Eureka!

I’m in the process of packing up my room to move next Friday. All the dust from cleaning was making me miserable, until I discovered a surefire cure for my allergies: ice cream and cheap beer.

Yes!

Fruit

Every now and then while grocery shopping, I’ll develop a sudden lust for fruit. Last week it was pineapple (which is technically NOT a fruit). This week it’s mangoes. But when I get home, mouth watering for its sweet mangoey flesh, I forget how to properly cut one. And I get impatient. I give it a go as a hand-fruit, but it doesn’t really work that well. So I rip off the skin and tear into it in a way that might be described as carnal. I scrape the pit with my teeth, my face is covered with juice. But after tidying up, my teeth are clogged with the stringy fibres that a friend of mine called “mango pubes.”

A quick Google search for “mango pubes” reveals this image, which pretty much nails it.

Except for maybe the cancerous part. Eh.

From Wikipedia: “fruit is the ripened ovary…of a flowering plant.”

Mmmhmm.

Enrolling the Best and the Brightest

I’ve been meaning to post this story for a few days now:

I was browsing the New York Craigslist job listings when my phone vibrated. UNKNOWN CALL flashed in backlit LCD. Those of you who know me know that I’ve gotten into the regrettable habit of screening my phone calls. For the past few days the UNKNOWN CALLer had been calling me at 9:12, 9:15, and now at 9:17 pm. Fuck it, I thought and flipped open the phone.

“Hello?”

“Oh. Ah. Hello!,” Unknown Caller hesitated. “Is this… {pause} Brendan Baker?”

“Yup. And who’s this?” I think I’ve become less patient since moving to New York.

“I’m calling for the Grinnell Phone-a-thon,” he said (I probably groaned out loud). “Do you know what that is?” the voice asked with renewed confidence.

Oh, yes, I knew. The question was almost patronizing, really, like The Mob “asking” for a “favor.” Of course I knew. This was about to become a kabuki dance.

“Yes,” I assured him, “Unfortunately I’m not really in a position to donate anything right now, sorry. But good lu–”

“Well, there’s another reason I’m calling. I’d like to just verify some information.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We currently don’t have any information about your place of employment. The form on your file is blank…”

“Ah. Well, you see that’s precisely why I’m not in a position to give anything at the moment, if you catch my drift.”

“Oh, I understand.” There was another pause. “So if you could just tell me your place of employment: where you work.”

“Um. Well…I don’t have a place of employment. In fact, you might say I am un-employed.” Thanks for rubbing it in, kid.

“Oh. Okay. But if you just tell me what do you do?”

“Well, I’m looking for… Just say I’m a ‘freelance public radio producer.’ That’s basically the same thing.”

“Oh, really?” he prodded enthusiastically. “That’s so cool! That’s what I want to do some day!”

“You don’t say?” I was skeptic: this was a tactic to butter me up to give money I don’t have. I asked if he had a show on “K-dick”, the colloquial term for Grinnell College’s station, KDIC 88.5 FM.

“Kay what? I mean, I just want to be freelance.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

“Oh. You know. Just not, like, in an office. Just—you know, freelance.”

“But doing what? What is it that you want to do?”

“I dunno. Banking. So, I can put you down as ‘Radio Freelancer’ then?”

“Public radio. Yeah, sure. Go for it,” I responded sarcastically.

Then I started to feel bad. The kid on the other end was probably a Grinnell freshman, and he was just doing the job he had been assigned as part of his work-study package. Just like I worked in the dining hall washing students’ uneaten food down a garbage disposal my first year at Grinnell. I knew he was calling–along with a row of other students on phones–from a windowless basement in the bowels between Main Hall and Mears Cottage, right next to the dingy equipment closet where we stored all the concert PA equipment. After work, he probably had a couple hours of reading and an 8:00 am tutorial the next morning.

“I just finished an internship at WNYC, New York public radio,” I explained. “I’m freelancing A story for the show I used to work on, but that’s it. By which I mean, I am not employed at present; I’m trying to figure out what’s next.”

“Oh, really? That’s so cool! ” This guy was resilient. “I have just a couple more questions. Is this the phone number we can reach you at?”

I don’t really give out my cell number, and don’t know how Grinnell’s Phone-a-thon ever got it. (Unless they took it off of grinnellplans.com, in which case that just royally sucks.)

“Great! And your same address too?”

I was done this call. “Yup.”

“Oh. Minneapolis is really cool! Okay, thanks. Have a good night.”

“Will do!”

Smallest Skyline

Today, all I want to do is move back to Minneapolis and start a band.

Perhaps I’m just a little homesick.

Conscious

There was time when I didn’t care all that much about conventions. I knew what I liked, and didn’t feel any need to justify my tastes. Making music in bands during high school was a different process entirely from the way I try to make music (or don’t) now, and I miss it. I miss how effortless it seemed, at least by comparison. Granted, I understand music better now. I’m a better player, a better composer with more refined sensibilities and more critical ears.

That’s the problem; I’m too critical. I’m so critical, in fact, that not only is it significantly more difficult to be proud of (or even get excited about) music, but more often then not I can’t even bring myself to make music all together. I’m not even that interested in finding new records, something that used to inspire me to try new things.

I’m so conscious of not being “good enough” for myself and others, that I won’t even begin to try. This extends to other areas, too.

What’s frustrating is that—without being arrogant—I know I’m capable of good work. I think I have talent. I’m just afraid to use it, that my work won’t stand out, or that I’ll fail…so I haven’t. Yet.

If you can understand that feeling, you’ll likely understand a lot about me.