Magic
I have been wanting, and meaning, to write this post for a few weeks, and in part due to the subject at hand, time has been in short supply. I would be remiss, however, if I did not make the time to put down my thoughts about what Abigail has catalyzed for me. I’m writing this off the cuff; I don’t want to edit my emotions or rework them. This is from the heart.
For those of you who don’t know, Abigail is a rock opera about the Salem witch trials; it is a completely original work, created by Michael Xavier, Daniel Knop and Kurt Brown. This marks their first original rock opera after producing a number of successful rock opera “covers”, i.e. The Rocky Horror Show, Pink Floyd’s The Wall, Tommy and Jesus Christ Superstar. Few debuts are masterworks, but in my estimation, this one is. Aside from being an outstanding work of art and music, it has also been the catalyst for several momentous milestones in my life, all of which revolve around my return, in earnest, to the joy of music I thought I’d had to leave behind.
Some of you who will read this know my story; most probably don’t. Very briefly, I have been singing and performing onstage since I was six years old. I was active in competitive choir for my elementary, intermediate and high school years. After high school, I joined a band called The Mimsies, which would eventually make something of a splash in Hollywood and tour North America. I left the band under tragic circumstance in 2003, after ten years of nonstop gigging and recording. At that point, in the words of one of my new songs, “I put down the microphone and called it a day.” (more…)
The Long, Hard Road Out of the Holidays
You are surrounded by the absolute truth that your life is an organizational nightmare. Nothing is where it should be, and where it should be is something that really ought to be filed elsewhere. A hundred cities, a hundred doctors, a hundred and one false starts. Am I okay today? Will I be alright to take this on tomorrow? What about a week from now? What about a month? (more…)
All Good Things Need Never End
(This attracted my eye while I waited in the customer service line at Wal-Mart. It has nothing to do with anything.)
It’s your last night in Louisiana. Actually, it’s your last morning. It’s one a.m. and you just tossed a load of delicates in the washing machine. As Janis said, get it while you can. The next available laundry will be back at California prices, and “free” beats two dollars a load any day. (more…)
Hika
Perhaps you don’t know how to love anymore. Perhaps you’re just learning to love yourself.
That could have been a Doogie Howser screen shot.
You don’t know where you are right now; everything is in transition, just as it always has been. Nothing is ever secure, but these days, somehow, the lack of security sticks in your craw. It resides with you, and you fear it’s making you cynical.
You seek silence. The sort of quiet you came upon ten miles off Interstate 35, when, in a post-show stupor, you decided you could afford to venture an hour out of your way. Later, when your eyes demanded you crouch under the steering column in the Cabela’s parking lot for a few minutes’ sleep, you’d regret it.
You’re still glad you went. The Chickasaw Cultural Center is a temple in which most people will never genuflect. Nestled in reclaimed farmland at the foot of the Arbuckle Mountains, the center has everything it would need to become a world-class destination. The Chickasaw people have done a tremendous job in reclaiming their cultural identity and providing it a worthy nucleus. Every detail of the center is impressive and elegant; formidable. The materials chosen, from building construction to paper stock, are of exquisite quality and are masterfully assembled. Bronze, iron, copper, glass, native Oklahoma woods and stone combine in a way reminiscent of Japanese design, but clearly separate and unique. The architecture is modern Chickasaw. And it’s gorgeous. (more…)
On Tour Forever
Yea, we’re runnin’ a little bit hot tonight/You can barely see the road from the heat comin’ off of it/You reach down/Between my legs/Ease the seat back…
Nikki played Panama for you. Sure, he didn’t know you were listening, but it was still for you. Finally making the north side of Dallas after nightfall, you found a radio station crackling with a familiar voice. You took it as a good omen; another blessing from the Rock Gods that you were, indeed, on the right path. You didn’t know he had a radio show. You never listen to the radio. Yet, driving up to meet your band for the first time in nearly a decade – the band with whom you wrote The Ballad of Nikki Sixx - you have a chance encounter with his broadcast gig, Sixx Sense, and he confers upon you the Panama moment. On the road to Oklahoma, in the November darkness, in the encroaching chill, heat on, windows cracked. You reach down between your legs and ease the seat back and you’re blindin’ and flyin’ right behind the rearview mirror. (more…)
Begin at the Beginning: Handguns and Tootsie Pops.
You’re on the veranda – yes, the veranda – overlooking the Rue Principal, otherwise known as Main Street, in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana. The street sign spells out the Gallic name, punctuated by a little fleur-de-lys. This marks the first time you’ve ever used a laptop from the vacillating comfort of a porch swing. The sun is up, and has burned off the chill. It casts focused morning shadows on the four aging, white, Doric columns that support the roof of this porch. If there was ever a place to write anything, this is it. Mere scrawling on a beverage napkin, when composed in such inspiring environs as these, might find its way into the literary canon. It is patently Southern; an office to make proud the likes of Tennessee Williams, Harper Lee and certainly Margaret Mitchell. (more…)
Taking Boxcutters to Points-of-View.
You’ve always loved airports. Some of your earliest memories find their settings in far-flung ports of call like Dhahran and Narita. In fact, some English tot likely wound up with your favorite toy, back in 1979, after you left it in a ladies’ loo at Heathrow. The toy in question was a cheap rubber bat you dubbed Fleeter. You’ve always been fascinated by things that can fly. (more…)
Shooting Through a Shattered Screen
You like machines. You loathe entropy.
When One of Your Friends Jumps the Shark
Life creeps along at its Macbeth-endorsed petty pace, turning tomorrows and tomorrows and tomorrows into yesterdays without much fanfare. Day after day, your beat-up boots measure mundane metrics down the road of existence, their toes hitting a milestone every now and then. Most of the time, that milestone is firmly planted in your own path, but once in a while, it’s in someone else’s, and their toes hitting it sound a defining moment for you. (more…)
