicking your heels over your head.  You’d be falling down the escalator going up.  I wonder how long you would fall, constantly beating your body to a pulp against the metal stairs as gravity pulls you down but the mechanical stairs push you up to prolong the agony.

 

Speaking of prolonged agony, will this car drama never end?  $1500 invested into the Focus in the last 8 weeks.  $500 into the Civic.  Still have to title and register both in MD.

 

Matthew 24

Don’t slack up.  Least of these.

 

20 Nov 2009

Think about the things you think about.  Do they make you turn around, cheeks red like you’ve been finally found out?  What about your secret doubts, the ones you’ve had sleepless nights trying to settle down?  Are you sick to death of that chirping sound, an alarm clock reminder of where you’re bound?  The calloused palms of a praying man speak more words than any self-help book can.  The calloused palms of a praying man provide a better guide than any atlas can.

The Mother Flippin’ Light Rail

The Light Rail.

Each day, I spend a lot of time on the light rail; in the morning and in the afternoon.  The sky is barely beginning to light when I get on the train, and the sky is starting to gray when I get off the train. 

I also ride the subway, but the trip is short and typically uneventful.

The light rail has all kinds of interesting things happen on it.  Most of the things make me sad or annoyed.  Few of them make me smile.  Due to this, I try to spend as much time as possible minding my own business and losing myself in whatever book I happen to be reading.  Currently, I’m reading “The Hidden Man” by Anthony Flacco.  It’s okay.  I would like to be able to listen to my headphones while reading and seclude myself to a gameshow-like isolation chamber, but frequently, after having worked for eight hours, my brain can’t handle the multiple inputs, so I typically (surprisingly) choose my book over my headphones.

I can’t figure out the patterns for the light rail in the afternoon.  I always ride the same train.  Even when I get out of work earlier than usual or later than usual.  I know it’s the same train because the drivers are assigned to specific routes (route defined by timing not direction as they all are on the same tracks) and the driver of my route has a very particular voice.  In the morning, the people are all the same.  In the afternoon, it’s all over the board.  Sometimes the train is empty.  Sometimes it’s packed. 

When it’s packed, I try to stand in a doorwell or in the joint section between cars.  I choose these areas because they have poles I can hook my arm around while reading without having my personal parts right beside someone’s head.

When it’s empty, I head straight for a window seat, keep my head down and try to ignore the other people on the train.  I’m pretty social, so you may be surprised by my isolationism.  Here are some stories from the train.

One day I was standing in a doorwell and a guy getting off at the Baltimore Highlands stop grabbed my metropass and bolted.  I was annoyed that my space was violated, but ultimately the joke was on the thief as the stolen pass was long-expired.  Almost every day, I’m bomboarded by braggarts talking about how they are going to fuck this up and fuck that up and fuck whatever.  Don’t get me wrong, I sometimes think swearing is funny, but come on.  Use words.  Try instead, “I’m going to fight him/her and in the process, severely injure them,” or “I’m going to have lusty, but not loving intercourse with him/her.”  [Note:  I don't think lusty, but not loving intercourse is ever a good idea.  I'm merely offering an alternative word choice for my fellow light rail riders.  That life choice has enough meet for a whole month's worth of blogs.]

I’m also frequently treated to toothless parents swearing at or near their silent children.  Sometimes, I’m “entertained” by clearly inebriated people slumping in their chairs, and once, I saw a woman so stoned she was drooling on herself and eventually took a nose dive from her chair into the aisle.  She was replaced in her chair by a grimacing co-rider and spent the rest of the trip half-asleep, nearly falling again.

Last week, I was sitting in my chair minding my business and suddenly felt a bump on my back followed by snickering.  I ignored it, and I was treated to the experience no fewer than 7 times between Hamburg Street and North Linthicum.  When I turned around, I found a middle-aged woman whistling and trying very hard not to make eye contact.  I’m not kidding.  Please don’t touch me uninvited.

I feel bad for people.  I don’t hate them.  I feel bad that they weren’t treated to a loving upbringing in a lot of cases, so they haven’t learned manners.  Occasionally, I get to share a seat with a kind person and we exchange brief introductions with smiles, so it’s not all bad.  My morning driver tells us all to “have a blessed day,” and it sounds small, but it makes me feel better every morning.  I just try to be polite.  I surrender my seat to others when necessary and have helped people get their bags aboard. 

I love the train because of the reading time it gives me.  I hate it because it’s time away from my family.  I’m annoyed by it because of the behavior of some people that makes me sad and/or uncomfortable.  I love it because it reminds me of how lucky I am and it makes me feel part of this beautiful/disasterous city, Baltimore.

 

Music as Canvas and Language

 

If you were a fly hitching a ride in my car when Ariella and I are on drives, you would often hear phrases like, “Little [that's what I call Ariella], listen to this.  This is [insert band name], and they are [insert choice of important, incredible, over-rated, under-rated, mind blowing, vomit-inducing, etc.] because [insert impeccable and inarguably accurate explanation].”

It’s important to me that Ariella enjoys music on a deeper level.  I don’t care if she ends up loving the same music I do.  I am positive each generation gathers to itself new musical tastes that their parents, mostly stuck in the ruts of their late teens and early 20s, cannot swallow.  For example, my parents are totally incapable of appreciating bands like Norma Jean, Protest the Hero, Jay-Z, Ludacris, and The Dismemberment Plan.  I, however, love them.  My parents’ parents couldn’t swallow bands like Led Zeppelin or The Rolling Stones.

Music is my emotional language.  I believe that if I didn’t have music, I would become a shell.  A turtle whose head and legs are never exposed; just a hard, unfeeling shell.  Music gives me the language to express myself.  The music I listen to is a manifestation of my self.  It doesn’t match up along superficial lines by any means.  Listening to Battles or The Bad Plus doesn’t mean I’m in a contemplative mood.  Listening to The Deftones (like I am right now) doesn’t mean I’m angry.  Listening to Flogging Molly doesn’t mean I’m drunk.  I can’t describe how it works, but you’re going to have to believe me that music provides a canvas on which I can paint my emotions.

I’ve been feeling odd, lately.  I’ve been feeling detached, solemn, aloof.  From everything.  I’ve masked it with being busy, but I’ve come to realize that the feeling is only partially due to the fact that I don’t have a community to feel part of right now.  It is also due to the fact that I haven’t been taking the time to soak up music like my emotional fuel tanks require.  Last Friday, I started to remedy this, and since then, I have had several instances of rapid refueling.  Notably, I watched VH1’s Classic Albums on Nirvana’s Nevermind.  I admit I’ve seen it before (and before that, I saw it once or thrice).  ”Little, this is Nirvana, and they are important because they reminded the world that music isn’t only about egos.”

Then, I watched The Song Remains the Same, a live Led Zeppelin performance.  I had the misfortune of noticing that Robert Plant’s jeans were so tight that they were actually worn where his penis pressed against them kind of like my wallet wears a lighter spot on my back pocket.  You could see the total outline of his junk.  Despite that, with eyes averted and/or closed, I was able to soak in the sound.  ”Little, this is Led Zeppelin, and they are important because they played the blues with a lot of kick and had one heck of a drummer.”

Later, I watched a special on VH1 Classic about eras of rock.  The special was about 1965 and covered The Rolling Stones, Eric Clapton/The Yardbirds, and The Who, who are possibly my favorite band in terms of how much I take away from them for my own writing/feeling.  When I listen to Love, Reign O’er Me, I can feel my world go dark and become only Daltrey’s voice, Entwhistle’s bass, Townshend’s guitar, and Moon’s drumming.

Some other important bands while I’m thinking about it (in addition to all the ones mentioned above):  Queen, Rancid, Underoath, The Smiths, The Cure, Metallica, Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden, (I’m tired of doing links, so go to Youtube.com and search for yourself) mewithoutYou, NOFX, Dropkick Murphys, Hillsong, Green Day, Simon and Garfunkel, The Beatles, George Harrison, Cream, Blind Faith, Derek and the Dominoes, Ben Harper, Muddy Waters, Miles Davis, Jimi Hendrix, Robert Johnson, Herbie Hancock, AC/DC, Beastie Boys, The Beach Boys, Ben Folds Five, Cake, The Clash, Eels, Foo Fighters, Jimmy Eat World, Johnny Cash, Montgomery Gentry, Morphine, Primus, Rage Against the Machine, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Outkast, Rush, Self, The Specials, Stone Temple Pilots, Justin Timberlake, George Strait, The Temptation, Van Halen, AFI, Alkaline Trio, Weezer, The White Stripes, 2 Skinnee J’s…..dozens more that aren’t coming to mind.

If you were a fly hitching a ride in my car when Ariella and I are on drives, you would often hear phrases like, “Little [that's what I call Ariella], listen to this.  This is [insert band name], and they are [insert choice of important, incredible, over-rated, under-rated, mind blowing, vomit-inducing, etc.] because [insert impeccable and inarguably accurate explanation].”
It’s important to me that Ariella enjoys music on a deeper level.  I don’t care if she ends up loving the same music I do.  I am positive each generation gathers to itself new musical tastes that their parents, mostly stuck in the ruts of their late teens and early 20s, cannot swallow.  For example, my parents are totally incapable of appreciating bands like Norma Jean, Protest the Hero, Jay-Z, Ludacris, and The Dismemberment Plan.  I, however, love them.  My parents’ parents couldn’t swallow bands like Led Zeppelin or The Rolling Stones.  Music is my emotional language.  I believe that if I didn’t have music, I would become a shell.  A turtle whose head and legs are never exposed; just a hard, unfeeling shell.  Music gives me the language to express myself.  The music I listen to is a manifestation of my self.  It doesn’t match up along superficial lines by any means.  Listening to Battles or The Bad Plus doesn’t mean I’m in a contemplative mood.  Listening to The Deftones (like I am right now) doesn’t mean I’m angry.  Listening to Flogging Molly doesn’t mean I’m drunk.  I can’t describe how it works, but you’re going to have to believe me that music provides a canvas on which I can paint my emotions.
I’ve been feeling odd, lately.  I’ve been feeling detached, solemn, aloof.  From everything.  I’ve masked it with being busy, but I’ve come to realize that the feeling is only partially due to the fact that I don’t have a community to feel part of right now.  It is also due to the fact that I haven’t been taking the time to soak up music like my emotional fuel tanks require.  Last Friday, I started to remedy this, and since then, I have had several instances of rapid refueling.  Notably, I watched VH1’s Classic Albums on Nirvana’s Nevermind.  I admit I’ve seen it before (and before that, I saw it once or thrice).  ”Little, this is Nirvana, and they are important because they reminded the world that music isn’t only about egos.”
Then, I watched The Song Remains the Same, a live Led Zeppelin performance.  I had the misfortune of noticing that Robert Plant’s jeans were so tight that they were actually worn where his penis pressed against them kind of like my wallet wears a lighter spot on my back pocket.  You could see the total outline of his junk.  Despite that, with eyes averted and/or closed, I was able to soak in the sound.  ”Little, this is Led Zeppelin, and they are important because they played the blues with a lot of kick and had one heck of a drummer.”
Later, I watched a special on VH1 Classic about eras of rock.  The special was about 1965 and covered The Rolling Stones, Eric Clapton/The Yardbirds, and The Who, who are possibly my favorite band in terms of how much I take away from them for my own writing/feeling.  When I listen to Love, Reign O’er Me, I can feel my world go dark and become only Daltrey’s voice, Entwhistle’s bass, Townshend’s guitar, and Moon’s drumming.
Some other important bands while I’m thinking about it (in addition to all the ones mentioned above):  Queen, Rancid, Underoath, The Smiths, THe Cure, Metallica, Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden, mewithoutYou, NOFX, Dropkick Murphys, Hillsong, Green Day, Simon and Garfunkel, The Beatles, George Harrison, Cream, Blind Faith, Derek and the Dominoes, Ben Harper, Muddy Waters, Miles Davis, Jimi Hendrix, Robert Johnson, Herbie Hancock, AC/DC, Beastie Boys, The Beach Boys, Ben Folds Five, Cake, The Clash, Eels, Foo Fighters, Jimmy Eat World, Johnny Cash, Montgomery Gentry, Morphine, Primus, Rage Against the Machine, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Outkast, Rush, Self, The Specials, Stone Temple Pilots, Justin Timberlake, George Strait, The Temptation, Van Halen, AFI, Alkaline Trio, Weezer, The White Stripes, 2 Skinnee J’s…..dozens more that aren’t coming to mind.

 

Philly Hates Me and My Ford

Last week was crazy. 

On Tuesday afternoon, Becky picked me up from work and we drove (with Ariella) to Philadelphia where we met up with the wonderful Taylor and Juliette.  We had dinner at a spectacular Mexican (not unusual or anything, it just really hit the spot) restaurant.  We returned home for some games, mostly won by Juliette much to the chagrin of the rest of us.  Becky shared a surprisingly comfortable pull-out couch, and in the morning, I showered and drove to the office in Malvern (about an hour drive). 

I worked all day while Becky explored Philly with Ariella.  In the evening I drove back to the city to have dinner at Ralph’s Italian Restaurant in South Philly.  It was very classic, red-sauce Italian like you see in the movies.  The other patrons could have easily been on The Sopranos (possibly even may have been real-life inspiration for those characters).  After dinner, family Murphy returned to Malvern for a night in a hotel.  Becky and I again got the pull-out couch because I cannot be separated from the restroom for an entire night.  I keep hearing these prostate health ads, and I think they are making me have to pee more with paranoia.  I’ll see a doctor for a general check-up after the holidays.

I worked again all day Thursday after having literally not slept a wink.  My previous blog talks to my health.  After posting that blog, Becky showed up at the office after a delayed departure from the Crayola facory in Easton, PA.  She recommends it to you parents out there.

We drove back into Philly to pick up my friend from Broadneck High, Severn River Junior High, Magothy River Middle, Cape Elementary and Tiger Scouts, Jimmy Lugar.  We met when we were five and I was excited to hang out.  He lives in ATL now, so we don’t see each other much.  Unfortunately, I was feeling ill.

Anyway, we went to get a cheesesteak.  I had one bite and had to force back the thought of throwing up, and not just because of the horrible right-wing nonsense plastered all over Geno’s Steak’s walls.

After that, we hit the road, but we didn’t get far.  Suddenly, in South Philly, a bang was followed by a grind, as I pulled the car into a nearby parking lot.  Jimmy and I (like any men in this situation) immediately looked under the hood as if we knew what we were doing.  We both pointed at the area where the sound was coming from and confirmed that the fan belt was in the area, but was intact.  That was the extent of our diagnosis.

We then called a tow truck.  I accompanied the Focus in the tow truck while Becky, Ariella, and Jimmy caught a cab to the airport, rented a Suzuki car from Hertz and returned to South Philly to retrieve me.  I meanwhile, sat sick and freezing on the side of the road surrounded by baggage (the physical kind, not the emotional kind). 

Eventually, I was retrieved and I drove us home.

Friday, I did some work from home, napped and tried recovering as best as possible.  It was our five-year anniversary, but all this car trouble has left us a little slim financially, so we went to Annapolis for a walk, fantastic hot dogs at Pip’s (seriously) followed by fresh sweet crepes at Sofi’s (amazing).  We also bought cupcakes from Nostalgia Cupcakes which we later ate at home while coughing together and watching The Proposal (I’m a sucker for RomComs).

Saturday at 6:30 AM, my dad and I drove to Philly to get the Focus (a motor mount broke and fell into the fan belt, which had to be cut and replaced).  We ate a cheesesteak at 9:00 AM while waiting for Marino’s Auto Repair on Bancroft St. to open.  Dave Lalli at Marino’s is great.  If you are in Philly, go see him.  He’ll hook youse up (Yes, I meant to say youse).

On the way home from Philly, adjacent to the Philly airport, the drivers side mirror came off the car.  Not just the glass part, but the whole housing.  It was dangling by the adjustment wire banging against the side of the car.  In the driving rain, I put down the window, grabbed the mirror and held it roughly in place.  I put up the window as much as I could while holding the mirror and prayed that God would protect me from frostbite.  He did, barely, I think.  20 Miles later after a precarious phone call to my dad, we stopped and taped the mirror back onto the car.  Ghetto.

Cars.  Sheesh.

We’ll see if I can manage better when I go back in December.

—

That night, we took Ariella trick-or-treating for the first time.  It was too fun to include adjacent to the drama above.  Maybe I’ll write about it next.  Would you like to hear about it?

In Malvern, Phillies fans are making me sick, perhaps literally.

I’m in Malvern, PA, a technological haven about 40 minutes outside Philly.  I’m currently sitting in a humungous atrium in the home of one of my company’s divisions here in the states.  I spent the last two days commiserating and planning with a wonderful person I will be sharing duties with and collaborating on projects with.  We don’t have anything finalized, but we have at least cleared the ground and started to terrain it for the laying of tracks.  The huge, creosote-laden wooden ties lay in a an odd pyramid behind me.

I’m sick.

It may just be fatigue.  I don’t know.  I feel like I was hit by a bus, or maybe a few buses.  I didn’t sleep last night, and when I say I didn’t sleep, I mean I literally did not sleep.  I just lay tossing and turning, tossing and turning, like some sick washing machine but instead of spreading soap around, I was spreading germs, bad-morning-breath and skin cells, oh and mites.  Jess used to look at pictures of skin mites at work.

My lower back is where the disease lives with it’s achiness and sharper, more infrequent stabs of lightning hot pain.  Oh, well, my head, too.  That bugger feels as though it weighs 100 lbs, and as my whole body only weighs 167 lbs, I doubt my head is as heavy as it feels.  Perhaps it is.  Perhaps I have a cranial weight shifting disease.  Perhaps if I move my head in a lateral motion with the proper velocity I will throw up.  I spent the meeting holding my head.  I did.  I held it on top, pressing down with one hand to keep it from lolling forward like an infant’s.  Sometimes, just to change things up, I held my head with both hands, thumbs below my chin and fingers splayed about the back of my head.  I leaned back in my chair to the greatest extent possible in an effort to keep my spine align and prevent the lightning flashes in and about my kidney areas.

Maybe it’s the Phillies fans.  Their fandom is infectious.  Maybe in me, a man who cares relatively little about baseball but grew up loving the O’s and hating the Yankees, the Phillies fandom manifests itself as honest to goodness illness.  Blower, man.  I hope the Phillies win, but in the future, I would appreciate it if they keep their non-DH germs to their own damn selves.

Pause.

I have to sit still from time to time to keep from throwing up.  I think it may just be tiredness, maybe.  Maybe it’s Rage from 28 Days Later, maybe.

Vehicles.

 

This weekend was spent mostly in vehicles.  Or at least that’s how it feels.  Let’s start at 3:00 PM, Friday. 

3:00 PM – Matt boards the Baltimore Subway.
3:07 PM – Matt debarks the Baltimore Subway.
3:14 PM – Matt boards the Baltimore Light Rail.
3:52 PM – Matt debarks the Baltimore Subway.
3:52 PM until 4:21 PM – Matt drives his 1991 Toyota Camry fromCromwell/Glen Burnie to Cape St. Claire.
4:23 PM – Matt drives with Becky and Ariella in the Ford Focus to Annapolis.
7:00 PM – Matt drives back to Cape St. Claire in the Ford Focus with his family.
—
Saturday
12:15 PM to 3:15 PM – Matt drives his 1993 Dodge Dakota (which has no radio) to Bowling Green, VA where he enjoys dinner and conversation with the fabulous Nate Ballentine and the beautiful Becky Murphy, Jess Glass and Renee Ballentine.  Becky drove separately in the Ford Focus and we passed the truck on to Nate and Renee.
—
Sunday
7:55 AM to 8:32 AM – Matt drives the Ford Focus from Bowling Green to church by himself.  Becky and Ariella were driven later by Jess.
12:50 PM to 1:00 PM – Matt drives with his family in the Ford Focus to Ledo’s Pizza.
1:53 PM until 3:05 PM – Matt drives with his family to Hopewell, VA, specifically a Burger King near the junction of Rt. 10 and I-295.  Matt eats/drinks a Oreo Milkshake and immediately regrets the calorie intake.  At 3:30 PM, Becky’s parents arrive and Matt acquires his newest vehicle, a 2000 Honda Civic with 64,000 miles on it.
4:00 PM to 5:00 PM, then 5:15 PM to 7:40 PM – Matt drives alone in the Honda Civic to Cape St. Claire, MD, with a 15 minute stop in Bowling Green to pick up Dizzy and Buddy.   The Civic does not have a radio. 

It is however a lowrider.  The downside to the lowrider aspect is the stiffness.  It is easily as stiff as the Jeep.  The other downside is that it has front-end damage causing the left front wheel to rub when a big bump is hit or if the car turns right.  DANGEROUS!  Also, the left headlight is useless and points directly at the ground.  DANGEROUS! 

While in Bowling Green, I used a hammer to wedge some of the rubbing pieces away from the wheel, which helped, but did not totally fix the problem.

—
Now, I will be selling the 1991 Camry I just bought.  It’s a fun car, but the Civic (once fixed) is nicer and I feel gangsta’ in a lowrider. 

If you are interested in buying the Camry, let me know.  It’s going to be C-H-E-A-P. 

Written out, I see I wasn’t really in the car all that much.  It just felt like a ton.

Reading Books…is…AWESOME

Life is a solitary thing meant to be in community.  My days are very routine, and the routine is mostly my work schedule.

I get to travel sometimes for work, which is pretty awesome.  I was in Raleigh, NC, last week.  In the next week or two, I’ll be spending a few days in Philadelphia, PA.  Next year, I’ll be going to Erlangen, Germany.  Outside of these excursions, though, my life has become rather solitary, but not necessarily in a bad way.

I miss my friends in Fredericksburg.  I haven’t had a really gut-busting laugh in a while.  My moments here are devoid of close friends, except for the presence of my best friend, Becky.  The two of us make each other laugh fairly regularly, but rarely the gut-busting type. 

I don’t dwell on what was, too much, except to chastise myself on how poorly I keep up with my friends from Fredericksburg.  I haven’t talked to John or Jon since we met up at the RenFair a few weeks ago.  I haven’t talked to Jess for what seems like eternity after having spent so many days side by side.  Sorry, I suck.  I’ll figure it out.  I’m still learning to have a life beyond just commuting.

Okay, so that is the update on my life.  Here’s what you were reading for…

I’ve been reading books like crazy.  I read A Canticle for Leibowitz a few weeks ago, which I think you should read (Jess, I think you should read it).  I think everyone should read it for it’s insight into the role of intelligence in both wonderful things and atrocious things.  After that, I read an uber-violent and somewhat pointless Vince Flynn novel I pilfered from my dad.  Those terrorists got what they had coming to them, I guess.  It kind of left me feeling like I needed a shower.

Speaking of which, I think I forgot to put on deodorant one day during the meeting in Raleigh last week, and I spent the whole morning freaking out.  I ditched the first few minutes of lunch to ensure odor protection in the afternoon.  You can’t be stinking at team-building bowling events with a bunch of Europeans and Asians who have rarely been bowling.  You can’t be stinking when fried food and pitchers of beer flow freely like mashed potatoes at an Old Country Buffet on Irish night.

After the Vince Flynn book, I read Then We Came to the End by Josh Ferris.  I have to admit that at first I hated it.  By the time I got to the middle, where there is a brief change in narrative style, I was hooked.  I felt a part of every life in the collective “we” of the office depicted in the book.  While I’ve never worked in a giant corporate office (I work for a corporation but in a remote outpost), I could relate to the fears and behaviors of the staff in the book, particularly as I myself just came through the emotional roller coaster and pain of lay offs.  By the time the book ends, I was craving more in depth wrap ups of where my beloved office-mates ended up.  I wanted to hear more of the “we” they had found themselves in after the death of the agency.  I wanted to hear Tom Mota’s story in first person plural.  What was the “we” he found himself joining like?

I just finished Then We Came to the End before landing in Raleigh.  I didn’t read for the second half of the week going into Meagan’s beautiful, wonderful wedding.  The next wedding on the calendar is Heather and Brett’s and yours truly is officiating.

On the way home, Becky and I stopped in Charlottesville for literally the best brunch I’ve ever had, and I bought Dune Messiah, the follow-up to Herbert’s Dune, which was one of my favorite books.  I’m enjoying this one so far, but I will have to read Dune again, I think.  It’s been about six years, and I don’t remember some of the references made in this book very clearly.

Musically, I’m back on a Battles kick and obsessed with the song “Tonto” and its video.  I am also digging the new AFI album a lot, much more than decemberunderground, and I dig the new video for “Medicate” and the band’s new look.

Allergic to Fall

I wrote this last Monday but I forgot to post it:

 

Hi.  My name is Matt, and I am a cynic, a skeptic and a pessimist.  I spend more time trying to find the bottom line and learning to accept the “worst-case” scenario than I do looking for silver linings; at least in my own life.  In your life, if you tell me your story, as sobbing as it may be, I’ll be able to (and quick to) point to the silver linings in the thunderstorm.  Why am I blind to that in my life?

I wonder how many people are really good at staying on the bright side of their own life all the time?  Becky is very good at pointing out my pessimism, often in a way that hurts me, like she’s pointing with emotional knives, but I guess that’s a good thing. Now, removed from a situation that led to an expression of pessimism, I can objectively look at Becky and say that she’s not always the best at looking at the bright side either.  If I had said that to her yesterday morning, I think she would have punched me in the eye.

Speaking of being punched in the eye, yesterday was Ariella’s birthday party.  My cousin Brooke and her husband came.  My in-laws (all but one) came.  It was particularly awesome.  We held the party at my aunt and uncle’s house in Annapolis.  Ariella got some awesome toys, and we feasted on chili and a collection of cupcakes frosted to look like Elmo, that ticklish little fellow.  Ella chowed down on the cupcake…no…strike that…Ariella chowed down on the icing on the cupcake.  Her face and hands were stained an Elmo-red, some of which survived a deep cleansing upon returning home.  Pictures will be online sometime soon.

I bet some of you are thinking, “He started that last paragraph with something about being punched in the eye, but he got off on an Elmo tangent.  I hope he gets back to the point.”  Don’t worry, it’s coming.  My cousin Adam is 11 and plays hockey.  Ariella and my nephew, Taylor, were fascinated by Adam shooting goals in his outdoor net.  Then, Ariella became fascinated by Adam and my uncle, his dad, Jay, playing catch with a football.  I eventually went to thrown the ball with Adam, and Ariella came to play, too.  I would give her the ball, and she would run from me toward Adam.  It turns out I am much faster than Ariella and could easily tackle her before she reached Adam.  This would involve us rolling around, laughing in the grass; which led to a figurative punch in my left eye.

I got home and my left eye was swelling, itchy and red.  Frick, it was awful.  It is now a bit raw and dry from my incessant rubbing it last night.  I guess some sort of allergen worked its way in there.  Oh man, I hate you, allergen.

Today, in an effort to find more silver linings in my own life and become inwardly positive as well as outwardly positive, the good part of this allergen situation is that it made me sick of having my eyes open last night, so I went to bed really early and got mega sleep and feel like a champion right now.

Playing music is what I do.

I’ve been dying without the constant influx of music I enjoyed while working at NHS.  See, I can’t use my computer at my new job to constantly stream new music from Pandora, or MySpace, or a number of other outlets.  My creativity, musically, is directly related to what is going in.  You know the old adage used to dissuade watching rated R movies or in the computer geek world for programming techniques: “Garbage In, Garbage Out.”  Well, that applied to my creative nature as well.  And recently, the sounds going in have been the deep hum of my 93 Dodge Dakota’s six-cylinder engine and the frightening rattle of the truck’s bed as it reaches speeds of between 73 and 83 MPH.  I would be more specific, but I can’t because the speedometer jumps up and down in ten mile-per-hour arcs once the speed exceeds 68 MPH.

I sat down with my guitar yesterday, and only the dry-tired gasps of chords I’ve put together in uninspiring chains a million times before came out.  Listening to new music has been replaced with books on the train and my iPod shuffling through the same trampled playlists.  It’s just one more thing I’m finding I miss about Fredericksburg.

In the burg, I had music at my fingertips at any hour, practically.  It called out to me.  Nearly all of my friends’ houses stored instruments, often multiple to facilitate playing together (note that I don’t use the word “jamming,” which implied noodling and a lack of progress in most cases…I said MOST cases you crazy Phish fans).  I sometimes took advantage of it, but not as often as I should have.  I didn’t push my agenda of new songs as hard as I could have, and wish I had.  I was writing nearly constantly at the time; mostly simple post-blues rock songs and riffs.

I had bands to play with.  Here Today had long faded to a memory, but Sweet Old Etcetera was just starting to retract its landing gear aimed for cruising altitude.  Technically SOE isn’t done, but we currently have nothing lined up.  I had the worship band(s) at Common Ground, too, and they were great.  My comfort level with them was at a peak going into the summer, when I decided for the sake of my family to take a break.  I still played from time to time, but not with my previous regularity, and I still ache for it.  I still ache for the times rocking and rolling with Alan and Connor, too, actually.

I go to church now, and I am sad that the caliber of musicianship, creative arrangements and passion don’t match the feeling the players at CG exude.  They are worshipping at churches here, for sure.  They are passionately loving God, but their expression of it does not equal what I am used to.  I don’t know how to say that without coming off as a jerk, so I’m sorry.  I just am blown away by the passion of CG’s leaders, especially Julia, John, Jon and Shauna.  Julia could easily be a touring worship leader, especially backed by John D. and Jonathan B.

My dad asked me last night if I missed playing with people.  It’s now been more than a month since I played with anyone, and truth be told, I haven’t been playing much at all; my attention so frequently required somewhere else in the house by Becky (truly and honestly my best friend) or Ariella.  I need to start setting aside a practice time for myself like I set aside running and sit-ups time.  I answered my dad that I miss it like people who grow deaf miss the voices of their children.

I miss music, period.  Blackberry may be coming to the rescue to an extent.  I have access to an online radio program, similar to Pandora, and I intend to utilize the crap out of it.  I just need to remember to bring my charger to work because it eats through the battery faster than when the Blackberry is just chilling.  Blackberries love to just chill.

Catch you later.

Commuting

Commuting.

In my previous life, my morning commute commenced at approximately 9:45 AM and ended at approximately 10:00 AM.  I drove just under six miles from my house in Spotsylvania County to my office in downtown Fredericksburg.

Nowadays, my commute begins between 6:00 AM and 6:15 AM and ends between 7:20 AM and 7:45 AM.  It involves a 16 mile drive (Rt. 2 to US-100) from my house in Cape St. Claire, Maryland, to the Cromwell-Glen Burnie Light Rail stop.  At that point, I board the light rail and ride it to the Lexington Market stop (barring any issues, like on Monday, when they forced everyone off at Camden Yards).  When I get off at Lexington Market, I walk about a block then take two escalators down to the Baltimore Subway, which I take from Lexington Market to its eastern terminus, Johns Hopkins Hospital.  The subway lets out in a tunnel/hallway that connects the JH Outpatient Center (where my office is) to the main hospital across the street.  I have a short walk to a bank of elevators, following by a short walk to my office. 

In my previous life, my afternoon commute commenced at approximately 6:00 PM and ended at approximately 6:15 PM.  I drove just under six miles from my office in downtown Fredericksburg to my house in Spotsylvania County.

Nowadays, my afternoon commute commences around 3:30 PM and ends between 5:00 PM and 5:30 PM.  I take the subway from Hopkins to Lexington Market.  The walk from the subway to the southbound light rail stop is about two blocks, but if I don’t see the train coming (which is roughly half the time), I keep walking down Howard Street.  If I see the train coming, I stop at the nearest stop, but more often then not, I reach Camden Yards before the train catches me.  You can’t walk any further due to the confluence of many roads ending in “95.”  I jump on the light rail (careful to get the Cromwell train and not the BWI train) and ride to Cromwell-Glen Burnie, the southern terminus of the line.  I then drive about 30 miles (97S to 50E) to my house in Cape St. Claire.  I drive a different route home due to traffic concerns.

I am doubtful that this commute will be forever.  Most likely, when Becky and I look to move into our own place we will move much closer to the city, or at least to a hub of the light rail or subway.  In the meantime, I’m trying to enjoy it rather than be stressed out about it.  I read books.  I’m currently guiltily reading a pulp fiction thriller by Vince Flynn called Memorial Day.  I’m averaging just under a book a week at this point.  It’s also nice to look out the windows of the light rail.  Even though the water we cross over looks more deadly than delightful, there is something awesome about seeing a city’s skyline come up over the horizon, even when the skyline isn’t particular majestic (as is the case with Baltimore).

People talk crap about this city a lot, but I’ve always found it interesting, and the reality is, most of the people who talk crap about it know very little about it, and their opinion is formed by shows like The Wire and Homicide: Life on the Streets.  Remember Roc?  That took place here, too.  Yes, the crime rate and other horrible statistics are very high.  Yes, a JHU student chopped a dude with a Samurai sword.  Yes, I saw a bum peeing in one of the elevators to the subway.  Yes, my bookmark was stolen while riding the light rail on Tuesday.  Seriously, a bookmark?  Well, it was an expired MTA pass, they probably thought they were getting a free ride.  Sucker.  I keep the live pass in my chest shirt pocket.

Baltimore is all these things, but there is a plodding vitality to it.  It’s lumbering through, and its citizens are pushing steadily forward despite the decline in industry that was once it’s life-blood.  I love walking down the street in the afternoon and seeing all the people, most of whom are poor, African American men and women.  I love hearing snippets of their conversations, usually gossip about so and so, and so on.  I exchange smiles with people that pass me, and often receive one in return.  In Boston, that never happened, no matter the race or any other apparent similarity/disparity to my own appearance.

Once things are more settled, I really look forward to spending more time getting to know the city, its neighborhoods, its contributions to the Food Network (minus Charm City Cakes, which I can’t begin to afford) and its people.  In the meantime, I will settle for watching the people along my walk along Howard St. from Lexington Market to Camden Yards every afternoon.