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Category Archives: Year 9

Highlights from 2008-2009

Happy Birthday To This

I. The 27-Club.

Last September I turned 27.

It made me nervous.

Being a major music fan and devout lifetime subscriber to Rolling Stone, I am all too aware of the so-called “27 Club” – a musical super-group headlined by Robert Johnson, Brian Jones, Jimi, Janis, Jim, and Kurt, all of whom met their untimely ends at age 27.

My nervousness wasn’t an actual, rational fear. Just a fringe anxiety. Still, it hung there. The 27 hurdle. A year it would be a challenge to survive.

In the months after my birthday the challenge of surviving gave way to the challenge of getting from one day to the next. Honestly, I was so preoccupied with life that the whole 27 Club concept didn’t reoccur to me until I was getting ready to jump out of an airplane last month. And, since that failed to kill me, I assumed I was in the clear with regard to the whole untimely end angle.

I continued thinking that until the past few days, when I began re-reading my entries from the past year in anticipation of the ninth anniversary of Crushing Krisis.

It was then I realized that it happened. I died.

If that sounds like hyperbole, it’s meant to be, but only a little bit. Truly, the past year of my life was so vastly different than any that came before that it was hardly lived by the same person.

If that sounds like hyperbole, it’s not. One of the benefits of your blog celebrating it’s ninth birthday is having the ability to make frequent, sweeping, and entirely-accurate generalizations about the state of your life.

In fact, that’s my favorite thing to do on August 26, the birthday of Crushing Krisis. Continue reading ›

9 posts from Year 9 for my 9th anniversary

Today is the ninth birthday of Crushing Krisis.

I have hundreds more words to share on that topic, but they’re still simmering. In the meantime, I am counting down my top nine posts from Year 9 of the blog on Twitter, adding them to this post as I go.

#9: Groom Team Style, pt. 1, wherein I am nearly ejected from David’s Bridal. Twice.

I love having this sort of madcap adventure so I can present it in a slightly-enhanced-reality post (surely influenced a bit by my love of H. S. Thompson). This one is made all the more amusing by how little I had to enhance the reality. All of the dialog is real, except for maybe the bit about the cloven hoof (although E claims I might have actually said that).

#8: “I’m not old,” and other stories from my actual life, wherein I meet @brimil, watch a house burn down, and have way-out dreams about the impending financial holocaust.

I followed the seemingly disparate thread of my day through a post to something coherent – a story disarmingly framed by an unlikely pair of Kelly Clarkson references. I love that blogging can tie together the themes of our lives, and here they really did come together to something larger … and maybe a little poignant.

#7: … – – – …, a brief SOS wherein we are stranded in London on our honeymoon.

I don’t think I’ve ever heard as much in-person feedback on a post as I did on this one. It was certainly meant to be funny, but the actual direness of the accommodation situation made the situation (and the post) even more ridiculous. All of the Honeymoon posts rank pretty high on my list of favorites.

#6: Tattooed/Colorblind & Shake It Off, my best audio and video recordings, respectively.

My favorite single recording of the year is definitely “Saving Grace,” but its post didn’t make the cut for my list. The “Tattooed/Colorblind” double A-Side still kinda blows me away – recorded them both in a matter of hours.

#5: whiling away the hours, wherein Gina and I discuss the ramifications of Malcolm Gladwell’s book Outliers and sing harmony to Hezekiah Jones.

Not all of my favorite posts are flashy, funny, or memorable. Some of them simply document moments in time. Many of my favorites occur in the company of Gina, my best friend and bandmate in Arcati Crisis.

#4: Nothing But Rock & Why I Blame Drew’s Cancer, pt. 1, my skydive photo and the start of the story behind it.

It’s impossible to exaggerate the effect #blamedrewscancer has had on my year, which included me leaping out of a plane with a bunch of people I met on Twitter.

#3: right now, wherein I live-blog my wedding vows. (not really) (but kinda)

The last thing I did before Team Groom left my hotel suite was set this post to go live when Elise and I would be saying our vows. Unfortunately, it does not capture the hilarity of my ad-lib Battlestar Galactica vow, delivered to the great amusement of E and our collected geeky friends.

#2: pipes and glass, a stream of consciousness on my childhood drug-addict neighbor.

Blogging gives you so much power over formatting and media richness, but sometimes the most powerful evocation of a memory is words arranged in just the right way.

#1: President Obama, wherein I (& my mother) react emotionally to the election of our 44th president.

I was extremely hesitant to make a post about Obama my top post of the year. However, it’s a not a post about his politics, or really even about him as a person. It’s a post about me, my family, and America, and I’m proud to have written it.

My traditional birthday post will be up tonight.

 
icon for podpress  Saving Grace (demo): Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

above the clouds

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nothing but rock

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Rocking Midair

(I was the third skydiver out of a blame plane filled with the organizers of #blamedrewscancer’s upcoming Blame-a-Thon on 9/9/9.)

The Happinomics of Magneto

Today on the bus an attractive, muscle-bound, black man was sitting across from E and I rocking to an unknown sort of music. He was wearing a muscle-shirt version of this Magneto t-shirt.

I turned to E and said, “That guy’s shirt is awesome.” She nodded in agreement.

Then I motioned to the man to take off his headphones.

“Your shirt is awesome.”

“You know who it is?”

“Magneto!”

“Yeah!”

We chuckled at each others fanaticism. He replaced the headphones in his ear and I went back to talking to E.

He smiled until we got off the bus.

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Happinomics is an Ad Busters article about how small changes to the way we interact with the strangers around us can make us tangibly happier. In their example, the interaction is talking on the bus.

very serious donuts

It is almost ten in the morning, and I am eating a bacon donut.

Kat and Jeremy currently farm enough to support three or four families, but they have enough eggs to stock said three families, a small market, and a donut shop.

Conveniently, Kat works at a donut shop. It’s actually the nearest landmark to their house, which was convenient on Thursday when we had been driving for eight hours and discovered that state roads in Vermont don’t have a lot of clearly labeled cross streets.

If my biggest weak spot of culinary frivolity is ice cream, donuts are not too far behind. As a kid I would clench my entire body in genuflecting hope every time our car passed the Dunkin’ Donuts. I was under the impression that was the only source of donuts. Like, in the world.

Now, I know better – I know that homemade donuts are a different beast entirely. On certain Fridays my boss brings in a particular kind that – if I should be bold enough to eat a filled variety – causes me to lose my voice for over an hour.

They are serious donuts.

So, when Kat mentioned that she worked part time at (and supplied eggs to) the donut shop down the road, my Fouth of July plans solidified: I would spend the morning eating donuts, perhaps bookended by a tacit jog to and from the shop to give the illusion of offsetting the 1000+ calories of breakfast I’d be consuming.

Such is the story, and here I am at Trademark-Infringement Donuts. I don’t want to advertise the name, as they’ve been flying under the legal radar thus far. Let’s call them “Funkin’ Donuts.”

Here is today’s Funkin’ Donuts menu:

  • Cinnamon Sugar
  • Honey Glaze
  • Maple Caramel
  • Plum Homer *
  • Beet Homer *
  • Chocolate
  • Maple-Bacon
  • Lemon-Poppyseed
  • Orange Sourcream
  • Cake

    * Homer donuts are crafted to look as similar to the legendary Simpson’s donut as possible. The Beet Homer has beet icing. I am eating it presently. It’s great.

    However, it is the Maple-Bacon donut that approaches the donut hall-of-fame. It is a plain, circular donut with a middle hole, iced liberally with light-brown maple icing, and sprinkled with bacon sprinkles from local pigs.

    My meat-avoidance is pretty specifically predicated on a distaste for pork, but when we’re talking about less than an ounce of bacon from a local pig probably well-cared-for enough that he had a name I can make a brief exception.

    And that exception was really, really good.

    I’m going to spend the rest of the morning celebrating America by seeing how many donuts I can eat in one day (previously: 10), talking to Kat about her neighbor’s diabetic cat, and plotting a concert I’m going to play in the donut shop when I come back in the fall.

  • Broadcasting live for 12for12k!

    The internet had the chance to see and hear the first ever live web concert of my original songs and familiar covers, plus help to raise donations for Unicef’s Believe in Zero campaign for 12for12k

    My 12for12k Setlist with demo downloads (if available)…

    Like a Virgin – Madonna
    Small & Lonely
    Icy Cold
    Saving Grace (w/Paris monologue)
    Shake It Off (w/ “Shake Your Body” outro)
    Since U Been Gone – Kelly Clarkson
    Something Real
    High & Dry – Radiohead (per Danny Brown’s request of Fake Plastic Trees)
    Bucket Seat (an Arcati Crisis song)
    Real You
    Man In the Mirror – Michael Jackson (cried on every chorus – WTG, rock star)
    Granted
    Love Me Love Me Not (an Arcati Crisis song)
    Space Oddity – David Bowie

    Also, a few I planned to play but cut (or just forgot)…
    What It Is
    Unengaged
    Gone Baby Gone

    For people who watched and said they’d be interested in buying a CD (a) you are wonderful, and (b) download what you will and make a donation to this month’s charity, Unicef’s Believe in Zero. As a bonus, you can also grab my duo’s most recent Live @ Rehearsal album.

    Also, we had a high of 40 unique users in the room at one time, so that’s what I donated ;)

    whiling away the hours

    (1) A few years ago I saw Malcolm Gladwell deliver a speech at the New Yorker Festival that is largely recapitulated in the second chapter of Outliers, called “The 10,000 Hour Rule.”

    In it, Gladwell draws our attention to a data point converged upon by countless studies of experts in a variety of fields. He says, “In fact, researchers have settled on what they believe is the magic number for true expertise: ten thousand hours.” He goes on to quote neurologist Daniel Levitin:

    In study after study, of composers, basketball players, fiction writers, ice skaters, concert pianists, chess players, master criminals, and what have you, this number comes up again and again. … It seems that it takes the brain this long to assimilate all that it needs to know to achieve true mastery.

    Gladwell supports the rule using Mozart, Bill Gates, Bill Joy, and the Beatles as his examples. Not to say that their genius and success is purely a result of 10,000 hours of practice – the book as a whole explains other facets – just that it was an essential component of their expertise.

    .

    (2a) 10,000 hours is a long time.

    If as a child starting at age five you had piano lessons two times a week (an hour each) and also practiced an hour a day, you would clock nine hours a week. 468 hours a year. 4,680 hours a decade.

    If you kept that up until age 26 you’d finally have served your time.

    (2b) 10,000 hours can go by before you know it.

    Maybe you got into video games at age 11. You played them every night after homework and dinner, let’s say from 7:30 to 11:00 p.m. on most nights, plus extra on the weekend. That’s more than 25 hours a week. 1,300 plus a year.

    You’d be a master by the time you started college. Most kids are.

    (2c) Time is relative.

    .

    (3) In the car today Gina and I were singing in harmony to the amazing Hezekiah Jones album Hezekiah Says You’re A-OK, on the way to see his band split a bill with the equally fantastic Up the Chain.

    “You know, Gina,” I said, breaking from my lead vocal, “I’ve been thinking about this 10,000 hour thing. Not everyone’s an expert at something. I mean, what do most people spend 10,000 hours doing by the time they’re 25? Watching teevee, I suppose.”

    “More than likely,” she replied.

    “But, think about me. I watched a lot of television, sure. Mostly, though, I read until I was old enough to write, and then I wrote and read. That’s what I spent my 10k on.”

    (Perhaps she interjected, “Oh, I remember.”)

    “And, you know, is it any surprise that I’m good at communications? I’m not an expert, but no wonder it’s my calling. I spent my whole life practicing for it.”

    We sat and sang for a moment, contemplating that.

    “What about you?”

    Gina paused in her harmony. “Hmm, me?”

    “Yeah. What did you spend 10,000 hours doing?”

    “This. Listening to music. Singing harmony.”

    “Really your whole life, right? Your mother singing, your father playing guitar…”

    “Yeah, since I can remember.”

    “Right. So, no matter how much I rehearse, you’ll always have the edge. It’ll always come easier to you, until I reach that threshold.”

    “I suppose.”

    We paused as the song wound down.

    “What do you think Hezekiah spent 10,000 hours doing?”

    We thought on that for a few moments, and then sang together to “Albert Hash.”

    .

    (4) We’re not all Mozart. I might not ever be Hezekiah Jones. But, we’ve all spent 10,000 hours doing something other than sleeping, and hopefully other than watching television. Maybe something incidental that we do out of necessity or habit. Driving? Social-networking? Cleaning? Taking care of children?

    I’ve put in more than my share on communications – reading cereal boxes and trashy fantasy novels, writing stories at eight on my manual typewriter and almost nine years of blogs.

    I got an early start on 10,000 hours of being Gina’s best friend, which I keep padding. I’m really good at that. More recently I’ve attained well-in-excess of 10,000 hours of being in love with Elise.

    I hope eventually I’ll reach my 10,000th hour of serious focus on music. It’s a large piggy-bank of time to fill.

    What about you? What have you spent your life mastering, intentionally or unintentionally?

    The Gospel of Network Agnosticism

    Being “Network Agnostic” is a practice I’ve been preaching over the past few months as my business and personal lives converge on social networking.

    It’s a simple concept: don’t let the technology dictate your content, and make sure your content adapts across multiple technologies.

    While the concept is simple, the ensuing conversation is huge. How worried should an individual be about the permanence of their social network content? How responsible is a marketer to keep their business connected with users across a host of different networks?

    Here are a few thoughts on the matter.

    .

    Social Content Isn’t Forever

    Imagine the following scenario:

    You spend years adding content to a free social network. Links, blogs, photos, videos – anything. The network gets popular, gets acquired or goes public, and the features begin to change – sometimes for better, and sometimes for worse.

    You eventually migrate to another network, and a few years later you receive a curt eviction notice via email. Turns out, everybody left, and the network isn’t financially viable anymore. Now your content will disappear in a matter of months – evacuation is now or never.

    The first half of that example probably sounds familiar – I could easily be describing Facebook or MySpace.

    If you think the second half is just hyperbole then you were never a GeoCities user.

    GeoCities was the best way to get a free website off the ground in 1996, and even in 2000 it was still in the game. Now the clock is ticking on that content – it’ll all disappear by the end of the year.

    This isn’t a very dire example. GeoCities was always FTP-based, so it was easy to create your own content mirror. Plus, it was crawlable, so your content is cached at Archive.org. If you created something awesome on GeoCities, chances are you could evacuate it before the impending network apocalypse.

    Next time you might not be so lucky.

    .

    Social Networks Constantly Reinvent a Similar Wheel

    Friendster was the first prominent Social Network in America. Now it doesn’t even factor into the domestic conversation – 90% of its use comes from Asia.

    People didn’t know that in 2003, so they gamely wrote their bios and uploaded their photos on Friendster. Many of those people migrated to MySpace, where they posted more photos and wrote on a ton of walls. A lot of that same crowd also started to use FaceBook, where they posted yet more photos, wrote on a whole new network of walls, and penned pithy third-person status updates.

    For a single user the musical chairs of social networks can be mildly annoying. Do you even have your own copy of those photos? Do you really feel like hunting down all of those high school classmates again?

    For a business or a band, annoyance transforms to hindrance. Those 10k fans or 100k plays you mustered up on MySpace? You just have to do them again on FaceBook, Twitter, and whatever comes next. And, as people migrate away from networks that are on the decline, you lose a hard-won audience that was once captive.

    Not only that, but you’re putting in time on content that is invisible to many current and potential customers! Social Networks don’t get crawled and archived the same way as typical websites. They are closed loops, by design. That means limited traffic from outside the network, limited benefits from search engine crawling and long-term page rank, and no easy way to export your content in aggregate.

    The only solution is to stop treating each network as the be-all and end-all of your online life, whether you’re a person or a brand. You need to diversify. You need to be network agnostic.

    .

    Case Study: The Twitter Titanic

    The hottest social network of the moment is Twitter. After many months of mushrooming growth the micro-blogging platform hit the zeitgeist like a wrecking ball – even on Oprah. Suddenly, everyone and their mother was on Twitter – literally!

    Individuals and businesses are in a hurry to have a conversation, but will that conversation have any value in five years, or even six months?

    As more and more people pile on to Twitter, there are more demands made of the network. It isn’t fast enough. It needs a better search feature. Can we get threaded conversations? What about groups? A post archive would be nice, and so would an export feature.

    All of it would be nice, but that doesn’t mean it will occur.

    Twitter currently operates with no revenue model. It’s run by the brains behind Blogger, who have been there before, and they learned from past lessons. Twitter is purposefully lithe, farming out feature development to apps mining their API. Facebook made itself more addictive by doing the same thing – allowing outsiders to code apps, spawning legions of waring zombies and mafiosos.

    Still, open-source doesn’t equal impervious-to-obsolescence. Twitter could easily fizzle like Friendster or fall slowly from favor like MySpace. Every titanic has an iceberg.

    When the iceberg hits, what happens to your followers? What about your favorite conversations?

    .

    The moral of the story (so far):
    the sky isn’t falling, but there’s a strong chance of rain

    Here’s what this argument is not.

    It is not suggesting that you ignore the online sea change that is social networking. It is not saying all Social Networks are unreliable. It is not about being sparse or overly-protective of your content. It is not downplaying the value of personal connections.

    It is encouraging you to be nimble, to rely on some (intentionally) redundant content, and to remember that you get what you pay for. It is reminding you that strategy comes before technology, and that connections come before objectives.

    Two years ago we were all on MySpace. Last year we were all on Facebook. Today we’re talking about Twitter. In two years it’s going to be something else. There’s only so much the networks are (or can be) responsible for our content, and the responsibility we have to them is to accept that and be willingly mobile.

    Your content strategy can extend across multiple technologies. A intriguing Tweet can also be a FaceBook discussion or the inspiration of a blog. You can host your own snapshot and share it on other networks instead of uploading it separately to each of them. Your users can connect with you across multiple networks, via email, or with profiles on your own site, so that they don’t slip away when a network goes south.

    That is network agnostiscm.

    .

    This a big topic – so big that it took me two months of note-taking to even arrive at this post.

    This is just a fraction of what I hope it can be part of a lasting conversation about what we can do as responsible bloggers and communicators to make sure our content doesn’t become obsolete.

    I’m very interested in your comments, further examples, or rebuttals.

    v. Jackie’s Strength

    “I started to look to Jackie and how that woman held the country together after she watched her husband get cut down right in front of her.” (Uncredited, Here. In My Head)

    This song is a super-8 movie of suburban lawns in a line, each with an identical mother wrapped around a nascent daughter, together sending transmissions of prayer to Ms. Onassis.

    All of those girls had pillbox dreams, and none of them turned out the way they had planned. Jackie never showed some more. But these girls, they just want to be real. They will hike up their skirts and show some more if that’s what it takes.

    Each verse takes us back to the childhood narrative. Lunchboxes and sleepovers. Getting high and starving ourselves pretty. Just to be real.

    There’s nothing real here; this is about masquerade. Girls masquerading as women. Skin masquerading as trust. Sex masquerading as magic.

    Those perfect virgins get backstage while the rest of us are already busy spinning lies. Crystalline, candy lies. Trying to lie enough to sustain our love.

    In the end, did it turn out so bad? Those virgins will learn. Eventually they’ll trade their mystery in to be real. Every single girl.

    Except Jackie O.

    You are sitting next to my wife.

    I’ve now been married for a little over a quarter of a year.

    It’s been really swell, aside from the part where I was really pissed off in France for a day or two. And the quality of gouda there more than made up for it.

    We’re still the newest newlyweds in most of our social circles, so we’re still getting those ever-so-nebulous questions: “How’s married life treating you? / Is married life any different?”

    At first I thought there was inherent comedy in the idea that something so simple as a wedding would have fundamentally altered the nature of our unbroken seven-year relationship.

    On second thought, I realized that some things are different. People treat us as more of a team than they used to. I feel more responsible to be a (dys?)functional part of her family. We own a car!

    Really, the biggest difference is the way we look at each other when we’re at home watching a movie. I can’t describe it. There’s just something knowing in the glance, like, “I married you just so we could sit around and do this for the rest of our lives.”

    That’s a little too intangible of a nuance for elevator chat, so I usually tell people the biggest difference is that now when people sit down next to Elise on the train I say, “Excuse me, but you are sitting next to my wife.”

    They ususally move.

    “I’m not old,” and other stories from my actual life.

    Before we head into a week of Kelly Clarkson coverage (just kidding!) (but not really!), here’s a brief interlude from real life.

    .

    (1) Today at work we had a meeting about social networking.

    I make it a point not to talk about work so much, but this seems like a big milestone. After all of my years of harping about dragging ourselves into a new digital era I was in a meeting about figuring out how to drag ourselves into a new digital era. My work life has officially merged with my home life.

    In said meeting was a hyper-intelligent new employee from elsewhere in the company who joined to chip in her expertise. I expect to be her employee by 2013.

    At one point I was trying to articulate how some social networks make a certain amount of sense to me, while others do not. My overly long introduction to that thought was, “It’s not that I think I’m so old (maybe I am), but… [insert communications nonsense here].”

    Meeting newbie came back with, “Oh, I don’t think you’re old.”

    I should mention that I shaved prodigiously this morning and look about 12.

    Somewhere in NJ Kate is still laughing at me.

    .

    (2a) Is it just a given at this point that we’re all having nightmares about an imminent, complete, worldwide, economic collapse?

    I mean, I am certainly not denying the existence of a recession, as the evidence is all around me in my group of close friends. Those nightmares were already existent, thank you very much.

    No, this is more global, and more systemic. Like, I just had a dream that I was camping in a derelict, foreclosed row home (possibly just down the street from here), and that the banks were going house to house to take the squatters prisoner to work in their slave camps. They were executing the infirm and the socialists on sight.

    Something like that, anyhow. Are you having those nightmares too?

    (2b) I generally hate when people blog about dreams. Isn’t real life wonderful and terrifying enough? Dream posts are really the only things I ever redact – I write them all out and then think, Who in god’s name is going to stick around after hitting this tripe off of a Google search?

    .

    (3) As to my sudden subconscious fixation with us going the way of Mad Max (before subsequently going the way of Waterworld), maybe it’s just because I was reading about motel homeless earlier.

    Okay, honestly? It’s more because of my trip to F.Y.E. to buy the Kelly Clarkson album, which is the only reason I would ever set foot into that abomination of a retail establishment.

    I detest F.Y.E. on principal – that a chain with so little relevance or personality could supplant Tower Records as the sole national record-seller is inherently offensive to me. Seriously, they could be a chain specializing in argyle socks and turn-of-the-century coffee pots and I feel like the retail experience would be exactly the same.

    Anyway.

    This afternoon the sales floor was barren. A group of teenagers were lazily playing Rock Band off in one corner. There was a single cash register open, doing no business whatsoever.

    I was accosted by five employees in quick succession within 90 seconds of entering the store. Each of them asked if they could help me find anything, with a certain lingering desperation in their eyes. Like, “for the love of god let me help you find something; if I don’t sell at least two CDs every hour they’ll fire me.”

    I started assigning them trivial tasks, just to clear the cannon fodder. One lad I engaged with couldn’t find an explicit version of a Pink album and mumbled some mea culpa like, “You know I could just burn that for you or something did you want maybe a Pink Floyd album instead you know I went to college to get this job please just kill me.”

    I did a lot of nodding and backing away, and found myself cornered by another sales associate in the classical section.

    It took a while to escape with my Kelly, who always leaves me feeling obligated to stimulate the economy by purchasing music at irrelevant brick and mortar retailers.

    .

    (4a) The house at the end of our block burnt down last week. The debris is still on the sidewalk, giving off a certain hickory flavor.

    Last week I wouldn’t leave the house for work until the firemen stopped looking concerned. In row homes that’s only eight doors from here.

    (4b) I spend all this time (and money) acquiring Kelly Clarkson albums and guitars and French graphic novels, and all of that could burn away in a matter of minutes. Or the renegade banking enforcement brigade could kick down my door and take everything in the financial holocaust.

    It makes me think about the intangible things in my life that have value. I guess in that way social networking is a beautiful matrix, containing all of the memories you might have lost in the flames.

    My songs can never burn down. My blog can never burn down.

    .

    (fin) I’m just going to keep living my life, going to meetings, and creating things.

    And listening to Kelly Clarkson albums.

    pipes and glass

    A long time ago I had a neighbor, freebasing cocaine at his kitchen table.

    That came later, though.

    Curled around my first guitar on the front step, maybe? Must’ve been. I don’t remember how else he knew I could play. I remember our porch, and his hammers on Ziggy. That’s exactly what I wanted.

    We became a pair in his basement from time to time, him showing me barre chords, my explaining why you might retune.

    I didn’t have that in my life at the time. I had Gina, still several months of skepticism about my guitar playing before she’d be of much help. No one else to take an interest. Certainly not an adult example.

    (My mother’s boyfriend had played guitar, maybe, in the 70s? Some distantly removed time. He had sliced the tendon on his pointer, and could no longer play barres. Useless to me. He had a clumsy way of making a C chord, remembering it a half-fret at a time.

    Inwardly I swore: no forgetting.)

    So there I was, in the neighbor’s basement. We had known him forever, anyway. He was fifteen years older? Feels like he was much older than I am now. At least seventeen, if he remembered Bowie like that.

    I noodled on his ancient synthesizer and he restrung his Yamaha 12-string. “Like Bowie’s.” And he told his story.

    He was heavy into music, writing his own all of the time. He went on a cruise ship or some other inane vacation, to play. And someone said, one night, to him – very serious about his music. They said to him he sounded like something or some other thing. It was probably the 80s, so probably some other awful thing. Richard Marx, let’s say.

    And he said, “Peter.” He said my name in this very convivial way, like, we’re just two Italian guys shooting the shit. It was not a way men usually said my name. Still not.

    “Peter, I didn’t know if it was a compliment. I hadn’t heard anything new in a year. All I would listen to was myself.”

    I was incredulous, still a fan more than a musician. How could he turn off everything else? It seemed likely a lie.

    I got too familiar, I guess. The whole family lived there, and I got used to poking my head in if I got home late from rehearsal and the light was on.

    I put my head in, and there they were, him and his best friend. Hardware on the table, but not the tool box like usual. Pipes and glass?

    Pipes and glass, and he said, “do you want any” or maybe “you don’t want any,” and I, numb, just walked back across the porches to my door.

    Figures, the one guy who could say my name like that and mean it and play those little hammers. But I knew what my goal was – I would have to learn my barre chords before there’d be any excess.

    I forget him for a year or so, here and there. There are other stories – driving to the music store in South Philly, the time I almost cut my finger off and he came over because my mom was at work. That bass in pieces in my closet.

    I’ve still never been that freebaser at the kitchen table. I must not be good enough at barres. But, now I know what it’s like to only listen to myself, to not want or need anything else.

    I understand him that much.

    … – - – …

    left paris stop chunnel was uneventful but bags very heavy stop guest house in london frightening dreadful gets t for troll refuse to sleep there stop am current ly throwing money at problem will next write from four star hotel full stop

    Tuileries to Eiffel

    My six best of the day, out of hundreds.

    I just saw this – like, this picture. It’s not something I really know how to do. Elise wound up being a little impressed that I saw it, I think.
    Tuileries

    I wish I had taken this at a slower shutter speed, but I would have lost the awesome dynamic clouds. I’ll probably take up the contrast of the wall a bit – it’s actually quite a vibrant red.
    Gateway

    This was my first shot of this imposing guardian, which I love, but…
    Guardian

    …this is maybe my favorite picture I’ve ever taken.
    Guardian

    Elise teases me because I like my photos to be very symmetrical.
    Symmetry

    Elise’s camera was too high-end to accurately reproduce these twinkling lights – it completely freaked out.
    Twinkling

    right now

    Elise,

    For seven years you have been my best friend and closest companion. You helped me learn how to be more than myself. You kissed me in the rain and said, “I love you.” You taught me how to sing in harmony.

    You are the first to assure me when I’m sure that I am wrong, the first to challenge me when I think that I am right, and the first to support me when I am sure that I must try something new.

    You are more beautiful, more talented, more intelligent, and more perfect for me than any woman I could have ever imagined or dreamt – but you are something real.

    Here, in the witness of all those we care about the most, I promise that I am united with you as a partner and an equal.

    I promise to affirm and support you in every endeavor: in your career, at home, and anywhere else.

    I promise that I will share with you my success, and seek your guidance in my challenges.

    I promise to care for and protect you, through every sickness and concern.

    I promise that the attention I devote to you when we are together is the devotion that remains when we are apart.

    I promise that this day is neither a beginning nor an end, but a representation of the joy that radiates from us in the moments we share.

    I promise that I’m still looking forward to this life with you more than a little bit.

    I promise and solemnly vow in the witness of all those who care about us the most that I love you now, that I have loved you only, and that I will love you for the rest of my life.

    here goes…

    Okay, here’s my last post as a bachelor.

    Bride aside, I am surrounded by the five most awesome people in my life, and they are in rare, rare form. Ross bottled my special wedding lambic in blue bottles labeled with me! I’m on my bottles.

    I don’t think life could be any better than it is at the moment.

    See you on the other side.

    Arcati Crisis takes Trevose

    “In 800 yards. Make. A U-turn.”

    “I’m sorry, what?”

    “Gina, it told you to make a U-turn.”

    “What if that’s not legal here?”

    “Then we just tell the police officer that the nice British lady in your GPS told us it was legal, so it’s totally cool.”

    “Okay”

    Gina commences epic U-turn across Street Road.

    “Whaoooooo!”

    .

    Sometimes as Gina and I wander around being – well, us – I catch myself wondering: why are we allowed to do this?

    At no time has this question been more present in my mind than today, as Gina chauffeured me around the city to cross last-minute to-dos off of my wedding prep list. Right now we are sitting in a hotel room on a key-protected floor looking at the ridiculously awesome costume jewelry Gina will be wearing tomorrow in my wedding.

    This is after nearly crashing our luggage cart in the hotel parking lot, surviving our epic U-turn, me almost pitching my electric guitar through a display case at Bluebond, buying seemingly a hundred travel-sized personal condiments, earlier wandering around a masquerade store discussing the logistics of whether Moses’ crook is effectively the same thing as Little Bo Peep’s crook, and general driving all around the city wailing along to my official last-day-of-bachelordom CD, Pinkerton.

    We are two fairly ridiculous human beings on our own, but we don’t typically verbalize or act upon any of our ridiculousness. As a pair both of those impulses are actively engaged. Which makes it clearly insane that I am getting married tomorrow, and Gina is captain in charge of making sure I get married.

    We have not trashed the hotel room yet, but I believe that option to still be in the cards.

    We are, after all, rock stars.

    .

    (As to where I’ve been: I was really sick. A week before my wedding. It wasn’t fun. And I got a chest x-ray. That’s about all that needs to be said.)

    Stuff Takes Time

    I rung in 2009 the same way I spent December 25th – quietly at home with Elise. The reality is that every other day has become its own holiday spectacle, so the actual holidays are one of the few chances we have to lay low and relax.

    Our wedding is a scant 16 days away. When we set the date for January I was concerned that it would compound all of the craziness of December. Now that we’ve crossed over to a new year I feel exactly the opposite. We’re changing in a time of change. The wedding extends the exfoliation of a prior year, as though our NYE kiss will last from midnight yesterday through when we touch down back in Philadelphia after honeymoon.

    My mantra in 2008 was “stuff takes time.” If it sounds unspecific, good – that’s the point. The point that everything in life – my education, my music, my blog, our relationship, our music festival, my career, and our band – has taken a lot of time and effort to get to this point. The point is that no goal worth attaining is instantaneous. I didn’t have a senior position at work and four CDs with my band in 2004, yet here we are. We couldn’t have gotten married in 2004 or rented a farm for our music festival in 2006, but that’s where we’re headed.

    It would be pointless to spend the rest of the post back-patting for all of my accomplishments in ‘08 – I sortof already do that once a year, anyway.

    Let’s not look back. Let’s just devote our time to the people and the things we love, and move inexorably closer to our goals, one year at a time.

    invoke the infield fly rule!

    Hmm.

    So, in a bit of Philly surfing the other night I stopped by Philly Future, which featured a link to Fork You, a Philly food blog. And, in checking out the personal blog of its proprietor Scott McNulty – Blankbaby – I found myself thinking, Gee, that names sounds awfully familiar. I wonder how long he’s been around?

    The answer to that question is two months longer than me. Which presents a conundrum: is Scott the longest-running blogger in Philadelphia?

    Technically, yes – he made 11 posts prior to the launch of this fine establishment. However, said flagship posts were made from Yonkers, New York, not Philadelphia.

    Now, let it be known that I am not one to hang on to my tagline via imagination or technicality – after all, that’s why I turned against Ms. Clinton earlier this year. At the same time, I don’t know that it’s fair for any carpetbagger with a long-standing blog to just roll into town and usurp me.

    I’m really not sure what to make of this development. Have I been legitimately dethroned? Do we share the title, in different capacities? Have I found my nemesis?

    I’m thinking I might have to drop by Fork You Live next Saturday to have a little duel showdown thumb war chat with this “Scott.”

    Arcati Crisis and friends Stand Up For Kids

    So, before all of that introspection crap started happening I was actually having an amazing weekend.

    The story picks up mere seconds after my Friday post, which was interrupted by Dante’s appearance to ferry me and my various PA equipment to The Dark Horse on South Street for a benefit for Stand Up For Kids.

    Stand Up For Kids is a nationally recognized and acclaimed charity that supports homeless and at-risk kids and teens. They offer many levels of service, from counseling children at risk for leaving home, to conducting outreach to kids on the streets, to staffing and maintaining outreach centers where teens can get help in obtaining a birth certificate or finding an apartment.

    The Philadelphia chapter of Stand Up For Kids needs support to provide that full complement of services. Their benefit raised money towards supplies for their outreach packets – like juice boxes, deodorant, or sweatshirts – as well as for an outreach van that would allow them to be more mobile in their efforts.

    Arcati Crisis has played a slew of shows this year, but the SUFK benefit ranks high amongst our favorites.

    First, The Dark Horse Pub is a fantastic bar – one of my favorites in all of Philly. It’s just north of South on 2nd – across from Headhouse. The pub is comprised of multiple rooms that each have their own personality, all clean and comfortable and serving delicious food along with their drinks.

    Second, the bill – we played with a lineup of people who we would go out of our way to see. Seriously. It was such a profoundly humbling experience to be listed in the middle of the people whose songs I hum while I walk down the street.

    Joshua Popejoy, a model of sharp hooks and specific strumming, and increasingly my go-to for all discussions of mixing. Bill Butler, an outstanding songwriter and one of my favorite Philly vocalists, and the director of the charity The Philadelphia Sessions. Dante Bucci, a virtuosic percussionist who has transformed a zen instrument into a songwriter’s treasure, and who can engineer a PA solution for any space. Jon Glaubitz, an enormously talented guitarist and songwriter with a chameleonic ability to blend in anywhere – no matter if it’s a coffee shop or a rock club. And Andra Taylor, an arresting new voice on the Philly scenes, her hypnotically circular guitar riffs evoking a prism of contemporaries from Patti Griffin to Madonna. And, we made new friends – with David Miller and Jeremy Davis, performers we surely will see again in the future.

    However, beyond all of those pleasures was the charity itself. SUFK volunteer, event organizer, and AC-fan Nina found the right venue to turn a gathering into a celebration, found the right music to fill it, and then packed the room to the very limit of its capacity.

    Throughout the night Nina sent SUFK volunteers up to the microphone to share their stories about the organization while we set up for the next artist on the bill. The one that really caught me came after our performance – maybe because we were still trembling from a powerful closing swing through “What’ll I Say” and “Apocalyptic Love Song,” or maybe just because she was so very compelling.

    She spoke about how she helped to found the Philadelphia chapter four years ago, and how at the time it was just a handful of people who wanted to make an impact. She spoke about how we all pass homeless children every day without realizing that we see them, partially because they so desperately don’t want to be homeless that they will do anything to blend in. She spoke about how – four years later – she is so energized by the enthusiasm of her fellow volunteers and the changes they effect in the world, but that they aren’t enough – they need more support and more volunteers to truly change the streets of Philadelphia.

    When she was through I found myself with tears welling in my eyes.

    All of these things we do take time. Four years ago Arcati Crisis was an in-joke name for our studio recordings. Four years ago Dante Bucci didn’t know what a hang drum was, and Andra Taylor had no idea she’d be living in Philadelphia.

    In that four years we’ve devoted to ourselves, Stand Up For Kids has devoted itself to others, and because of our collective commitment we were able to come together last Friday to share and celebrate positive music and a positive message. We came together into a room as strangers to each other and left with a common cause.

    That is the best kind of gig to play, and after the clouds of my weekend introspection clear on a bright Monday morning that is the memory that I’m going to take with me. Even if our music only made SUFK twenty dollars it was worth every minute of playing. If I could raise a thousand I would play for days at a time, stopping only to breathe.

    “In the beginning, it is always dark.”

    Have you ever watched The NeverEnding Story? You know how the book seems to bleed into Sebastian’s life, with him running afoul of frightening taxidermy during an encounter with G’mork.

    Today my life is something like that.

    Ever since I I first transferred from Blogger to WordPress in the midst of the first NaBloPoMo (a feat I still can’t believe I engineered), I’ve also been moving backwards though the almost 3000 posts that came before, categorizing them into tidy chunks that tell the stories of my life.

    I’m determined to at least categorize back into the year 2000 by the end of the month, and in my surge of personal excavation I’ve become firmly entrenched in the “Behind the Music” portion of my life – recording a seminal album while going through a horrific breakup and a nearly deadly illness. Flirting with potential entanglements Oh, and drinking a lot.

    That old, unhappy, unsure me seems so alien in the present day. To catch all of the themes in those old posts I’ve had to do more than read them – I’ve had to put myself in their place. How else to remember that I hatched my plot to break up with Selina as an allegory of why I shouldn’t pull an all-nighter?

    In the process of getting into character I feel like those old posts have been slowly transforming my present day life. I Trio “Will It Ever Come,” telling the story of how it was written, and then find myself re-reading the post about recording it in the studio. Yesterday I re-read one lamenting that it was hard to tell if you have a fever when you’re under a spotlight, and last night I replayed the experience at our benefit show – half sick and half in-the-moment.

    This evening I have a tickle in my chest that’s scarily reminiscent of the beginnings of my legendary bout of bronchitis and pneumonia that I’m about to be rereading.

    The coincidence is starting to become frightening, if only because I’ve now crossed the threshold into the worst month of my life – the torturous rehearsal process for Good Woman of Setzuan, nearly failing classes, the depths of my relationship, deaths in the family.

    If this was really The NeverEnding Story I would be able to reach back into the plot to shake me out of the stupor. I remember being five and jumping up and down on the bed in my father’s hotel room, screaming unintelligibly along with Bastian as he inserted himself into Fantasia, first interrupting Atreyu’s conversation with Morla, and later by naming the princess “Moon Child.”

    Or, maybe I already have – without knowing it – and the only reason that younger me broke free of his darkness was because I am sitting here, happy and healthy, willing him to get on with his life.

    Make You Feel Real Blue

    A few weeks ago Lindsay, Dante Bucci, and Bill McConney were playing a tiny living-room style show in a just-off-South coffee shop called Cafe Grindstone that had an entire vegan menu and a shelf of random used textbooks to peruse.

    As I put back the book that taught me that pigeons are superstitious a flyer on a lower shelf caught my eye with a familiar logo – Alexandra Day.

    I picked up the flyer and scanned it. A Monday night show at Tritone on South Street – not a twenty minute walk from my house – with one of the best songwriters in Philadelphia. Doesn’t take much convincing.

    Then I continued to read. She would be splitting a bill with a band whose name I didn’t recognize, who would play the entirety of Joni Mitchell’s Blue.

    .

    Improbably, I currently name as Blue my second favorite album of all time. That puts it above albums that I played on repeat for entire days of my youth. Albums that taught me what music was.

    How, then, can that one LP – that I didn’t hear a single song from until college – come to eclipse all else in my collection?

    It’s the color of it. Blue is rooted in a palette of different blues, explicit and implied: midnight sky outside of a plane window on “This Flight Tonight;” the melancholy emotional blues on “All I Want” and “My Old Man;” the twinkling blue tinge of frost on “River;” and the blue tv screen light in “A Case of You.” It is music that makes me see color, every single time I hear it.

    It’s also the sureness of it – the way threads of blueness and yearning to get back to California are woven through the album. The sureness of Joni’s indelible performance, and the perfection of the tracking. In my opinion it is nearly the ultimate in a singer-songwriter album, and if you are assembling an album you ought to spend some serious time listening to Blue to understand how to make its formula your own.

    .

    I mentioned the upcoming show to as many people as would listen, but I have other promotional duties as well, and I couldn’t seem to hook anyone with the play-through of the Joni album. I wound up tired and alone Monday night, installed in the back corner of the Tritone wrapped in a jacket and scarf, sipping cranberry juice.

    Alexandra came by my table, her usual whirlwind of energy and vinyl pants, but she immediately caught on that I was at an unavoidable ebb.

    “This is a good bar to just sit in,” she advised. “I’ve come here many times just to sit in the corner. And, you’re really going to like the band.”

    The band, I learned, was Ellipsis – a local jazz trio. They assemble the second Monday of each month with as many additional players as necessary to make it through the entirety of an album. In the past two months I had missed a swing through Jeff Buckley’s “Grace” and Neil Young’s “Harvest.” And, Alexandra said the word in the room was that next month’s artist would be Bjork.

    My excitement was paired with skepticism that any band could replicate the magic of Blue, especially a jazz band who I discovered in short order did not have a guitarist: piano, upright bass, drum kit, and hand percussion, plus a young jazz vocalist. Joni Mitchell’s best album without a guitar?, I mused. Is there any point?

    The band set up a projector beside the stage that shone a series of images – the cover of the album, long dusty fields, empty starless nights – across their bodies and onto the wall to their right. Without much preface, they began “All I Really Want,” possibly my favorite Joni song.

    My skepticism continued for a verse – the arrangement on this one was measured mimicry, and the vocalist was treading delicately around Joni’s words. Then we reached my favorite point of the song, exuberant in new love even as it plumbs its unsure depths:

    All I really really want our love to do
    Is to bring out the best in me and in you
    I want to talk to you, I want to shampoo you
    I want to renew you again and again
    Applause, applause – life is our cause
    When I think of your kisses
    My mind see-saws
    Do you see – do you see – do you see
    How you hurt me baby
    So I hurt you too
    Then we both get so blue

    I hadn’t noticed, but as the verse continued I leaned farther and farther from my seat, as if I thought the song could just reach out and envelop me. By the time Samantha Rise reached that melancholy pinnacle, “we both get so blue,” my ass was barely in the chair. I was in love and wrapped in the color of her voice.

    The show that followed is one of the best I’ve ever witnessed. A silkier, surer version of “My Old Man” that sent a chill through my body. The quiet menace of the quickly descending fifth in the b-section of the otherwise pretty “Little Green.” A raucous, celebratory turn through “Carey,” stripped down to it’s upright bass and percussion and then built again (here I exchanged a glance of incredulous amazement with Alex and she just laughed and turned back to watch the show). A perfect, absolutely verbatim rendition of “Blue.” A saucy, jazzy version of “California” that transformed directly into a racing, free-form take on “This Flight Tonight” complete with scatting. “River,” bare of it’s jingle bells and with a frostier pulse. A subtle, measured read on the oft-covered “Case of You,” possibly the best lost-love song ever written. And, the sometimes superfluous “Last Time I Saw Richard” transformed into a incandescent elegy for the entire album, although in its narrative it perhaps comes first – her old man gone and married to some chick who skated around on the iced over river.

    At the end I was breathless and teary. I witnessed something unique and transformative, unusual and terrific. I saw all of the colors that Joni painted into the album, and so many more.

    It was a show that should have played to a packed club, or even on the main stage of the Kimmel Center, and I was watching it from the back corner of what is effectively a living room with a bar and a stage along with twenty, maybe thirty fans.

    .

    I’m inexplicably nervous to talk to other musicians, a condition that’s becoming increasingly paradoxical as I play more frequently. I am one, so shouldn’t I understand how to approach one?

    Samantha – delicate and composed on the stage – was twinkling and approachable off it it. I think I heard her boasting to another fan that she could defeat him at any Mario-based game. Eventually I noticed her by herself at the bar and plunged in.

    “That was so good. Blue is one of my favorite records, ever. You really did it justice.”

    “Wow, thank you. It’s one of mine too!”

    And so we just talked, just for a minute or two – the easy chatter of two people who love music. She shook my hand and jotted down her information on the pad I had been sketching out my next Trios on, and parted with a nod and a smile, settling in to enjoy Alexandra’s equally amazing set.

    .

    Three days later and I still can’t get her and Ellipsis out of my head. In that last post I wondered if I still saw colors in the world, but Samantha answered that question neatly. Sometimes you just need someone to show you where to look.

    Trio Season 6 – Suite #6: Instants

    This Trio almost wound up being titled “Primer” because of the following three quotes:

    On being primed:
    If you’ve ever read an interview with a songwriter … you’ll hear a repeated theme: that you have to constantly be writing, and constantly be revising and playing. It seems sortof counter-intuitive, because at some point you’ve written a certain amount of material, and you feel like you should be playing or rehearsing that material. But … when you have a new idea it’s much more easy to capture that idea.

    It’s funny that you can apply any kind of science to songwriting. You spend a lot of years as a songwriter thinking it’s just lightning that strikes you, but there are things you can do to make yourself more of a lightning rod.

    All This Time
    When the chorus came in my head I literally walked to the piano and played the entire song in one go and wrote the lyrics. It all happened in 30 minutes. … Effectively the whole song came at once. It was because I was primed. That’s the challenge, you know? You have to be working on songs to have other songs that work.

    Will It Ever Come?
    Much like “All This Time,” it came at this point that I was very primed, in the summer of 2000. I wrote a lot of what are still my favorite songs at that time … songs that I really still play very frequently. And this one was kindof in the middle, and it just got ignored. It was at the very beginning of Crushing Krisis and I blogged the lyrics. [Ed note: Literally; I wrote them out in nine minutes in the Blogger window. They were my 81st post.]

    The next year when I went into the recording studio … I can honestly say I don’t know that ever played it before. And we did it in one take.

    .

    Lyrics and chords for “Time Is Running Out” are behind the cut. Read more…


    Trio – the original singer-songwriter web session – returns for its sixth season featuring my original music, recorded live and DIY in my bedroom. You can download this Trio, grab the single of “All This Time,” or listen to a previous Trio:

     
    icon for podpress  Suite 6: Instants [15:09m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

    Hitching: Groom Team Style, pt. 1

    Not only do I have to finish telling the story of how Elise and I got engaged last year, but aside from mentioning our invites a few weeks ago I haven’t really spoken at all about our planning process.

    A unique element of our wedding that I’ve previously touched upon is the composition of our parties – my side consists of three women and two men, and Elise’s is four women and her brother.

    The mixed-gender makeup has style implications for both sides, since early-on we decided my women would not wear tuxes. That meant twice the bridesmaid dress shopping of a normal wedding, with the added challenge of making sure my ladies looked distinctly groomsly in comparison to Elise’s maids.

    This morning Gina and I headed out for the final leg of our wardrobe journey – a trip to look at tuxedos for me. It has taken us many months to get to this point. Our first wardrobe excursion was in January on the morning after our engagement party, which meant we were all a touch hung over.

    Hangover or no, I don’t think there was any way I could have been adequately prepared to enter into the mouth of hell that is David’s Bridal.

    (For the record, this is not a story about me looking down on people who buy dresses at David’s. It’s about my vast incredulousness at the entire wedding industry and the attitudes that come with it, which – if I keep writing these recaps – you will see play out repeatedly. But, I digress.)

    We entered David’s as a quintet – Elise, her sister, and Amanda, and Lindsay and I. Elise’s trio was checked in and sent to romp in the many rows of chiffon and taffeta while Lindsay and I negotiated with the gatekeeper. It went something like this:

    LindsayGK: Oh, are you in this wedding as well?

    Lindsay: Yes, this is the groom, and I’m in his party.

    Gatekeeper: So, you’re a friend of his that’s in the bridal party?

    L: No.

    GK: Ahh, you’re a friend of the bride’s that she placed in the groom’s party?

    LW: No.

    (Between the hangover and the dumbfoundedness, here Lindsay was starting to look unpredictably dangerous, like a captured squirrel. I decided to intervene.)

    Me: Actually, she’s my co-best-lady.

    GK: I see. (Clearly not seeing at all). Well, we’ll just put her under Elise.

    The gatekeeper took Lindsay’s name so that her romping could begin, and I moved to follow her into the racks.

    GK: Uh, you can wait at the chairs here.

    PM: Hmm?

    GK: We have chairs. For grooms. You don’t have to go in there.

    This was very early in the wedding process, and I did not yet understand the reverse groom-discrimination phenomenon. No wedding-associated vendor is prepared to speak to a groom. All of their forms have the bride listed first. They always want contact information from the bride.

    They definitely do not expect the groom to show up to poke around and ask questions, and they certainly don’t expect him to care about dress-shopping.

    Having made it past the gatekeeper, Lindsay and I joined the other ladies in searching through rows upon rows of dresses. To me most of them looked more like 90s prom dresses than modern wedding gear. Lindsay and Amanda, both wedding veterans, undertook an education campaign to get me quickly up to speed on fabrics, cuts, and styles.

    Laden down with silken loads, the three of us advanced on the dressing area … only to encounter a second gatekeeper.This one looked like a troll doll, and was dressed smartly in a neutral-colored sack that served to minimize her lumpiness. She was exactly the opposite of the sort of style maven you’d want to purchase a wedding dress from.

    The trollish woman waited for all of the women to pass and then physically obstructed my path.

    Wedding Troll: What are you doing? You can’t come back here.

    Me: (Innocently) Hmm?

    WT: (Sassily) What are you, a friend?

    Me: I’m the groom.

    WT: We have some chairs out in front…

    Me: (A little testy) I have heard about the chairs. I am not sitting in the chairs. I need to pick out a dress for the women in my party. I am your customer.

    (She did not seem convinced, so I embellished, slightly.)

    Me: I am paying for all of the dresses

    WT: Ahh, well… (clearly waging an internal battle between wanting to get rid of me and wanting to sell stuff) …you see, I can’t let you come any further. It’s, err, it’s not really up to me, you see. Some of the other women, they might be… they might… well, you know, they could be uncomfortable.

    Me: How so?

    WT: You know. Women. Dressing rooms.

    Me: But, I can’t see into the dressing rooms from here.

    WT: Coming out of the dressing rooms. They, ahh, won’t want you looking. At them. When they come out of the dressing rooms.

    Me: In their dresses?

    WT: Yes, exactly.

    Me: I see. And, I’m too close?

    WT: Mmm hmm.

    Me: (Taking two steps back) What about now?

    WT: Uhh, well, you can still see them, and…

    Me: (Slowly walking backwards and increasing in volume). Now? Now? What about NOW? AM I FAR ENOUGH AWAY NOW?

    At this point Elise had noticed my confrontation and fixed me with a pained look, to the effect of Please do not get us kicked out of the first wedding store I’ve brought you to.

    The BlueI stood on the very spot where Elise interrupted my escalating confrontation, and did not move from it. As our party members came out in a variety of dresses I made a great show of leaning over from my spot for a closer look, careful not to step closer to the dressing rooms.

    This went on for a while, until finally someone came out in a dress that caught our attention. We flagged down the trollish woman and handed her the dress. Did she have it in blue? Elise’s women would be wearing blue.

    She disappeared with the dress for a while as our fashion show continued, and after several minutes came huffing up to Elise and I with the dress clutched in one hand.

    Elise, in the Elusive StyleWedding Troll: Discontinued.

    Elise: Hmm?

    WT: This dress is discontinued. We don’t carry it.

    Me: Actually, you’re carrying it right now. In your cloven hoo… um, in your hand.

    WT: Just this one. That’s the only one we carry.

    Elise: What do you mean, exactly?

    WT: I can’t order this in your color. You’d just have to find another David’s that has them in the right colors and sizes for your party.

    Me: (Muttering) Oh, because that’s probable.

    Elise: So, why was it on the rack?

    WT: (Puzzled) So people can try it on.

    Elise: But, you just have the one bridesmaid dress.

    WT: Yes.

    Elise: And you can’t get any more.

    WT: Exactly.

    Elise: …

    Peter: Goddamnit. YOU FIND ONE NICE THING IN THE WHOLE FUCKING WALMART…

    At this point Elise was snapping her head back and forth looking for swat teams that would emerge to tranquilize me, and I got the message to quickly wrap it up with the wedding troll before I was forcibly ejected from the store.

    And that was the end of my association with David’s Bridal.