Take Your Protien Pills And Put Your Helmet On

A week ago, I left the crazy artist's community that I had called home for over a year and I got on an airplane. An airplane full of screaming babies, middle-aged women drinking vodka mixed with sprite zero, and horny teenagers making out right on top of me (I suggested that they take their little in-flight romance to the bathroom but they insisted on swapping saliva in the seats right next to me). I siphoned David Bowie into my ears through headphones, but not even Ziggy Stardust could distract me from the chaos surrounding me.

"This is Major Tom to Ground Control, I'm stepping through the door, and I'm floating in the most peculiar way..."

Some bratty kid kicks the back of my seat while the people next to me proceed to pass second base.

I think of my friends from the artist's community, of my old one-room apartment that was now empty, and of all the stuff I had sitting in boxes at my parents' house. I begin to second guess my choice to move out, but then I tell myself not to think about it. I am on an adventure.

The pilot announces that the plane is going to land. I grab a hold of my barf bag, just in case. Meanwhile, David Bowie continues to sing in my ears.

"Can you hear me Major Tom? CAN YOU HEAR ME MAJOR TOM?"

And in that moment, I felt like I was Major Tom. I was leaving Ground Control and blasting off on some vague personal mission. My destination? A place more foreign and strange than Outer Space...

Central Florida.

A week later, here I am - updating my blog in The Marion County Library. And I have a suspicion that I am not only the sole hipster in this part of the country, but I am the only one who cares about recycling and reusable grocery bags.

Toto, I don't think we're in Portland anymore.

To Be Continued...

Pretending To Be Bowie

I've finally started getting a professionally mixed demo together.  It took me a long time to get going on it because I was a bit overwhelmed by the prospect of going solo.  Fortunately, I was able to connect with a musician that lives downstairs.  I'll call this guy The Studio Musician.

This is a guy that rarely comes out of his room.  I didn't really know about him until The Poet met him on the smoker's corner one day and suggested I collaborate with him.  I was nervous at first because he is primarily a jazz musician, but he's actually perfect for the job.  He's got a whole recording studio set up in his apartment and he plays multiple instruments.  He's got a big burly beard, wears the same hat everyday, and has an adorable pet cat.  He also has a "Clerks" poster hanging in his studio.  "Clerks" was a movie that I used to quote a lot with my old band, so it seemed a good omen of sorts. 

A couple weeks ago, I gave him a rough track of one of my songs.  He created guitar and bass parts for it and is working on drums.  I was amazed when I heard it.  It sounded like a real song by a real band!  A pretty bad ass song too, if I do say so myself.  It starts out with piano, organ, and acoustic guitar, but then the chorus rolls around and the electric kicks in.  Just thinking about it makes me grin.

I spent a couple of hours recording vocals in this guy's studio yesterday.  Once I got over feeling self-conscious about my voice, it was a blast.  "That was good, but don't be afraid grow a pair and belt it out," he said after several takes.  It was at that point that I began to imagine I was David Bowie.  I sang while making dramatic hand gestures behind the makeshift wall of sound-proofing blankets.  I let myself get lost in the music that was coming through my headphones.  I closed my eyes and visualized myself onstage as Ziggy Stardust. 

I finished singing and The Studio Musician gave me a big thumbs up from behind his computer.  "That was it!  That was the take!  Rock on!" he exclaimed.  Then his next door neighbor's smoke alarm went off and a dog began barking simultaneously.  The timing on that was uncanny.  If that had happened while I was singing, the take would have been ruined.

When I left the studio, I couldn't help but feel like a rock star.  I had my song stuck in my head for the rest of the day.  Specifically the chorus:  "Is this just another night?  Or have you finally lost your mind?"

Sometimes I feel like I really am losing my mind in this place.  Fortunately, I have a good method of reminding myself that I'm at least semi-sane.  It involves a pile of notebooks Mr. Merry Christmas Forever has sitting in a trunk outside of his door.  But that's a story I'll save for tomorrow...