Run for Tony 5K in Review

There were several deciding factors that led me to run this race:

1. This 5k is a charitable event. Proceeds are donated to help Tony who was injured in a car crash, became a quadriplegic, and now has an expensive medical bill just to keep him alive. Live strong Tony! Live strong.
2. I haven’t run a race since the Broad Street 10 Miler. Since then I’ve become lax with my training schedule. Having goals keeps me focused and motivated. I need this race to kick my ass, so I can get back on track with my training.
3. Initially I started running as a way to loose weight before my wedding, and then as a way to maintain it. Now my goal is to become more physically fit, because if not now, then never; I’ll be 30 soon.
4. The course stretches behind my old high school, Paul VI, my old long distance training grounds. The Haddonfield running crew is using tonight in place of the weekly 7 mile run.
5. All right, I’ve mentioned enough noble and noteworthy items here. Lets get real! Free post-race beer was advertised in the flyer. Call it a charitable event with benefits.

When Jon and I showed up at the scene an hour early, neither of us were feeling good about the race. He was feeling a cramp from a workout the day before. I was doubtful because of my inconsistent running schedule this summer. We have both hit a 24-minute 5k plateau in the last few years. To night is incredibly humid, and I rubbed Vaseline between my thighs to prevent chaffing. We are definitely not breaking any personal records tonight.

Registration, the starting line, the finish line, and post-race party was hosted by R-Macs, a local Westmont bar. This place was packed! I couldn’t believe how many people showed up for this event. Unfortunate for Jon and I, the complimentary race t-shirts were being handed out left and right . I wound up with all they had left: an extra-large which fits me swimmingly.

Looking around, it appeared that the age range was not evenly distributed. There were more pre-teens than I have seen in any other race, a ton of high school kids (soccer and cross-country teams in training), hardly any 20-year-olds (went back to college), and a ton of parents in their prime middle years. Oh yeah, and a group of 30 army / police cadets with their superiors. Fun to watch them stretch and choral chant answers to their commander in unison. This was an odd mix for competition.

It is traditional that runners line themselves up according to their level of performance: faster runners are sent to the front of the line and the slower runners fill in behind according to their minute per mile pace. The army / police cadet training group would run in unison bringing up the caboose of the race. Over the years I’ve learned to choose my position wisely- start in the far, far back. I would rather start with the slow group and pass people slower people throughout the entire race rather than start up front and be passed- that is my racing inspiration.

The pistol goes off, and a thick soupy-mixture of people are channeled down the street. Starting in the back of the pack means that the slower runners are obstructing my ability to spring ahead. In order to pass, you have to look out for open pockets, then carefully dodge and weave your way into the pocket, and then be on the lookout for the next opening.

Running side-by-side with Jon is impossible at this point. Usually one of us darts ahead and then waits for the other to catch up. Our combined strategy is to cat and mouse the first leg of the race. One of us sprints ahead for the other to catch up, only tonight Jon isn’t keeping up. Fearing that his cramps have really locked in, I decide to break ahead.

Our second team strategy is for me to rabbit Jon. I’ll maintain a pace yards in front, and he tries to draft me for the next few miles. Until the finish line where success is determined by whether he is close enough to pass me with his final kick, or if I have put enough distance between us to keep him at bay. I can only hope that Jon has kept me in sight, and press on despite his cramps. I press on not knowing how much distance I put between us.

The pack thins out, and we are snaking up and down neighborhood streets. Runners are a mathematically precise bunch. They can estimate distance and running pace with a fair amount of precision. However, tonight’s convoluted course disorients me; I have no sense of distance, and therefore have no way to strategize my pace. Running “blindly”, I stride on with a consistent pace. I have a running strategy that seems to work well. Two rules, easy to remember:

1. Pass people
2. Don’t let people pass you.

The rules are simple; execution is a bitch. Passing the person in front of me is my short term goal, and there is always someone in front. I never hit my second wind, and never become relaxed enough to settle into good running form. Sweat pours down my brow into my eyes, where the salinity stings and causes me to tear. No sense in rubbing my eyes- my hands are just as sweaty. I can't turn my head to look back for Jon. It will offset my balance and waste precious energy. I feel water sloshing around in my stomach. My throat is viscous with a mixture of Power Gel and humidity.

Then it happens: I turn the last corner and finish line is in within sight. It came up so quickly that never had time to readjust my pace for my final kick. I cross the line at 24:20- no better or worse than any previous 5k run in the past few years. Jon crosses the line shortly behind me.

Tonight we resolve to lower our running time, increase our running pace, which can only happen if we begin to speed train. We sit, ponder, and reflect on what we did and didn't do right; then head back to R-Macs for our free beer. Unfortunately their third keg ran dry and are no longer offering free drafts; people are forcecd to purchase beers at the bar. We scoop out a bowl of complimentary post-race pesto pasta, sip a $3 Coors Light draft, and watch the post-race festivities in silence.

There is always next time.

8th Grade Writing - Midnight Stranger

Caroline and I moved into the house little over two years ago. Can you still believe there are unpacked boxes tucked away in the attic space and backs of closets? A co-worker told me if I could survive two years without knowing what was inside these boxes, I probably didn't need them anyway. My friend suggested this simple solution- put the them to the curb. Maybe they were right and should have heeded their advice. Should have, could have. . . but didn't.

I only had enough patience to sort through one box; the others have to wait until some future date. We're talking way future. The process of sorting through was tedious enough, as the contents were stack and stacks of papers dating back to before my wedding. Reading through the contents of this box, page by page, I discovered: love letters from Car, teaching credentials, student loan notices, pictures kids drew for me back in the day of substitute teaching, my college diploma, lesson plans from student teaching, my passport, and a book of random bits of stories and poetry I started back in highschool.

Flipping though the collection of my adolescent stories and poetry, I came across something I wrote my eighth grade year. The assignment was to write an original story incorporating the vocab list from Emily Bronte's "Wuthering Heights". Up until that point I had never ventured to write a story before. The "whole language" movement in education came about in the 80's, when I was still in elementary school. Catholic schools were way behind on teaching trends, and English was systematically taught through Voyages in English. In other words, our "writing" instruction was devoted to: parts of speech, punctuation, sentence diagraming, outlining, writing reports / bibliographies. We didn't give presentations, write scripts and act them out dramatically, write poetry (beyond eight years worth of limericks and diamantes), or craft a short story to my recollection. Creative writing was saved for writing an original sentence for spelling / vocab words.

Fortunately I was an avid reader, and knew a little something about stories. My grandfather gave me a set of leather bound books that included the complete works of great authors- Ibsen, Stevenson, Wilde, Zola, Tolstoy, etc. Most of those books were well beyond my level of comprehension; rather, my mind soaked up the writings of Stevenson, Wilde, and Poe. Rereading this story, I now view it as a fusion of Bronte, Poe, and my imagination. Viola, I submitted my first and final draft as any regular middle school student would. The teacher liked it enough to volunteer me to read the story aloud in front of the class. How embarassing! But that was the moment when I considered the possibility writing might be something that I could be good at.

That was fifteen years ago; I still have a great deal to learn about writing. As a middle school language arts teacher, I get paid on the job to learn more about the craft. The National Writing Project at Rutgers has done wonders to get me back into the joy writing after all of these years. I'm far from being a decent writer, but it's something that I enjoy doing. Therefore I'll keep seeking out ways to self-improve as an author. I'm publishing this story thanks to my rediscovery, and to celebrate my upcomming fifth year of teaching.

By the way, count all of my grammar mistakes. In particular, look out for inconsistent verb tense and misuse of commas / parentheses. Looks like eight years of intensive grammar studies didn't pay off. Surprised I still earned an "A" considering the nuns were grammar hounds. Then again this was a vocab lesson after all, and what does punctuation have to do with vocab anyway? As a writing teacher myself, I know that a balanced literacy approach is the way to go: teaching both the science of grammar with the art of writing craft. If only the nuns knew this approach way back when. . .

Midnight Stranger

Seeing that it was getting late I bid farewell and started my journey out into the streets. Taking my eyes off the road, I noticed a light breeze racing through my hair. I glanced up farther into the midnight summer sky to see clouds shroud the moon. Guided by a somber glow (given by a streetlight above), the sky darkened greatly as the clouds covered the last morsel of the moon. At the same time the monotonous music of the katydid, and soft breeze becalmed. Silence is now dead at hand.

A thin fog rolls over the ground and an outline of a stranger appears from nowhere. The form of this creature became more obvious. A human strides toward me as I continued my procession. her appearance permiated a feeling of folorn. She had an insecure gait that expressed an inferiority to others. Her skin looked milky and soft but was covered in a dark cloak. A medalion was tightly grasped by her boney fingers (leaving the other hand completely free). her long crimson red hair had a noticable grey streak which said that she was once put through a great ordeal.

The fog thickened and divided us. I stopped filled with bewilderment. Then I pressed on forward and the fog lifted. The moon once again became clear in the midnight summer sky. I went back to look for her but never saw a person of that description again. She had returned from the night as mysteriously as she had come from it (lost forever).

Google Me

Google me.

Seriously, GOOGLE ME!

Did you know that I am a Catholic bishop, attorney, volunteer at the Salvation Army, Michigan senator, editor of the Basque-English English-Basque Dictionary and Phrasebook, been in the movies, am a certified school psychologist, studied plankton ecology, and still had time to assistant coach women's basketball. What can I say, I'm a busy man.

No joke.

Call it boredom, utter curiosity, internet paranoia, or something to do in the thick of a drunken stupor. C'mon, admit it. Haven't you all Google'd yourselves at one point or another? Never know where your name might pop up (for real).

As you could imagine, this is a real nightmare for school teachers. Tough enough that teachers are public employees and therefore face public scrutiny. For example, teacher's salaries are posted in the newspapers. Our students standardized test scores are also reported as well. Can you recall how many teachers have their home phone number listed in a phone book? Hey, it's just a reality of the job. At the end of the day, I'd just like to be myself and escape the public spotlight. Scarey to think that it is entirely possible that one of my students might stumble onto my blog.

"Hey mom, can we rent Super Troopers? Mr. C. has it listed under favoriate movies in his blog profile."

Yeah, definetly scarey.

The (ex)principal of the middle school once told me that the older you get, the less you'll keep in touch with friends and more family you grow. Didn't believe him at the time; now I realize just how much truth there is to this point of view. Friends do things like move out west, get too busy to write or call. Time makes us forget. Then comes that lonely point in your life where you are left wondering what happened to all the people you knew- where are they now?

Ever consider Google'ing college roommates, old high school chums, or even the occasional ex-girlfriend? Maybe you should. Take into consideration how Classmates.com, Friendster, MySpace, SoundClick, Yahoo profiles, etc. have reconnected people after years of seperation. Locating peeps through these online networks is become much easier than browsing through scores of cached webpages, broken links, and false leads. It is a great feeling to find our whatever became of so-and-so, or to rekindle and old friendship.

This past week an email came across my inbox with the basic message of, "Is this you?" An old friend from Caldwell College (before I transfered to Rutgers) managed to track me down through MySpace. Funny thing, I didn't remember even registering an account. After ten long years he managed to track me down. Amazing. After some correspondance with this fellow, he gave me two more people's email addresses for me to contact. Reconnected with three friends total.

Afterwards, I decide to completely fill out my profile at MySpace. If someone can locate me with a half-completed profile, what might be the outcome if I list more personal information. Who knows? Sure enough, someone from high school sent me a message. Up to four now. I started networking through work mates and buddies, and tracked down three more long-lost friends. Count seven in all- now I'm on a streak!

One drunken night I Google'd the names of my high school friends (under my wife's supervision of course), and came across one of their blogs. This was particularly odd, like a one-way window into their life, but hey, we wouldn't blog if we didn't want people to have that view of who we have become. I didn't hesitate to shoot out an email, and now we write to each other.

Eight times I asked, "Hey, how the hell you've been all these years?" All those time I gave out the autobiography of my life: mostly accomplishments and some turning points. You know you had (have) a good friendship when you are both willing to admit both the good and the bad, and think no less of you. Reminds me of a John Barth quote from "Lost in the Funhouse":

Somewhere in the world there was a young woman with such splendid understanding that she'd see him entire, like a poem or a story, and find his words so valuable after all that when he confessed his apprehensions she would explain why they were in fact the very things that made him precious to her. . .

I see a ripple effect. One friend who managed to track me down; in turn, I tracked a half-dozen few more friends. Will they be inspired to find one of their long lost friends or an old love? The motion of this waves carries on- it's what keeps websites like MySpace thriving. It is a small world after all.

P - Groove Tonight at the Stone Pony

Whenever I go out to a local or small venue show, there is typically always someone handing out sampler / promotional CD's. I have dozens of these discs laying around- not quite sure what to do with them all. I've discovered a handful of bands this way; guess it's a great way to advertise considering how cost effective it is to burn CD's today. I acquired one of those indie "new artist" mixes under Harmonized Records label. An Atlanta band named Perpetual Groove had the only worthwhile song out of the lot.

I've found myself playing their one song "Three Weeks" over and over again without it growing stale. My friend Lori recently moved to Atlanta and vouches for this band. So based on one song and a recomendation, Caroline and I are driving clear across Jersey to see them at the Stone Pony. It comes down to that Jam Base ideal of "Go see live music" tonight. Hell, what can you loose- three bands for $10. When renting one video game at Blockbuster costs $9, this price of admission seems entirely worthwhile.

Through minimal GOOGLE'ing, I managed to drag up a hi-fi music stream from the Internet Live Music Archive. I'll post a link below, not sure how long it will last before the link breaks. Give it a try, can't go wrong. From what I've heard, P Groove is a mix between modern alternative songwriting, and jamband improvisation with a slant towards trance electronica. Pay particular attention to the interplay between keys and guitar, lead lines drenched in echo / delay, and songs interspersed with techno-like grooves. Hopefully tonight will live up to my friend's recomendation, the catchiness of "Three Weeks", and the quality of this show. Enjoy!

Perpetual Groove, April 22, 2005,

Lincoln Theater, Raliegh, NC

88.5 GAAT - The Beatles, Abbey Road

Any one of the Beatles will easily make the WXPN's 885 Greatest Albums of All Time list. Well, Magical Mystery Tour might be the only exception here, but even a weak Beatles album tops out the best effort made by any other band. My guess is that the Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band, Revolver, and The White Album win trifecta.

Hands down, these albums were amazing productions that shaped the face of pop music for years to come. Just think of all the musicians that credit their beginnings to being transfixed by a certain album, or how entire sub genres of music were born out of one song in particular. It’s mind blowing. I dare say that Rock and Roll might never have evolved into what it is without the help of the Beatles. Typically these three albums are hailed with that sort of praise.

It seems rather pointless to vote on these records considering they will most likely make the top 100, and are not necessarily my favorite of the Beatles (albeit, they are up there). Gasp! Call me a heretic. With so many great albums to their credit, I chose to vote for something just as worthy, often sitting in the shadows of more praised. Consider this: Abbey Road.

That album cover made famous by false rumors. It showcases songwriting contributions from all four (although Lennon, and McCarthy still dominate). The flow from one track to the next is just as cohesive as Sergeant Peppers. Songs range from serious to silly; guitar driven to orchestrated. Although Let It be was the last album to be released, Abbey road was the last to be recorded. As the final product from the Fab Four, it deserves recognition.

With the advent of CD’s, MP3’s, and I Pods, you loose the concept of A-side, B-side. Digging out an older tape or record, and you’ll realize that this is an album divided. The first half moves along with some memorable songs. “Come Together,” “Something,” and “Here Comes the Sun” are probably the most well known from overplayed rotations on your typical classic rock radio station. Not to be ignored, “I Want You” and “Oh! Darling” are sung straight from the heart; you can hear it in the timbre of their voices and in the guitar riffs.

“You Never Give Me Your Money” suite, a segue of seemingly half-finished songs, fills the second side. I’ll contend that you need to listen these songs straight through in one sitting; an I Pod shuffle just doesn’t do this portion justice. I can’t believe how catchy these short musical segments are, or how much raw emotion they carry. From the raw energy of “Polythene Pam” down to the sweetness of “Golden Slumbers,” The Beatles bring you on an emotional roller coaster.

(As a side note: They Might Be Giant’s on the last track(s) of Apollo 18 is the only other recorded attempt at recreating the vibe set by Abbey Road's second half. Well, they managed in their own geek-rock style. I guess it was an art that was bound to be imitated)

The power of music is to evoke emotions and memories. Any of the Beatles’ songs do just that, but never as finely as in Abbey Road.



A review of my top 10 albums to date:

Violent Femmes, Violent Femmes
Abbey Road, The Beatles

Tags: 88.5, WXPN, The Beatles, Abbey Road, music

Haddonfield Running Company (part one)

Haddonfield and I share a history with running. I ran this city way back during my track and field days in Paul VI High School. Since then, I have come back for the Wednesday evening runs hosted by the Haddonfield Running Company. Those runs helped me to shed forty pounds when I resolved to loose weight before my wedding. I came back as a more advanced running training for longer distance races such as the 10k and half-marathon. Now a very close friend, Jon, recently moved to South Jersey, and we have both committed to running the Wednesday night runs as time well spent together.

Jon is my training partner, my friendly competition, and my equal in many ways. He is a sprinter at heart, which I persuaded into tempting longer runs. 5k racing events were our meeting ground- where his sprinting style could match my relaxed stride. In the past, I was guaranteed success in races that called for endurance; he was destined for races that called for strength or speed. My strategy was to keep him at a safe distance, enough so that he couldn’t pass me in a wind sprint. Things have changed. He started training to compete in triathlons, and has managed to squeak ahead of me longer distance races. Now we are more evenly matched, if Jon hasn’t bettered me with his intense triathlon-training regimen.

I’ve found my own niche in the Haddonfield running group- back of the pack runners. Don’t read me wrong. On any given race, from 5k to half-marathon, I’ll typically cross that finish line with 50% of the runners in front, and the other half trailing behind. However, most of the Wednesday night runners are regulars, diehards who come back week after week; a different breed than the weekend warriors that compete in many races. Then again, consider all the people that never take the initiative to lace up and run. Fifty percent doesn’t sound so bad when you consider all the people who choose not to race, or aren’t in the health to run. Even the last person to cross the finish line is ahead of those that never crossed the stating line, and is a winner as far as I am concerned. That is the beauty of the personal record. It’s the very spirit of running.

Looking around, the other runners are a motley bunch. The span of ages, diversity of body types, and range of physical condition continues to amaze me. Take the eleven-year-old who was raised into the sport by athletic parents. Look at the “masters class” elders (euphemism for seniors) who have managed to maintain a decent level of fitness well into their golden years. Or the thick-hipped, top-heavy women. They can run for their life despite the challenges presented by biomechanics. These people are likely to pass you on the road. See that muscular male with the shaved chest to showcase his pectorals? Don’t expect him to survive the second mile. Apparently thick muscle mass doesn’t bode well in this sport.

A runner simply cannot be assessed by their looks alone. Take Steve Prefontaine, my running hero, for example. He was shorter than the other runners, and didn’t have any particular grace to his stride. That didn’t matter. His spirit was set ablaze by a passion for running and competition. You can read that sentiment on the face of Emil Zatopek in those historic photos of Olympic competitions gone past. It was what spurned Roger Bannister to shave off a few seconds to achieve the perfect mile. Cliché, but it is that mind over body mentality.

Aching now, your body wants to quit
lactic acid buildup burns from within
you don’t want to run that next mile
rivulets of sweat run down arm
not a pretty sight

Placing one foot in front of the other
hoping to pass the person in front of you
thinking, “Just one more mile,” for the next four miles
forcing footsteps into perpetual motion
call it the grace from within

Tonight I position myself between Jon and Kevin, another from the niche. Kevin looks like the antithetical runner. He is a 200+ pound beer gutted in his thirty-something-years that clocks well over forty miles a week. In training terms, that is ambitious. Kevin says that he plans to make a break for it and run his heart out. I entirely believe him. Running for time comes down to an internal struggle between who you really are, and who you want to become. Even before the official start, his mind is off racing, planning splits for each mile of that seven-mile course. Unfortunately, I already ran five miles that morning, and I’ve mentally accepted defeat over Kevin. Tonight my goal is to maintain a position behind Kevin, and stay competitive (if not surpass) Jon.

To Be Continued. . .

Tags: Haddonfield Running Company, running

"Earn It" ~ Mauger and Conroy

Today I uploaded the another MP3 under the Mauger and Conroy songwriting collaboration. "Earn It" was produced from our second song writing session. This time I came to the table with an interesting chord progression and Brian was able to find lyrics to match. This song was recorded in my living room on a beastly hot day in July. This time I chose to play through my electric guitar, seeing how the acoustics's tone didn't translate well into the recording. I played a clean tone on semi-hollow, little bit of spring reverb, out through the tube amp, into the mic, and then into a laptop. Brian recorded his voice at a later date. Like "Sigh Alone," this song was was composed, revised, rehearsed, and recorded under two hours. Since then, we have tweaked the chord progression in the bridge and several lyrics so the song will flow better.

Tags: Mauger, songwriting, guitar, audio recording, MP3

88.5 GAAT - Violent Femmes, Violent Femmes

Violent Femmes debut album, Violent Femmes, is a solid album, from start to finish, and I’m not sure why. There is absolutely no production value- songs have a spartan assembly of bass, acoustic, snare, and the occasional xylophone. Most of the songs are suited for open chord guitar strumming, mostly in the key of G. Lyrics are ridden with teenage angst about sex and love lost, and Gordon Gano doesn’t croon as much as whine (which seemingly fits the part).

So what makes this album stand out amongst others? Everything clicks- it has that magic; call it a busking band breakthrough. Each song consistently hits the mark. I first heard the album back in ’92. I could hardly believe it was recorded ten years earlier, as it still sounded fresh. To my ears it doesn’t sound dated, even twenty years later; then again, maybe my taste in music is frozen in the mid 90’s.

This was the first album where I learned every word to every song; the type of record to play in a car filled with your best friends, radio blasting, shouting out lyrics to “Add it Up” or “Kiss Off,” driving with no particular destination in mind. Nights where three hours spent in a Jersey diner in the middle of the night (or was it morning), nursing a cup of coffee didn’t seem unreasonable. Nights when South Street still had Zipperhead, tattoo / piercing parlors, squatters, and the streets closed for pedestrian traffic. Vintage clothes and clove cigarettes. Ah, the smell.

Senior year of high school, both the Ramones and the Violent Femmes were playing in concert the same night, but different venues. I had to pick one or the other. The one Violent Femmes album was weighed against the Ramones’ entire career. Sad to say, but the Femmes won out that duel. This is one of my shameful regrets, Joey Ramone is dead, and I’m seeing the Femmes in concert later this summer. Ah well, it was a great concert, wonder if I can still squeeze into that concert T.

Tags: 88.5, WXPN, Violent Femmes

88.5 Greatest Albums of All Time

One of my favorite radio stations, Philly’s 88.5 WXPN, is hosting the “885 Greatest Albums of All Time” contest. Rules are simple enough- vote for your top 10 albums, in order from most to least favorite. Soundtracks, compilations, and tribute albums are acceptable, whereas compilations and “the best of…” are not. Sounds easy right? We are talking the top 10 albums, as complete albums, of all time. I relate this to the question of “If you were deserted on an island with CD player in hand…” A significant question indeed!

Does one choose based on gut instinct alone, or should there be some written code to guide the entire process? Pick 10 CD’s; what would be my criteria? Every contest needs criteria; and the teacher side of me is itching to write a rubric, but I won’t. Music has a magic that can’t be quantified; there is just something special that makes me return to certain albums time and time again. I can’t put my finger on that special quality, but it is definitely there. It’s like your first kiss- maybe not the most passionate, but certainly was a memorable moment. My top choices will be based on gut instinct all the way; however, I feel the need to justify my picks. Let me at least explain some considerations that needed to be made.

First, the CD must be enjoyable in its entirety. None of this, “Well tracks 1 though 5 are great, but the last half of the album really drags.” No fast-forwarding over songs. Like a good read, the entire CD has a dramatic arc, and is probably best enjoyed in its entirety. Every song is a winner; this is what makes a top album so rare.

Second of all, it must be an album that I actually own, or have “borrowed” for an extensive period of time. I don’t think of this contest as the ‘top ten albums ever made’, as much as the ‘top ten in my own personal collection’. Sure, people might down upon me if I don’t vote Frank Sinatra, Charlie Parker, Elvis Presley, or Aretha Franklin. No doubt that they have produced some of the best albums of all time; they weren’t the albums of my time. I’m looking to create a soundtrack to my life, my top ten.

Hey, 885 albums means there is plenty of room for diversity. Having said that, I won’t hesitate to vote for more obscure albums. For example, at least a half-dozen Beatles’ album will make the 885 top albums list. Each of their albums is an amazing product, from start to finish, worthy of recognition. I know that Sergeant Pepper or Revolver will most likely be in the top 25 albums. So why not mention another Beatles’ album that might easily get overlooked. I’m propelled to pick those unsung masterpieces that deserve long-awaited praise.

In honor, I’d like to post an album a day, over the next three weeks. Each post will highlight the album, and justify its place in my top ten. In culmination, I’ll judge each of these 10 albums, and rank each from one through ten in one final post.

Tags: WXPN, 88.5, greatest albums of all time

The Moment (Ireland)

“Ireland” is a vignette I wrote as part of NWP’s Invitational Summer Institute two summers ago. The story is autobiographical in nature. It describes the very moment when I proposed to my wife during one of the last nights in Ireland. After having reread this story, I was shocked that this experience was portrayed in the third person perspective. Deep emotions are much more accessible in the first person; I tend to overuse this writing approach.

In this piece of writing, the third person gives a more balanced treatment to both characters. Like the poem “The Feeling of It”, this story attempts to capture one moment in time; an emotional landscape sculpted by the surrounding environments. Peculiar enough, the story’s original title “The Moment,” was also the title of another vignette that was finished this past summer. I am only starting gain a sense that this theme runs throughout my stories and poems. That will be for you to judge.

Although psychologists, educators, and philosophers alike could debate this point, our environment is a shared experience. For the most part, a group of people could agree upon what information their five senses detect. We take in those senses, and make our own personal meaning based on memories and feelings- our own personal interpretation based on the outside environment and experience. It is our personal perception, our personality, which isolates people and makes us individual. We then try to reconnect with other human beings by expressing these internal ideas through language (both spoken and written), art, music, math, etc. This is one of the prevailing ideas in American education; this is my fascination.

Dear Caroline,

Can you remember Kilkenny: the medieval city; the Irish drum circle, all two of them; hostel in an old guard tower; Frank, the dreadlock proprietress; obnoxious Americans from Connecticut; a walk in the woods; moonlight, and the moment; going to the local pub; announcing the event; townsfolk, including those Americans; buying us shots; meant twice for me because you don’t drink; drunk Irish brogue; foosball; those Irish love their America, especially Disney and Florida; the drunken bartender was also the taxi driver for the night; stumbling up all those spiral steps; sleeping in separate cots, in a one room hostel. After all those years, the memories are still fresh. This is my gift to you on our wedding anniversary.

With love,
Joe

(Ireland) The Moment

It was the second time that week the clouds parted to reveal the sky. Even if it was only for a moment, the view was stunning. A realist would have reported that a full moon looked no different in Ireland than it would have appeared in New Jersey. A true romantic would have argued differently. The moon appeared inexplicably huge, and save a young couple, nothing else competed for space on that horizon.

The picture presented itself as gentleman and lady sitting atop a fieldstone wall. This wall stretched onward for miles in either direction, rolling softly over green hills as far as the eye could see. Occasionally another wall would meet at a perpendicular, forming an odd grid. In other places the wall had collapsed where stones had loosened from the agents of time and weather. The walls and fields blended into the horizon where land meets the still night. Only the stones and moon gave audience to this couple. How could it not be romantic for the couple?

This was a moment of isolation and intimacy; somehow life outside of their sphere did not exist. Perhaps a countryman may have walked by with his dog, or a brook rippled over worn-down rocks. They would never have noticed. Save the fieldstone wall, any trace of humanity was removed. Was it possible to be alone in the world and truly hear silence, let alone these two shared in that experience?

She was cold, and slightly frightened. Midnight, middle-of-nowhere, full moon, foreign country- this was ripe material for her inner fears to take hold. A rustle in the field or a howl should have distracted her from the moment. Rather she drew further into that sphere that was their shared space, and shut out the world . . . all save that full moon. Intimacy was a feeling of warmth that spread throughout the body, originating somewhere deep within her. It was a feeling of serenity and safety invested in their state of togetherness.

Inside the gentleman’s pocket was a secret waiting to be revealed. He nervously thumbed the object over and over, rotating it in his sweaty palm. The heaviness of the object weighted down any courage he could muster. “Could she know my innermost desire,” he thought as that that desire revolved around his pinky finger. What if she knew? Would she have given him a sign, a signal, some message of affirmation? He stared deep into her eyes, unable to read the moment. Even though his palms sweated profusely, his throat was parched. A word struggled to produce itself, but lost itself somewhere on the tip of his tongue. The silence maintained.

The full moon, true intimacy, the feel of her breath on his neck, his secret yearning to be set free- this moment was certain not to last. This was an experience to be savored, made precious; never to be lived again. He removed the secret from his pocket and slid the diamond ring onto her finger. Silence . . . stillness . . . shock. She tilted the diamond toward the moonlight as beams of light danced within the many facets and reflected back toward her eyes. The corners of her mouth drew upwards into a soft smile of affirmation.

Tags: Ireland, National Writing Project, personal memoir, proposal

"Sigh Alone" ~ Mauger and Conroy

I was donated my first acoustic, and old 1970's Epiphone, junior year of high school. Taught myself how to play the most popular open chords: major, some minor, and a few 7th. The guitar had unforgiving high action combined with Dean Markley Acoustic Blue Steel in 12's.

On the upside, high action and heavy gauge strings made the guitar ring out in beautiful tones; on the downside, bar-chords were nearly impossible. Couldn't even finger Bm, which is necessary in most open chord / acoustic songs. Forget playing any lead or solo work: sliding was tough enough, bending a no-go. Songs were limited to the G-C-D or A-E-D (that good old I, IV, V) progression with the occasional capo key change thrown in for variety.

Strumming simple chord changes could suffice with a powerful voice commanding the melody. Just look what it did for David Grey; I'm not David Grey, and it didn't work for me. Either I have no potential for vocals, or just have never tried correctly. Drove Caroline to near insanity hearing the same three chords, played the same way, time after time.

Fast forward 10 years- still strumming those same three chords, though I am now capable of throwing in a Bm or a crippled acoustic style F. Ten years of misspent self-teaching and practice; all I had to show for that time was more strumming patterns and quicker chord changes. Since I couldn't sing, I would only play a verse and chorus before getting bored. Caroline challenged me to learn a song all the way through; though how fun is it to strum Indigo Girls or String Cheese incident without lyrics? I learned one or two songs, and attempted the open mic in town. At that time, I was under prepared and still too unskilled for live performance, although my desire to play drove me onward.

Typically I waited 15 minutes before closing to jump up on "stage". Figured by that time most of the audience left or were too wasted to notice. Also it would give me enough time to build up liquid courage, vitamin B. This approach didn't calm my shaky nerves. The more nervous I became, the harder I would finger my chords, the faster I'd strum, and quicker I'd fatigue. A combination of shot nerves, muscle tension, and sweat would add to the sloppy playing.

That may have been it if Larry, Agnes and Ed, the resident musicians, hadn't jumped up to accompany me week after week. Larry put in bass lines, Agnes was amazingly versatile on just the snare drum alone, and Ed soloed over any chord change. They taught me to relax, to play musically rather than aggressively. Gave me enough courage to jump into different blues jams, where I could play my three chords with confidence.

That fall I resolved to take guitar playing a little more seriously. Started taking guitar lessons at the local mom-and-pop. Turned out that my guitar teacher could not have been a better match. We saw eye to eye on equipment, tone, and appreciation of various musicians. Early that winter I was gifted an electric semi-hollow with amp by my ever-supporting wife, Caroline. Think she was finally glad to hear me strum something other than three basic chords. Later that winter I joined my first band, The Earthtones, and by spring had played two live shows. Early summer I started to collaborate with Mauger, a writer / singer, to compose original songs based on his poetry. Large step from playing three chords repetitively. Call it the power of resolution to make it happen.

I now understand when people say, "Played guitar for 10 years, but have only really played for less than a year," I've been there myself.

Today I uploaded my first MP3 to Soundclick under the Mauger and Conroy songwriting collaboration. Sigh Alone is the product of our first session. Brian had lyrics and a melody in mind; I retrofitted the guitar chords to fit what he already had in place. The song was composed, revised, rehearsed, and recorded in under two hours. Don't expect polished- the song has a rough demo quality. Somehow my guitar lost bass and mid frequencies during the recording process- either the mic wasn't aimed at the sound hole or during equalization. The result sounds more like a steel drum than acoustic. Gives it an interesting and unexpected tone.

Maybe years from now I'll look back and wonder why I ever choose to put this song up on Soundclick. It's my teaching philosophy that "Life is a journey and not a destination"; and thus this song is a "process and not a product". For now I couldn't be more proud.

Tags: guitar, band, music, audio recording, MP3, Soundclick, Mauger

The Feeling of It

I don't think of myself as much of a poet, although inspired by my cohorts in the National Writing Project at Rutgers U to write more poetry. I've attended the Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival, participated in several writing marathons, always trying to gain a better appreciation for reading / writing. I have even constructed a Poet Tree in my classroom. Might sound campy, but I am most inspired by my students' poetry. Now I am looking at the craft of songwriting- poetry set to music. No guarantee that it will be of much worth, but I'll keep trying.

I wrote "The Feeling of It" during the NWP's Invitational Summer Institute a few years back. Actually this was my first attempt at poetry since high school. I was inspired to write a sestina, a very complex form poem, after having read Neil Gaimans "Vampire Sestina" in his collection titled "Angels and Visitations". James Baldwin's short "Sonny's Blues" also came to mind. This story has one of the best descriptions of the affect and communication shared between improvisational musicians in all of the literature I have ever encountered. The content came from a very moving experience at It, possibly one of the best Phish festivals outside of the Clifford Ball. I wanted to fuse: the complexity of a sestina; Baldwin's comprehension of music, and his power to communicate those ideas; with my own personal perspective on the Phish experience. The poem doesn't do justice for those not in the know, but might get a few head nods from those that share similar experiences. Therefore my audience is rather limited.

Today I post this poem in memorandum / celebration of Coventry- Phish's announced farewell party one year ago. That weekend is gone, but remains fresh in my memory.



The Feeling of “IT”

Bathed in golden locks of light
with no sense and loyalty of time
the intangible gap between space
and the subtle sounds of music
inspired the congregation to dance
as a celebration of the soul

It is the language of the soul
to converge, converse, shed light
upon movement, with sound dance
-ing a frantic rhythm within tempo; time
gauged only by measures of music
and kinesthetic space

Many individuals confined within a space
moved by funk, by jazz, by spirit, by soul-
shaking, pulsating, worshipping music
bringing them together toward a new light
a new time
within the communion of the dance

The musicians lead the crowd along, fingers dance
-ing tirelessly upon instruments; hollow space
reverberated guitar strings, snare drum snaped out time,
as bass sauntered beneath, piano rolls ringing out soul;
puffs of smoke rose showered in light
as the audience bathed in warm washes of music

A struggle of harmony and cacophony; a music-
al phrase called, answered, revisited, reinvented; a dance
of notes interweaving, improvising, imposing light
and order; then swept away into space
of frantic chaos- doubted, questioned, soul
searched, renewed, reiterated, then brought back to time

Band and crowd reciprocating pure energy; this time
invigorated by the exchange music
free to explore the uncharted depths of the soul
navigated by the dance;
what was once an empty space
now radiated with life, warmth, sound, light

Like a thousand sparks of light set free of time
and transcended space; set forth the music,
inspired the dance, and intensified the soul

Tags: sestina, poetry, National Writing Project, Geraldine R. Dodge, writing marathon, Phish, It, Neil Gaiman, James Baldwin

Return of the BLOG

I came across BLOGS at the 2003 National Writing Project Convention in San Francisco. The technology sessions focused on the use of blogs in the classroom. I brought those ideas back east to Jersey, where I had every intention of putting these new ideas into practice. I registered for a blog right away, and well, that was as far as it went- a good inention. Don't get me wrong, I did pioneer new uses of technology in the classroom, just never made it around to blogging. My initial enthusiasm became worn down by grad school, coaching, teaching, purchasing a house, guitar lessons, band practice, etc...

What a shame.

Then it happened. Blogs moved out of from the shadows of obscurity and into the limelight. The word popped up left and right- the word blog spread like wildfire. They were used for journalism, presidential campaigns, celebrity promotions, appeared in media events, etc. I witnessed as more and more of my friends, including my wife, catch onto the blogging fad. It was only a matter of time before I caught up with the times, again, and registered my own blog.

That is what brings me back here today. I completely forgot about ever registering for a blog in the first place. It was like finding a crumpled 20 dollar bill in a coat jacket that you haven't worn since a year ago. My initial reaction was, "Oh yeah, guess I did register a blog way back when..."

Well, here is the end to a blogging hiatus.

Cheers

PS. In case you were wondering, I never did present that workshop session on blogging. Maybe this year. Maybe...

Tags: blogs, National Writing Project, professional development