Cracked Note

We were best friends in high school and could still be considered that four years later. Long after my parents had gone to bed, we potatoed on my couch and sat staring in astonishment at the TV. We had attached the camcorder to the television, and on the screen were hormone-laced skits we had produced as voice-cracking 14 year olds, the faces of classmates who now seem like more than a distant memory, and recordings of our high school band concerts.

One particular concert I wanted to skip. I hadn't watched any tape of it since it had happened, and not because I had yet to pop in the archived video. I live on home videos and am the type to rewatch them to the extent one would watch their favorite movie: to the degree where every scene is memorized and little hidden moments emerge. For me, that concert was one I wanted to erase from memory, to never relive those cracked notes again.

As I reached once again for the fast forward button, the friend sitting next to me-- the same friend sitting next to me during that very concert-- laughed off my actions and told me to "face my fears." He did so in an obviously lighthearted and joking matter, but beneath the sarcasm and hyperbole stood some truth. I joked about the trauma that came from cracking and flat-out splattering poorly executed notes during my first classical trumpet solo in front of an audience, but the truth was that reliving the embarrassment still proved uncomfortable.

Had it merely been a goof-up that was easy to get over, I wouldn't have my post-reaction to the disaster so vividly still in memory (I stared blankly at my sheet music and remarked to Andrew, "Oh my God."). The tape should have been played long ago, but I had not allowed myself to see the incident beyond the eyes of a grandiose 14 year old. Everything is either utopian or catastrophic at that age. Your hormones are manic just as you're beginning to experience that real world your parents told you about. There's little room for grey.

We watched the full 25 minutes of that concert, and at about the two-thirds mark we knew it was coming. You could see me increasingly rock in my chair and flutter my lips in preparation for my first classical trumpet solo. The first 3 or 4 notes came out as planned, but the next 10 or 11 did not. They were too low, they were too high, they didn't come out at all.

But this wasn't the disaster I had convinced myself had taken place. It will never go on my highlight reel of musical performances, but it was little more than an inexperienced trumpet player making typical novice errors at an unfortunate time. Perhaps looking at the situation outside of the kid with clear braces and three zits on his forehead helped me put the mishap into proper proportion. It's just always been easier to deal with failure by burying it into subconscious and not dealing with it. Easier, not healthier.

The Golden Retriever

We had entered the same venue that was home to the previous night's amazingly tight Shins concert, but time had not been frozen, and this was not the previous night. Being that our group consisted of a recently married couple, an unemployed college graduate, and a student intern who had yet to be paid for his 45 days of work, we only had the funds for one beer apiece. Sadly, twelve ounces of liquid hops and barley couldn't come close to inebriating the mind enough to enjoy the suckass acoustic stylings of Lloyd Cole, who somehow has a cult following of lobotomotized middle-aged Europeans. Fifty-eight and a half curdling minutes later, we faked applause and mocked our "entertainment"'s queasy song titles (who names a song Rattlesnakes?).

We were granted music salvation in the form of Ron Sexsmith, who choked me up during his song dedicated to the memory of Jeff Buckley. The four of us walk through the exits redeemed and uplifted after Sexsmith's performance. Before we could turn the corner, the recent bride stopped to glance at the poster advertising the concert we were leaving. On the poster were a few quotes from various reviews praising Sexsmith's latest release. To our astonishment, one of the chosen quotes came from my friend, her husband. With very little persuasion needed, a security guard unlocked the case securing the poster and gave it to us. We waited outside as the husband returned to the venue. He chatted for a while with Sexsmith, who thanked him for the wonderful review and promptly signed the soon-to-be framed commemorative.

But not before the picture of Lloyd Cole was sliced off.

Maybe It's Mental

Why are there handicapped parking spaces at Sonic?

A Few Things, 10 to be Exact

1) Holy crap: the first installments of "I Love the 90s" air on VH1 next month. Bring on the BK Knights, Saved by the Bell, and the flat top hair do's!

2) Number of prints taken from a roll of film during my first two years of college: 300-plus, easily.

3) Number of prints taken from a roll of film during my senior year, 6 months after getting a digital camera: zero.

4) Boxing is my new tennis.

5) I heard Jessica Simpson's brand-spanking-new single, yet another cover song. Never have I seen an attempt to force someone into superstardom this blatant and lazy at the same time.

6) Why isn't it *1? *9? Who in the name of Billy Madison chose *69?

7) First words my mom called me with during her 25th Anniversary celebration in New Orleans: Your father is d-r-u-n-k!

8) A girl actually used the "where do I know you from?" line on me. I swear on all things holy.

9) Seven years late, I'm asking myself what could have been if Jeff Buckley hadn't been compelled to take that fateful swim.

10) If we were born with only nine fingers and toes, would 9 be a more satisfying ending to lists (Top 9 reasons, etc.)? or is it the whole double digit thing?

The Best Part of Getting Up North Will Be...

...joining people who understand that walking is mostly a means to an end and not a meticulous craft in need of careful execution. A trip to Wal-Mart today was pure torture as I tailgated behind several plodding senior citizens and indecisive parents who seemed like they were actually contemplating e-a-c-h s-t-e-----p. I would accelerate past these stumbling blocks at the nearest opening, only to almost crash into yet another shopping cart going at snail pace. I could tell I annoyed them by breathing down their necks, but I like to get to where I need to get, and they were in my way.