I am at the office, feeling restless, and so I decided to write. Actually, I was listening to another new record, trying to catch up on some albums- I always feel like I am playing catch up- and I was almost done when I listened to "Smoke Rings" from the artist, Dri.

Who's in your heart is not always who's in your bed.

The first line of lyrics made me want to write. So I did.

I won't write about who is in my bed, or who is in my heart. I am not that kind of writer. I can't put my feelings of love into words, on paper or in person. It's probably why I am habitually, by choice, single. The songs on "Smoke Rings" held me past the first piercing line of truth. Although the sequencing of tracks is disjointed going into the second track, I got past it- but artists make a note that sequencing is important, especially if you claim to make albums and not just songs.

Indria is a radio and Itunes commercial ready track: catchy beat, dreamy vocals, texture through out. Inspiration has the soulful sound of 60's Motown. Skip Free Tonight; its a bad feel of Paula Abdul meets indie. Well I might take back everything, the album has declined, and the title track Smoke Rings, written by Ned Washington, barely saves the ending.

Just as everything else I examine lately- promising, disappointing, barely making it by, and left with a mediocre Ehhhhh.

What to do. Expand on the dissatisfaction and disjunction of my current status.

---> Turning points are supposed to hold something better and different around the corner. But I can't get myself around the corner. I am stuck. I can feel a change. I know I need something different. Nothing. Just anxiety.

Maybe it's the weather. Or maybe it's just me.

Me.

Not wanting to write. Feeling blase. Spiraling. Hangnails. Heavy shoulders. Fog. Frustration. Why. Cause. Effect. Cure. Persistent. Frigid. Unhealthy. Determination. Hindrance.

Independence is a nice way of lying about being alone.

I have got to get out of here.

I don't want to give up my creative writing degree, but if the money isn't there for the bill from N.C. State then I can't pursue what I really want to do.

I am so fucking fed up with this lame ass excuse for a public education system, and health care for that matter.

If you are poor they give your money for school/healthcare to earn a degree/go to doctor. If you're not poor, but middle class, your are stuck--- stuck with student loan debt straight out of college/with no healthcare.

I know that I've ranted about this before, but I can't help it. It is something that dictates my education, and life, so strongly that I can't not write about it.

I don't want to graduate with only a chemistry degree. I want my creative writing degree, I want an unpaid internship at NPR this summer, I want to follow my passion.

Its always about the money. Because it is. You can't do much of shit in this society with out money.

Whew.

New York City.

It will suck the energy right out of you. It makes me appreciate my lazy old South. I am almost too tired to write. But I'll try.

The people are interesting. Everyone is hip, or trying to be. Eccentric is standard in the city.

Okay, I can't do it. I have to go back to the apartment, and drop the laptop off, and go to some party. Parties parties parties. I am too old to party. I rather sit and drink wine, or eat sushi. Relax and attempt an intellectual conversation. I still have a paper to finish for an English class.

whew.

[Fashion update for all ladies in NC- BOOT BOOTS BOOTS, get a good pair and wear them everywhere. Flats or heels, but they must come to knee. Outside the pant too. And if you're feeling courages- ankle boots with tights. That is the report from NYC.]

In 36 hours I will be at a panel for CMJ. In 24 hours I will be in New York City and my flight will have taken off and landed safely. The keys that I received in the mail will have let me into the awesome apartment in Greenwich Village. And in 12 hours my papers will be completed and turned in.

The stress levels will subside

Breathe.

I have to figure out how to get invited to this infamous ASCAP party that boasts steak, bacon, whiskey, and the top dogs of the industry. I have heard it is invite only, no plus ones, and held at the best steakhouse in NYC.

I am doing CMJ week, and I am going to do it right.

he's got a point. and a I am sure many will agree, many but no me. I can sing a long with the song, but I can't quite put myself there. because the best thing in the world, for me- right now, is to have health insurance. love doesn't help you get your wisdom teeth taken out.

it's a good song though, So Long by Jason Anderson

What am I doing? I am a dork. I am putting myself out in the music industry. Putting what I have to say out there, which makes me a little scared.

When I say dork [this is a terrible word. it sticks to the top of the mouth when spoken]I don't mean music nerd. No, oh no.

I am that person that never quite held on to one scene or genre. Chameleon is what I go for in the social structure. A comfortable, never permanent, always unsure about everyone, position. I rely on being a dork, it lets me float about the ranks and then brings me back down.

I figured out what is wrong with music these days. It came to me, while sitting on the grass, underneath a street light, outside of a friend's apartment, trying to pick up a wireless signal on his computer, listening to another disappointing album-


"Meh, meh, mewh, mewh, mewoh. That's the problem with rock these days, it's all Meow Mix."


But what do I know? I am just a dork.

this is old. it is from my wknc profile.

________

For me, music is everything. It is the sound of emotion. It's hearing the right song when you need it the most. It's being there when the songs you love come alive on stage and you couldn't imagine being anywhere else. It's knowing that one of the songs I play might help someone get through their day. It's why I do radio.


I don't have an I-Pod. I don't assemble playlists prior to my shifts. I wake up Thursday mornings, wash my face, brush my teeth, look outside my window and think of one song that can sum up my current mood. I grab that CD, pull whatever others catch my eye, pick through my young collection of vynil for a few records, and make sure I leave the house with a cup of coffee.


When I DJ I empty my bag on the counter and usually start with the song from the window and then I build on that. I play songs that feel right. I do my best to play requests. I always take my shoes off and leave them outside the studio door. I started doing my shifts shoe-less last semester when I had a four hour shift. Taking my shoes off relaxes my mind and lets me forget about everything else I have to do that day- I only think about the music

Advice for bands

What not to put on your bio sheet that accompanies the CD you send a radio station:

"Originally a cover band, [band name omitted because I am a nice person] played music ranging from Pearl Jam to Radiohead to U2 while developing its own sound.

Influences: Radiohead....U2.....Pearl Jam.... [and other bands that everyone lists in hopes to appeal to college radio]"

Okay,

Lesson number one- please do not admit to being a cover band. I despise cover bands. They make me want to puke.

Lesson number two- don't give typical bands, throw a little something unique in the influences or "sounds like" line. Put a little effort into it. If you can't think of anything original then reconsider why you are sending your record to college radio stations.

Lesson number three- if lesson one and two are ignored, for the good of humanity, don't list the bands that you covered under influences. LAME-O. Lie to me and tell me you were a polka cover band, something, anything.

Class Dismissed.

I am remembering again, remembering why I love music.

It's because at the end of a stressful, argumentative, menstruating, exhaustive day there is an album that takes me away from it all. The corners of my lips curl up into a semi-smile, I quit picking at my cuticles, my mind stops racing- the music has taken me away from it all.

Calm. Enticing. Complete. Splendid. All I have to say is thank you.

It is the new relase from Two Gallants, in stores today.

I am in an exceptionally pleasant mood today and I can attribute this to hearing good music, such as

Standing at the Threshold, by Deer Tick

The song I thought of this morning, before all other songs:

Utilities, by The Weakerthans, from the album Reunion Tour

Overbooked. Overworked. Not over the edge, not yet- not ever.

Taking the time, ten minutes or so, to breathe. Write. And listen.

Emails before class, before bed, always an email to be read.

To do lists here. Sticky notes everywhere. Waking up to remeber that I forgot to wash my clothes for work. A warm wash cloth and an iron press will leave my pants almost fresh.

Need to leave the elementary ryhme skills and make phone calls.

rules for managing stress levels:

No more than one drink on Thurs, Fri, or Sat.
Do Spanish workbook before class EVERY DAY
No spending money till I have found accommodations for CMJ
Walk fat ass to school every day, no exceptions
Daily updated to-do list
Do one thing for self every day, no matter what

[Listening to Left Outlet 's advance demo. It's keeping me grounded and composed.]

cmj music marathon

its a party* of, by and for the industry


*party may be interpreted as an informal business meeting with a heavy focus on networking

The time has come. I may have to succumb to the reign of Apple.

My mp3 player is on its death bed. The screen is busted, the left headphone barely works, and the most detrimental malfunction of all- the FM tuner does not pick up WKNC. I can't listen to my radio station (Yes, MY radio station! I work there enough to call it mine. Hell I might as well call it my significant other.)

Do I get an iPODnano with a 4 or 8 GB capacity? Then I would need to buy an FM adapter. Do I buy a less expensive mp3 player and compromise space and durability?

This is not in my budget. Wait, I don't have a budget. But it definitely cuts into my trip to New York City. But I literally cannot live with out a music device. It's not so much that I have to be listening to music, in a manner of addiction, but rather I have to and need to be listening to music. Every spare moment I have to listen to a new album and check up on the DJs is crucial.

This brings me to a point that has been bothering me. When you have to listen to music and you have to listen to it critically versus listening simply for pleasure, music loses its appeal. It becomes a duty rather than recreation.

When an album can take me away from the duty, into the sound, into the art, and make my ears tingle then it is TRULY a good album.

Check out PLANE. Their album "I See Love In The Future" takes me away, makes me smile, and I even groove a lil.

I am having a hard time starting this. My mind isn't being kind, but then I am not being kind to it. My brain capacity is spread over my long list of things to do. I would like to sit down and write a wonderful entry about music but I can't right now. Not in a complacent mood. Rather, more fidgety and anxious.

This however, is a half-written piece I had to do for my creative non-fiction class. The subject was PLACE. I avoided writing this piece, and avoided developing the piece, as much as I avoid going to that place.
__________________________________

Where are you from?

It’s one of the three main questions that are asked within the first three minutes of meeting someone new while living the forever remembered, life directing, hallowed college years.

And because I’ve accumulated so many of the supposed famed college years, I have deciphered a keen translation of North Carolinian accents into their respective regions. The thick, deeply drawn southern accent places a person in the eastern part of the state. A good example would be a young man saying he is from “Whhhyt-vil.” Translation: he is from Whiteville- a small coastal area south of Wilmington. There is notable latitudial difference in coastal dialect. A person from the outer banks or northern coast of the state could be mistaken for a Yankee, and on the extreme a Bostonian. The mountains of North Carolina produce a different twist of southern twang, one that tends to be rapidly spat and slightly mumbled. And then there is the red flag- being from a county. The person has neglected the town, or community name, and rather referenced the county- in hopes that it will strike recollection of a highway sign or two.

Where am I from?

If someone were to ask me this in ten or fifteen years I would tell them Raleigh. But for right now, I am from Concord. It’s in between the two extremes of dialect, a comfortable medium. It is a large town with growing problems, and it continues to act like a small town. This creates issues, issues that are fueled by facades of a wonderful life. These facades are what hide generations of people who never left.

Technically, I am from Cabarrus County. It is very easy to get to ‘my house’. Simply take the exit for Dale Earnhardt Boulevard from Interstate 85, follow this till it intersects with Highway 3, head east bound till you pass the Food Lion and then take a left at the Sun-Drop bottling plant. Go north on Old Concord-Salisbury Road, passing over Rocky River Creek into Cabarrus County. ‘My house’ is in the measely- excuse-for-a-neighborhood on the right.

But I don’t need to say Cabarrus County; all I need to say is Concord. This gets the immediate response of: “Oh yeah, Concord Mills.” As deceiving as it may sound, Concord Mills is not a preserved historic site that represents the great wealth of textiles that flourished in the area. Rather, it is a 1.32 million square foot shopping mall. It is widely known for the giant Bass Pro fishing and hunting mega-store and is located a convenient five minutes from Lowe’s Motor Speedway. It reigns as the most visited attraction in North Carolina; beating the outer banks and Blue Ridge Parkway. Yes, more people rather go to a mall then experience the outdoors.

But the mall, the Nascar, the four-lane renamed highways with too much traffic are characteristics of what Concord is now. It’s not what I am familiar with. Its not what I choose to remember. My Concord is different. And those directions are not how I get ‘home’.

I take the back roads to get home- I don’t go inside the city limits. From Highway 73 I take Irish Potato to Gold Hill road. I wind down the turns of Neisler, passing the Bosts’ small farm, and hit Old Concord-Salisbury Road north of where my house is. This route gives me time to prepare. The air is clean, the traffic is light, and the grass is green. I can smell the earth.

And I still go to the diner where I worked during High School. The name is different now. It’s no longer Ted’s Family Restaurant. It was sold to the brother of the Greek family who owned it. The food is the same at the newly named Parkway Diner- country style steak with rice, baked chicken that is somehow as greasy as fried chicken, and pinto beans remain exclusive to only Sunday.

You see, I make Concord what I want it to be. It depends on how long I stay there as to what it will become. A few hours, one day, maybe two, but never more than three. Concord is why I remained in Raleigh the summer after my first year in college. It has sticky tricks to it, a capability of dulling a personlity, and a way of sucking all motivation or ambition from someone’s spirit. It is a trap.

Exhausted.

23 hours at the comedy club this weekend, classes began on Wednesday, and radio work was busy as the industry prepares for Rock-tober. All I want to do right now is sleep, and cry. I am verry worried about my foot. I hyper-extended my left foot in May and it is bothering me quite badly. I went to the health center in June. The x-rays revealed no fractures or chips. I apparently just bruised the ball of my foot, which now hurts 85% of the day. I get upset when I think about it. It's a mixture of fear and confusion.

I don't have health insurance so I can't afford to see and orthopedist, the best I get is Ibuprofen and the student health center. And so I cry. Because all I want is to see a doctor. I want to know what is wrong with my foot. I want to continue to live an active, happy life. I want my dad to know how upset I am with him for failing to provide health insurance on a regular basis. I want ReFuel America to know how their pitiful and unsuccessful attempt at distributing biodiesel has effected my father, and me. I want "President" Bush to know that the health care system in the Land of the Free is fucked. I want my wisdom teeth out. I want to see the neurologist for my annual check up. I want to see my psychiatrist.

I guess I want too much.

So, rather, I listen to Una and read Emerson's poetry for class in the morning.

Quote of the day, coming from the AP story "Surf's Up in Gaza; good will, too" written by Aron Heller, extracted from the News & Observer, picked up outside the mini-mart on the corner of Hillsbourgh St. and Ashe Ave.

"God will surf with the devil if the waves are good."

Dorian Paskowitz, a retired doctor who has been surfing for 75 years

~~~
New records are arriving in waves, high tide on Mondays and Tuesdays. Excited about the new Aseop Rock, not excited about the new Talib Kweli.

The new Liars album is on point, accessible, and rock-orgasmic. Rilo Kiley is good, in a new-commercial-for another overpriced electronic device- kind of way; its just a matter of time. New Josh Ritter release: eh, it's alright, but it's like someone is pushing him in the wrong direction. Josh, it's okay to follow up an album with one of a similar sound, don't over produce what isn't there.

I'm out. Another English class to be attended.

Its coming.


The entries will return soon. I've been busy lately, on purpose. Staying busy is my therapy.

~
Reflections on five years in Raleigh.

Diving into the INDUSTRY.

Revisiting, "Fault Lines"

Worth A Listen

~

It's all coming. Soon. And I am not taking any chemistry classes this semester so maybe my writing will finally come to life, until then go check out Oliver Future. You will not be disappointed. I have tables to wait on and money to make. Oh yes, and a haircut tomorrow.