is a blog by Brendan
Yesterday morning, my uncle John got up at some ridiculous hour and ran fifty kilometers. Fifty kilometers. Then he kept walking until he had done fifty miles. Then he went home, had something to eat and went to an unusual retrospective of his work.
Uncle John makes custom birthday cards, and has done so since he was a teenager. A few weeks ago, my aunt Dana started sending letters to friends and family asking to borrow any cards we might have saved. Of course, everybody had saved everything–you don’t get a personal work of art in the mail and throw it away when you’re done.
They got enough cards to fill four rooms full of shelves (and they had leftovers). During the day it was an exhibition for clients; that night, when I got there, it was food and a jazz band and my uncle’s fiftieth birthday party.
It was one of the best gallery shows I’ve ever seen. The sheer volume of work and creativity and originality was humbling and inspiring and it still stuns me a little to think that I own at least a dozen of those original pieces myself.
I think it was my tenth birthday when I got the foldout card. It was a huge battle scene my uncle had drawn and then left half-empty, inviting me to fill in the rest. It was perfect. It was one of the best presents I’ve ever received, and I could probably redraw it from memory.
I was a weird little kid, and if I’d been born to different parents I probably would have been a Ritalin poster child.The only things that could get me to sit still for ten minutes were a big fat fantasy book or a chance to draw with my uncle. I didn’t quite get all the genes that give him his talent, or maybe his dedication–he did better stuff at fifteen than I can hope for now–but everything I love about sequential art comes from trading panels with him on “Captain Zero” and “The Adventures of Petey.” That this site exists as more than a blog is due to him.
A dozen cards, a million comic strips. Happy birthday, Uncle John, and thanks for all my presents.
Angie–it was just him and his drummer (Derek?)–played for at least two hours, sans set list, taking requests from the crowd. About two of us, as I recall, were actually from Cincinatti; most of the rest were apparently just following him along the Ohio River. And then there were the four college students sitting on the floor two feet from the stage, grinning like idiots. We would have danced, but then the people behind us wouldn’t have been able to see.
So yeah, basically they played whatever we asked for–all but two tracks on this album, plus good chunks of his first indie CD (seen above, autographed) and his new covers album. And it was great. It was incredible. They got the fullest sound out of one guitar and a Junior Miss drum kit I’ve ever heard. Angie was wearing a Ramones t-shirt, which was kind of (situationally) ironic,because… Well. Bono always says the reason he started U2 was because he saw the Ramones and wanted to be in a rock band. I saw Angie Aparo, and now I want nothing more than to pack up my drums and piano and move into a van and play in a club every night for a hundred years.
(No worries, Mom. I can’t drive a van yet.)
Two guys are driving past a field populated by a large number of cows. One of the guys turns to the other and says”What a big herd of cows! How many do you think there are?”
“Eighty-four,” says the second guy.
“Wow!” says the first guy, stunned. “How’d you figure that out so fast?”
“Easy,” says the second guy, “I counted their legs and divided by four.”
This is my Discrete professor’s idea of a joke.
Somebody’s been searching a lot for “xorph.com” on Yahoo, repeatedly and regularly–like twenty times in less than amonth. A fine thing, in my opinion, but how long is it going to take him or her to figure out the address bar? Also,somebody found this site by searching for “elephant dildo” the other day. Believe it or not, that exact phrase has cropped up in here before. All the same, I’m hoping it was one of my friends who’s in on that particular joke; if not, I hope it was someone who’s going to get help soon.
Speaking of help:
So, um, this looks a little different. In case you didn’t notice.
Short Story rode (rode) again last night, for the first time since, um, last May. It was impromptu, and it wasn’t all of us–Darren was tutoring and Garret was in this “other city”–but we picked up instruments together for the first time in almost a year, and we sounded fine.The MC girl called for a second round of applause, and later that night there was a post clamoring for a Short Storyreturn on the Centre phorums. I think people liked it.
The thing is, though, that’s not what felt best about it. I’ve tried my hands at a lot of different ways of making music–choir, piano lessons, snare–and the fact is I’m not a natural. I accept that. But within what ability I have, it’s about the best high I can get. Saying “I play bongos” sounds a bit silly, which is why I try to class it up by saying “percussion,” but either way it’s raw and visceral and soulful and cool. I love acting because it entertains people. I love writing code when it’s for designs like this, or for games, because they entertain people too. But beating the hell out of my hands on rawhide is something I could just do forever, for no audience but four other guys on guitars.
That’s what felt good last night, down in the basement, guessing at how to play “Psycho Killer” and doing it live ten minutes later. The pretty girls in the dark didn’t matter. The applause didn’t matter. What mattered was that playing with my band still feels like dancing and knowing how.
