A Note to Selves

Hi,
Sorry I've not been that active on this blog for a while. I've been cooking something for the past week or so and now it's finally ready to launch. I'm starting a new blog, it's called Notes of a Dirty Young Traveler, it's a recount of my adventures abroad in Europe from last summer, and you can find it at ndyt.blogspot.com. All the details are there.

I'll keep posting to this blog, though they might be few and far between. School's becoming a uncontrollable train wreck as the final weeks of the term are upon us. The trip to Sasquatch, a three day no holds barred music festival over Memorial Day Weekend, is sneaking up on me like Ninja Cat and I can't seem to find the discipline to finish any of my assignments! No matter, madness is an ample reminder that we are indeed alive.

So if you don't hear from me for a while, bump on over to Notes of a Dirty Young Traveler, and you can get your fill of insanity for the time being. So adieu, until next time, bon chance mes amis!
-BTR

The Smelly Cave

It is a natural rite of passage to go to summer camp. Even if you hated it, summer camp holds a special place in everyone's heart. It's the first time most of us were away from our parents for more than a long weekend. It was the first time signing campfire songs while roasting marshmallows. It's where many of us had our first boyhood crushes. Mine was on the saucy arts & crafts instructor. Her Bermuda short-shorts gave me the first tinglings of manhood. I had the opportunity to go to a well funded camp folded into the Oregon's Cascade Mountains. Its name was Big Lake and for one week every summer I'd revel in the beauty of the landscape and mischievously run around with other kids my age. My softmore summer I signed up for Ultimate Rad camp. A week-long romping in the backwoods with promises of sore muscles and sun-burnt skin. The Ultimate Rad crew was regarded as superstars at Big Lake. The fact that we lodged in tents and partook in activities like rock climbing, rafting and mountain biking set us apart from other campers who enrolled in arts & crafts, basketball and sailing. Huh... I wonder why? On the first day while camping at Smith Rock, we found a good route to climb on and got to it. By late afternoon, we were all exhausted and the sun was beating down on us like a merciless team driver. So we took refuge in a small cave that cut right into the rock. Crowding into the cave was like trying to stuff an oversize sleeping bag into a fanny-pack. But we did it. Once inside we relaxed and started to shoot the shit. I had had gas all day and I was holding it so not to get the reputation as "the smelly kid" on the first day. However, with all of us crammed into that cave just seemed too good an opportunity to pass up. I discreetly let loose with a one-cheeker, so as not to attract attention and allowed the madness to ensue. Never had I seen a cave clear out faster than on that day. It was like watching a group of Film Study majors scatter at the mention of a math quiz. Everybody started blaming one another. Though, with my crafty diplomacy skills, I deflected the focus off of me and onto my friend Ari. She took the blame surprisingly well. I guess she'd been blamed before for other people's flatulence. And thus the week continued as did the controversy of the smelly cave. Until the last day... We were all back at Big Lake, heading to the final supper, when I jumped ahead of the group and confronted them. "I must say something," I said. "That fart, at the beginning of the week. That wasn't Ari. It was me!" And with that I definitely skipped down to the mess hall to the sound of gasps and awestruck murmurs. That was a fun week.

A Brutish Reality

In my writing discussion yesterday we talked about art. What is art? Is the message in art important? What gives art meaning? All of these questions are weighty. Old men with beards and bald heads were arguing the facts some 2000 years ago. And now, overly pretentious pseudo-intellectual University students with patchy beards and swoop haircuts debate the same questions. Where has it gotten us in this foul year of our lord, 2010? What benefit is there to try and define the undefinable? We, as humans, attempt to put a label on everything. This is post-impressionism. That is neo-realism. We create labels to define and categorize and standardize. However, standardizing human emotion is beginning to tread in the waters of dystopian literature. A scary prospect for sure. Nevertheless, that is what the end result would be if we force a definition of art on the public. My personal definition is that art is emotion, it's expression, it's vision. How a viewer interprets that vision is personal to them. Imagine a world where a person goes to a museum and see's a Jackson Pollack painting and instead of a description of the year and a blurb about the artist, there was a summary of what emotions said person is suppose to feel. Such a horrible dream seems to be the inception of Zamyatin or Orwell. And one I wish not to live in. So how do we define art? I say don't. Leave it to the person to interpret and draw a conclusion of their own. Leave it to the viewer to feel the emotion it evokes. And let the artist express themselves as they wish. For when you start to categorize innate human emotion is when you start to put the cap on the creative freedom everyone. A brutish reality and a necessary lesson.

A Crowning Acheivement

The NBA Playoffs are in full swing and I find myself putting off important school assignments. This could be the most exciting time of year, surpassing Christmas and football season. To watch rival teams battling on the hardwood is riveting. The crescendos of a boisterous crowd pour out of my 13” TV night after night. I’m determined not to miss one Pyrrhic victory or ice-cold execution. That being said, one thing has muddled this year’s ebullition and that is the performance of my broke-winged Blazers. The first game was a statement: “we are the Blazers and damn right we should be in the playoffs!” However, game two and three have more appropriately been a statement of: “maybe this whole playoff idea was just a megrim at best.” With their token shooter, as well as the two big men, sidelined, it’d seem the Blazers have no chance of advancing past the first round. Perhaps this is true, however, we must acknowledge the Herculean gauntlet the Blazers had to contend with to even get to where they are. Extremely short-handed and injuries as ubiquitous as student canvassers, the Blazers have applied themselves to every challenge and have worked miracles. Players of mention are Bayless and Howard. Bayless has led the offence with ferocity and explosiveness. He’s a tough bastard who’ll literally put his physical well being at risk to cut to the basket. Look for him to continue to improve his game and become a potent orchestrator in the coming seasons. As for Howard, I tip my hat. The guy has a son playing NCAA basketball and he’s still throwing elbows and crashing boards with players 15 years his minor. So despite the fact the Blazers won’t move past the first round, I can find solace in the crowning achievement they have already won, that of determination. As for the rest of the playoffs, I will watch them vehemently. I am addicted.

Midnight Callers at Satyricon

One of the few pleasures left today is no other than supporting local bands. I got to do just that at Satyricon in Portland when my friends band, The Midnight Callers, played a rockin' show on Saturday. I know everyone in the band and it was cool to see my old classmates doing exactly what they were born to do. There's Jeremy O'Connell, who's extreme enthusiasm on drums lay the groundwork for the pop beats the Midnight Callers have come to exhibit. Then there's Cameron Mazzia on bass, who's natural coolness gives his riffs that extra flair as he bobs back and forth. Next there's Sage Hill on lead, who's fast-working phalanges fly across the guitar neck producing face-melting solos. And lastly, but certainly not least, there's Dave Berkham, the lead man. Head honcho. Who's formidable song-writing is manifested into vocalized poetry as he wails the chorus of Faux Girl and Friday. The atmosphere of Satyricon, a little venue tucked far back into the folds of West Portland, was gritty and musty and almost antique. Though, its quaint appeal was a perfect match for the pop band whose roots are in punk. It, in a sense, extenuated their style by putting an exclamation point at the end of their performance; the way a Super-dome does for a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert. I've seen the Midnight Callers 3 times now and each time their music, performance and presence has improved immensely. With the addition of Sage Hill, whose talent is otherworldly, the Midnight Callers have a working unit. A rapport if you will, which left me and my fellow concert goers thrilled and wanting more. The Ne Plus Ultra came when lead-man Dave donned a harmonica and went to town. His energy and ebullience left me awestruck. This, among other moments, made me forget I was watching my old buddies from high school. If you get a chance to see a Midnight Callers concert, go, you'll be beyond pleased. And the thought that you supported a local band filled to the brim with talent and ambition will leave a tear in your eye. It did to me. To find out more go to http://www.myspace.com/midnightcallers and listen to their singles, which are now available on vinyl. Cheers!

A Sad Predicament

The wasteland of popular music has reached a new low. I'm speaking of course about the absolute skyrocketing of Canadian backwoods singer Justine Bieber. Not only has this neophyte 16 year-old captured the eyes of some big name celebrities; he's also coveted the savings of every teenage girl from San Francisco to New York. His lackluster lyrics, mind-numbingly repetitive beats and pre-pubescent voice makes Miley Cyrus look like Maria Carey. Is this just another youtube overnight success story? Or is this a deep seated ploy by MTV marketing heads to make a buck off a teenage heart-throb with helmet hair? If it is, they've got it down to a science. Pluck a good looking kid, with some singing ability, out of the obscurity of the internet. Next, dress him up and give him a signature style. Then, cast him in high-budgeted music videos singing crappy recycled songs about love, which he then releases on an album featuring him posing as an edgy, young Justine Timberlake. Have him flirt with high-profile celebrities and make the rounds of late night talk shows. Next thing you know you have a teen heart-throb who has never dated a girl before and is making more money than he ever dreamed of. Ironic huh? Why can't we get back to the portentousness of the 90's? Call me nostalgic, but I think the 90's held something that has been lost on popular culture. That something is a sense of rebellion towards the process of consumerist music. A process clearly illustrated by Justine Bieber. So pop, please stop being so pretentiously aloof to your follies, and Justine Bieber please cut your hair.

Hallmark Holliday

There are some things in this world that exist without explanation. Miley Cyrus, Dog Boutiques and Easter are among them. Easter is one of those Holidays in which small children are able to run rampant through the house looking for brightly colored plastic eggs containing candy. These eggs are supposedly left by the "Easter Bunny", an ambiguously mysterious character whom many regard to be the retarded cousin of Santa Clause. How did this tradition come to pass? Where in the history of Christianity does the Resurrection of Christ come to be symbolized by candy, eggs and bunnies? Some symbolist have procured the weak response that the egg represents "New Beginnings", in a sense the "Rebirth" of Christ. This is all malarkey. Everyone knows quite well that Easter has been robbed of its humble roots. Hallmark and American Society have consumerized this Holy tradition. Ultimately they have brainwashed us into associating Easter with buying cheap plastic eggs and watching as our kids flail mindlessly about searching for them. They have made us bedizen this humble acknowledgment to the point of disillusionment. My opinion is that you should throw out your PAAS Egg Dying Kit, your multicolored plastic Easter eggs and the practice of publicly humiliating your kids, for a more soulful experience. If your not Christian (like I am) spend it with family. If your not around family (like I am), spend it drinking and playing poker. However, don't get caught up in what is ultimately a Hallmark Holiday.