The Great Color Conspiracy

Five Finger Discount Beats Five Finger Death Punch

In part of an ongoing series called my life as a semi-unsuccessful musician, I would like to impart some wisdom. We all know that to sacrifice oneself for friends is noble, if not divine. But what of the musician who sacrifices himself for his best friends, by that I mean his instrument. (It's a rhetorical question so I ended it with a period.) This morning I reached tenderly down and lovingly grasped my acoustic guitar, and as I lifted it into the air I heard an explosion. The light fixture had been struck and exploded sending glass shards soaring down like shiny dagger-like rain. The natural instict of anyone in this situation would be to put up their hands shielding their face from the sharp shrapnel now pummeling through the air. I however concerned for my guitar sheilded my love from the enemy, allowing myself to be inflicted with heavy damages. Okay, so they weren't so bad, a few cuts and scratches. Yet, I had saved my dear acoustic friend from any scratches to her shiny black coat, and I was able to rest easy. Life lesson learned, you can always grow a new arm, but you can never refinish a guitar's glossy paint once scratched.

Sledding Without Shoes

I once was on the path of an artist, but then I was seduced by the dark side of the arts, Graphic Design. It seemed so promising with all the ads on TV describing the marketability of a degree in graphic design and all, I decided to take a class to test the waters. By the end I was interested enough that my area of emphasis suddenly shifted from illustration. It was a difficult change, I found myself spending countless hours staring at a computer screen instead of at white pages. I no longer needed to know of such things as stippling and cross-hatching. I didn't need to smell like fixative all the time. And perhaps the greatest perk was that I didn't have to carry around a huge drawing pad and boxes full of supplies anymore! I also noticed that I had more of an air of mystery when I told people what my major was. No one seemed to know what exactly graphic design was, or what graphic designers really do. Within the art department however, there was a different stigma attached to graphic design majors. They were untalented in the fine arts, and much like locusts they were everywhere flooding the world with cheap, polished computer art. I never much cared for the graphic designers, though I seemed to have a knack for it. I carried on working my way through the program to graduate a graphic designer. I carried on until it was almost too late.

It was just the other day when I was hit by a startling revelation. I was sitting in my graphic design class and I realized, I don't want to be a designer! I have been led astray!
I recall in my first art class in college, for my final project I was given free reign to do anything I wanted. I thought for some time about what I wanted to draw. I ended up splashing red watercolor on my hands and painting onto the page, then drawing dozens of pictures only slightly related to each other, and finally I glued several flower buds to the page. It was a strange piece, really quite bizarre, but yet the most pure thing I have created as art. I put a lot of emotions and feelings into that piece. It had my thoughts captured in a very unique way that no one could've understood, yet I did and loved it. I have yet to see a graphic designer do that.

The Year of the Dragon

I went with my roomates this afternoon to get Chinese food from the food hut in the middle of Broliums grocery store's produce section. Odd I know, but nevertheless true. As I was eating the burnt rice coated with pepper, I was reminded of a favorite experience I had some time ago.

We were headed to a church in Syracuse to play some volleyball. We picked up a friend that had moved from England. We met him at his place where he showed us his massive inscence collection and a tipi he had built out of poles in his yard. He went to go change into some "active wear" before the game. He came back out in some pink capris and asked if that was appropriate active wear. It was good enough so we went on our way. We stopped at Wegman's to hit up their massive chinese buffet bar. It was priced by the pound so we all sparingly choose what to fill our white plastic containers with. Except our English friend, he just started filling his tray with everything there was. He went to weigh his carton and print out the price tag when it rang up to over 40 bucks! We all laughed as friends probably shouldn't but do, and he decided to bite the bullet. He then realized he hadn't even brought his wallet. He reacted quickly, he walked over to the trash and casually dropped his carton in. A nearby employee saw this all happen and came over to confront him about it. He asked "Did you just throw away a full carton of food?" "Umm, no." As we were leaving, our foreign friend was feeling pretty guilty. He remarked he couldn't believed he'd flat out lied to that guy. He then vowed to return one day and to buy a 40 dollar toaster, then after paying for it to put it back on the shelf. It was a day to remember indeed.

Anybody Have a Cough Drop?

Early in the year 1879, William H. Luden crafted out of his blood, sweat, tears, and a pile of sugar a throat lozenge that would soothe the ache of throats for many years to come. Mr. Luden's company also crafted the world famous 5th Avenue candy bar. Although it doesn't quite aid an ailing cough, it does taste better than a bucket of herbal remedies. Mr Luden's however didn't plan well enough for the future. I know this because he has yet again failed me and Luden's lovers everywhere. I found myself looking for the flashy mini box of throat drops that made the L-word commonplace in our country. I quickly walked to the nearby grocery store and scanned the stocked shelves. Much to my amazement, there were no boxes of the beloved drops. I snapped my fingers in the hopes that a fairy or flashy salesman would appear and solve my dilema, but no one answered my call. I set of with a fresh batch of determination brewing, for the long walk to Walgreens. The walk was made all the longer by the unrelenting cold. I arrived at my destination and found I was unable to feel my face enough to smile at the attendant near the door who greeted me. It indeed was cold. I rushed back to the trusted pharmacy and checked the massive cold aisle for the throat drops I was sure would be sitting on the shelves, a bright glow of white light surrounding them in a beautiful scene. The scene however was much different. It was much the same as it had been at the grocery store. I realized my best chance was to try the gas stations on the other end of town. They stocked little boxes of things right? Right. So my journey took on an epic scale as I again set out in search of my quarry. I made it to the closest gas station, locally famous for it's low priced big sized drinks, and found they had no cold remedies at all. The best they could offer was a new kind of tootsie roll that had apple flavoring and a green color. I took a bite of the Tootsie-monstrosity, and crossed the street to the other unfamous local gas station. Again I found no remedies for niether the common cold, nor for the cold breweing within my heart. I returned home, defeated. I checked other retailers, online. I found that I could indeed obtain my lozenges, but for a steep price. I would have to purchase a case of them, and a case was nearly 20 dollars. I decided to eat sour patch kids instead.

I've Been Looking For These Angels in the Snow

This morning I had class at 8, which sucked since I had gone to bed only several hours previous. I had a big project due and not much time to do it in. After saying my last goodbyes to my bed, and vowing to return later, I struck of into the cold brisk morning. I had no sooner stepped out the door when I felt the unmistakable pains of a cold metal shovel hitting my face. Once I regained my senses, I realized I'd mistaken. It was in fact the cold that had hit me like a freight train, the searing miserable cold. I did like John Travolta and hustled to class as fast as my stiffening legs would take me. Memories of my warm bed haunted me each step I took. If not for my project, I would have eagerly accepted an invitation from myself to miss class. I took refuge in a building nearby, comparing the symptoms of frostbite to my current predicament. It seemed I had an unmistakable case of frozen ears. I gave myself a hastily prepared prep talk worthy of an unsolicited screenplay, and headed back out into the cold to fight the frost witch of the north. I made it to class and discovered that it apparently was -18 degrees outside and with the windchill it was -38 degrees. Why did I walk to school in that? After finishing class and suffering an oddly familiar scenario, I vowed to not leave the warmth of my home again. Ever! That said, I left it again for my next class.

Later this evening, I had plans to visit a good friend for dinner. I went out to my car to warm it up before going and found the doors frozen shut. I don't mean a white printer paper with Sharpie saying "Closed" shut, but frozen solidly shut. The doors might as well have been welded. The car had a thick 1 inch thick coating of ice. I chipped at it and pulled, and even gave myself the heimlech using the door as a chair, yet it wouldn't budge. I began the long arduous journey on foot. Several blocks and right turns later, I was there.
What happened to global warming, when did I move to Antartica? These are questions in need of answers. Why have the sidewalks been coated with ice for a month? Does the county not pay for snow plows? Who is watering my lawn?
The answers are unmistakable. Penguins.

Resolving Resolves Nothing

Resolving to do something doesn't make it happen, if anything it's less likely to happen after you've resolved to do it. Example: This weekend I resolved to read all the chapters of Art History that I've missed. (I have only been to class twice this semester, that's twice out of like 6 times. Also, I have only read the introduction pages.)
I went to class the other day for my second time, and discovered that we were now talking about Egypt. I somehow had missed everything between cave paintings and the pyramids. That is a huge chunk of time! I would give you the number of years but I haven't read the book enough to know. I also resolved to finish my 100 sketches for art class, and to do some other homework. It took me 4 days to get 50 sketches done. I am sitting here now staring at my sketchbook feeling defeated, as if those 250 pages of spiral bound paper wore a scuffed leather jacket, had a raspy Puerto Rican accent, and carried a wooden baseball bat with the words "Assault and Battery" carved into it. The results of my resolutions are clear.

Recently I purchased several seasons of 24. I have never seen a full season of the show, but caught an interest watching quite a few episodes while visiting friends and awaiting prosecution. I resolved to watch an episode a night until I had finished the first season. I made it two nights before my flight went down in flaming glory, Mark Wahlburg at the helm. In conclusion, resolving to do something doesn't amount to doing something. Fat people stay fat because they don't do something. Lonely people stay lonely because they don't do something about it. Short people stay short becuase they don't do something about it. They all resolve to do something but in the end they resolve nothing. I resolve to stop resolving and start doing. Now I have some sketches to ignore until tomorrow.