011: Summer(y) [and Surfbort]

So the weekly blog idea for this year went the way of the average American Lose Weight Resolution. Almost in stereo with the hopes and dreams of slicing and dicing dress size numbers did my attempt at textual conversation fall into the grave of attempts at accomplishments. I choose not to see that as a failure of my dedication and solely as a failure to maintain focus on this creative outlet. Maybe it’s a cop-out or maybe its just what my conscious needs to tell my sub-conscious to so that I may maintain riding the bicycle of the “grind” that is the chorus of the evangelical VaynerBros culture populating modern mid-20s and early 30s male life. 

Focus is always the arch nemesis of the interesting individual, or perhaps the interested individual. Shiny object syndrome is what someone more well paid than I, but not necessarily as intelligent, once verbalized, and that term is as accurate as it is infuriating in my life. The arms reach of modern creative tools breed a pit in which this syndrome grows, and thus it eats and destroys accomplishments though distraction. Maybe the great masters of the past were only masters because they only had their one discipline nearby in the life, and not the ability to download a pirated copy of Final Cut Pro and an iPhone, leading to the middle of the night questioning of why you haven’t made a feature length movie. “Fucking Soderbergh made an iPhone movie, why haven’t you, you goddamn lazy pussy?” may or may not have been an actual thought at 3am a few weeks ago, as I politely lost a staring contest with an egg shell ceiling. 

Jony Ivey, who you either love or hate, depending on if you are a good human being or not, once said “There needs to be sacrifice. The thing with focus is it’s not like this thing you aspire to, you decide on Monday ‘You know what, I’m going to be focused.’ It is an every minute, a ‘why are we talking about this? THIS is what we’re working on’… What focus means is saying ‘No’ to something, that with every bone in your body, you think is a phenomenal idea, and you wake up thinking about it, but you say no to it, because you’re focusing on something else.”

The bald headed bastard with an angelic voice was on to something, and I think about that quote often, as a male fighting off the harsh realities of social expectations of where I should be in my intimate relationship with time. The pile of sacrifices of good-to-great ideas is a bloody trench of possibilities, and if you’ve ever had a real life conversation with me, you know I romanticize possibilities over any other alluring traits of a person. Possibilities and potential are almost erotic in my love of them, they drive every engine in my soul, they blanket my coldness in winter and they give me oxygen in the summer. So as I look upon the pile of cast away chances, it is like visiting a cemetery of close friends you never fully got to meet.

So when you look upon your other pile, or perhaps a wall, however you want to store your accomplishments, it shall, and should, always pale in comparison to your discards. For the accomplishments that are lifted upon your mantel, have been cared for, and fed, and they have grown into fully formed entities. You have been a parent to great a number worthwhile tasks, some mighty, some mouses, but all living, beautiful creatures that you breathed life into, and molded with your hands, proverbially or in actuality depending on how you want to take that metaphor. If you place your piles in too-close proximity to each other, the stench of death from the ideas you took out back and put a bullet into, can infect the shine on your valuable accomplishments. This is where the emotional under belly of your other senses do battle with your logical brain, and you feel depressed and sad, even while staring at a wall of good things.

Focus does require sacrifice, and deep sacrifice, of loved ideas and potential. And when you send them into the pit, you must have the foresight to build that pit far away. Deep in the earth. Your memories of what could have been can not impact the great work you are capable of doing now, with clear mind and heart. Yes, you may learn from your ideas and most certainly your attempts, but they have a shorter half life than your calling, your vocation, or your true desire. 

Personally, and it’s my blog, so fuck off if you think this isn’t all about me, sacrificing what could be for what can be has been problematic this year. I moved from essentially Left of Bumfuck Nowhere, to a place where literally you can do anything you want. You just can’t do EVERYTHING you want, and that is the ugly, smelly, devil on my shoulder. I am but a glunton-ist. Going overboard is, for me, an emotionally logical first step. The dreadfully painful second step, the most needed one before the leap, is the unemotional logical analyzation of how to proceed. 


So in the battle of focus verses everything else, sometimes you lose. I lost for a bit this year, and we can analyze that all we want to, but that is premium content that you have to buy me a drink to hear. I’m tired of writing now, despite not having brought this shit think piece to a completion, so here’s pictures of Surfbort from the other week with deepest apologies if you came here for writing and not bad ass punk rock pics.



009: Sundays [and Sloppy Jane]

I don’t really understand the football. I tried to watch as a child, as a Christian homeschooled basically orphan, there was truly nothing more I wanted to do than fit in and have friends, but ultimately my those desires clashed with my indoctrinated superiority complex I was blessed with. The internal struggle to care about football because everyone else in my social circle did versus the stance of the outcast that football was dumb and stupid was the main event in my brain every winter. The hill I chose to die on was lonely and high, but offered a great view of the masses cheering that amazing touchdown.

The Super Bowl is on, and I am trying to catch up on editing my own work, and the paid work, while having just done back to back 11 hour days at the studio job I have. I want to continue watching old WWF Superstars episodes from May 1992, my recent guilty pleasure and a throwback to a simpler time. When wrestling wasn’t about 5 star matches and being a fan meant being an outcast in society. Everyone wore Eagles or Steelers outfits on Sundays, but my weekends began and ended with that 11am Superstars program filled with squash matches and endearing but shameless hawking of merchandise. I wish I still had that Doink teddy bear.

Times have changed, I no longer forcibly don’t care about football, and you don’t get laughed at for being a wrestling fan. It may not be exactly “cool” to watch the squared circle soap opera, but then again, being “cool” isn’t even cool nowadays. Growing up, being cool or hip was literally everything that mattered to a young buck in the 90s. It is perhaps the first sign of maturity to see those things you raised high on pedestals as a youth, be thrown aside for newer, fresher values. And if not maturity, then at least a sign of world tenure. 

I should stop procrastinating and get to work. The work that matters, some that will teach me the values of forethought and planning, and others that will inform me of where I stand as I continue to measure myself against the Masters of the business I choose as my current artistic dance partner. And after getting those results and reflecting on my inadequacies, the lesson I will no doubt surely learn again tonight, is that I should not compare myself to the others. For they are them, plentiful and loud, and I am who I am, for better or worse, on a hill hacking away at my own story. 

Anywhos, here’s some Sloppy Jane pictures from Monday. They’re going on tour and you should go see them.  

NWWWF Superstars May 1992

NL: “Stuffed & Ready” Cherry Glazerr

NR:  yeah I haven’t read shit in a minute. Not a good spot to be at really.

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