The Look on Their Faces

Ahhhh, March.  Is there anything better?  I think not.  The month itself is okay, but what happens in March on the basketball court is quite literally, epic.  Every year there’s another incredible storyline, another Cinderella run – Virginia Commonwealth in 2011, George Mason in 2006, Florida Gulf Coast this year and always yet another heartbreaking upset – Davidson over Georgetown in ’08, Richmond over Syracuse in ’91.  I submit that there is nothing more compelling in all of sport than the NCAA basketball tournament.  I know, I know – I grew up in the south, but the blood in my veins is red (Indiana Crimson to be exact!).  I get how important we all like to think college football is and yes, it is just that important.  But it’s not the same.  The tide can’t turn as quickly in football as it can in basketball.  One kid can’t put a team on his back and carry them to the promised land in football like he can in basketball.  It’s a team sport but it’s mano y mano at its core – pure human competition.  Plus, in football, you can’t see their emotion; you can’t see their faces.

One of the most vivid memories in my life is the look on Keith Smart’s face after he hit that baseline jumper with :07 on the clock to beat Syracuse and give IU the National Championship in ’87.  Every game, there’s always a hero – Jim Valvano running around the court looking for somebody to hug in ’83. Or Christian Laettner sinking that ridiculous turnaround jumper at the buzzer as Duke beat Kentucky in the greatest college basketball game ever played circa 1992.  There’s always a villain – Michigan’s Fab Five in the early ‘90s.  Darth Vader / Michael Corleone in the vestige of John Calipari (every day of every week, always).

Legendary figures: Bobby Knight, John Wooden, Danny Ferry, Patrick Ewing, Elgin Baylor, Magic, Lucas, Maravich, Oscar Robinson.

Tradition: Indiana’s awesome (ridiculous) red striped warm-up pants, the Cameron Crazies, Vanderbilt’s weird-ass court, Midnight Madness, Rock Chalk Jayhawk – the list could go on forever.

What we as basketball fans forget, or at least I do, is that these rock star athletes, these stud ballers, these blue chip prospects…they’re just kids.  Do you remember what it felt like to be 18, 19, 20 years old?  It was weird as hell right?  Could you have handled the pressure that these kids face?  I know that I couldn’t.  I forget that these finely tuned athletic machines are just kids until the game ends.  Until I see their faces.  Win or lose, that’s when we see how important this little game is to them, to us.

Maybe it's a mid-western thing.  I grew up listening to stories of French Lick Larry Bird greatness.  I remember seeing hoops on every static surface when I was a kid.  Every barn had a goal right atop the doors for summer and a second in the hay loft for the winter.  My first memories are of basketball exploit stories – dusty Belleville Tuesday nights in front of my grandpa's garage, Uncle Charlie's jumpers in early moonlight. 

My beloved Hoosiers fell tonight to Syracuse – payback’s a bitch, even (26) years after the fact.  (Can I add Jim Boeheim to the villains list, btw?  His team was better than mine tonight but he’s still a sleaze ball.)  That said did you see the look on their faces?  Every member of both teams fought, bled, died and they either won or they lost based on their individual and / or collective effort.  They were every one completely in the moment.  Both sides knew exactly what had to be done next to win.  Pure concentration.  Pure adrenalin.  Pure commitment – and that's true of every team in the tournament, every year.  My team didn’t win, but maybe there’s a lesson here.  I have to believe that in life that if you dive for every loose ball, if you always play hand-in-your-face defense and are always fundamentally sound in everything that you do, eventually you will win.  That’s the Indiana coming out in me, but I think it’s legit.

These young men that play this game have so much to teach the rest of us.  I don’t often draw comparisons between sport and life – I think it’s too easy of a clichéd trap to fall into – but I fall into it tonight.  Witnessing the effort with which these young men compete to achieve their goal is incredibly inspiring to me, makes me want to try that much harder at the largely unimportant game I play. 

Bright eyed in jubilating victory or with a towel over your face in humiliating defeat, if you can see and accept the look on your own face at the end of it and be proud?  That’s a win in my book, every time.  It shouldn’t take sport to illuminate the fragility of the human condition, but it does.  Every March, I see triumph over insurmountable odds and I see overconfidence destroy possibility.  If that’s not a life lesson, I don’t know what is.  If you doubt me, at the end of the next game, take a second to notice the look on all of their faces…

…in the meantime, Go Florida Gulf Coast University!!! Stick it to the MAN!!! And thank God for College Basketball – it really is the best show in town.  And if your team doesn't win, there's always next year.

Bright Colorful Things on a Cloudy Day

I am a consummate over thinker – always have been and probably always will be.  Lately, I have expended a fair amount of energy in an effort toward changing that about myself.  It’s not that being this way is inherently a bad thing in of itself, just thought I would take a run at altering a character trait for whatever reason – maybe just to see if I could. What’s that old saying though…something about a leopard and his spots, right?   

These little paintings don’t say a single thing about a single person or a single thought or a single idea or anything in particular at all really.  I’m okay with that.  I’ve over thought too much art, too much life.  I wanted to keep these simple – I just wanted to make some bright colorful things on a cloudy day.  I’ve been listening to Jurassic 5 all weekend.  I’m not necessarily “takin’ it back to the days of yes yallin...” but taking a step back to be aware of and embrace why I started making art in the first place is a good thing; puts me back in touch with me.  That first brush stroke a hundred years ago was for me and me only, to brighten a cloudy day – to express my own good outward, to and for myself.  There’s nothing but good inside of me.  I’ve lost site of that recently for various reasons and have allowed myself to be convinced otherwise by the external.  I can’t always control the input but I can control who I allow myself to be in response to it.  The response (at least this weekend) is the (9) small paintings you see below.  I think they’re really choice; in fact, I love these little chaotic buggers.  Plus, I’ve always been a big fan of the number (9) and things that are square.  

Thirty-One Days in March (Part 1)

I’m sure you are all aware of Project 365 or some variant of by now.  The premise is to take a single photograph everyday for a year so as to gain a better insight into who you really are.  I’m guessing I don’t have the attention span to keep this self-indulgent nonsense up for even a month much less a whole year, but I’m going to try a month.  (This would be the side project I mentioned in the last blog.) It’s an interesting idea and I’m never one to shy away from a self-discovery proposition.  Plus, as observant as I like to think I am, I’m not sure what it is that I actually do see everyday.  I’ve certainly managed to somehow not see a whole helluva lot of what was right in front of my eyes at times.  Maybe I’ve only seen what I wanted to.  Maybe I haven't seen anything at all.  It’s hard to say at this point.  Not really sure what I hope to realize, if anything, by doing this but I think it's a worthwhile exercise.  Besides, I think I've come to rely on the written word far too heavily as of late.  Without further ado, thirty-one days in March:

Friday – 01 March 2013    

This is at the on-ramp to I-85 from MLK.  I see it every morning of every day of every week.  There’s a structured smoothness to it that soothes me before I jump into my day.

Saturday – 02 March 2013

  

Vickery Creek slips through the hollow behind my office silent most days.  Today it was rolling, as usual after a heavy rain.  I’m still not sure why I went into the office today.  This pic is about all I got out of it but that's okay I guess.

Sunday – 03 March 2013

There is nothing in this world that makes my sweet Belle happier than chasing that dirty old ball.  Today was cold but sunny in the afternoon, so we both got some much needed outside time.  She's dedicated and devoted to that thing in a way that I don't fully understand.  I think I could learn a thing or two from that dog.  

Monday – 04 March 2013

I snapped this pic between sets at The Tabernacle.  Dropkick Murphys were incredible and there was an epic pit (that I witnessed safely from the balcony!).  I've never seen a bad show here and tonight was no different.  Old Man Markley, the bluegrass punk opener deserves some more attention as well.  

Tuesday – 05 March 2013

Night (2) at The Tabernacle afforded me a glimpse into a couple of bands I wasn't overly familiar with: Between The Buried and Me and Coheed and Cambria.  I've been a casual Coheed fan for a while but have never seen them live.  It was awesome: angst, guitars, crowd surfing.  Well aware of my age and propensity to freak out in enclosed spaces I again witnessed this phenomenon safely from the balcony.  I left in a haze.  Today was my birthday but I've obsessed about that enough lately.

Wednesday – 06 March 2013

After the last two high-energy shows, I was exhausted.  Tristan Prettyman at Terminal West was (should have been) the perfect antidote to unfunk me.  Super-chill, intimate setting, great show.  In spite of all that I was all twisted up inside after.  Go figure.

Thursday – 07 March 2013

I took the rest of the week off after my birthday.  I made a bit of art, but I made more of a mess than anything.  Most of my time off thus far has been spent wondering why I've taken the time off in the first place as I wander around the city.  I happened upon the Krog Street tunnel today – what an exceptional piece of community art.  I took this awkward (at best) photo today and it doesn't begin to capture the feeling I have when I'm in this space.  The best part is that the art changes almost daily it seems. It's constantly evolving, but guerrilla art at it's finest is always on display at this Atlanta institution.  I forget sometimes how the random can inform my everyday.

Friday – 08 March 2013

The High Museum is my safe place.  If I'm off-center in anyway, nothing helps right my mental ship like spending a couple hours with my buddies on the 3rd floor; Katz, Richter, Rauschenberg, Rothko et al.  There is a great exhibition here now of Frida Khalo and Diego Rivera's work.  Not really my style, but theirs is a fascinating story and the extent of the work shown is huge.  I highly recommend a visit.  One programming note – Friday is apparently school field trip day so avoid at all costs. What's worse than a gallery filled with (300) raucous kids who don't understand and / or care about art?  Nothing.

Saturday – 09 March 2013

I love my neighborhood! There was a Living Walls event in the village today. Living Walls is an Atlanta-based non-profit that "seeks to promote, educate, and change perspectives toward public space in our communities via street art"...basically to give credence to the often frowned upon incredible beauty of graffiti. I've seen all the new pieces so today was honestly little more than an excuse to hang out with good friends, check out the new bar (and a few old ones), be irresponsible in the sunshine and forget about the night previous.  That's what Saturdays are for, right?  Not the best course of action as it turns out.

Sunday – 10 March 2013

Today was another stunning Chamber of Commerce day in the ATL.  Kinda off kilter for me, it sucked if I'm honest – best part, by far was the sweet tea, brisket and cornbread I had for lunch at Daddy D'z.

Monday – 11 March 2013

Before the rains this afternoon, I had lunch with this little guy.  The conversation stalled when his buddies showed up and the sandwich scraps ran out, but an enjoyable talk nonetheless.  The lesson here I think is to try to find the positive, sunshiney, beauty in every cloudy day.  Moments of clarity like these are fleeting and have too often only been tiny points of light in my dark cloud of cynicism.  At the end of the day I feel better than I have in weeks and the credit for that is not owed to this dumb goose.

Tuesday – 12 March 2013

After the rain yesterday, this was a welcomed, beautiful site this morning.  The state capital really is a stunning building in a perfect morning light.  I'm glad the light was perfect this morning and I'm glad I was there to see it; I'm not sure I've ever really noticed it before, but I think I will from now on.  

Wednesday – 13 March 2013

I was in Denver for a project site visit today.  Construction looks great.  Leaving the site this afternoon a flurry of activity caught my eye.  Prairie dogs!  There were prairie dog towns on every patch of open land everywhere I looked, like hundreds of little blonde Maynards running around the high desert (looking for strippers and cocaine).  It was glorious.  And a perfect distraction from my day.   

Thursday – 14 March 2013

I took this on my second day in Denver from the roof of the building I'm doing.  This pic doesn't capture the breathtaking natural beauty of the Rocky Mountains; you really have to see it.  I can't describe in words how being in the immense expanses of open space in this part of the country makes me feel.  The sky seems so much bigger and bluer. The sun shines brighter.  It's weird.  I like it.

Friday – 15 March 2013

Back at home.  Friday night.  Cold beverage.  Dogs at my feet.  Front porch.  Perfect sunset. Awesome.



I'm not sure that I'm embracing or even understand the true spirit of this endeavor.  But hey, I've made it this far so I don't see any reason to turn back now.  I will reserve my full judgement until I'm finished with the rest of the month, but I think maybe the takeaway will be to stop being a little bitch.  My life doesn't suck.

Stay tuned...

Too Fast On The Downhill

This song Skateboard has been stuck in my head for the last twenty-four hours for some reason.  I looked it up this morning just to make sure I wasn’t losing my mind and it is in fact a song.  I remember it well.  I remember vividly my brother’s faded beige Jefferson Starship cassette that I would steal and listen to again and again.  Hearing it this morning brought back an unexpected flood of memories I had forgotten. 

For a while in the late seventies, my family and I lived in a sleepy little town named Cardwell in the southeastern corner of Missouri, the “boot heel” as it were.  When I say sleepy, I mean it – dirt streets sleepy.  It was probably slightly larger then but as of the 2010 census the population numbered (713) souls.  I’m not sure how long we lived there or how many houses we lived in but I remember at least three.  I remember my dad turning (36) years old there and what a big deal that seemed to be for him at the time.  I learned to read in the second house even though I had told my teacher I would not.  I remember pretending to be sick so I wouldn't have to go to class and how embarrassing it was that I couldn't read.  I remember telling her that she should just go help someone else because "I wasn’t going to need reading" in my life…that’s ridiculous.  

I remember the taste of that red dirt and the way the wind would blow it down the streets and stain the green grass and the white houses.  I remember going to old man Emmet’s hamburger stand and those greasy hamburgers with the diced onions.  To this day, the best burger I’ve ever had.  I remember crossing the St. Francis River and driving into Paragould, Arkansas on rare occasions.  There was a little shack of a house, either on an island or the banks of that river with goats.  The highlight of my day was seeing those stupid goats.

There was a band, or at least members of, that sprang out of this little nowhere that you have forgotten about called The Kentucky Headhunters.  They filmed parts of this video in Cardwell.  I’m fairly certain that my dad baptized the bass player, Doug Phelps, but I might be imagining that.  (He’s the one in the Southland Rebels basketball jersey in the video.)  Sheryl Crow grew up a little north of here up 412 in Kennett. 

 

I remember building the church where my old man preached with the rest of the devoted congregation and hiding from thunderstorms under the carport and walking long rows of cotton and climbing wagons in muddy barn yards and tying my shoes for the first time and John Dudley's hound dog.  I remember going to the “gym” with my mom and all the other moms and those exercise machines with the vibrating belts.  I remember helping my brother and his friends try to build a guillotine for a school project and being the obstacle over which they would jump with their bicycles.  So wanting to hang out with my cooler, older brother was I that I would actually lie down face up on the ground and let them jump over me.  The sight and zing of those spinning wheels right in front of my eyes is forever tattooed in my memory.  I remember falling asleep on the kitchen floor and waking up and watching Saturday Night Live when I should have been in bed.

I wish I could go back there.  Not to visit so much as to start over maybe.  I wish I could go back to those hot steamy summer days sitting under that mimosa tree in Ms. Diggs’ front yard and be a little kid again.  Maybe ride my bike out to Red Devil Ditch and hunt for crawdads or frogs.  I wish I still had that empty ice cream container with the rusty wire handle and I could go collect worms and things. 

I’ve been a little bit out of control lately. Maybe this side project I’ve been working on will put me back in check.  Meantime, I’ve got a block party to attend.  There's supposed to be art.  

“Too fast on the downhill…faster than I can go…”

(41) Candles

I’ve been on this earth as a human life form for (41) years plus a day or two.  I’m likely way past halftime considering the manner in which I chose to occupy this body.  Not much I can do about that now, is there?  The negative fibers that bounce around inside think about the possibility of making a proper wooden box to lay these old bones down in someday.  The realist in me knows that I will never be put in the ground.  Just so that there is a written record of it having been said, I would prefer that my ashes be scattered into the wind or a swiftly moving body of water.  So if there is a box I should make in prep for my passing it should be a little smaller I guess. 

That’s all very morbid, no?  I don’t think I’m going anywhere but it’s a helluva thing to blow out (41) fictitious candles on an imaginary cake that no one baked for you on your birthday.  That’s a bed of my own making, yes; but that doesn’t make it suck less. I suppose it's normal to be somewhat morose around one's birthday after some point.  And yes, there has been a lot of happy in my life but I’m consumed by the void that still exists.  I’m consumed by “what if”.  At this point, I know it’s me and it always has been.  I’ve seemingly always been the one to fuck up the opportunity.  I’ve made a living doing it – hell I’ve created an empire plying my trade.  So am I shocked that at (41) + a few hours I’m alone on a Thursday morning?  Not really, I guess.     

On this night, I know what I’ve got; (2) dogs who love me and a soft bed inside of a house I love that me and the bank own.  There's obviously more to that list, but that's where I am right now.  I warm my hands on the heat of my (41) candles and know that tomorrow is a new day.  A new day and a new opportunity for me to make (41) mean something.