I’ll continue the morbid vein for a second.  Bear with me, I have to get these thoughts out while they’re fresh.  Both the deer and JFK didn’t see their ultimate demise coming.  Both were killed by a gun shot wound.  Both were then carted off in a vehicle to be further examined.  I’ll stop now.  I’m sure there are other similarities, but enough is enough.  What’s not similar is that, while JFK was universally mourned, this deer won’t be missed by anyone.  I know, it may have family members that would miss it, but that’s also taking a big leap in assuming that deer have emotions.  We know they can’t see colors, otherwise they’d see these guys before they even left the house.  This deer (hopefully) will end up providing some tasty nourishment to a number of families, instead of having its cold dead eyes peer out from a hunting cabin wall for the next 20 years.  No one ate JFK that we know of, but people still hang his picture up almost 50 years later.  Weirdos.

I have no political agenda whatsoever when I say I’m not a gun person.  It’s not that I dislike them, I’m just not a rabid fan.  I do put my gun cabinet cardboard box out on the front porch when the threat of riots crop up in Windsor, NY, just in case, but that’s about it.  I’ve fondled a weapon or two in my day and, in all honesty, I enjoy firing guns.  There’s a visceral feeling of power that you don’t quite get with many other activities.  And it’s just fucking fun to aim at shit and destroy it.  It’s totally cathartic.  Even anti-gun people would agree if they strapped their mitt around a big-ass pistol, a la Hunter S. Thompson, and blew some shit up.

What I haven’t gotten into yet is hunting deer.  Again, I have absolutely nothing against it whatsoever, but it does nothing for me.  I appreciate the effort that goes into it, but waking up at 3:30AM to sit in the freezing cold woods for 6 hours to hopefully get a shot at a deer as it nibbles at an apple 500 yards away, isn’t exactly what I would call orgasmic.  My brother-in-law is an avid hunter and I love listening to him tell stories about his adventures in the woods.  Yet, as I listen to his hunting stories, it’s always difficult to understand where he’s coming from.  I have almost no frame of reference as to what he’s talking about, but I recognize passion when I see it and hear it.  He has it and he also has more respect for hunting and its relationship to life on this planet than anyone I’ve ever met.  Knowing him the way I know him, I’ll bet if he saw this car pictured, with the deer so unceremoniously strapped to the back in full view of everyone, he’d want to pull the guy over and say, “Dude, what the fuck?”

Damn, I just noticed something as I looked at the picture again.  I know it’s not the greatest picture, but this is actually two deer, not one.  I’m no deer expert, but those are some pretty small deer.  They look like does (female deer).  Weak, my man, weak.  You gotta go after the big buck, son, not some defenseless chick.  Even Lee Harvey left Jackie alone.

I started on sports radio, ESPN and Fox Sports to be exact, to catch up on all of the scores I missed throughout the day, then started to make my way through some of the music.  I stopped on various channels; The Verge always has some new eclectic music, Classic Vinyl played some Joe Walsh, First Wave had on a little Human League, but I continued flipping around until I landed on Deep Tracks.  Just as I switched to that channel, I heard the glorious piano/acoustic guitar intro that leads into “Lovely Rita” by The Beatles from the Sgt. Pepper album.

Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band.  The album is the rock equivalent of the movie Citizen Kane.  It ignites massive debate as to whether or not it’s the greatest album of all time amongst critics around the world, both professional and otherwise.  What there’s little debate about is its massive influence on all rock music from that point on.  It is a musical landmark.  For that, there is no debate.  “Lovely Rita” has been, quite honestly, my favorite song on that album for years.  It doesn’t have nearly the fame that others do, but it is so fucking incredible to listen to…

“Lovely Rita” ended and, with about 5 minutes left in my drive, I flipped over to the Lithium channel.  “Smells Like Teen Spirit” was just starting.  I forgot, it was 20 years ago today that Nirvana’s Nevermind was released.  I’ll play amateur rock critic for a second…if Sgt. Pepper is the Citizen Kane of rock albums, then Nevermind is The Godfather.  It was as much “right place, right time” as it was revolutionary, but it’s undeniably a landmark album.  It may have been the last album to change the entire musical landscape in such a widespread fashion.  Now 20 years later, with a vastly more complex and diverse music scene, I hope it’s not the last “great” album.  I’m still holding out hope that, somewhere in the basement of a high school senior, the rock equivalent of Pulp Fiction is sprouting.

“Smells Like Teen Spirit” ended as I pulled up to my house.  I remember hearing this song for the first time like it was yesterday.  I’ve written about this before, but the time period between Nirvana’s ascendancy with Nevermind and their abrupt, tragic ending almost exactly matches the dark years in my life personally.  Like Nirvana, I had tremendous and life-changing highs during those years (marriage, the birth of my first child), but they were contrasted with anger, confusion, and silent rage.  Yet, when I listen to Nirvana these days, I’m reminded not so much about where I was during those years, but how far I’ve come.

Their music was different.  It wasn’t what I was hearing on the radio.  It wasn’t quite pop or rock or rap.  I couldn’t quite place it.  It was catchy as hell, but it sounded…different.  It sounded like something I wanted to explore deeper.  Who were these guys?  Where did they come from?  Did their other songs sound like this?  Were there other groups that had a similar sound to R.E.M.?

I’ve spent the better part of 24 years trying to answer those questions.  Watching R.E.M.’s video all those years ago set me off on a journey that continues to this day and I don’t see it concluding until the day I die.  Sadly, R.E.M. officially called it quits today. It’s hard for me to even quantify their importance in my life, but I’ll try.

Without R.E.M., I would have never deeply explored the majesty of U2, the drunken celebration of The Replacements, the quirkiness of The Flaming Lips, the virtuosity of Radiohead, the sheer power and intensity of Nirvana, or the laid-back cool of Beck and Pavement.  I certainly wouldn’t have been able to experience much of the bands mentioned, or their contemporaries, if I had listened to the radio and stuck to the Billboard charts.

I guess you could argue that I would have found those bands and their music without R.E.M., but I don’t believe that.  Listening to “It’s the End of the World As We Know It” was like a mental trigger.  Like a cheesy sci-fi flick, my brain was just waiting for this song to set me off on my journey.  I’ll never forget them for that.

Unbeknownst to them, R.E.M. exposed me to things that have permeated almost every aspect of my life.  Listening to new music, challenging myself to experience something new, became a way of life that has continued.  Look beyond what you see.  Find out what really matters to you.  Never accept things at face value.  Question authority.  Accept the things that are different.  Find your true self.

Thank you Michael, Peter, Mike, and Bill.  You’ve done more for me than you could ever imagine.

“You don’t know the power of the Dark Roast,” said Darth Venti.

“True”, I admitted, “but give me a chance to prove myself.  Let me get the coffee going.”

“I find your lack of coffee grinds disturbing.”

“Damn, Darth.  Anymore coffee and your blood pressure will shoot through the roof, but you’re the Dark Lord, so I’ll obey my master and load in a couple more scoops.  I can’t find any bottled water, Darth.  Is tap water OK?”

“Tap water does not concern me. I want that coffee, not excuses.”

“Uh, you may want coffee, but do you really need coffee?  Judging by your general lack of patience, your trust issues, and your violent tendencies, I’d think that maybe a nice cup of tea would be better for you.  What do you say big guy?  How about a freshly steeped cup of Darjeeling tea?”

“The ability to steep a tea bag is insignificant to next power of roasting a coffee bean.”

“Apparently, I’m not going to turn you around on this one.  Suit yourself, you tweaking bastard.  I hope this shit is so strong that you blow an eyeball out of that dick-shaped helmet.”

“I hope so for your sake.  The Emperor is not as forgiving as I am.”

“Not sure what that has to do with your eyeball, but OK.  The Emperor’s a big coffee drinker too, huh?  If giving in to the Dark Roast means I have to resemble a two-week-old corpse like you guys, I may want to reconsider this whole thing.  Anyway, how’s it smell so far?”

“Impressive, most impressive. The force is with you young Seed, but you are not a barista yet.”

“Don’t want to build me up too much yet, I get it.  The proof is in the first sip, I respect that.  Well, here you go.  The first cup, give it a taste and tell me what you think.”

“I sense something, a presence I have not tasted since…”

“Since…since what?  Since the days when your mother used to make breakfast for you?  Since the days of racing pods on Tatooine?  Since the taste of your one true love, Queen Amidala?  Since what?  Tell me!!!  There’s good in you, I can feel it.  It’s OK, we’re in a safe place here…”

“The roast is strong with this one.”

“Ignore me if you must.  You just can’t let go of your hate, can you?  Fine, be like that, you psycho.  Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the fact that you like my coffee, but I thought we were on the verge of having a moment.  I thought, maybe you were having a breakthrough.  Didn’t you feel it?”

“Today will be a day long remembered. It has seen the death of instant coffee, and soon the fall of decaffeinated coffee.”

“You’re fucking nuts, Darth Venti, you know that?  I’d love for you to drop that scalding hot coffee on your balls, but you’re wearing that black codpiece.  What are you protecting down there?  Your ass burnt to a crisp years ago.  You’re a eunuch.  Who are you trying to impress anyhow?  You and the Emperor can go to hell.  I’m going to sit and enjoy my coffee in peace.”

“Just for once, let me look at your face with my own eyes.”

“The moment’s gone, asshole.  I’m done.  Go jump in a garbage compactor, you nut-less whack job.”

Gus Van Sant’s liberal use of Elliott Smith’s music in the movie Good Will Hunting introduced him to the general public, but he continued to make beautiful music until he died in 2003.  For me, no one has replaced that void for an acoustic, sensitive yet slightly dangerous, musically superior, dark, but not emo singer-songwriter I need to occupy that portion of my endless musical shuffle.  Kurt Vile is coming close.

I really don’t know much about Kurt Vile.  He’s received great reviews for his latest album.  I like what I’ve read and I’m always up for something new and different.  I haven’t heard anyone since Smith passed away that latched onto what he was doing and carried it forward.  Kurt Vile, at least in this year’s album Smoke Ring For My Halo, seems to have a pretty good grasp.  He seems to take Elliott Smith and add a dash of Bob Dylan.  At least, that’s what I hear.

I listen to this and find myself in a melancholy mood.  I see light blue.  I feel a bit of uncertainty, but it feels comforting.  In fact, it feels real good.  Having the answers to the test is boring as shit.  Flying in the face of danger is infinitely more satisfying.  Vulnerability is sexy.

“Baby’s Arms” represents the best of what I see in Kurt Vile.  It’s not perfect, it’s not all that clean, it’s a bit distant.  But it resonates and moves.  It’s vulnerable and romantic.  I dig it.

I don’t want to get into the “where were you” discussions or a rehashing of the incredible pain and sadness associated with 9/11.  Everyone has those stories and, while they should not be discounted, I would rather talk about a place, a picture, and the memory of what once was.

The picture above was taken by my friend Sean McCoy who is from Houston.  I’m on the left.  The guy on the right is Rob Lee, who was born and raised in New York.  The three of us were on the obligatory tour of Manhattan as it was Sean’s first visit to New York.  A trip to the World Trade Center was always a must.  I had been to the World Trade Center a number of times before.  No matter how many times I went, I was always in absolute awe at the size of the Twin Towers.  The feeling of being insignificant was never more palpable than when I would stand next to those buildings.  They were just so goddamn big.

Rob, Sean and I made our way down to lower Manhattan on a cloudy June morning in 1998 after a long day at Yankee Stadium and a longer evening of bar-hopping the day before.  We wearily made our way to the Trade Center, giggling amongst ourselves and reciting lines from the Simpsons episode where Homer goes to the Twin Towers.  We headed up to the observation deck.  Sean had his camera and we took a few pictures from the top of the building.  We made a quick stop on the floor below to the Windows of the World restaurant, which had the seats by the windows where you could press your head against the glass and look all the way down.  Every time I used to sit by the window, I always had this strange feeling that if I leaned too far forward, I would tip the building over.

We walked out to the center of the World Trade Center to leave.  As we headed to the street to catch a cab, Sean wanted to take one more picture.  He stopped in the middle of the plaza and said, “Let me take a picture of you two with the towers above you.”  He then got down on the ground to take the shot.  Rob and I were not thrilled with this and let him know it.  It was embarrassing to have this guy lying on the ground in front of us, taking a picture, but it was classic Sean, so we agreed.  We stood, without smiling, as Sean did his best impression of Annie Leibovitz.

We saw the picture a few weeks later after they were developed and thought it actually looked pretty cool.  It almost looked like an album cover.  I asked for a copy, but didn’t think too much about it as time went on.  And then 9/11 happened.

This picture now holds a special place in the hearts of all three of us and our families.  I look at it from time to time and get emotional.  Even writing this is hard.  It’s difficult to even put into words.  But, I guess, simply put, it’s our personal connection to a place that so many people now hold so dear to them and miss with all their hearts.  The moment this photo was taken was fairly insignificant at the time, but the instant the buildings fell, it meant everything to me.  It always will.

This picture was taken this afternoon in the village of Windsor, NY. This is across the street from our house.  It is typically an open field with the Susquehanna River about a nice 225-yard, 3-wood away.  As I was taking this picture, a couple kids rode by. I heard one say to the other, “It looks like a river of chocolate milk.” He’s right, it does.

This area was flooded in 2006 on a beautiful late June morning after days of constant rain.  The level of flooding was almost indescribable, yet it was contrasted by a gorgeous sunny day.  It was surreal.  People just walked around in a daze, almost unable to comprehend what was happening.  There was destruction where there shouldn’t be.  There was water in places that no one ever expected to have water.  There were houses and garages and barns that were just uprooted and washed away.  Once people got through the initial shock of the damage, they laced up their boots, put on some gloves and got to work.  It took some time, but things got back to normal.  And “they” assured us that the Flood of 2006 was a once-in-a-lifetime event.  A 500-year flood, “they” called it.  Guess “they” were wrong.

This flood is much darker, evil almost.  There is no sunshine.  The forecast is calling for sporadic rain over the next couple days.  I walked around town this afternoon when I took this picture.  The people aren’t in a daze like they were five years ago.  Instead, it seems like there’s a certain air of resignation.  They’ve played this game before and they don’t like it.  People know what to do to clean up, but I’m fearful of the aftermath this time.  I don’t sense we’ll have the same lovey-dovey, let’s-all-work-together feeling that we did the last time.  I’m afraid there’s going to be some anger involved.  I hope I’m wrong.  Sequels are almost always worse than the original.  Let’s hope this doesn’t turn into a trilogy.

My previous college educational successes have been…well, success is a relative term really.  I have my B.A. in Communications from SUNY Cortland, which means I got a degree in watching movies, doing some radio work, and working in fake TV studios.  College was broken into two very distinct eras: pre-Navy and Navy.  Pre-Navy college can be simply explained by multiple skipped classes.  I just didn’t feel like going.  Once you don’t go to a class for a couple weeks, it makes it so much harder to go back again, so I didn’t.  Instead, I spent my days in the library reading about my favorite bands and making photocopies of their articles from microfiche.  Ah, the pre-Internet days when research was so much more of an adventure, but that’s another story.  When I went back to finish my degree while I was in the Navy, I was an animal in the classroom.  I never missed a minute, sat in the front of the class and raised my hand for everything.  Now I’m going for my MBA.  I think I’ll be more like the Navy days with this one.

My experience with math, or anything to do with statistics, has been a big fat zero since high school.  Memorizing baseball and football stats don’t count.  I took college math in high school specifically so I didn’t have to take it in college.  Funny, the smartest thing I did for my pre-Navy college days, I actually did in high school.  I got credit for passing college math in high school, but I wasn’t exactly lighting the world on fire like my man Robert Oppenheimer (BOOM!).  Instead, I spent many a day playing with my calculator (and that’s not a mathematical expression for masturbation).  I would usually press 1 + 1 = 2, then keep hitting the = sign to go up by one to see how high I could get the number by the end of class.  As Mr. Jones would try to teach us about the Pythagorean theorem, I would be in the corner furiously tapping away at my = sign to see if I could get above 10,000 in 45 minutes.  I would even answer questions while I pounded away on that thing.

I only took away two things from Mr. Jones in that class: I’ll never forget SOHCAHTOA and I’ll always have him to thank for the nickname C-Squared.  (When I started this site, C-Squared or See Squared was already taken, strangely enough.  The closest thing was Square Seed and the rest is history.  Thanks, Mr. Jones.)

My sister has now been a math teacher for almost 15 years.  I gently poke fun at her about math and how no one gives a shit, much less cares, about what a “cosine” is.  Who has ever used that to pay bills, or figure out a car’s gas mileage, or to pay the vig on a bet.  Sure, it’s put man on the moon, but it hasn’t put food on my table.  She puts up with me, barely.  She knows that’s what a big brother does and that I still love her.

My friend Rob and I drunkenly accosted her about this one Thanksgiving years ago when we lived in San Diego.  Rob and I started our liquid Thanksgiving feast of malt, barley and hops around 9am as pre-game coverage of the first NFL game started (West Coast start times for sporting events are a phenomenal, yet underrated advantage to living there).  My sister came over a couple hours later and we almost immediately started in on her, making fun of all things math.  Then my cousins from Long Island, who were visiting friends in Southern California, came over to my house to eat with us.  They brought along a childhood friend of theirs who was living in L.A., was a comedian, and had supposedly been on an episode of Seinfeld.  He had no chance with us.  We accosted his ass to no end.  “Make us laugh, funny man.” “Give us some jokes, Mr. fucking Comedian.” I’ll have to ask my cousins where he is today.  I should probably apologize to him in person someday.  But statistically speaking, there is a zero percent chance of that happening.

I head about this bitch all weekend and it seemed like she ruined a lot of people’s lives the past couple days.  Cancelled sporting events, wet weddings, poorly attended family reunions, flooded rivers, fallen trees.  She was just a major pain in the ass.  I think I can speak for all of us on the East Coast by saying, “Thanks Irene.  Don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.”

Irene was a royal pain in the ass, but I remember a real bitch named Gloria back in 1985 who was worse.  She was an evil, evil woman, but she had a sick, twisted sense of humor.  Sure, she used a tree in my neighbor’s front yard to slice their house in half like a hot knife through butter, but she also knocked out a power transformer near the high school which kept us out of school for 5 days.  A nice parting gift for which I’m still grateful.

I did not have the pleasure of knowing Katrina, but legend has it, she was the most evil of all.  She showed no mercy while running roughshod over the Gulf Coast a few years ago.  She’s so hated down there that I don’t think another girl will be named Katrina any time in the foreseeable future.  It’s the same with Jewish people naming their son Adolf – it’s not going to happen.

Irene took my electricity yesterday morning and didn’t give it back until late this morning.  That shit is fun for about 2 hours and then it gets old quick.  Cool, we get to break out some candles and pretend we’re living in the 1800’s.  Woo hoo!!!  OK, let’s play cards because Irene’s outside.  That should kill about 30 minutes.  Now, let’s read!    Wow, that was fun, now let’s play a board game.  Awesome!!  Should we sit around and tell stories?  No?  Well, my laptop battery is dead so we can’t watch a movie.  And we have no access to Netflix.  There’s room temperature beer.  Hey kids, wanna play a drinking game?  OK, here’s how you play.  If it’s raining, you have to drink and you can’t stop until the rain stops.  It’s fun.  Ready…go!!!  It’s now 8:15 at night.  It’s dark outside.  I’ve just finished my 13th beer because it just now stopped raining.  I’ve peed so much that my urine is clear.  I’m bored out of my skull.  Fuck it, I’m going to bed.

I made the mistake of leaving first thing this morning to go to Connecticut thinking I could get there.  What a fool I was.  Irene wasn’t done with us yet.  This line of traffic was miles long.  There was no end to it as far as I could tell.  It was ridiculous.  I finally called my boss to see what was going on at work.  There was no one there.  No phone, no email server, I was wasting my goddamn time.  He told me to go back.  I gladly obliged.  Just look at the traffic going in the other direction.  I got the hell out of Dodge and headed back home.  Thanks for nothing, Irene.

What do you call a woman with one short leg?—Eileen.  What if she’s from Japan?—Irene.  I’m so sorry.  That’s an awful joke, but I’ve been thinking about it all weekend.  I think about it every time I hear the name Irene.  I should be ashamed of myself.

I initially snapped this photo because I was somewhat shocked at how many people were waiting in line for the show.  I thought, damn, that’s a lot of people, not working on a Tuesday morning, standing in line to see what is essentially a repeat of virtually every Jerry Springer episode aired over the last 15 years.  It’s not like Tom Hanks is going to unexpectedly show up and surprise the studio audience.  It’s not like Jerry’s going to give out Volkswagen Beetles to all the audience members.  It’s not like Maroon 5, Kanye West, or Katy Perry is going to show up to perform.

I don’t want to offer any sort of critical analysis of The Jerry Springer Show here.  That’s been done by far too many people who are much better (and much worse) writers than I are.  It is what it is and everyone knows it.  But seeing these people wait in line for the show made me think of something else in the process.

The Jerry Springer Show, like many other cultural events and entertainment acts, has found its comfort zone where only the truly devoted fans participate and enjoy it.  That’s not a bad thing, by the way.  The usual arc is this: an act begins and starts to gain popularity based on its entertaining, yet outrageous antics which push the boundaries of acceptable societal behavior.  The act, mainly through word-of-mouth advertising, spreads nationwide and reaches critical mass.  That’s where the media critics and naysayers come in and attack it incessantly.  The act, as a result of the criticism, becomes even more popular.  But the popularity inevitably wanes as the public grows weary and a new act comes along to divert people’s attention.  What’s left over is the absolute, 100% percent hardcore fans who will lay down in fucking traffic to defend whatever act they’re supporting.

Some examples of this, besides Jerry Springer: pro wrestling (to a certain extent); the Insane Clown Posse (who are keenly aware of this); and director Kevin Smith (I would venture to say he views this as a positive now).  There are plenty of other examples, but they all share the same thing — a truly devoted fan base that loves everything they do.

There’s pros and cons to this.  Because the hardcore fans love what you do, you’ll always have a forum to keep doing what you’re doing.  But it can be difficult to change and evolve.  The fans, even those with blind allegiance, can be reluctant to change and the rest of the public will still view the act as irrelevant no matter what.  The best case scenario is that the devoted fans trust the artist’s evolution and sticks with them.  At that point, who gives a shit what the rest of the public thinks?  That’s the ultimate reward for an artist.

Ask Kevin Smith as he tours his new movie Red State around North America without distribution or a studio’s backing.  Maybe you’ve heard of the movie, maybe you haven’t, but his 1.85 million Twitter followers are selling out venues all over the place.  No mainstream media, no critics, just true fans.  Total artistic freedom, that lucky bastard.  Snooch.

I haven’t watched The Jerry Springer Show since my days onboard the USS Rushmore in the late 90’s when it was lunchtime must-see-TV on the mess decks.  The place would go crazy when some chicks started whaling on each other because they were both madly in love with some half-Puerto Rican, half-Senegalese blue-eyed midget leper who was proficient at roller skating and could make a bitchin’ origami swan.  We would howl and laugh while we forced down a heaping helping of chicken tetrazzini for the 4th time that week.  It was fun watching it as part of a crowd, but it never really did anything for me other than to watch people losing their minds while they watched it.  That’s the point, though.  It’s not for me, it’s for the people waiting in this line.  And I’m perfectly OK with that.

But I really want to see Red State.  I want to see it real bad.