The Day That Never Comes

After 15 years, 14 studios, and 13-million dollars, it finally happened. On November 23rd, 2008, Guns N' Roses released the most-rumored, über-anticipated, and oft-ridiculed album in the history of rock music: Chinese Democracy.

For anyone not familiar with the back story, suffice it to say that Chinese Democracy is the biggest boy-who-cried-wolf album of all time. Originally slated for release circa 1999, the album has been perpetually promised and delayed by the maligned Axl Rose, a rock 'n' roll has-been notorious for his maniacal perfectionism. But after enough empty deliveries, the music world called Axl's bluff, and Chinese Democracy became a myth, if not a joke; nothing more than a magnum opus in the mind of its troubled creator.

On the day of its release (a rare Sunday), I walked into Best Buy on 86th Street in an anticipatory state, half-excited but half-unsure if anyone else could sense the weight of the momentous day. History was being made, but with the hustle and bustle of New York City, palpability for these things tend to get lost in the melting pot.

Although the album was quickly accessible and well-placed in the center of the store on its own display rack, the overall experience was anticlimactic. I walked up and tried to admire the prominence of the exhibit, but it was mitigated by the fact that I was the only one who seemed to care or notice at the time. It didn't matter, though, for I was finally holding a piece of history in my hands.

Because Chinese Democracy was actually leaked to MySpace a few days before its official release, I briefly thought about going about my standard operating procedure, which is sampling the music first and then buying the CD or just downloading a few songs that I like. But then it hit me: It didn't matter how much I might dislike Chinese Democracy—with this kind of mythology, I had to own it regardless. Because in the age of iTunes, it was an instant collector's item that deserved a physical purchase. And in a time where truly great rock albums are in decline, it's worth even more.

My full review of Chinese Democracy:
http://www.hybridmagazine.com/reviews/0109/gnr1.shtml

Distant Memories

Over Christmas vacation I saw my grandpa for the first time in a year. Although he's been suffering from dementia since 2005, seeing him over the break made a lasting impression, especially since it was the first time not having my grandma at his side.

For the past four years he hasn't really remembered me or my family at all. It's unbelievable to sit in front of a person I've been around my whole life who has no idea who I am. This is someone who watched me grow up; someone who came to many of my sporting events; someone whose lawn I mowed countless times; and someone who's passed down his wisdom and life lessons to me. And there I am in front of him, a complete stranger.

When we visit, my grandpa always starts by asking about our physical appearance, be it my build or length of my brothers' beards. A few minutes later he asks the same questions, making it impossible to carry on a lasting or meaningful conversation beyond the weather, the food at the retirement home, or what he's watching on TV. But his fish-like memory notwithstanding, he's not overtly confused about who we are or what we're doing there. He just plays along, over and over again.

As a half-stranger, it's odd to realize that while his memory is mostly gone, his personality isn't. His sharp wit remains intact and allows him to crack jokes just as he always did. This past Christmas, I learned that his perception is still present, as my off-color utterance about the "cold as balls" weather did not go unnoticed: "Listen, young man, I'll be doing the fine talk around here." Yessir.

But perhaps the saddest thing is that the one person he does remember is no longer with him, as his wife passed away last July. When he asks if she's sitting behind him in the backseat, or when she's coming back to his room, the nurses and my parents tell him the half-truth that she's not there or that she's in heaven. After absorbing it for a few seconds, he seems fine with either answer. Even at her funeral, he was unsure whose it was.

One thing I keep wondering about is what's going on inside his head during all of this. Like when my dad is driving him to our house for dinner, I can't help but imagine that while my grandpa remains quiet, he's freaking out in his mind thinking, "Where the hell is this stranger taking me??" The only time he gets confused is when we tell him it's time to take him home, because at that point he thinks that he lives with us. Confused, but never unnerved.

Another terrifying thing about all this is that my grandfather on my dad's side has been stricken with an even-worse case of dementia in the last two years. Which begs the question: Who's next to come down with this soul-robbing form of identity theft? My parents? Me? Because once you have it, there's no going back. It all reminds me of this line from The Notebook:

"It is a barren disease, as empty and lifeless as a desert. It is a thief of hearts and souls and memories."

Reading that makes me realize how our memories are the most precious things we have. In all that we do in life, it's all for naught if we can't remember anything about the lives we've lived—the places we've been, the things we've accomplished, or the people we know and love. The value of our memories is far beyond priceless. Without them, there is hardly any self-awareness or self-identity. Without them, life is just existence.

Happy New Year

Hopefully you think differently of my blog!

On a musical note, you'll notice on the right sidebar that I've added selected album reviews I've done, as well as a list of recent songs that I can't stop playing.

Space and Time

It's hard to believe, but I've lived in New York City for a year now, and it's been one of the quickest of my life. As if time hasn't moved fast enough in my mid-to-late 20s, the New York lifestyle, with its faster pace and general busyness, has only accelerated the passing of the days, weeks, and months.

A year ago I was in a completely different place. It's weird to think that if I hadn't made an effort to change my life, I could very well be in the same place that I was in Nashville. Instead, I'm in the midst of different people and possibilities on a completely different path and future. And even though I'm not someone who constantly needs change, my strong desire for just that was the impetus behind it all.

But change often comes at the expense of time, order, and convenience, and that's been the case before beginning work at both of my jobs. In May 2002, I was one of the few to secure a position before graduating college (much to the envy of my peers in a declining job market). The downside was that I had no downtime at home before moving to Tennessee. One week week after graduating college, I was in a very different place at a pivotal point in my life.

When I accepted the job in New York in November 2007, it was more of the same. In a matter of weeks I had to put in my two-week's notice, find a place to live, say goodbye to my friends, and get ready to move—and all before the holidays. I'll always remember that period as the "whirlwind of my life"—so much happened in such little time.

When I think of "whirlwind," I'm reminded by the weekend of October 27-28 in particular. Over that Halloween weekend, I drove the five hours to Ohio Friday night, went to my friend's dress-rehearsal dinner, attended his wedding Saturday evening, drove two hours to Ohio University that same night and partied with my siblings till 7 in the morning, woke up Sunday afternoon and drove the seven hours back to Nashville, prepped for my interview, got two hours of sleep, almost missed my flight to New York that Monday morning, had a lengthy interview, got a beer with my brother, flew back to Nashville, and went in to work on Tuesday. It just goes to show what all you can squeeze into a few days when you really have to.

The day I accepted my new job was one of the best of my life. I like to think about the special call I received that Thursday evening at work because of the liberating and exhilarating emotions attached to it. One journey was coming to a close, but another was about to begin. And it was because of what I did to make it happen.

It's encouraging to know that in this life, there are some things that are in our hands.

Ten Years Gone

Last Friday I attended to my 10-year high school reunion. I'm still kind of surprised I went considering my feelings against going when occasionally thinking about it over the past decade. It's not like I had a bad high school experience or that I dislike the people I went to school with. But in the age of cellphones and Facebook, anyone I've wanted to keep in touch with is just a few clicks away. Also, a reunion always struck me as a night of awkward moments; in particular, what do you say to the people you recognize but never spoke a word to over four years? Anything? Would that make it better or worse?

On the whole, the experience didn't strike me as an ideal situation for a self-professed introvert. But a few weeks before the reunion, I realized the consensus among my friends was to go; it was officially the thing to do in Centerville the Friday night after Thanksgiving. Knowing that I wouldn't be braving it alone helped. Also, about five beers beforehand.

Seeing everyone at the reunion was great, and things felt fairly comfortable. Most people looked about the same. Some looked better, some worse.

Really, though, the night was an exercise in mingling and playing catch-up with as many people who you recognized (and cared to acknowledge). It was strange seeing most people there with their spouses (including CHS mergers) and hearing about their kids. Sure, that's what most people do in their 20s, but it was weird for me to put myself in their shoes at this point of my life, because I'm nowhere near that. Even as a late bloomer, I couldn't help but wonder: Will that be me in five, 10, or 20 years? An even stranger thought.

But if I had to attend just one high school reunion, I'm glad it was this one. On the heels of college, the five-year is too soon; the 15- or 20-year too far down the road to be relevant. No, the 10-year reunion is the right time to reconvene before time begins to leave more of its marks, and life really starts to get in the way. At least for some of us.