jarvis

i have recently been informed that you can actually e-mail pictures you took on your camera phone without having an internet plan. this completely boggles my mind, even before getting into the whole bluetooth wonder. i'll spare you the details of my technologically unsavvy self, and will merely share with you the photographs i snapped with my camera phone at the jarvis cocker show at webster hall last month. which, by the way, was the most impressive show i've been to in years (including the jesus and mary chain that flynn and i attended two weeks back, which was sadly uninspiring)

happiness and content are two different beats. happiness is good, content is the beginning of the end —ryan j. simons


nobody ever claimed that the game of life was an easy one to play. it's a game that's guided by our most basic human needs, and in the end all we really want to win is happiness. in the process we screw people over [including ourselves] and face things that we don't think our hearts can handle. at times it's easy to get sucked in to a selfish world of self loathing and depression, but [as a friend of mine has recently reminded me] these moments are merely minor glitches. it's when we are able to realize this that we can then take a moment to close our eyes, take a deep breath, and continue on in our search for happiness.

pre-season coney island

observing the calm before the storm

love & the city part two: electric boogaloo

I recently turned twenty-six; shortly thereafter, I started wondering exactly how I've gotten this old without achieving the kind of greatness I always hoped was in me. It happened sort of like clockwork; I'd certainly been warned by plenty of my friends that a quarter-life crisis would be in order. I'd shrugged it off, though, on the assertion that I'd already been there and done that, but it turns out all those other occasions were false starts and that this one may well really be the real thing. I can tell it by the certain measure of calm I seem to maintain even as I feel panicky about my future; it's like somewhere inside me, my body's working hard at giving up and becoming complacent even as my brain fights against it.

I always thought that by the time I got this old, I'd have created something: a book, a business, a career, a record. It scares me to suddenly realize not only that this is not the case, but that I had my little wake-up call to this effect already and did nothing about it. The winter before I turned twenty-four, I came quite close to dying, and upon my recovery I vowed that things would be different and I'd do everything I'd been putting off previously. And certainly, there were some huge life changes made, but mostly I concentrated on fighting an uphill battle back to the kind of normalcy I'd left behind, and somehow all those particularly good intentions got left by the wayside.

Shortly before getting sick, I'd been closer than ever before to achieving the life that I wanted. I was writing about bands I loved, I was working at a label for bands I was passionate about, I was becoming closer with some people who really inspired me, and I was starting to date the kind of guy I'd always thought must exist somewhere but hadn't yet experienced. It's that last bit that was the real coup, and the way things played out made me realize quite a few things about myself.

I've lived in this city for a good eight years; at least once or twice a year, I have to get out of town and go back to where I came from to figure out how far I've come. And every time I do, someone inevitably asks me why I don't have a boyfriend, and how it's so much as possible that I live in a huge city, know so many people, and work in an industry with such like-minded people, but can't find anyone to settle down with.

"I don't know how to get it in their heads," I said to a friend later, "that settling down isn't something most of us ever think about."

As much as Christiana looks inside herself and sees a girlfriend girl, I've always looked at myself and never been able to see it; it's with this in mind that it seems as though New York is the perfect place for a girl like me to be. At the same time, though, as much of a single girl as I am, I've also never been a "dating" kind of girl. The boy I'd been seeing before I got sick was an incredible mix of the things I'd always wanted in a guy: He was successful, but on an indie, non-scary level; he was passionate about all the same music I was, down to the obscurities; he would hold your hand and sing in the street and make a fool of himself if he knew it would make you smile. And he was every bit as unselfconscious as I was completely unsure of myself.

What broke my heart in that relationship was less the boy himself than the knowledge that he still wasn't what I wanted; when I found out he was less serious about me than he seemed, I was pissed, then relieved: this can be just a casual thing. And that thought stayed with me, though the boy changed; hell, I even still believe that friends with benefits is possible if you play it right.

But the operative word has always been just that: friends. To bother with dating in the city is to engage in a series of relationships that very rarely pan out as friendships, and that's the part that I've never been that up with. In romantic relationships, in personal friendships, and in "business" circles, if I can't truly be friends with someone, then I have a really hard time figuring out why they're worth my time. It's one of my biggest hang-ups, I'm sure, but it's the truth. Where this has led me, unfortunately, is down a series of dead-ends whereupon I always ultimately realize why someone and I were "just friends" to begin with.

Christiana put it best when she said it's always the one time you let your guard down that you end up regretting it; I have been incredibly cautious over the years, and in those brief seconds where I've decided to take a chance, the rapidity with which its bitten me in the ass has been a bit alarming. I guess the question is whether or not I regret it. Immediately, yes; after every failing I hate the words that I've admitted aloud and thus can't take back or make myself forget. But ultimately? Ultimately we are a product of our own mistakes but also our regrets, and I can't help but think that it would feel worse never to know how things might have been - or, for that matter, to have played things any differently than the way I really wanted to.

Since when has adhering to convention - in business, in friendship, or in love - ever gotten us anywhere truly extraordinary? That's the question I keep asking myself as I fumble through whatever crisis I've found myself in, and that's how I hope to find my footing again. I still have a mental image of how I want my life to be, and though it's evolved over the years, there are some basics that are the same. Some of it is vague and quite probably unachievable; at this age and in this time, it's unlikely that I'm ever going to find success as a musician. But there are parts of it that seem somehow so close within my reach that it almost hurts to articulate it, parts that used to just be shadowy "I'm not sure what goes here" bits of a dream that are now becoming clearer with time.

It's scary as hell, but the only thing I can do is take chances where I find them and hope that other people can take the same chances on me. And I will never be a "girlfriend girl", but somehow that very fact has guided me into the most comfortable relationship I've ever been a part of. It's very easy to imagine that biting me in the ass as anything else has, and then that I'll regret with stunning immediacy every word I have said, but ultimately? Ultimately I may feel like I'm getting old, but I haven't given up the hope of having something extraordinary.

bigger, better

What is it about music festivals that instill such high hopes within us? Maybe it’s the tradition and memories of years past. Maybe it’s watching the bands you grew up with [either listening to or being surrounded by], and seeing how much they’ve grown. Or maybe it’s knowing that you will see everyone you don’t get to see often together in one place. Whatever it is, I for one find myself here every year in complete amazement of how time changes everything, and sometimes nothing at all.
For the first time in years I was without a camera for the entire weekend. I attempted to take in everything with my eyes, contemplating how to use words to re-create the visual experience. Whether I was successful or not is debatable. But here goes.

Each year it gets bigger. And I suppose in that effect, it also becomes “better”. As that type of music becomes more and more trendy, those who attend become younger and more impressionable. I looked at these kids with their short shorts, low tops, and bare stomachs and a sadness overcame me. These days morals seem non-existent, and it’s no wonder with most of the influences that are around. Everything is so accessible, maybe too accessible. If they want ____ [insert anything from drugs and sex to attention and false promises here], they can nine times out of ten get it. These kids are angry and sad about something, and it reflects in the music they listen to, the actions they perform, and the decisions they make. Maybe it’s just a generation gap, and it’s time to face the fact that I’m getting older. But I’d like to think that when I was their age, I still found such things [that were still around, just in smaller doses] disturbing.

This year there were carnival rides to further secure in my mind the fact that this is more of a circus than a festival that was, indeed, getting bigger and “better”. Energy drinks were being distributed to further intensify the already uncertain mindsets of this ADD generation, while parents sat around lounging in a section devoted to them where they could retain their own sanity away from all the action. Lines were long to sit in metal contraptions that would inevitably cause a person to vomit up the energy drink they probably just downed. Vendors set up in tiny tents spread out methodically [or as much so as possible] in attempts to take hold of this weeks allowances burning in the pockets of suburban kids ready and willing to spend it on any and everything black or distressed.

As for nutrition, the lines were just as long for low quality high cost fried food as they were for carnival rides. Used ketchup packets, napkins, plates, and beer bottles lay scattered everywhere along with festival newspapers and flyers, tinting shoes red and black. I couldn’t help but kick a piece of trash or drag it along with every step I took, each one making me feel sorrier and sorrier for those on clean-up duty.
Despite the trash, the low morals, and sometimes disgusting behavior, I’m happy to say that those who were actually there for the music and not just to hang out really did make the most of the plethora of bands playing. Fans were completely devoted: screaming every single word, jumping up and down, energy was high and they became as much a part of the show as the artists themselves.

On the other side of the security line lay the all access world. This is the world of no lines, free food and alcohol, real bathrooms, and copious amounts of mingling and schmoozing. Each of which can be found past the pass, and in a colorful assortment of bracelets and tokens [one for each option]. It is here that you will, for certain, run into at least twenty people you know. Attempting to engage in any kind of serious conversation past business would be useless, as eyes are constantly wandering to find someone bigger and “better” to socialize with. It is, after all, who you know and not what you know.
To become a part of this elite sect, you must be one of the following: in a band, working in the industry, related to someone in a band or working in the industry, close friends to someone in a band or working in the industry, or sleeping with someone in a band or working in the industry [or at least giving the impression that you will sleep with them if you are hooked up with the coveted all access pass].
Sometimes I’m not sure how I fit into this world, as I always seem to be balancing along that fine line (the formers rather than the latter), wobbling from side to side but never quite falling fully into either.

No matter how you view music festivals, whether you love them or you hate them, or whether you like the music involved or not, every year there is at least one run-in that will warm your heart. The music, the memories, and the personalities that have, at one time in your life, [no matter how short or long] changed you in some profound way are suddenly placed in front of you. Even if the interaction may only last a few minutes, it is here that egos and status are pushed to the side, and you know that the hugs and inquiries are genuine. It is here that the whole day becomes absolutely worthwhile.

And I suppose it is because of these few cases that the hopes and anticipations for the next year are formed. There are pros and there are cons, as there are in any situation. But somehow, at the end of the weekend, it is the pros that find their way to the top of the list of things to be remembered. Sun kissed and exhausted, I sit and take in the fact that another year has passed. For better or for worse.

I wonder what’s in store for next year.