stories

Why I Blame Drew’s Cancer, pt. 1

July 22, 2009 by krisis

It is just shy of 2:30 in the afternoon on Saturday, and I am sitting on the floor of an airplane small enough that – sans wings – could fit into my living room. There is a parachute-bearing man named Rob strapped to my back.

Around me sit four other twenty-somethings, each with a parachute-equipped man affixed to their person. Together, we watch through the open hatch on the side of the plane as first the airport slips away, then trees, then clouds.

Suddenly, we are in unmitigated blue.

I’ve known these people for less than three weeks, but in just a few minutes I’ll be jumping out of a plane with them to Blame Drew’s Cancer.

I momentarily debate my sanity.

This story starts in my cubicle at work, of all places.

I had just exited a meeting about social media with Britt, a colleague, but not a direct co-worker. Back in my cube, we had a rapid-fire conversation.

“So,” Britt interrogated, “You blog, but you aren’t on Twitter?”

“I grabbed my username, but I’m not using it for anything.”

“I think you would like it.”

“But it’s just a never-ending Facebook status.”

“Try it. Try it for a week.”

“Britt, I don’t do anything halfway. If I try Twitter I’m going to insist on being the best at Twitter. That’s how I am.”

“Good.” She left me with a wink. “Try it.”

I’ve already unfolded the story of my Twitter addiction, as well as my visit to a meeting of the Social Media Club of Philadelphia. However, neither could prepare me for my next plunge.

It started innocently enough – I received via a Twitter acquaintance an invite to an event charmingly titled “Blame-a-Thon.” 24-hours of live blaming and live music on 9/9/9, all for charity? I didn’t really understand what it was about, but I love charity events, and I love live music.

I shot off a quick message to the organizer to see if he needed any help connecting with bands, and I got a prompt reply – that I should connect with the director of the event: Britt at BlameDrewsCancer.

Britt? Like, my work Britt? The same Britt?

Yes, yes, and yes.

Another rapid-fire conversation with Britt ensued. (As it turns out, all of our conversations are rapid-fire). The Blame-a-Thon was being thrown by BlameDrewsCancer. Had I seen that hash tag on Twitter? I had, but hadn’t completely understood it … dozens of people blaming things, both serious and ironic, on someone’s cancer? Seemed a little cheeky.

Britt said I ought to read up on BlameDrewsCancer, and invited me to tag along to her first meeting with the eponymous Drew to discuss the event.

I read up. Drew is a true digital native – a plugged-in, gagdet-wielding dude who hosted The Best Damn Tech Show. Period, blogs, twitters, and works at a tech startup. Just a month prior, his doctor diagnosed him with Stage 3 Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.

A lot of people would go to a negative, frightened place with this news – especially in the first month of their diagnosis. Not Drew. Drew decided that in order to beat cancer, he had to beat up on cancer. He had to make it the bad guy, the loser, the asshole. In his own words:

I’ve been blaming my cancer for everything. Lost keys, wallet, Phillies losing. Sixers picking a bad coach. Twitter going down and/or being slow.

Surely cancer can’t withstand that type of beatdown. But why do it alone? I wanted to welcome ANYONE to blame ANYTHING on MY cancer. … I have cancer, but cancer doesn’t have me

Less than 60 days later, close to 10,000 unique Twitter users had blamed something on Drew’s Cancer. That evening, I watched the number creep up on BlameDrewsCancer.com.

I was amazed by Drew’s story, and intrigued to hear about his upcoming Blame-a-Thon. I called Britt back and told her I was in for the meeting.

Little did I know what I was truly “in” for.

tweeting and flying like birds

July 18, 2009 by krisis

I’m presently two miles away from the Pennridge airport, the site of today’s insanity. (see also: last night and this morning)

You can follow along live on twitter up ’til jump time with me or our ground controller amanda nan, or the #blamedrewscancer crew: drew, schmidtultra, mikeyil, & brimil.

I know I have yet to explain why I am jumping out of a plane with the #blamedrewscancer crew. That’s another story entirely. Monday. Seriously.

I’ll check back in after I’ve flown.

my unexpectedly rocking Vermont vacation

July 6, 2009 by krisis

I played an unexpected concert on the 4th of July.

I bring my guitar with me just about everywhere I go. Parties. Barbeques. Vacations. My default social state is to be idly playing guitar, and I don’t like to subject other people’s instruments to my style of playing and non-stop litany of alternate tunings.

Not surprisingly, I was armed with my acoustic axe in Vermont this weekend. I didn’t expect I’d be performing anywhere, but figured our idle days would leave me plenty of time to rehearse my new AC covers and some newer originals.

Kat apparently took it as a challenge to find me a place to play over the weekend. And, of all nights to find an opportunity, the one she discovered was Saturday night – right on the 4th of July: a local open mic at the Ripton Community Coffeehouse, topped by a performance by local band Twist of the Wrist.

When I first hear about a venue I get a very tangible picture in my head; they are seldom accurate. In this instance I was picturing a small coffee shop – perhaps as a part of a larger general store or community center – with sparse seating and a small riser doubling as a stage. It would be a fun night out. I’d play some newer stuff, and maybe finally play my cover of “Independence Day” live!

Mindful of the tendency of Philly open mics to never start on time, we left the farm on the late side for our up-mountain trek up to Ripton. We arrived at the “community coffee house” to discover it was a converted church, its parking lot overflowing with vehicles. Inside there was a foyer with a box office staffing by a twinkling attendant. The main room had many rows of seats (all full!), a proper stage, a snack bar, and a balcony(!).

Once again, my mental picture was off by a country mile.

whiling away the hours

May 28, 2009 by krisis

(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?

pipes and glass

March 9, 2009 by krisis

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.