I’m offered a gig with friends. The gig requires me to bring a keyboard, show up and play high energy music for 3 hours, and be a good hang. For all of this, I’ll make $75.
Most musicians will look at this and think: good hang with friends, sure, why not!
Most purchasers of music will think: they get to play, it’s exposure, why not!
But I am not most musicians or most purchasers.
Any time someone at work says I’ll ping you, I want to respond in a horrible Russian accent that only Sean Connery can do: “one ping, one ping only.”
A ping is a sound wave sent from a submarine to its surroundings. The sound wave bounces off things and returns to the submarine. They do this to tell the distance of things. It’s like echo-location.
That implies that if a manager pings me, they want their message to hit me and bounce back at them so that they can tell the distance of themselves from me.
People say I’m funny. I never say I’m funny.
I always say I’ve been dropped an appropriate number of times as a baby, had parents as lawyers, and grew up in an Irish Catholic household, and chose the obviously comfortable life path of being a pianist and perhaps am, therefore, appropriately screwed up.
And that’s funny to some people.
I call it, any day of my life.
I visited my cousin a few days ago in Santa Clarita. Here are my impressions of the area:
A Pattern
- I see most people driving in neighborhoods and around local commercial areas; this seems like the kind of place that calls a walking spirit. The roads are twisty, the elevations change often, and they butt up against beautiful mountains and valleys — a walker could stop a hundred times and appreciate nature, a driver drives through.
- I see Miami in most places — beautiful looking sidewalks, lawns, houses, people, food. Everything looks beautiful, but there’s little depth underneath. Restaurants, shopping, homes, cars — all surface.
- Lots of chain restaurants. A few Mexican-inspired places — places serving margaritas, and basic “Mexican” fare like burritos. Pubs served “cuban sandwiches” on wheat sandwich bread alongside “umami fries” which were french fries with seaweed sprinkles. Faux farm-to-table places served basic wraps with greens and all kinds of teas with soft wood interiors and servers with aprons with leather decorations at higher prices. I enjoy off the beaten path places that look public health questionable that serve a few amazing dishes and at reasonable prices, and Santa Clarita is not the place for that.
- The architecture reminds me of Miami and Miami Lakes — Spanish villa look. But not as gaudy as Miami. Tamer than Miami. Even the gaudiness is restrained, lacking Miami’s full-throated commitment to excess.
- Temperature swings! Started off nice and warm, pleasant, and nights got a bit chilly. Not chilly enough to put on heat, but chilly enough that a light blanket offers comfort. So not too hot, not too cold… pleasant to be in, lacking intensity to be remarkable.
Three Exceptions
Most new restaurants open with a vision. A celebrity chef, a concept, an identity. Then the chef leaves, the hype fades, and the food regresses to average. The vision becomes a vague memory of what the place used to be.
Diners don’t have this problem.
The diner doesn’t regress. The diner might innovate a bit — I see breakfast burritos on menus or “no carb bacon and egg” options. But, on the whole, the food never changes. It’s basic and easy.
Yesterday I wrote about the Iliad and how warriors pause fighting when they recognize shared humanity (see post). I claimed that holding space for the enemy makes me feel most alive. Today, I still believe that—and I want to show you what that practice looks like when the gods are screaming at you to pick a side.
I start with a premise: you and I are made of the same things yet experience the world in unique ways. That’s the foundation—shared humanity, different lives.
I bet it’s not hard for you to imagine something you’re raging over right now. A slight at work, immigration, trans-rights, a boundary crossed, a promise broken, a thing of yours taken that you believe was yours. How much energy does that rage cost you? How long have you been spending that energy?
Homer’s “Iliad” opens with two powerful men — Achilles and Agamemnon — who are pissed at each other over honor and a woman taken as a bounty of war. Their fight with each other is about standing, who gets to claim what, and public humiliation. Their nation, Greece, is at war with Troy; and Achilles is so furious by his issue with Agamemnon that he withdraws from the fight all together, willing to let his own people die than fight for a leader who disrespected him.
Economists like to use the prompt — solve for the equilibrium. Oversimplified, the phrase challenges the responder to find the point where everyone’s interests are met.
A memorial service is a kind of market. Dad had an explicit wish for one thing. Others would like to see something else. No one participant in this market is right, and no one is wrong — there are just different interests to consider. The goal of the market maker, the siblings, is to find a way to meet everyone’s interests with the least amount of waste (hurt feelings, anger, resentment, lifelong grudges, and wrecked families).
Within 72 hours cousins, aunts, uncles, friends, mothers, fathers, wives, husbands, kids, passerby, and maybe ne’er-do-well pepper me with questions like — when is the funeral? who is invited? when will the burial be? can they attend?
These people all mean well, and I love them. They want and need closure. They want to participate. They want to help. They want to show support. I love it! Truly. I just don’t understand it.
A chaplain came to me to offer their condolences. I asked them, how much for two?
Perhaps I am cynical, or maybe I’m just over it. What is the utility of a condolence?
Usually, the condolence includes something like “I’m so sorry for your loss.” But then I think, “what did you do to be sorry?” Also, isn’t a bit presumptuous to believe I’ve lost something?
Death gave me a great perspective and a deep sense of freedom.