Do What the Monty Python Boys Say

Well, after a little over two months of being virtually unemployed, I have finally found myself a job. It isn't necessarily in my field and it's not going to make me a millionaire, but it's got a lot of small bonuses that I appreciate, one being that it's a place I go every day and complete tasks for which someone then hands me money. I think I need some tasks to complete and I definitely need someone to hand me money.

I'm taking over the job from a good friend who is moving on to bigger things. While we were training together, I said, "I hope you don't think less of me for taking this job." (We are the kind of friends who can say such things to each other) She looked at me like I was crazy, as people often do, and said, "Why would I think less of you for taking a job that I was just doing? I would think less of you for sitting around doing nothing and not taking what was offered to you." And of course, she was right. But I still had my doubts.

I tend to look on the negative side of things. People who know me well will say this is a gigantic understatement, so maybe I should rephrase that. I almost always look on the negative side of things. I would, of course, like to say I'm just cautious. Careful. Realistic. And I am those things. But I am also wary of getting too excited about anything, lest it disappoint me or make me feel like a fool. And I suspect that's not the optimum way to live.

When I was younger, I remember getting unbelievably excited about things. I would pack for camp two weeks in advance, checking and rechecking my list for accuracy and completeness. I would wake up three hours early for a trip to St. Louis and drive everyone to the point of madness by asking "When are we leaving? How much longer? Are we there yet?" fifty times more often than the average child. I couldn't wait for summer because I just knew it was going to be awesome, every time.

Something happened between now and then. I no longer have the same level of excitement and anticipation about anything, be it a job or a concert. I'm usually able to muster it by the time the event comes around, but leading up to it I'm usually filled with thoughts of what can and probably will go wrong. I like to be pleasantly surprised when things go right, rather than be sure that they will only to be disappointed when they don't.What happens between childhood and adulthood to cause this phenomenon?

I guess now we have choices. As children, we don't necessarily choose our emotions, we just let them wash over us and bathe in the glory of innocence. As adults, we have seen more, been disappointed more, and can spot the pitfalls that we once fell headfirst into. This wisdom, although welcome and necessary, can cause us to be "...cautious. Careful. Realistic." Which is all well and good, but we can cautious, careful, and realistic ourselves into not enjoying anything.

It appears, then, that we must choose to be excited. Enthusiastic. Happy. We are forced to choose our paths, which is pretty exciting itself when you actually consider it. So I'm going to break from tradition this time and choose to be excited, enthusiastic, and happy about this new little venture in my life.

That Kind of Music Just Soothes My Soul

I said earlier today that if I had one impossible wish, it would be that I could sing like Stevie Nicks. There is something...um...mystical? magical? about her and her voice. I love everything about her. I love her with early Fleetwood Mac; no matter that they were all so high that they looked right through the crowd into oblivion. I love 80's era solo Stevie, with her big hair and her strut across the stage to "Stand Back." I love duet Stevie, rocking out with Tom Petty and singing sweetly with Don Henley. I love comeback Stevie, reunited with the band and giving me three of the greatest shows of my life. I love spinning Stevie, tambourine shaking Stevie, cheesy 80's video Stevie, young Stevie and old[er] Stevie. I love that she got her heart broken and is so obviously still in love with Lindsey-if only when they share the stage.

Bands today just don't have stories. Fleetwood Mac has a hell of a tale. I think there are about sixteen different versions of "Sara" out there, all with different references to the band's many personal entanglements. Rumours is one of the greatest albums in the history of music. Stevie, Lindsey, and Christine contribute completely different types of songs yet each one somehow undeniably produces the Fleetwood Mac sound. John inconspicuously rocks his bass in the shadows, quietly giving "The Chain" one of the best bass lines in music. And Mick. Ah, Mick, with his crazy eyes and ten minute drum solos. 

There are some who might claim that a popular band like FM is just that: popular, but with no real substance, heart, or true talent. Those people are wrong. If you can't see that Lindsey "No Pick" Buckingham is a true artist with his guitar, you know nothing about the instrument. If Stevie can't bring you nearly to tears with her rendition of "Silver Springs," well, your heart just might be made of stone, mister. If you don't think Christine McVie's "Songbird" is one of the most beautiful songs ever penned, you may have a few screws loose. If John's quiet dignity and dedication to his craft don't impress you, I'm not sure if anything would. And Mick Fleetwood puts every fiber of his being into those drums. If you can't see his heart, you have no soul. Mick's got soul.

Rumours is probably the first album I ever picked out of my mom's vinyl collection and put on the turntable. That's how I discovered all the music I still love today. Those album covers are as representative of my childhood as any photograph, and probably more so. Those old songs make me feel like a child again, and make me long for a time that I don't even remember. Sometimes I curse the fact that I wasn't around when all this music was actually getting made, but in a way I'm luckier than those who experienced it firsthand. Now, I get to hear all the history, bond with older folks who love the same music I do, and see how far those bands have risen (and fallen). I'm lucky that so many of my idols are still around and putting on shows so I can hear the songs I know and love with a group of people who also know and love them.

Many have tried to steer me away from my classic rock roots, but I don't think I'll ever change my ways.

Got Nothing Against a Big Town

 I feel like I've been on kind of a quest lately to find the beauty in the place I'm from. Well, I guess it's not really a quest, because that's more like the die-hard effort made by Clark Griswold to get his family to Walley World. Mine is more of a...noticing. I've been taking "the long way home" recently (when I have the gas!) and so many times I've wished for a camera to document the sometimes beautiful and many times strange or unusual things I see in the area where I grew up. Tonight I happened to have one.

This shadowy figure is a dog. In a bar. In Missouri.

For those of you who aren't familiar, I live in the very southwest corner of Missouri, within about 20-30 miles of the borders of Kansas, Oklahoma, and Arkansas. It's called the Four-State-Area by those in the know (when I was a kid, I thought the Tri-State-Area in the northeast stole their moniker from us). I grew up with Jim Jackson giving us our Four-State news at 6:00 and 10:00 (still does), going down to Elk River or Big Sugar Creek in Mac County (still do), and searching endlessly for the Spook Light over by Seneca (never found). Tonight, I had the pleasure of going with a good friend to a favorite local restaurant, Undercliff Grill and Bar (yeah, the one with the dog).

 

If you're very clever (or went to the website), you might have already surmised that Undercliff was built, yes, under a cliff. Actually, it's more so built into the cliff. Builtintocliff doesn't have quite the same ring to it, though. Anyhow, Undercliff is a family-owned business that serves great food and drinks either inside "under the cliff" or outside at the patio bar, "The Hangar," where you can pal around with the local dogs.

As you can see, bikers are welcome. Tonight, we ran into a couple we knew who had gone on a ride a couple days ago and lost the wife's sunglasses on the highway somewhere between town and Undercliff. She is the kind of woman who buys "real" sunglasses, not Panama Jacks from Wal-Mart. We sadly reported that we hadn't seen them but would keep an eye out. What I appreciated about the wife tipsily explaining that she hadn't lost any in a really long time and the husband soberly muttering under his breath, "two months ago," was that they actually had faith that they might find them. And I love that about where I live.

Here's wishing she finds her sunglasses...