Lo, Survival occurs.

It's been a while since I've written.  I had a rough day.

Sundays are not easy - the long shift.  Not as long as some, longer than others, but always looming, waiting to suck up a day of my life to serve the mostly young and beautiful who are stopping in for respite from a moderately brutal New York Summer day to indulge in a perspiring Pilsner, fresh-out-the-fryer, asiago-dusted french fries and the ever zippy, ever playful, Blue Point oyster.  I know.  It's my job.  I get it.  I'm just saying it wears on me.

Lo, survival occurs.  Always a good thing.

On an AWESOME note, I recently finished reading Dancing Wu-Li Masters, though I feel it important to stress the distinction between read and retain in this instance.  Still, it opened me up to the possibility that very mystical systems in the realm of the very small account for an illusion of stability in the realm of the everyday.  Better yet, it opened me to the possibility that the former could be acted upon to affect the latter.

Open to that possibility, I have begun reading Pursuit of Happiness, and am already feeling its benefits.

I have been working my hands ASSES off.  Woodshedding does a body good - I'm working on bringing my non-dominant left up to speed and control of my right.  I have been trying to teach myself to be ambidextrous, brushing my teeth with my left hand, writing southpaw, chopsticking leftly.  Just in case it might help.  I've been feeling more confident in my playing than ever before, and I just want to practice all of the times.

Also started ear training  with David Lucas Birge, who's quite a goof.  I want to have coffee with that guy.  He seems too nice to drink.  I'd like to prove to myself perfect pitch can be learned.  What musician wouldn't?

I have been playing guitar.  Like, writing music.  It's a lifetime process I'm just beginning maybe a little later than I should have, but at least I'm giving it a shot.  Hey, it might be fun.  And it might be good!

I'm trying to find my role in a budding business venture, I'm trying to find cohorts, I'm trying to find my purpose.  It's big times, y'all, and it's happening now.

Well, I feel better.  If you don't also feel better, here's a kitty playing the piano!

Happy New Years, you Millennium Tween, you.

Boy, Vincent D'Onofrio sure does look like Vince Vaughn.  That's confusing.  Sorry, Criminal Intent is on.
Hey, it's the New Year!  Go Gregorian Number Change!  Time for new beginnings and projects!  And I'm feeling it this year.


In the pipeline:
   A very talented group of guys with which to play music.  I spent the five-hour flights to and from California building a playlist of music that originally inspired me to play music, music that I actively practice to, and music that represents a sound I would be proud to make.  I am constraining myself to one song per band, straining my active listening skills for the aspects that speak to me.  
   The guys and I are planning a listening party to share our respective mix CDs, just like the old days.  I remember my mother (sorry, Mom) telling me stories about she and her friends getting together to sit around to listen to the newly dropped White Album as a shared experience.  I suppose the "sharing" of music, facilitated by the intarwebz has become an easier, but isolated experience.  Bringin' it back.
   Also brought back has been my interest in the piano.  Lucky enough to have an upright piano in my childhood house, I can remember plinking along, about seven or eight years old, mystified that certain combinatons of keys just sounded  better. 
   At this past trip to California I looked through my brother's Complete Beatles Songbook, calling on dusty music theory and logic to slowly piece together "Oh Darling!" and "Let It Be", run scales and attempt to coordinate my fingers (I'm in fact typing like Mavis Beacon taught me.  Again with the back-bringing).  So I'm Looking for an ivory tickler who would trade piano lessons for drum lessons.  If you know anybody, pass it on.  Theenks.


In the present:
   Call me a sucker, I can't help make a resolution for the New Year.  I know, I know, the true meaning of the New Year has been marred by the resolutionifying of the season - thanks, big Greeting Cards - but whataya gon'do?
   I'm staring inefficient time management, one of my nagging weaknesses down the barrel, and I want it "taken 
care of", if you know what I mean.  My work schedule for now allows for an early rise and early nights  except for possible shows, so I'm shooting for a blog per day, practice at least five days per week, eventually three meetings with The Guys per week.  


So them's the plans for the next few.  As for everything else:
   The kitties are great, as can be seen on display and for sale at Candice Chetta's Etsy:

Lokian Judas

Curious Benny

 

Also seen at The Candice Chetta is the growing "Chakra" series:

Grounded

Embraced Sensuality

Currently raising the property value of our walls - until they sell, that is - this beautiful series has been Chetta's work since the layoff, which I'm counting as a blessing in disguise.  I am very proud of all the hard work and long hours my lady has been putting in, in spite of the emotional tumult of losing a job that caused so much emotional tumult.

   

   Life has happened hard this past year.  We've survived so far and I'm ready to get my hands on the wheel and push the gas down.  I just hope the same for everybody else.

"It's astounding that given some of life's luxuries, you can put up with a lack of its necessities."

Update:
   Following a period of mourning from leaving Kill The Huxter  for over a year, I have thrown myself back into music.  Conrad Sanguinetti, Rocco Malozzi and Nate Morgan were awesome dudes to make music with, and only reinforced my notion that in the East I find the nicest, most welcoming friends I could imagine.
 
   But, it's time to utilize the hibernational properties of wintertime to gather my energies together to grow my palette of musical tools, in theory to be unleashed when Spring arrives.
   Practice continues on pillows and pads, at least once a day - Either along with Pandora Radio or a metronome .  The giving of lessons has begun - a little extra cash on the side and a great new way to hone my own skills.  This coming Monday I am planning on being part of the house band for Steve "Sweets" Carr's first Breukelen Jest Comedy Show at Breukelen Coffee House along with Max Rose, multi-talented illustrator/ivory tickler.

   I have barely started to play music with some incredibly talented and driven folks from the neighborhood, and I am incredibly excited for the soon-tapped wealth of talent within a two block radius of my apartment.  More and more I find one rarely has to leave one's microneighborhood if one were so inclined.
 
   Between the above projects, practice, and blogging in an attempt to cast a sizable mark during my brief passing through this point in time.  Extra-strength deep, man.

   It is the last night of Channukah, and though I don't necessarily consider myself Jewish (and neither do the Jews, I'm told), but I am Jew-ish with the worry and the guilt and the glayven.  I'm approaching the one year anniversary of my father's passing, and I'm using the legend of the burning oil as an analogue for the fire that burns in everybody, and that it can burn longer and brighter than I would ever imagine, and faith is its fuel.

   We don't have much disposable income at the moment - After three of four jobs evaporated from under our feet, we find ourselves surprisingly able to make ends meet and any extra money is reinvested in our respective arts.  As you can see on the always honest Candice Chetta's corner of the internet, selling paintings , prints  and Vintage eye wear on Etsy is allowing us a bit of extra funds, but mostly we reinvest directly into our respective arts.  Candice is out of canvas and I am afraid she might start painting on the cats as they slink by.  It is a real fear.

I guess what I'm trying to say is

Stay tuned for the further adventures of Broccoli and Chetta.  My blog is linked to Facebook to Twitter to Reverbnation to Linkdin to the Skynet Mainframe.  Look forward to hearing lots more from me as I assault the internet cloud.  Pray for rain.

A little tip from the Pork Chop Express on a dark and stormy night..

   I have been working my tuchus off these past couple weeks.  Double after double after double.  Waiting tables for 14 hour days at Becco, training at the Breukelen Coffee House, slogging through slow nights at Pop Art Bar.  I haven't seen Chetta after sundown in two weeks. I tell myself I'm working so hard so we can get on top of expenses, no longer have to live paycheck to paycheck, and to hopefully eventually have free time available to make art for love (which may even attract money, meaning most time could be free time).
   How does one stay sane with this back-to-back-to-back work lifestyle?  When I find out, I'll let you know via tag you in a Facebook note.  Until then, though, I revel in the few minutes I can find to engage in my passion: on my breaks between doubles (ranging from a half- to two hours), or on a sparsely peopled subway train or platform, I pull out my Andante practice pad and Vic Firth 5As (which I carry in my bag wherever I go) and tap away to anything with a steady beat - my ipod, car alarm, or the second hand of a public clock.  Buying Stick Control For the Snare Drummer was probably one of the best decision I've ever made for music, and I've only progressed to halfway down the first half of the first page in the month I've owned it.
   I combat my vague fear of pissing any surrounding people off with incessant tappa-tappa-tappa by playing controlled pianississimo paradiddles and double-stroke rolls, shifting sticking around (RLRR LRLL, RLLR LRRL, RRLR LLRL and RR LL RR LL, LR RL LR RL, respectively).  I try to concentrate on how good playing makes me feel, to let it envelope me like an electric blanket (or a cool breeze, if it's a hot day).  I realize that every worry drips away from me when muscle memory takes over and I can rest comfortably in the space between the beats of the simplest rhythm.  I can't help but imagine a warm golden sunlight emanating from me, splashing invisible contentment on the walls of wherever I happen to be.  And no matter how dark and dank my surroundings or my mood, I have a feeling the contentment remains when I leave, maybe for someone else to enjoy.
   So I make the time.  Even with my nonstop work schedule of late, I've found dependable pockets of time that I can spend doing what I love to do and, more importantly, getting noticeably better at what I love to do.  Hopefully my talent will become valuable when paired with a good attitude, professionalism, well-placed contacts and a healthy dollop of luck.  Speaking of which, anybody know anybody who knows anybody who is wanting for a professional, easy-going, well-adjusted, talented percussionist for whom no gig is to small?  I might know a guy..

A Journey of a Thousand Miles Begins With a Single Step.

The sun reaches its apogee on the first of many muggy, muggy days in Brooklyn.  I find myself with an hour an a half to tap out this electronic update.

Yesterday I finished my chores before noon and spent a few hours psyching myself up to bring my drumset, Maggie to the New York streets.  Here she is, bungee'd up and ready for love:

So I wheeled this little beast down the stairs, out the door, down the subway steps, onto a Saturday afternoon 4 train.  I did not realize how many effing steps exist between my apartment and the subway. 

Sore, sweaty and suffering a few disgruntled looks, I schlepped to Union Square - a nice bustling spot to settle in with the rest of the Saturday crazies and lose myself in some rhythm.  Or so I thought.

I started setting Maggie up in a nice shady spot outside the Square, Children International canvassers and the pedestrians who avoid them my only company.  As I was finishing my set up and mentally preparing myself for the inevitable "Drummer Butt" byproduct of hours-long practices, a young NYPD officer approached me.

"You're not going to be happy,"  she said honestly.

Apparently the  Arizona Immigration protest taking place trumped any other busking or gathering.  I realize I should have just said,
"And what makes you think I'm NOT involved with this protest?  I'm drumming for REFORM!", or some other bullshit. 

But I didn't.  What I did say is "OK, how about Washington Square?  How do you get there?"

I know NYPD officers are not GPS devices, but this one couldn't even begin to tell me how to get to Washington Square Park.  Come on, get your act together, public servants.  I know the pay isn't good, but know your Manhattan landmarks?  Maybe I ask too much.

The next officer I ask for directions thinks we're already IN Washington Square Park.  False.  Once he pulls his iPhone out of his ass, he sends me to Washington Square Park.  Or so I thought.

I followed the very simple directions to Washington Square, only to realize the well-meaning, if disconnected officer has sent me to Madison Square Park. 

I grab a hot dog and reconnoiter, deciding Madison Square seems like a good place to bust one's busking cherry.  I apologize for the crass analogy, but it seems the first time playing music in public begins pretty much the same way as cardinal sexual experiences - sweaty palms, elevated heartbeat, mountains of expectations, spinning equilibrium, and so on. 

So I set up in an shady out-of-the-way corner of Madison Square park, facing the street, confusing public art installations and the Metlife building.

In the top left you can see a group of people assembled for a private Kentucky Derby party.  I played along with their Bluegrass band, prompting more than one person to ask if I was with them.  "I wish," I'd say, "..then I'd be getting paid!"

Now, full disclosure, I've busked before, but never drums, and never in New York.  So I was ready for the barrage of people who assume that because I'm practicing in public, I'm someone to come up to and talk to at length about Gene Krupa, drugs, slippers, oatmeal, and anything else that immediately comes to mind. 

That's not to say I don't enjoy the subjects of ramblings or momentary connections that busking affords.  My favorite part (at least until I start taking money) are the kids who can't look away as their parents lead them by the hand through the City East.

It's not that I'm a pedophile, though I do love pedaling, or anything resembling one.  But I remember when my parents took my to New York when I was eight years old.  I whined, I'm sure.  I'm almost positive my nose was pressed against my Gameboy for a week, because I don't remember much from the experience.  But, I do remember the street performers. 

I'm trying to fulfill a dream.  I don't know where these experiments will gain me anything, but one never knows until one tries.  I hope that the kids who walked by me yesterday, eyes wide as if seeing something they've never seen before, carry that memory with them.  Look back on that moment as a spring of inspiration - if there's people out there who take their instrument to the streets, who can fight through their insecurity in order to simply do what they want to do, then it can be done. 

And if it can be done by one, why can't anybody and everybody create their own life in their own image?  Why can't we all be happy?

Liberal idealist naivete, maybe.  But I have a feeling I'm not the only one.

1) Set Goal. 2) Achieve Goal.

"..drumming can be used to shift through major issues such as fear, resentment, or anger...using your drum can help you pass through and accept the natural biological and spiritual changes that take place in the course of our lives.." - Steven Ash in Sacred Druming.

I've had a fair bit of anger, resentment and fear in the past four months. Tonight at band practice, after a four-hour session of rehearsing, criticism and fine-tuning our current tunes, we muted our critics and turned it out with this thumping dirty blues jam with Nate on guitar and Conrad on bass, Rocco improvising lyrics overs all of us. It sounded like a swarm of batsouttahell, but I knew as I was playing that I was bleeding out negative energy I've been storing up for months. I feel great knowing I left it all on the drum mat.

I'm not sure what I'm doing with this band or if anything will come of it apart from some sweet memories and fraternity, but I am having a great time, I'm not hurting anybody, and I sleep well at night, next to a lovely lady - so I ain't got much about which to bitch.

First student, Franklin: Success!

My first student, Frank from the Breukelen Coffee House just left, following a very successful lesson. I started our friend on a basic rock beat last week, and he came back today with everything fleshed out in his mind, and after an hour of working on hand and feet skills, was able to play an eighth note rock pattern to a metronome. It was a beautiful thing. Nice job Frank!

I am now about to leave for band practice, reinvigorated and recharged. I'm antsy to take my little traveler kit, The Alchemist, on the road. I would really like a few upgrades: a bass drum mount for a little crash cymbal, with a little crash cymbal maybe, and a small throne. After those first are acquired I will feel confident enough to take to the streets.

Also on the to-do list is business card production, gigging with the band, writing new tunes, rounding out the unwieldy ones, and staying sane.

I decided today to do it the hard way.

I had a very interesting Easter.

Let this not be mistaken: it had nothing to do with Easter per se, or anything religious at all for that matter. Or maybe it did.

I saw on the subway on the way to work two people - a young boy and an old man. There wasn't anything particularly striking about these two people except that they both reminded me exceptionally of myself. It's probably a normal thing to be searching for oneself at this mid-twenty year point in life, and probably just as normal to look for the self in another person.

Anyway, this boy was an explainer. He was explaining the best way to stand to his father, with respect to the shifting of the subway train at the moment of stopping. I think I solved an equation like that for calculus. I digress - the kid reminded me of me.

The old man walked onto the train, and asked if the train was going to a certain street (which it was), sighed "oh" with a trace of sadness, and shuffled to a seat next to me with the help of a cane. I don't know what it was about this man in particular that struck a chord, but he did.

At work, a tall man who could have been 5 to 10 years older than I sat at a table. I didn't serve him but I got a good look, and if his curly hair, thick-rimmed glasses and facial hair didn't closely match mine, I saw something familiar in his eyes.

Later in the night, as I'm waiting for the last tables to leave, I get into a conversation about drumming with a family as I'm relieving a fellow server of his duty. Immediately after hearing I play drums she exclaims, "Oh! I can't wait to take drum lessons! I have to get myself a little more stabilized and centered and my neighbors probably won't like it..." and so on. I also mention that I'd like to be behind a bar instead of on the floor, to which she says "Oh you shouldn't do that... You seem like so much more of a drummer - you should just do that all the time..play drums all the time"

So, after this strange day of brushing by people who reflect some part of my self to me, I decided to take this strange, drunk lady's advice. I will strike out to the streets of New York and schlep through Brooklyn to play drums. I will write about it and document it.

The most interesting way to do something is to do it the hard way. And if there's one way I'm really good at doing things..