eric nuzum dot com

Music for Airports

Eno_Brian_music_for_airports
Originally uploaded by JRP1953

Throughout my life, I've owned at least six copies of Brian Eno's 1978 album Music for Airports.

I kept buying them, then giving them away to people that I felt should have the record. Music for Airports was Brian Eno’s first album of “ambient music”—sparce, simple music meant to create mood and ambience for spaces (like an airport, for example).

Music for Airports only contained four songs, if you can call them that. Each featured a series of tape loops of a few simple notes (or sometimes just a single note) from a piano, a synthesizer, or human voice. These notes would loop on intervals, one loop would repeat every 23 seconds, another every 39 seconds, another once a minute, and so on. The randomness generated unexpected harmonies and moments of beauty, surround by periods of reverberance and near silence. It was unlike anything anyone I’d known had ever heard.

I first discovered Music for Airports at a youth theater class when I was twelve. To stress the importance of learning to move well, they brought in this flaky choreographer a couple times a year who had no interest in dealing with children at all.

“Okay now, boys and girls,” she said. “I’m going to play some music for you—and I just want you to move. You can move any way you wish, just let your body do what the music tells you to do.”

That was about the limit of our instruction. Every week she’d show up with a new piece of music. She’d hit play, and start to lead by example. She’d roll up her arm, spin around, and then dart across the stage. Then she’d collapse to the ground, flop around for a bit, then stand up and look at us.

“Okay, boys and girls, now it’s your turn!”

We just stood there, perfectly still. After a few minutes one girl would raise her arm, then put it back down. A few of us would walk around the room stiffly, trying to time our steps with the music. Then someone would jump up in the air. Within a few minutes we were all back to standing shoulder to shoulder in the middle of the room, motionless. This cycle continued for an hour every class.

“Good, boys and girls, that was very good,” she said. “Now let’s try another.”

She popped in a new tape that just contained random notes. No beat, no melody, not much of anything in fact.

“Okay now, everyone, just move to the music. Let the music inspire you.”

Everyone just stood there.

“What is this?” one girl asked.

“I think your tape player is busted,” said another.

“This is called Music for Airports. Imagine you are flying….” she said, letting her voice trail away as she raised her arms and ran around the room swooping up and down.

That next Friday, as soon as I had my allowance, I rode my bike down to the record store.

“Do you have an album called Music for Airports?” I asked.

The clerk looked at me funny. I’m sure not too many twelve-year-olds came in asking for that one.

“The Brian Eno record?” he asked. “You know what that is like?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “I’ve heard it before.”

You can listen to the entire album via the playlist below:

The purge

Stacked
Originally uploaded by lazy butterfly

There was a time when I had a plastic CD tower that held 209 CDs, so I owned exactly 209 CDs. I figured that would be enough. If I wanted a new CD, that meant I had to get rid of an old one. I functioned under this system for years, but decided sometime in the early 90s that it was, as you would guess, nonsense. That's when I started to really accumulate CDs.

After a variety of failing CD storage ideas and systems, when we moved in Washington, we bought some seriously industrial strength CD cabinets. They were even rated for use in earthquake areas. Two of these units held about 2500 CDs--and a few years ago we actually managed to fill them. I was doing everything I could to save space--replacing CD boxes with sleeves, thinning out a handful of CDs here and there.

A few weeks ago I stood in our garage and looked at the two monster CD cabinets.

"Why do I keep all of these?" I asked myself.

I listen to hours of music a day--but to be honest, I cannot name the last time I picked up a physical CD and put it in a player to listen to it. Since I started listening mostly to electronic files eight years ago, the only time I handle a CD is to burn the songs on to my computer the day I purchase it, then immediately the disc goes to the storage cabinet never to see the light of day again.

So I started looking through. And I started to pull out CDs. A lot of CDs.

Over the past few years, my wife and I have been having a lot of discussions about "stuff": things we keep and why. After watching my grandparents struggle to let go of their home, filled with such "stuff" (most of which they didn't know or forgot that they had) we started asking ourselves about why we accumulate things. We've come to the conclusion that probably 85% of the "stuff" we have is just that--"stuff." We have no emotional connection to it, we just keep it because we think we should or might need it...someday. We've been doing a lot of purging trying to live a better, simpler life--and it works. 

But music has always been hard.

When I was a teen and in my 20s, I treated my album bin and cassette case as if they were bricks of gold. At the time, I surrounded myself with trappings I considered absolutely essential to the life I led: books, magazines, tapes, albums, clothes, etc… They defined me. The funny thing is that I'm not sure I could put my hands on any given possession I owned twenty-five years ago. That is completely weird to me. I probably couldn't fill a shoe box with the things that have stayed in my life since then. Tapes and albums were replaced by CDs, which, in turn, were replaced with binary computer files. Clothes were worn out or became dated. Books were loaned, stolen, lost, forgotten, or sold for rent money. I guess they were, in hindsight, the most meaningless parts of me.

Another example of this is when we bought our house. I have always been a huge Charles Bukowski fan and have bought, read, and kept all of his several dozen non-poetry books. Well, when we moved, the box of Bukowski books must have been put in the wrong pile and disappeared--off to the garbage or Goodwill. I have never replaced any of them.

Do I still love Bukowski? Sure. Will I ever read any of them again? Maybe, but probably not. So, while I'm sad that it didn't happen on my terms--I'm not all that upset about it anymore.

I don't want to think of all the times I've put all these CDs in cardboard boxes and moved them around from place to place, or worse, paid someone else to move them from place to place. I did this all those times because I always felt tethered to them.

Knowing that I can (and do) keep digital copies of everything on hard drives, I decided it was time to let them go. Standing in the garage looking at them, I asked myself, "If this place burned down today, would I ever buy this again?"

If the answer was "no," I pulled it.

Even though I love the music they contain, it was surprising how few CDs that I have a true emotional connection to their physical form.

Katherine saw me doing this and recently has been going through the CDs as well, doing the same thing.

We're listing them on Amazon to sell used (though burning another back-up copy before they head out the door, just in case). Our original goal was to cut the collection down by a third. As we are working, I'm thinking it is going to be more than three-quarters. We'll only have a few hundred left--but will have an authentic reason to keep those that are left. Some were gifts, some were exceptionally hard to find, some were witness to important moments in our lives. But each will have a purpose.

We'll take all the money we get from selling these (it won't be that much money--if you are still thinking that the music industry isn't in complete free fall, try selling a used CD) and hopefully put it to better use.

Hopefully we won't spend it on something we won't remember having, or won't want, in a few years.

I might miss it if I hadn't forgotten it existed

Dead vs Alive
Originally uploaded by crimsontroops

You can call it a burden--or a blessing--but there are huge parts of my life that I've lost. I know I was alive during these times, I just don't remember much about them. Case in point. Last night I stumbled on a folder of Word files on a back-up hard drive. They are a group of short stories, written by me. Thing is, I have no memory of writing them.

Well, that isn't entirely true, I look at them and know that they are things I wrote. I just don't remember when I wrote them, why I wrote them, or what ever became of them. I have no idea what inspired them or how I came up with the idea to write them, let alone finish them. Until I saw them last night, I probably would have passed a polygraph denying their existence.

The only clue I have is that I know I wrote them before 2002, as that was when they were copied onto the hard drive. However, more than likely they are way older than that.

Here's one that surprised me the most, because I obviously put a lot of thought into this. The writing makes me cringe (which is a good thing, I guess), but it is still fun to re-discover it.

Living is Free

A short story by Eric Nuzum

    On May 26th, 1767, George Washington received thirty pounds sterling from Thomas Giles for “one Negro man, named Joe, aged 29 years.” Washington wrote Giles a receipt.

    On August 14th, the same transaction occurred—a slave named Joe sold to Thomas Giles for thirty pounds. Washington provided a receipt for this as well.

    On more than thirty occasions during 1767, George Washington sold Joe to Thomas Giles and wrote a receipt for each transaction.

    Beginning in 1992, David Fraunmore sold each of those receipts out of his ephemera shop, mostly to wealthy clients looking for a cocktail party conversation starter to hang in their living room. Among U.S. Presidents, Washington’s value and collectiblity were second only to Lincoln’s, but the nature of the receipts made them tempting décor for the elite—one they were willing to pay handsomely to acquire.

    Similar transactions started as simple inquiries, perhaps with a specific celebrity or historical figure’s name attached.

    “A handwritten letter from Teddy Roosevelt is a rare piece, but not impossible,” he’d respond. “I don’t have one here, but I do work with a number of other rare document dealers and I can try to locate one for you.” Or he’d say, “I have an excellent piece in archival storage. Give me a few days to retrieve it and I’ll arrange a viewing.”

    After accepting a generous down payment from his customer, David went in his back room, selected paper, writing instruments, and ink, then spent several afternoons listening to opera CDs, sipping wine, and creating a letter from Teddy Roosevelt—or Madame Curie, JFK, Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, or whomever.

New guest post on Prince of Petworth

jiffy lube take customer service seriously
Originally uploaded by The Consumerist

I have a new guest post on Prince of Petworth about the re-naming of the greater Washington area's largest concert venue. Formerly known as Nissan Pavilion, it is now called...Jiffy Lube Live. Yes, Jiffy Lube Live.

Quote:

It’s such a jawdroppingly ridiculous idea that it almost zaps all the joy out of making fun of the name. I mean, there are probably no two words in the English language with less rock-n-roll cred than “jiffy” and “lube.”

And if that weren’t enough, they somehow decided to “jazz things up” a bit by adding “Live” at the end, as if simply naming the place “Jiffy Lube” wouldn’t do (though that might confuse people who want to go to an actual Jiffy Lube). Some consultant wearing a $200 tie thought the addition of “Live” at the end of “Jiffy Lube” would somehow make it more exciting. I mean, you wouldn’t want to end up with some unexciting name like, say, Nissan Pavilion or Verizon Center or anything.

Here is a link to the whole thing.

Transitions

Bodie Interior Shot VIII
Originally uploaded
 by James Marvin Phelps (mandj98)

In between changing diapers at 3 a.m. and working full time, I'm also slowly working through the first round of edits for Bring Me To Heaven. It's absolute torture. I mean, I love the way the book is developing, but I am so ready to be finished and care about other things.

During a stolen few hours yesterday, I was burning through a bunch of notes and moving along well when I came across a one-sentence note that crushed me.

"We need a transition here."

I remember talking with my editor about it. By "transition" he didn't mean a few sentences, he meant a whole story. A bridge from one big scene to the next. Something that stood on its own, but forwarded the story. Answered a few questions.

In other words, it meant work.

Then two words popped into my head: Ryan Grossi.

It was a perfect idea--I'd just write about Ryan Grossi. So last night I hammered this out in one sitting. I know this has no context or set-up, but I don't think you'll need any to read it.

****

I was standing just inside the doorway from my friend Ryan's second floor porch. The doorway led back into a spare bedroom. When I walked through this room moments before to use the bathroom, it was empty. Now there was a faint outline of man laying on a chaise longue. His skin was ashen, hair white, and he just lay there as if he'd been draped over the couch. There were no lights on in the room, so I could barely see his motionless form. It looked like he was floating. Thing was, there was no old man living in Ryan's house. I'd never even heard Ryan ever mention an old man before. The room was empty, then suddenly, he'd just appeared.

This is it, I thought. A real ghost.

I'm going to close my eyes, I said to myself. And if there is a ghost here, I will see it when I open them again.

I opened my eyes.

He was still there.

"Fuck me," I said, not realizing for a moment that I'd actually said it out loud.

I slowly backed out on to the porch and closed the door. I could tell Ryan noticed something was wrong.

"Jesus Christ, Ryan," I whispered. "There is a fucking ghost in your house."

"What?"

"I just saw it, floating above the chaise longue," I said.

"Shut up, douche," he said.

Ryan Grossi was our neighborhood kingpin, enigma, and badass-all after having only lived in our neighborhood for four months. He just suddenly appeared when his family moved to 35th Street. My friend Chris spotted him on his first day living there and within sixteen hours, every kid in the neighborhood knew him, feared him, and wanted to be his best friend, all at once.

Dear postal worker, sorry about the dog poop

Mail box
Originally uploaded by Mark Sardella

Dear postal worker:

I'm writing to explain what happened yesterday.

It really had nothing to do with the handmade quilt you took six weeks to deliver. It also had nothing to do with your obvious address dyslexia that results in our neighbors constantly getting our mail and us constantly getting theirs. It also has nothing to do with the fact that you freak out my dog every time you climb from my next door neighbor's rowhouse porch onto mine.

Really, it was just a simple matter of having too much going on at one time. I walked up to the post box with a bag of dog poop in one hand and a few pieces of mail in the other. I was tired. I was distracted. I was eager to get in from the snow.

And I put the contents of the wrong hand inside your mailbox.

As I'm sure you noted, said dog poop was already safely knotted in a bag--so no dog poop spilled out on to other mail. But still, I'm sure the last thing you expected when you retrieved my neighborhood's posted mail was a little blue powder-scented bag filled with dodo.

I'm also sure this isn't the worst thing you've ever found in a mailbox. Even though you are a terrible mailperson, you didn't deserve that.

My apologies, --Eric Nuzum

Right to lunch

What would abortion opponents eat for lunch?

That's the question I found myself thinking earlier today.

More specifically, I wondered what abortion opponents would not eat for lunch--because that is where I wanted to eat lunch.

But it has nothing to do with ideology.

I should have put two and two together because of all the sirens throughout the morning. But it wasn't until I headed out for lunch that it all came together.

Cross and Sign
Originally uploaded by sirchuckles

As I walked down the street to find something to eat, I kept noticing things like weird police escorts (I saw a black SUV surrounded by eight DC cops on bicycles) and groups of school-aged kids, all wearing plaid pants, following priests holding umbrellas above their heads.

Ah, it's January 22nd, which is some kind of abortion-related anniversary or something. This happens ever January 22nd. However this year they have decided to close off sections of 7th Street (near where I work) for the protests. I find this confusing because 7th Street is not near the Supreme Court, the Capital, nor the White House. Unless the Smithsonian Portrait Gallery has some kind of link to abortion history, I think the location is fairly unrelated.

Anyhow...

Today is a perfect example of something I tell people about living in Washington, DC, that they often have trouble accepting. The most profound influence Washington has had on me, personally, is it has made me almost apolitical. While I spent my youth as a passioned advocate for many causes, living in DC has turned me in a completely opposite direction. I just don't care.

When I encounter protesters on the street like today, all they want to do is change the world--and all I do is want to get some lunch. But I can't--because they are everywhere. And they stand in the middle of the sidewalk. And are so happy and enthusiastic...and they tend to yell a lot.

You see, I don't care about anything as much as these people annoy me. And it doesn't even really matter which side they are on, I am equally annoyed by people of many ideological and political persuasions. It's just a trade-off for living and working in this city. But it makes lunch challenging. Instead of thinking "what would be good" you end up thinking "what won't be packed full of protesters."

Oh, and the answer to my question?

Apparently, the protesters are fans of any chain restaurant known for its meat-based sandwiches. Burmese food and custom-made salads? Not quite as popular.

The Ring

Originally posted at calvinatticus.com

The ring
Originally uploaded by ericandkatherine

I have acquired the most awesome, powerful, and persuasive piece of potential extortion that any father has ever assembled: The Ring.

I'd never heard of such a thing before, but apparently when some surgeons perform circumcisions, they will attach a small plastic ring around the penis to protect it and help it heal. Once the penis's new skin is formed, the ring simply falls off. Most parents just pitch it out with whatever dirty diaper it came off in.

Not me.

I've saved it.

As you can see from the picture, the things is small.

And this item fit around his penis.

Now imagine the leverage I can get out of this tiny thing in, say, 15 to 20 years--and well beyond.

The kid doesn't want to clean his room, cut the lawn, or complete one of the other dozens of chores I plan to foster on his shoulders once he's old enough to earn part of his keep? Fine. Perhaps we'll (threaten to) bring out The Ring during a dinner time conversation--or during one of his sleep-overs--and see if he wants to reconsider.

My mother-in-law suggested that I hold on to it and give it as a present to his spouse one day. I'm sure he'd appreciate me passing along a memento of his childhood.

I become almost gleeful when I think of the potential of this small piece of plastic in my future life discussions with my son. I don't think I've ever, in my life, felt such a sense of power.

And I'm sure, most of anyone, he'll enjoy the humor of it all. Most certainly.

I already love being a Dad!

What I did with my Christmas vacation

IMG_1877
Originally uploaded by ericandkatherine

Calvin Atticus Nuzum
Born December 25, 2009, 8:07pm
8 lbs, 4 oz
19.5 inches

Healthy and apparently happy.

Where are your slippers?

EMILY'S CHRISTMAS STOCKING
Originally uploaded by oh that rachel!

"Pardon me," this guy said, butting in at the front of the line at the hardware store. "Where are your slippers?"

"We don't sell slippers," replied the cashier.

"Pardon me?" he asked, kinda asshole-ishly.

"We don't sell slippers," she repeated. "This is a hardware store."

"But you sell socks," he yelled, pointing at a display of wool work socks next to the register. "And I need a new pair of slippers!"

"They move those up here around the holidays," she said. "We do sell work clothes. We don't have any slippers."

The guy was getting very upset. He spun around and saw me watching this.

"Don't look at me like I'm crazy," he yelled. "They sell socks!"

"I'm sorry," I said. "I wouldn't have assumed that a hardware store sells slippers."

He started to get red in the face, then stormed out the front exit without any socks--and definitely without any slippers.

"Some people," he yelled as he threw open the door.

Funny, I was thinking the same thing myself.