Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

Philly

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I was walking down Chestnut street yesterday while playing guitar, which was somewhat unusual — seeing as it was cold enough that i couldn’t feel quite where my fingers were on the fret-board and because Chestnut is a rather urban pedestrian thoroughfare. I couldn’t quite tell you why it seemed like such a good idea at the time, but somehow i just knew it needed to be done. So, off i went down the street, retuning and changing picks inbetween songs without breaking my stride. Well, at least, not until i broke a string, which waylaid me dead in the middle of a block with my schoolbag and guitar case scattered around me as i went about changing my D string with a grim sense of determination.

Each person that passed by my motley pile of possessions and rapidly uncoiling packet of fresh strings felt like a missed opportunity, and i miswound the string twice in my hurry to get up and running. When i finally got back to my feet to begin tuning i found a man almost on top of me – mid-thirties, denim jacket, not much taller than me. He asked me what sort of guitar i had and i immediately switching into the “shoot-the-shit” mode you need to assume while speaking to randomly chatty guitarists; they don’t usually tend to be the most informed persons in the world, which seems to fuel their need to randomly ask you what sort of guitar you’re playing when the company insignia is obviously displayed in gold lettering on the headstock. But, anyhow, against my normal codes of operation, i engaged him in conversation as i continued tuning up.

By some flaw of fate and luck, he was the opportunity i wasn’t meant to miss. As our conversation continued, it turned out that he wasn’t just shooting the shit — in fact, he was a local singer-songwriter who plays open mics in the area and even has a Saturday show lined up at the Tin Angel! He gave me his email address and a flier for his show, and told me to get in touch with him about playing an open mic sometime.


Herein lies the dilemma… i’ve got the email all written, its window hidden behind this one while i type. I took care in arranging it with the right balance of nonchalance and enthusiasm, ellipses and exclamation points. The problem that has arisen is simply this: what sort of music do i compare myself to? Our conversation already established his ignorance of Ani DiFranco (and probably, by extension, Peter Mulvey) as well as our collective distaste for Dave Matthews and Creed along with their hapless legion of fans. So, i’m stuck trying to condense my four-odd years of songwriting and over ten dozen songs into a witty little mad-lib of a sentence, like “Like a mixture of ___ _____ and ______with the pop sensibility of ______ ___ and the instincts of a pre-fame ______.” Or, something like that…


Any thoughts? I really need some help on this one.

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/03/75044182/

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So, hi, it’s fucking spring outside with a vengeance. I just thought it’d share.

This has just been… whacky, lately. I mean, not to meta-blog more than i typically do, but the whole point of this is what i’m crushing on. It’s about those awkward moments, tremendous failures, and tiny victories. But, what happens when this is my awkward moment? What happens if my life is sailing smoothly elsewhere and this is the moment of doubt and trepidation, where i don’t know what to do or what to say?

Last year i kept Selina a virtual secret from my blog the entire time we dated … i’m not entirely sure why. I know it was because i didn’t like that my friends were coming here for news about my life rather than asking me about it personally. And, i know it was because i wanted to have something all for myself, separate from this. And, i was boring as hell. Now i don’t want to be boring, though, because this isn’t boring. There are things i want to say about it.

So…

::deep breath::

So, today we were walking down the street — me on my way to work and she on her way to an entirely late breakfast — and we were laughing and holding hands and i caught myself thinking dear god, we’re every annoying couple at every party and on every walk down the street that i’ve ever encountered. Somehow, though, from the inside it doesn’t seem so offensive … and it’s something i used to be entirely opposed to; i don’t think it’s the public’s business who i’m kissing at any given point in time — which has a lot to do with not talking about it on here too often, i guess. But, there comes a point when the kiss is more important than who is going to see it.

We usually kiss goodbye on the corner of 33rd and Chestnut, but today she had to walk further down the street and i was still on my way to the Main Building. Kissing her halfway down the block was odd … like i had missed hitting my mark on stage, but that the scene still worked. Worked out perfectly.

It might as well be the first day of spring It definitely feels like it. Do you think so?

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/03/75014938/

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Earlier…

Septa sometimes paints you a pretty picture, if you get far enough away from the constant hum and hustle of motors in the city. It’s their tracks that caught my attention . . . tendrils arcing out from tangled skeins of track that echo ever inward to create the swirling mess of 30th street station.

The pictures, though, it’s about the pictures.

I am in North Philadelphia, the cool not-quite-evergreen metal of a bench leaving alternating slats of cool and warm skin on the backs of my legs. I imagine that i must look silly – – all curled and cross-legged in my business attire, like a child at a party who’s tired out from playing with the adults.

Which . . . maybe i am.

Just now an older black gentleman walked down into the station, and the heels of his polished shoes rang out against the stairs like hollow wooden bells. He is in a suit so royal blue that i’m fairly convinced that it’s purple. He his with him an oddly shaped silver suitcase and a wide-brimmed hat . . . just now he was sitting on the former and adjusting the latter. For a moment he stood, lifted the case up to a ledge on the wall, carefully opened the clasps, and inside i could see the tell tale velvet that enwombs a shiny instrument . . .a saxophone, or clarinet. But, that peek was all i got, as he snapped it closed and set it back down after only the most cursory inspection.

I wanted to ask him to play . . . i would’ve given him all of my money. Here’s my train.

Funny… i meant to talk about the wooden station with it’s ancient awning, but now i’m headed back. But… i think i still managed to say what i was feeling.

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/03/75000951/

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Yummers… linky love! Aside from the aforementioned Phlogger Karl Martino , there’s new-comer rockstar/dork who discovered (!) blogging when he found my site on a search for my guitar-idol Peter Mulvey. Meanwhile, GlacierGrrl upgraded to her own domain, straight out of Sheryl Crow (well, that’s how i learned what that word meant), and yet another newish blogger actually reads me semi-daily (always a shock, trust me). Not to mention Drexelites Kat and Jason, who offer me new perspectives on the things i see every day. And, finally, was this a compliment or an insult? I can’t quite tell.


Ack, i just got fiberglass insulation crappola in my eyes while cleaning. I am such a clutz.

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/02/10197456/