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How about we just pick up where we left off...

 

 

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:

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.

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.

My dead pixel dilemma

 The photo to the right is a extremely blown up picture of a rock in the middle of the Devil's Den at the Gettysburg Battlefield.

The white dot in the middle? It isn't a ghost. It isn't a led light. It isn't a reflection.

It is a dead pixel.

Shortly after returning from Gettysburg in August, I discovered that my Canon digital camera has one dead pixel, which always registers bright white, located just to the left of the dead center of the lens.

After some investigation, I learned that (when blown up) this dead pixel can be seen in every single photo I've taken with this camera since I bought in in March. Hundreds of photos.

On one hand, it is almost impossible to notice (unless, like me, you happen to take a lot of nighttime photographs). On the other hand, once you've noticed, it is almost impossible to not to notice it, first thing, in every single photograph.

Now, here is my dilemma.

Fixing this problem is actually fairly easy. I call Canon, I send the camera in to them, and they will fix or replace it under warranty. No problem.

Here is the dilemma: our son is due to be born in about seven and a half weeks. So, if I send in my digital camera to have it fixed, what do I do if it isn't back to me by December 22nd?

I mean, as a father, I have very little to do during the birth except hold Katherine's hand and take pictures of the kid. By sending in this camera, am I potentially ruining one of my two basic functions as a father?

The alternative is, of course, to just keep using the 10,999,999 pixels of this camera that do work properly. But then, there will be that one dead pixel in each of my child's baby photos. Then, someday I will tell him about the dead pixel, and then he will go through his entire life noticing that one dead pixel in all his baby pictures.

So what do I do?

Write me and weigh in.

I fucking love Diet Pepsi Lime

nectar of the gods
Originally uploaded by ericandkatherine

I was back in Ohio this weekend visiting my parents and grandparents. Everything was fine and fun, everyone is good.

All that aside--I had my world rocked this weekend.

I was in my parents' kitchen and opened the frig to get something to drink, when a green glowing beacon from heaven caught my eye.

A can of Diet Pepsi Lime.

"Where did this come from?!?!?" I exclaimed.

"Um, the grocery store," my mother answered.

To me--this was crazy talk.

Around the time Pepsi re-designed their packaging, Diet Pepsi Lime seemed to slowly disappear. I have no idea what happened--it was never particularly easy to find in the first place.

But as it slowly became harder and harder to find--I prepared myself for the day to come when I would no longer be able to savor Diet Pepsi Lime. I'd occasionally find a 12-pack here or there, but I treated each one like it was my last.

I had long ago assumed that Diet Pepsi Lime had gone the way of Coke II, Diet Hubba Bubba, Josta, and...dare I even mention it...Crystal Pepsi.

While not enough to keep it in production, there are other Diet Pepsi Lime fanatics out there, as well. As there are even folks auctioning cans on eBay--including one dude asking $10 a can.

But then, I'm in Ohio and this new Diet Pepsi Lime emerges. I went to said grocery and bought five cases and hauled them home. Then, on a lark, I checked online and found this awesome product locator that allows you to find Pepsi products in local stores (who would of thunk such a site existed)--including Diet Pepsi Lime--and there is some at the Giant right down the street in Columbia Heights!

It wasn't until I realized that I can get it again that it dawned on me--perhaps this is a "summer" only product. Of course.

Well, with Diet Pepsi Lime back--I think this is going to be the best summer ever.

Pretty in pink

Pink Rose
Originally uploaded by ~Kim's Picture Gallery~

Last Friday I got a phone from my friend Chantal. She'd received some flowers for her birthday and forgot them when she left for the day. She wanted me to bring them home, then to her place, so that she could enjoy them over the weekend.

No problem, I thought. Happy to do it.

After another colleague dropped the flowers at my desk, I realized that they were pink roses.

Now, while it shouldn't be a big deal for a guy to walk around carrying a dozen pink roses, last Friday I happened to be wearing a bright pink dress shirt, almost identical to the color of the roses.

I'm a big believer in pink dress shirts. I think it takes a man of confidence to wear a bright pink shirt. When they do so, they actually come off looking quite manly.

However, a pink dress shirt...and a dozen matching pink roses? What the heck, I'd give it a try.

I entered the lobby of our building and passed the security guard, who, while pleasant and always smiling, has never said a word to me, even once.

"Loooooking gooooood!" he exclaimed as I walked by.

I stepped out on to the street as a colleague was walking back into the building. He did a double-take (a double-take as in "I just saw a van plow through a group of school children," as compared to a "gee, you just blew my mind in a good way" kind of double-take).

"Wow," was all he could manage to say.

I received two other comments, from strangers, before I'd even hit the corner of our block.

I felt so self-conscious, like those around me thought I was some kind of 2009 version of Oscar Wilde, sashaying down Massachusetts Avenue with a dozen pink roses to mask the unGodly smell of our fair capital.

I didn't even want to imagine what my subway ride home was going to be like.

I immediately hailed a cab (and had no trouble being noticed) and paid $11 mostly for the ability to ride home alone.

The irony of this was that when I went to Chantal's that night, I forgot the flowers. Oh well.

My new office...with a view of the Capitol

view from my new office
Originally uploaded by ericandkatherine

This week I moved offices. My new office is about twice the size of my old one (which isn't saying much, as it was very tiny). I'm on the same floor, but on the front side of our building, which is a big deal.

The view out my window couldn't be any more different. Instead of watching bums defecate on the sidewalk and the comings and goings at the (now defunct) Korean brothel on K Street, now I get to look out at the hustle and bustle of Massachusetts Avenue.

But the best part: my office has a view of the Capitol.

Well, technically.

The picture above and to the right (click to enlarge) is the view out of my new office window. Look just to the left of the center of the photo. You'll see a church steeple. Slightly to the left of that steeple is a pointy thing rising above a long flat roof.

That "pointy thing" is the Freedom Statue on top of the Capitol building.

 Here is an enlargement with the statue peaking above the roof (click to enlarge).

(The red circle was added by me--the Capitol isn't glowing or anything.)

Now, the building with the flat roof is the General Accounting Office (GAO), which prevents me from having a full view of the Capitol dome. The GAO are the folks that tell us how much of a debt we're running, how soon Social Security will implode, and how screwed-up our government is. So my vote: let's dispense with the buzzkills at the GAO, demolish their building, and improve my view!

So, there you have it--my office has a Capitol view.

Perhaps I should have been a real estate agent.

No dressed crab before bedtime

Old_Phone
Originally uploaded by pumax84

It's 5:47 am. I just woke up from a dream that disgusted me so badly--I had to get up and take notes.

This dream was centered around an act of kindness: killing my friend Matt.

This dream is remarkable for two reasons. First, I never, ever remember dreams. So the fact that I can wake up and remember any part of it is unusual. Second, well, I'm sure you'll figure that out as we move along.

In this dream, I was just about to electrocute Matt, at his insistence.

For some reason, Matt, who is a very balanced guy, wanted to commit suicide. In his second example of questionable judgment, he asked me to help him. Unfortunately, I have no idea what Matt's reasons or rationale were for wanting to depart this mortal coil. Whatever it was, it was convincing/compelling enough that I agreed to help him.

My idea for how to humanely help Matt end his life? Electrocute him though a phone line (along the lines, I guess, of the old wife's tale about the dangers of talking on a phone during a lightning storm).

So anyhow, I got all MacGyver with a tunafish can, a knife, and a Christmas light timer, all tied together with wire and plugged into the phone line and a wall outlet. In this scheme, I would call Matt, leave the phone line open (with Matt holding the phone on the other end). I would then plug in the Christmas light timer and set it to turn on in a few seconds.

Matt and I were handling the logistics over an IM conversation:

Me: "Are you sure you want to do this?"
Matt: "yes"
Me: "Are you holding the phone up to your ear?"
Matt: "yes"
Me: "Goodbye, Matt."
Matt: "Goodbye, Eric."
[Pause]
Me: "Okay, everything is set...you have 11 seconds to change your mind."

Then 11 seconds pass, the timer turns on, there is a flash, a puff of smoke, and then stillness.

During this time, my wife and friend Simon just happened to be hanging out watching TV while I am ending Matt's life.

"That's it," I said. "I think he's dead."

I typed into the IM conversation:

Me: "Matt? Matt? Are you still there?"

Nothing.

Now let me explain two things here. First, big surprise, this would never work. I'm sure that some fuse or protection between here and New York City would trip when 120 volts of electricity was racing towards Matt's ear, that is assuming the charge would ever even leave my house. Second, Matt doesn't even have a regular phone. He only has a cell phone. So basically, I'm assuming that my tin can and cutlery fueled surge would make it to New York, up through an appropriate cell tower, then streak across the sky towards Matt's phone, killing him painlessly and instantly.

Regardless of the laws of physics involved, I started thinking of the laws of man involved.

"Did I just commit manslaughter?"

"Hey man, I didn't see anything," Simon said. "Your secret is safe with me."

I started to clean up all my MacGyver stuff to hide the evidence of my involvement. Then I remembered the IM conversation. Poor little Matt was sitting there dead, with a charred cell phone next to his head, and there was his computer, detailing the entire event in an IM window, ending with me saying, "Matt? Matt? Are you still there?"

You'd think that I would wake up feeling sad that my friend Matt was gone (of course he isn't gone, but you know what I mean), but I wasn't thinking about my feelings for Matt at all. I was kind of disgusted with myself for not stopping the action in the middle of events and saying to Simon, Katherine, Matt (via IM) and myself, "What the fuck is this? This suicide/manslaughter/act of compassion makes no sense."

Perhaps there is a very good reason I don't remember dreams.

On Sundays I Ride My Bike

This is probably a longer story than I have time to fully explain here.

Back in 1987, I decided it would be fun to create a person--an eccentric artist--then create a body of work for him, and then market him to the world, pretending to be his personal assistant. I have no idea what drove me to do this.

The artist (a reclusive writer) was named Mulvane S. Winfield.

It went surprisingly far. Most of the activity surrounded a nonsense story with stick figure drawings called "Cows Go Moo." It featured a bunch of farm cows that revolted against their human oppressors. There were heroes and villains. It had a love story in there, too (for the ladies).

I sent out a few review copies, and both Option and Spin wrote articles about it, over two hundred people sent me cash through the mail to order copies, and I even got a query from Crown Publishing asking about publishing it as a book.

Again, this was a stick figure story book, copied and stapled at Kinko's, about a group of anamorphic cows.

For Mulvane's big follow-up, I decided I'd try a collection of comic stories (all sans plot lines). So I got a hold of a handful of people in Kent who were illustrators or artists, convinced them to participate (for free), and sent each of them a pointless story to illustrate.

Only one artist, Dave Schall, ever sent anything back. So the project died, as, eventually, did all my Mulvane related activities.

But there was still Dave's illustrated story.

The original is sitting down in a box in the basement, but yesterday I was cleaning off a hard drive and found some scans of the panels, so I put them up for your enjoyment.

Here is the story:

Story by Mulvane S. Winfield. Art by Dave Schall

Oh, and by the way, I never told Dave, or anyone else involved in this nonsense, that Mulvane wasn't real.