Taking matters into their own hands...

Yesterday students of the New School had themselves a stand off with the President. Over 50 students took over the cafeteria on 65 Fifth Ave. and insisted that they be heard. There was to be a student meeting with the student government but that was cancelled by our President over safety concerns. With growing admonition and curiosity a group of people gathered around the building on Fifth Ave. When the President appeared out of the building he was chased down 5th Avenue by a mob of angry students. Fortunately for the President he was surrounded by bodyguards and made an escape.

Not being one who resides in New York City but still a student, I cannot help but think of the limits that people will take when times are difficult. History shows that when the masses are upset over their leaders they take action. The semester is over at the New School and the student senate is negotiating with the President. If by January things are not settled what will happen? I know that in the United States there is a growing animosity towards leaders and governments. Check the news and you'll see those who've waisted their money away only to ask and receive money that all of us have given to the government. Time moves slowly but anger is like a fire in a field of dry brush.

Some info on the New School President

Kerrey himself was installed as president of the New School in 2001 in the face of widespread dissent by faculty and students. At the university, he is widely despised as a war criminal for his role in a raid on the village of Thanh Phong in South Vietnam in 1969. By Kerrey’s own admission, the raid resulted in the deaths of at least 13 unarmed women and children.

His appointment as president marked a significant shift to the right in higher education, bound up with an effort by the American ruling elite to sanitize the intervention of American imperialism in Vietnam, which resulted in the deaths of over three million Vietnamese. Protests at the New School over Kerrey’s appointment were only quelled by the events of September 11, 2001. Kerrey today defends the occupation of Iraq.

Full article at: (Mostly dealing with the May 2006 commencement ceremony)

www.wsws.org/articles/ 2006/may2006/mcca-m23.shtml

Dare to move?

If you have looked at my Bio on this blog you will see that I am currently a student at the New School University in New York City. The New School is not all that new. The University has been around since the early twentieth century and has always prided itself on being an institution that is willing to explore the issues of the day. Creativity seems to be an impetus to developing new ideas, whether it be in social research, fashion, film, history, psychology, music and etc. Behind the ideas and academic development are those who undertake the politics of the university. There are those who deal with satisfying the professor's demands, student demands, trustee demands, and staff demands. Colleges and University's are an interesting web of management but a web nonetheless. A web unfortunately spun by a poisonous spider.

Certainly this web may have had the intention to protect the university from becoming "status quo." To be on the cutting edge of academic ideas and lead the way in developing curriculum is exciting and very much the vein of the New School. Unfortunately the web so delicately spun has encased student, faculty and workers upon themselves.

The President of the University has plans and ideas for a better University. There are designs for larger buildings with state of the art equipment, a twenty-first century gym and a unique building facade. Along with this undertaking are the improvements to other buildings which have already begun. These improvements have left many students wondering "what has actually been improved?" There are card activated gates that allow access into some of the buildings. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don't and if you don't have the card you are a nuisance to the security guards. If you do have the card and it doesn't work you are still a nuisance to the security guards. There are flat screen televisions displayed throughout some buildings. Most have nothing to offer on them. No information or broadcasting of television networks. I assume an aesthetic choice for art students?

In an attempt to quell further dissension, our President has decided to conduct an open dialogue with the students and faculty with a daily blog. The students have protested with a sit in and are to conduct a meeting with the student senate. Some have displayed their angst on the Presidents blog. The President is making an open gesture to have contact with students but many students are better at hitting and running with complaints online than rather discussing the issues. Many students have voiced their frustrations but have left themselves as "Anonymous" on the Presidents blog. Here is where we fail as students.

We have a voice, so use it. If we are Anonymous then we are no one. Maybe there is a fear that if you complain and put your name down that the school will get you somehow. I don't know anything about that but I do know that if you care about something deeply you let whoever it is know. Anonymity castrates the student body and leaves us as a mass of differentiation. It is easy to look up to those in history who have stood up against opposition. You may know there names. Martin Luther King Jr. Rosa Parks, Abbie Hoffman, John Lennon. There names can conjure action and reflection. But imagine if they were Anonymous. We could never harken back to them for impetus.

Just play the C chord...

Play The C Chord by Jason Martin

These friends of mine fill the lines
To put in the songs you like fill up your time
These friends of mine who write the lines
And put out the songs you like in half the time

Something's wrong if it's the old news
Play the C chord like it's something
Something's wrong if it's the old news
Play the C chord like it's something, like it's something

These friends of mine who write the lines
And put out the songs you like in half the time

Something's wrong if it's the old news
Play the C chord like it's something
Something's wrong if it's the old news
Just play the C Chord like it's something

Like it's something, like it's something
Like it's something new, you can sing through


What's this you might ask? It's a song of course. Sure you may never have heard the song, nor would you think that the lyrics fit in the pantheon of legendary status. But I do like to ask people what they think the words, play the c chord like it's something, means. The c chord, a staple of every ambitious guitarists dreams. A simple, comfortable, and often used chord. If you are piano inclined, middle c is where most people like to begin when learning piano. The triad comprised of c,e, and g, when struck, resound with quality that permeates home. So why the lyrics?

Look at your life. What do you do? Whatever you do, how do you do it? What separates the way you do, whatever it is, from everybody else? There are tools with which we work with, that personify who we are by how we use them. Whatever you are doing, and whatever tools you are using, are you using them in your own unique way or the way that someone has shown you? Maybe it's the most efficient way or the way that you've seen people have the most success with.

Look at the lyrics. Anyone can play the c chord. Anyone can write a song. But what are the motives behind the chord and behind the song. Surely the C chord is nothing new and wherever you are things may be all to familiar. There is an account of a man who tried to do something that no one had ever done before. He wanted to walk on water and for a moment he succeeded. Success came through the impossible, pierced through the doubt. Failure soon came with rationalization and fear. The account says that the man began to sink, not plunge into the depths.

I step onto the water....

Soundtracks

The past three months I've been putting together a film. (I wish I could call it that.) Shot on silent 16mm film last April, I am now piecing the final shots together. Of course with a silent film there are emotions and messages that the images will portray but the image only brings a viewer so far. Sound design on my film plays an important role in juxtaposing ideas. Part of the sound design is not just diagetic sound (sound that comes from a source that is in the scene, i.e. a radio is shown so talk or music could be heard on the soundtrack) but also non-diagetic sound (sound outside of the scene i.e. rocky runs up the steps with an orchestral score playing).

What music fits the scene or film that one is making? Since there are many rules and laws about music being used in film I chose not to use material recorded by someone else, instead I record my own. Or should I say Militant Citizenry records some music for the film. It is here where a new creative process takes place. One where possibilities abound and no mistakes are made. I have limited recording abilities but the limited tools or lack of professional equipment allows me to create soundtracks that are physical. Sometimes all of our toys and gadgets get in the way of creativity.

The soundtrack for the film, titled The Regression of Progression, is intended to play a minimal part to enhance the visual elements. This soundtrack was a simple endeavor but an endeavor non the less. I'm sure that whenever the film is finished the soundtrack will not be the most memorable thing about it. For a short film that's not much soundtrack but it is my hope that filmmakers and musicians not just settle for simplistic or pop driven derivatives. It would be great to have a hundred piece orchestra but I'd rather have the clarinet player playing with one hand and blowing onto squeaky reed. If it creates the sound and underscores the emotions of the scene then I'll take it any day.



Something to learn from The Monks.

Michael Crichton

Seventh grade was a great time for me. It was my second year of public school and I wasn't the outsider that I was the year before. I made new friends and the year provided the opportunities for more of my classmates to get to know me better. Besides the social networking that I did that year I had an English teacher who would start the day with a simple assignment. Bring in a book and read for 15 minutes or so. After that 15 minutes you would write in a journal what you had read. Simple and easy, possibly a good way to kill a chunk of the day without too much brain power. But that reading time was more than just an assignment or a "school thing." That short amount of time allowed me to delve into worlds and mysteries that only I could understand and enjoy.

The author that I spent most of the year reading was Michael Crichton. When Jurassic Park hit the movie theaters some years before I went and saw the film with my mother and enjoyed the excitement but for some reason I wondered about the book. The book was a hard read, lots of science and at the time I was just entering sixth grade but I managed my way through the book. Then I read another Chrichton book, Eaters of the Dead. The tale was a little more adult for me but I read it and didn't think twice. Then there was Sphere. I remember holding the paperback in my hands and looking at the thickness of the pages and thinking, "yeah right, I'll never finish this book." I started reading, and kept reading each page flowing into the next. The story, the characters and the world that was portrayed pushing me to keep reading. My eyes would blur and tire but the story would resonate in my mind. A little rest and then I would jump right back into the book.

I never thought that a book could have such an impact but it did. The impact was great because I had the crazy thought that I would write a book. I wrote my story which stole ideas from Sphere and eventually I finished writing. There weren't many pages but to write my own story was exciting. I would write more stories over time, each page a reflection of the author that inspired me. That seventh grade year I would read A Time of Need which Crichton used a pseudonym, Jeffrey Hudson. The story was very adult but I latched onto the story and was gripped by each twist and turn. Terminal Man led me into a twisted world of medical science gone awry at the same time Five Patients brought the real life experience of medicine to my mind.

After reading Congo, Travels, The Lost World, The Great Train Robbery, Airframe, Rising Sun, and Andromeda Strain I caught up to Crichton and had to wait for new publications. Each time a new hardcover hit the racks I bought the book, not with the same excitement as my seventh grade year. The stories continued to intrigue and open my mind to new stories of imagination.

Michael Crichton passed away on November 5th at the age of 66. As someone who continues to create stories and write screenplays I know that without Michael Crichton they just wouldn't be the same. Besides being a writer he was a filmmaker, he was even considered to be in one of my favorite movies The Man Who Fell to Earth. The literary world has lost a unique storyteller but his stories will continue through me and maybe to any kids that I might have.

Hegemony and me pt. 3...The all of me

Relax and ease the foot off the pedal. The ride is almost done, the journey complete, the ideals over. Finally. Eight years gone, the hopes of brighter fading into the diaspora. I remember the grey clouds of the bright september day. The plume of dust dissipating into the atmosphere and what have we left here? There were words spoken by a young man at one time. He spoke of a humbleness that a great nation should have in dealing with other nations. A hand across the table is always stable.

Then there was the gut instinct and the promise of consideration. Were the years of my early adulthood sold out to an impossible dream? How close was I to the end of me? I stood in the desert of Mexico but could I have stood in another desert. Sure physically, but knowing truly that it wouldn't be the all of me.

Where does the power go now? There was a chance for respectability and a unique way to offer the truth of a higher authority. Oh how through the hands of men the screw was turned the wrong way and now history is the only hope for vindication. Eight years of rhetoric spurned into a hazy delirium. It's hard to express my frustration.

Now I see what is important. I find that the hegemony only wants what's best for the hegemony. To go along with that mind frame is poison. If being on the outside is reserved for me then let it be.

There was a story I heard somewhere. Ralph Waldo Emerson went to visit Thoreau in his cabin in the woods near Walden pond. Emerson asked Thoreau, "What are you doing in this cabin Henry?" Henry replied, "The question is not what am I doing here, it's what are you doing out there?"

Hegemony and me Pt. 2

Once the gas runs out there's no need for speed. Then what? Sure the surroundings may be unfamiliar but the tools that got you wherever, got you there. Countless hours waiting near the tracks, expecting the train that would bring a shell to an educational destination. Whether through the cold wind, rain, ice and snow, waiting is the worst. Of course the education that we all need is to know that no matter what you want to do, you are going to have to go through a hell of a lot of stress to do it. If your are lucky of course. This is the education that I'm paying for?

With each passage of life that same dream crushing motto is repeated by someone somewhere along the way. Even those at the top say it over and over. What's a poor dreamer to do? Of course, ask questions. How does anyone get anywhere? What's the difference between me and those who have "made it"? Right now it's the travel time that I can think of.

Traveling into concrete canyons weekly and seeing the heights to which one can accomplish allows for the lower masses to aspire. Being on the street, catching a glimpse of a tree on the penthouse balcony I wonder, how did they get trees up there? What a drag.

Hegemony and me pt. 1

Who gets to write the rules? Think about everything that surrounds you. From the carpet or hardwood floor of your apartment or house or the paint or wall paper, even the possible wood paneling of the walls. Think about the geometry of your house, apartment, and neighborhood. Someone said this will go here and it will fit into this space and for those who want to be in this spot and place they will have to follow such and such rules.

If you try to go cross country to experience the landscape of America, possibly even to resurrect the spirits of the pioneers of yesteryear you'll be left to follow the speed limit. The speed limit being there for a reason only fully known to the government of wherever you may be. Sure safety is a concern but safety is always a concern even if you're walking.

To drop the pedal down and the speedometer up pushes the limit within ourself. Why? Because we have a speed limit. To follow what someone has handed down as law and then break it puts us into a state that challenges our moral attitude. When the speed rushes up from the wheel to the driver seat, the landscape rushing by, and drag pushing up against the windshield the law doesn't seem worth it.

When the rules come down and pour through every facet of our lives like water from a broken jar on a tiled floor, freedom becomes a demand.

Something before September ends

Yes I've been putting you off dearest blog and alas September is over tomorrow. Not to neglect a whole month and lead those to believe that there was nothing important to say I will say this.

Certainly by now most of know about what's going on in our wonderful economy. Since I live so near to the heart beat of financial America and witnessing daily the toss up of relief or further pain with the fluctuation of the Dow, I can't help but watch in wonder. I don't think playing the ignorance card is a good one at this juncture but most people knew something big was going to happen. Usually when the economy is doing good it's because certain people are making money. Personally I have no stake in the stock market, my wife has a 401k but that's probably as close as I will get. In a global economy where the actions of a bank on the other side of the world effects the lives of millions on the other side of the world has to make you stop and think.

If a number of people default on mortgages and loans here then what must that be doing to other people within our own country let alone in other countries? I saw a statistic of what certain CEO's lost in this recent meltdown of the economy. For example the former CEO of Bear Stearns in January of 2007 had assets worth over 1 billion dollars. Those assets are now only (and I use only cause that's the only word I can think of) 50 million dollars. You see that's a loss of 950 million dollars. I get upset when I waste 20 bucks on something that doesn't work but 950 million?

I don't get the American system but when I think about the millions of people who die because they don't have clean water or the teenagers who feel that there lives are worthless because of the amount of poverty they live in makes me wonder how we care more for those who can basically have it all but not care for those who really need it all. So our government fights things out on how to use 700 billion dollars to maybe potentially make life a little easier for those who have more money and luxury than most can fathom. Call it a bail out or call it a farce. Whatever happens don't be surprised if the "little man" will be footing the bill.

Oh, yes there is a purpose as to why I put the poster for the Texas Chainsaw Massacre on the post.

A Caravan of White Vans

There's not much that I would fully take control over, especially in unfamiliar surroundings but I felt the need to grab the keys and say, "Sure I'll drive." I'll drive the whole entire week in San Diego and Mexico. That's what I did. Looking back on the driving experience I am glad that I took the wheel. I never had so much fun hitting bumps on the dirt roads of Mexico. For all my compatriots who sat in the back and side seat drove, well they had a few sore noggins at the end of the week. Besides being a crazy driver on the anything goes roads of Mexico I was a leader of sorts in driving out to the work site. In fact My van was the first one into Mexico on the first day there. Traveling steep hills and cragged roads for five days, we would head out to work on a small house.


The family that we built the house for was very much a nuclear family. I don't know how many people were living on the small plot of land but there was very little space and a definite need for a house. I felt kind of bad building a new house on a piece of land that had barely any space to begin with, but I think that's my super long body talking. With many moments of measuring, leveling, hammering, measuring and measuring again, a house slowly formed on a hillside in Mexico. From where we built the house you could look out over a vast valley and massive hills and see all but desert. On occasion there would be a plume of brown in the distance covering the landscape. Fortunately we did not receive any dust storms.

What we did receive from the grandmother of the residents (Yolanda) were some amazing tacos, breakfast one day and on the last workday a surprising dish. The surprise was the fact that many of the group ate something that looked like eggs. I don't eat eggs cause they make me sick. What I would find out later is that what we thought were eggs was actually pig brains. I had a chance to eat pig brains and I missed out. But there was really good rice and fried beans so all was not lost.

Besides all the food that we ate there was a house that was built. Sure we sweated and a group from Holden Massachusetts helped us with cement and stucco, but we built a house. But the house was not so we could feel good. The house was not so we could be thanked. The house was just a symbol of what God does for us in our lives. Here in New Jersey we've got houses that make certain houses feel bad. In fact my bedroom was the same size as the house we built in Mexico. Yeah, I've got it good and unfortunately don't realize it most of the time.

The last day of building we give the keys to the owner, give them our thanks for their hospitality and say a prayer and tell them that Christ is the one that built this house. Yolanda said she would paint the house yellow since she knew we were Team Amarillo. We got into the van and that was it. Four days sweating, waking up early, drinking tons of water and trying to scrape by on limited spanish and it was all over in a minute. Maybe there's a biblical parallel somewhere in there. We drove out and completed a work that started sometime in January of this year. The physical labor may last for four days but the spiritual work takes much longer.


I don't know if I'm right in saying this but maybe right now or in a few hours a group of people in white vans will be driving in Mexico somewhere. Maybe they're coming back from a long day of work or maybe they're going out to work. Maybe they're work is done or possibly just beginning. I do know that when people saw the caravan of white vans they saw hope and love.

Campsite etiquette and spit pits

The Mexican ground is hard. Maybe it is just a matter of the immense heat that hits the surface each day or the fact that a few thousands of people over many years have walked the land of the Amor ministry camp. The patch of dirt that we were relegated for team Amarillo was harder than some concrete that I've faced in my time. Driving metal stakes into the ground (Or trying to) and seeing them bend under the weight of every last ounce of force, would certainly be a good indicator of the amount of work that was to come.

As tent city soon formed in the Mexican desert and the first day of living as a very large family began, ground rules started to fall into place easily. A simple table was made out of two horses and a piece of wood and a cooler placed on top of the table was our sink. (Our being anyone in the campsite that week) Below that table, between it's legs lay a small dug out ditch. How that ditch was dug baffles me since the extreme toughness of the earth could repel the hardest of nail hits. This crude setup would be known as the spit pit.

The spit pit is used for two things. Brushing your teeth, the spit part, and washing your hands. You don't get drinks from the cooler, you don't wash yourself, you don't press the tab and let the water run for fun. Very simple rules to follow. There have been gruesome stories of the spit pits, some that I would not be willing to share, but the first day use of this system seemed very easy. I notice though that the spit and water that went into it's trough seemed to go nowhere. I figured that this dirt probably has not had much contact with water and being that the dirt does not know what to do, instead of soaking into the ground it just stayed there. Each day slowly growing, higher and higher. 

Careful steps are needed when brushing the teeth. Falling in and having a spit shine on the feet is not fun. Then again when there's four people standing over a trough, brushing their teeth and spitting at the same time, splash back is bound to happen. For myself, I'm a wild spitter, I would aim but lucky for me if I could hit the target.

The spit pit is just one of the many challenges of trying to not "step on the toes" of others in the camp. Of course there's the silent rule. Being quiet after ten was supposed to be the rule everyone was to follow. Each night that rule could not be kept. The teen girls talking about teen girl things, the husband and wife talking about husband and wife things, the naked chinese kids in the showers (Don't ask), and yes the snoring. Some people were very punctual with the timing of the snoring. Ten o'clock would hit and it sounded like the chain-saws were out. 

The toughest parts of the night were not the man made noises. There is silence that cuts through the Mexican night. The occasional howls of the coyotes would resonate, even the ruminations of the packs of wild dogs would visit the campsite. When all you are is contained into a tent you soon realize how much bigger the world is around you. There are dangers in the night and there's even the mysterious ground squirrels. No need for trees for them, they go under ground.

A week of living as a giant family in Mexico allows for a moment of fellowship and whole hearted reflection on the world we came from. Scoffing at our daily American routines and our need for a super clean wardrobe all the time creates moments of good laughter in the desert. To sit in a circle and wait for the announcement that seconds will be served and a polite mad dash for the food creates an unknowing reality of the immense disposal of food in our houses in America. Being a Walter, firsts warm you up, seconds transitions you to thirds where thirds fills you up and fourths stretches the tummy out for dessert. 

The campsite was a transitional place for all of us. Those in the kitchen crew would find it to be there home for the majority of the week. For those going out to the work-sites, the brief moments of relaxation and reenergizing could only come through the campsite. But we were not there for camping.

The Traveler

In the month of January I wrote a check for some three hundred dollars to seal the deal on my and Aubrey's participation to build a house in Mexico in the month of July. The bitter chill of a New Jersey winter was a far cry to the dead heat of a Mexican summer. That first check was just a step toward the completion of a work that God had called me to do. What does this work entail? For such a novice as myself I was told that for four days a team that I would be a part of would build a house for a poor family in Mexico through Amor ministries. We would travel to San Diego, then into Mexico where we would set up camp at the Amor campgrounds and from there travel into a town and build a house. Words sound easier than the experience.

On July 5th Aubrey and myself woke early in the morning to meet up with our Mexico team, comprising of members of the First Presbyterian Church of Dunellen, to head out to Newark airport to fly to San Diego. Upon our arrival in San Diego, soaking up the sun and feeling the breeze of the port or San Diego, I was approached by Stephen Geiger. In a manner that only fits Stephen he asked me, "How do you feel about driving a 15 passenger van?" What I thought would be a burden at the time became a simple, "Ok." Harkening back to my Bound Brook Ford driving days I knew I could handle the van, what I couldn't manage was the traffic patterns of the state of California's road system. Many wrong turns and narrow misses later we found our way to the In and Out Burger. (Which I find to be an odd name for a food joint, think about it.)

Driving the streets of San Diego proved manageable after a while, though I'm still confused over a traffic light that I saw. Two lights were red and two lights were green at the same time. I chose to go. Once we left San Diego the desert came alive. American sprawl in the middle of an arid landscape was a peculiar sight but as the Mexican border approached mountains came into view and somehow inside I knew everything was about to change. 

Going into Mexico was a breeze. Traveling through Tijuana and seeing people begging on the median of the highway proved that I wasn't in the wonderful land of Oz anymore. As I drove out of Tijuana and went into the mountains and rocky landscape everything felt different. The dirt roads into camp would provide a weeks worth of enjoyment for myself and those who road in the back of the van. As we entered the camp-sight the surroundings were very simple. Just a flat piece of ground and one building for a type of canteena, a concrete structure known as the showers and of course the baños. 

Stepping out onto the dirtiest, hardest  ground in the world the immediate sensory invasion was through the nose. The row of port-a-potties was emitting a putrid smell that welcomed all of our spoiled bathroom senses. To stand in a small, dark space, with fly's buzzing about and looking into the toilet hole and seeing a trough of human excrement proved that a life changing experience was in store this week. Being a runner and useing many a port-a-pottie before races I thought I had smelled everything that could come from a port-a-pottie. But these bathrooms, that will now be known as what they are, the baños, would be the bane of many people throughout the week. But there was something more to the baños, there was life and landscape all around. At night, the stars shone bright and the moon would light the way for those who needed to use the baños. After finding some manageable baños in the row (In the picture I looked the blue ones in the center) the bathroom became just a thing. 

I can't help but think of the countless number of times that I've taken extreme care over the bathroom in my house. As if for some reason that the bathroom was sacred ground. There's even a thought in my mind that Jesus would come back and find me cleaning my toilet bowl and then asking me, "Why are you doing this?" A lesson of simplicity runs its' course in Mexico. 

America: Melting Pot or Tossed Salad?

I felt it would have been folly to turn down an opportunity to witness a sporting event that took on a level of national pride. Specifically an event that involves one of my favorite sports, soccer. That opportunity came when USA would be hosting Argentina in a friendly at Giants Stadium on June 8th. Without hesitating I said yes, then I asked my wife, then I said yes again. At that time of acceptance to witness a clash of titans no one would expect that any of these two teams would be ranked number one in the world. That was until Argentina received that dubious moniker. What would be billed as a friendly would now be a clash between the US. Always the underdog because of our shortcomings in the international sport, and Argentina, the best in the world. (Personally I'm biased towards Germany)

Upon embarking for this match up, myself, Jay Partyka, Steve Provell and his girlfriend July took in the sites and sounds of the tailgating at a soccer match. Particularly the 

massive amount of Argentinean BBQ and American chutzpah. The sweltering heat that day would be caveated by the occasional spot showers that were traversing the state. 

We welcomed the momentary coolness as we basked in the sights and sounds of the Giant Stadium parking lot. In one instance there was a minor revelry of American patriotism in a bagpipe and drum combo playing the classical tunes of our forefathers. Whilst in the background the chanting of Argentina and half sober prophets laying down a dooming score line of 

four to nothing Argentina. Regardless of the opposition the small duo played on and brought cheers to U.S. fans in the vicinity.

As the time came for the game to begin we made our way into the stadium through crowds of light blue and white and American flags. We walked the spirals to the first level of Giants Stadium and walked down the small concrete steps to the fourth row on the American supporters side of the stadium. The constituents were chanting and jumping up and down as the U.S. players warmed up. The heat was oppressing in the stadium but that could not keep the gleeful mood of

 American supports from cheering the whole match. A large American flag was unfurled over our section, then another banner was unfurled, I believe it to be a banner of a jersey with the number 12 on it.

The match was certainly a struggle for the U.S. but Tim Howard kept the team in the game and after some near chances Argentina and the U.S. played to a 0-0 draw. The match would come to an end ad-mist a massive downpour of rain that only seemed to make the U.S. play better and raise the support up to a level or deafening proportions. I have been to many NFL games at Giant Stadium but the amount of noise that I heard as U.S. striker Landon Donovan took a series of corner kicks at the end of the game was the loudest I have ever heard the stadium. 

Looking out on the stadium, the U.S. team was certainly outnumbered in supporters. A see or light blue and white took up the majority of the stadium. Many Argentineans confidently expecting Lionel Messi to cut through the U.S. defense and make a mockery of the national team. The promise of America was confidently on display in the mixing of two cultures to watch a soccer match. In fact the U.S. players on the field, all having there own history of personnel ancestry, proudly displaying their heritage through sport but calling themselves American. Melting pot or tossed salad the international competition brings out the flavor of America. Some may view sport as a means to see who is better, to avoid the conflicts that nations may find themselves hurdling towards or possibly a means to peace. 0-0 seems an appropriate score. I can't help but think that when we consider ourselves better than others we do a disservice to the creeds and ideals of those who founded this nation. Though being outnumbered in support at what is considered a home match there is a joy to seeing so many celebrating their home nation in a nation who's backbone is those from all over the world.

Pointless or viable?

Recently I hit the road on a sixteen hour trip from New Jersey to Chicago. A tenuous drive, but one that was easily alleviated by some good tunes from my IPOD. I was not alone on my journey, two good friends of mine, Karl and Steve, accompanied me to Arise. (A worship and arts conference at Willow Creek Community Church.) For each of us our musical tastes very, though we appreciate each others music and have many musical similarities. One point that we differ on is rock music. No my friends are not classical music junkies, but they don't listen to most music that is deemed "secular." They don't have a problem with most of the music, it's just that they choose not to listen to it. But with there request that I bring my IPOD along for the trip they were warned that there would be some music that they never listen to. Most importantly David Bowie. One request that was made to me was that I give some history on David Bowie and his music and I duly obliged.

As we traveled and the music of David Bowie would come up out of the random shuffle, I would proceed to tell the stories and the history of David's music.  For each song there was a bit of information that over the hours Karl would eventually say to me, "You really know allot about David Bowie." Like a ton of bricks falling I realized that I did, and at a moments notice of a single note being played I could bring out information of who, what, when, where, why and how on David Bowie's music. Certainly it was appropriate that many of the songs we listened to came from the Aladdin Sane album, being that it was an album influenced by David's Ziggy Stardust tour of America. How did I get to this point of knowing all this information about David Bowie?

The school bus stopped at the corner of Valleybrook Court and I finished another day as a sixth grader. Entering my house, all alone I had free reign to do what I wanted to do for just a short hour. Many days it was just sitting in front of the television and having a snack but some days I would have this urge just to put on some music. I would pop open the glass door on our entertainment system and flip the top of the record player. (Yes, record player.) Find some records that had songs that felt the way I was feeling and put them on. One day I found this album that the title alone expressed how I felt. The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars. What on earth is this, I wondered. I put it on, heard this weird voice and let the record spin for a little bit. I changed records after a few seconds putting this weird album back on the shelf and going to something more familiar.

Flash forward. The heat of the summer is in full swing and I'm preparing to go on vacation with my cousin, aunt and uncle. I'm in this confusing transition of eighth grade to freshman. I'm a Beatles freak and that's all I'm listening to. Instead of listening in my living room where my parents are I'm upstairs with a little more freedom. Grabbing piles of records and just listening for hours, slowly falling into myself with the Beatles. As I grab a stack of records I notice some David Bowie records. Hey there's that Ziggy Stardust album. Next to it is an album called Young Americans. The cover shows a very different looking David Bowie than that of the Ziggy Stardust era. But there's a song on the Young American's album, Across the Universe. A cover of a Beatles tune, and John Lennon's name is on the album notes as being a contributor. I gotta check this out, in fact let's bring Ziggy along and give that a listen to.

Across the Universe is played, sounds different but there's a different power to it. Ziggy Stardust is put on and Hang onto Yourself blasts through the headphones with delight. The words of Five Years strikes a chord in me and Ziggy Stardust tells a tale like none I've ever imagined. One listening of the record becomes two, then three and before I know it the Beatles record's are on the shelf and I'm surrounded by Bowie records. I was bit by the bug of Bowies music and the next four years I listened over and over again to everything Bowie I could get my hands on. I read books, collected magazines from Ebay and created a personnel library of information on a musician.

Now I wonder about all that I've learned and think that maybe all of the information that I immersed my brain into could all be pointless. I became fanatic over a musician who is just a musician. (And an artist and an actor.) While I criticized the teeny-boppers and boy band lovers of my time I was just as bad with classic rock'n roll star. I guess that's the power of music and the effect of one persons life on another. David Bowie and I are miles apart and generations different but at times his words seem like they're hitting on my emotions. That's what good musicians and artist do. They tap into the human condition and find connections between people. So maybe knowing all there is to know about David Bowie may not change the world but it's changed me.

Relegation Blues

May 11th 2008. The day could be remembered  for so many things. For myself, it's the day of relegation for the Reading Royals. Sure they won the day with a four nill thrashing of Derby county,  but that meant nothing with word of Fulham beating Portsmouth. Why Reading and why the collapse? It was just a year ago that this little squad of no ones stepped onto the green fields of Premiership football and shocked the world. Now the future is uncertain and the Premiership a year away.

August 19th 2006. In there home blue and white stripe shirts, the Reading Royals stepped out of the tunnel and into a warm British sunlight. Each step walking on the pitch that was there own for some time but then so foreign in the world of Premiere league football. The test that day would be against Middlesbrough. The first Premiere match for Reading would start out like many seasoned fans would expect. Down 2-0 in a matter of minutes, Reading received a cruel lesson in top-flight football. Some would expect this team to fold and try again another day. My new eyes watched this new team and I expected a thrashing. I had never heard of the Reading Royals and here in the states we only know of four teams from England. I liked the Royals, sure they had Middlesex Blue Jay colors and I won't say that it's not a reason why I chose the Royals, but I saw something that August day that sealed this team in my heart. 

With a few minutes to go before the half time Dave Kitson scored a goal for the Royals that sent the stadium in a roar. Just a minute later Steve Sidwell scored to tie the game and the excitement built inside me. This red headed duo played with the courage of seasoned veterans in the face of a tough Middlesbrough team. In the second half at the 55th minute Leroy Lita scored the goal to put Reading in front and on there way to an 8th place finish in the Premiere league.

Now those days are long ago and Reading will be going down to the League championship. Unfortunately I won't be able to watch them on t.v. But the lyrics of a Scottish song help me through the realization and bring hope for future endeavors.

End of the Road-Sir Harry Lauder

Ev'ry road through life is a long, long road.

Filled with joys and sorrows too

As you journey on how your heart will yearn

For the things most dear to you

With wealth and love 'tis so

But onward we must go

(Chorus)

Keep right on to the end of the road

Keep right on to the end

Tho' the way be long, let your heart be strong

Keep right on round the bend

Tho' you're tired and wary still journey on,

Till you come to your happy abode

Where all you love, you've been dreaming of

Will be there, at the end of the road

With a big stout heart to a long steep hill

We may get there with a smile

With a good kind thought and a mile end view

We may cut short many a mile

So let courage every day

Be your guiding star alway

(Chorus)

Evan Surprise

I don't remember when I came across the delicious discovery, I think it may have been in high school. I was hungry for some dinner and there waiting for me was ground beef, mac & cheese and peas. A delectable pallet of food waiting for some reheating. This would obviously require a microwave and possibly three separate nukes. Economically I would put all three onto a plate in there separate corners and in two minutes eat another meal. Not today.

For some reason, maybe it was delirium from being famished, I decided to mix these three separate food groups together and on top of that, add more cheese. As this frankensteinian monster spun slowly in the microwave, the slices of cheese melting slowly, and the evaporation of water escaping the food, my stomach anticipated the unchartered territory that awaited.

With a few beeps sounding the completion and the slow removal of the hot plate, I looked down upon a mass of cheesiness. The mound of food resembling a Kilimanjaro of beef, cheese and peas there was one thing missing before I could climb this mountain. Salt.

A few dashes of salt and in my fork went. A release of hot steam came up into my face. My only defense a blow of the lips to cool the anticipated first bite. The small lump of food hanging on to the plate by a thin string of yellow cheese could not contain the desire of my stomach. I bit into the food and chewed immediately realizing only one thing.  

Eureka!! Within minutes nothing was left of what was once, cheese, meat and peas. A satisfied face and a full stomach was all that remained. That day I came to realize that a new dish was formed. One that would always be with me, for the rest of my days. Like any explorer coming discovering something new for the first time I named the dish after myself; Evan. I didn't want to just call the dish that, that could be the brunt of an endless amount of jokes. I rested upon Evan Surprise. Surprising that it was something that I made that tasted good. 

Now some years later I still make Evan Surprise. Though I am the only one that eats it when I make it. Aubrey doesn't care for it, maybe because it's too manly for her. The dogs like it though but they lick there butts so you can't trust their tastes. Anyway there is some satisfaction that it's all mine and that no one can take it away from me. Not even Hamburger Helper.