Hi. Remember Me?

The pants I am wearing are too short. This is the problem with pants: when you buy them they are a certain length, and then they mysteriously and gradually become shorter, until one day you are sitting on your cubicle, noticing that your pants are much too short, and wondering how exactly they got that way. They were a perfectly acceptable size in, say, September, when I last made an entry in my trusty blog. I would prefer other means of marking the passage of time than the gradual shortening of my pants, but I suppose this is better than other gradual processes, such as slowly declining health or something of the sort.

Regardless, here it is now, late March. In the interest of brevity, I will provide a short recap of the past six months or so:

September: Summer ended, fall began, etc.

October: An unseasonably early (even for Buffalo) snowstorm brought down power lines and every third tree branch. The power was out for weeks in some places, but only days on our block. And without electricity to run the forced-air heater, the house rapidly chilled to a temperature somewhere in the forties. The upside: we could chill beer in the living room. The downside: Very little to do, aside from marveling at the cold beer made so by the living room. Also in October, I applied to graduate schools in hopes of pursuing an MA or MM and state certification in Music Ed. In the end, I sent applications only to Eastman and Columbia Teachers College.

November: Thanksgiving. I’m a sucker for holidays that involve any sort of gluttony and/or travel. Also, I took the GREs and did surprisingly well! Who knew I had brains in addition to my stunning beauty?

December: That whole gluttony/travel thing again. Also, I purchased my own Christmas tree for the first time ever. It was all very picturesque: tromping about a snow-covered field, saw-in-hand, etc. I still, by the way, have pine needles embedded in my carpet. And for Christmas I got... a new car! My grandparents desired a car less European in steering and ride than their VW Passat wagon (which, incidentally, I had always secretly coveted), and purchased a new Toyota. And so I became the proud guardian of a handsome VW wagon, red w/black interior. It makes me happy, and carries my keyboard and amp with ease.

January: Is it weird that I don’t remember anything from the month of January?

February: Or February?

March: Being the most recent and also interesting of the last few months, March deserves elaboration. First of all, I now know that have been accepted into both Eastman School o’Music and Columbia Teachers College. My impression is that Eastman has a better Music Ed program, but is located in Rochester, whereas TC has a much smaller music department, but is in New York City. The latter made TC very appealing until I found out how much housing – even a small room in a school-subsidized shared apartment – would cost. Also, I’ve had a nagging feeling from the beginning that Eastman has a better program for me, a notion no doubt encouraged by a former teacher of mine telling me this repeatedly. And as much as I pine for a home in someplace other than Western New York, going to Eastman just seems like the right thing to do.

And so it is that I have signed a lease on an apartment in Rochester, starting in August. It is actually an interesting, if difficult to describe, unit: upon entry, the visitor walks up a flight of stairs, and after turning 180 degrees at the top, comes to a short hallway off of which is the bedroom. Then, up another flight of stairs (this one turning 90 degrees halfway up) to the kitchen and living room, featuring gabled ceilings (being the top floor of the house). Also, peculiarly, it has two bathrooms: one attached to the bedroom, and one off the living room. My mother has pointed out that this will mean I have two bathrooms to clean, which is true. But each will get dirty half as quickly, so I figure it all evens out. Also, it has a skylight! I’ve always wanted one of those. And it’s in a great location, close to the school. Considering that Rochester housing was a cause of great concern for me for a couple weeks (cold-calling every landlord within a mile radius of the school yielded precious few leads), it is a tremendous relief to have an apartment, especially one with architectural character. (One wonders, though, whether I will find it so endearing when I have to carry ten pieces of sectional sofa up two flights of stairs contained entirely within my apartment).

And yesterday, I gave my four-week notice at work. Now we’re all caught up.

My plan for the next few months is as follows: I will move out of my current apartment in late April, and store my belongings in some storage space in Rochester. I will then proceed to my parents’ house in the Philadelphia suburbs, take a class (educational psychology) at a community college, and, I suspect, paint every room of the house in exchange for room and board. As much as painting seems to be not that fun, I will welcome the change from my current office-dwelling lifestyle, as it does not involve authoring boring documents. And while part of the goal of living at home for a few months is to conserve funds, I do anticipate making some trips to New York. So, my New York friends, let us be in touch as the summer approaches.

I anticipate that my next blog update will come sooner than six months from now, especially given the free time that I will have during the summer months, but one can never be sure, I guess. So for now, anyway, over and out.

August.

And on this, the last day of August, in what is becoming something of a tradition, another update shall be provided to you, you who still occasionally read my blog.

I began the month with a trip to New Hampshire, which despite its brevity, was nonetheless enjoyable. The drive out was particularly, well, dark, especially when on the back rounds of eastern New York, Vermont, and New Hampshire, at one o’clock in the morning. Relaxing, though: Belle and Sebastian on the CD player (thanks to Anjjjjj for that one), picturesque little villages caught in total stillness. It would have been nice to have brighter headlights as we wound our way through the mountains, but we managed to arrive at our destination without encountering local wildlife (moose, for instance), so I guess I can’t complain.

The weather was fantastic, and the lake was warm. We grilled excellent burgers. We took a boat trip to the harbor for sorbet, and I managed to dock in particularly close quarters without totally embarrassing myself, which is always a plus. At night, the sounds of a nearby mountain stream gently lulled me to sleep, like one of those Sharper Image clocks with built-in nature sounds, only real. And, trying my hand at boat maintenance, I managed to clean unspeakable amounts of sediment out of the engine compartment, allowing collected rainwater to once again flow through the bilge pump, preventing the boat from sinking. And then, after an entirely too-short two days, I found myself packed and driving back to Buffalo. Ahh, the sadness of a summer vacation at end...

I also went to Ikea in Canada. Twice. The first time, I bought some rather striking orange curtains for my newly-acquired large bedroom, with the assumption that I could return them to an Ikea in the states when I go to visit my parents, if need be. And the need did, in fact, be: the curtains turned out to be too sheer to provide any sort of privacy. My assumption about returning the curtains to an American Ikea? Utterly false. Ikea, a global corporation, one that manages to sell the same merchandise, using the same nonsensical names, in something like 40 countries, will not accept international returns. So, back to Canada I went, finding things like “crossing the border” and “exchange rates” far less charming than I had the first time ‘round. Returned the merchandise. Drove an hour and a half home again. That was last weekend.

Today, (well, tonight), I am driving home to my parents’ house. Actually, I suspect my dad might be driving most of the way, but he doesn’t know that yet. He’s in Buffalo on business, and in a happy convergence of travel plans, planned to go home today. If we both take my car, his company will pay for the trip. And he’ll probably pay for my dinner. Sweeeet. I have delayed my summer home-visit until now so that I might enjoy the benefits of a newly-constructed in-ground pool in the backyard of my family’s house. Construction being what it is, however, inexplicable delays besieged the project. Disappearing contractors, half-built retaining walls, etc. Short story: the pool is not finished. Maybe by October. My whole life, I have wanted a pool in my backyard. So I shall go home, sun myself next to a very dirty hole in the ground, and dream of next year.

Oh, one more thing: also last weekend, I picked up several amazing postcards featuring black-and-white photographs of well-dressed people from the early ‘50’s doing adorably dorky dances at office parties. I cannot explain why I find these pictures so appealing. I will hang them on the wall.

Over and Out.

July.

On this, the last day of July, I see it fitting to briefly recap the events that have transpired over the last 30.5 days.

July started with a trip to Montreal, which was great. French was spoken, good food eaten, and mountainous regions ascended. A most excellent time was, I believe, had by all. En route to Montreal, I drove through the northern part of New York, where I had never really been before. I found it to be very pretty. Route 11 arcs across the top of New York from Watertown to the Vermont border (or thereabouts, I think, I’m doing this from memory), and cuts through a number of picturesque little towns nestled on the banks of one or another rivers. Also saw really big military planes landing at Fort Drum. Cool.

On our way home, we crossed back into the U.S. in the Thousand Islands region in Northern New York, and after some line jockeying, pulled into the booth. The Customs agent received the drivers’ licenses I handed him on behalf of the others in the car, and, after careful consideration, looked at me and asked, “so how long has it been?” Searching wildly through my mental index of time-sensitive vehicular licensing information, I responded by staring blankly. No doubt sensing my confusion, he pointed to the nametag affixed to his chest, and said “I used to live behind you.” He was right. He lived behind me in my old neighborhood in the Buffalo suburbs. We had played together a bunch in the elementary/middle school years, along with some other kids. I did not recognize him at all, but then again, we hadn’t seen each other since 1998 at the latest, and we fell out of contact long before then. We chatted briefly. He explained that he would like to be an air marshal. I mentioned I was working in Buffalo. He waved us through.

Should have gotten those Cubans.

The next week I went to Michigan, and took the Northern Route, above Lake Erie, through Canada. Combined with the previous week’s journey to and from Montreal, I racked up 14 or so hours of Canadian-highway driving in six days’ time, and about that experience, I have this to say: Canadians drive fast. And for the most part, they don’t get pulled over. I made excellent time, particularly on the Michigan jaunt. My only complaint, really, is that I have no idea how much I paid for gas. Canadian dollars per liter? That requires two conversions, and I observe a strict one-conversion-per-transaction limit. Made good time in Michigan, too. Speed limit 70! I timed my listening of the Marvin Gaye “What’s Going On” album (which I acquired in Montreal) to my passage through Detroit proper, which I find to be very much like Buffalo, but bigger, and with more American cars.

Then, four days later, off to Indianapolis for the wedding! The weekend was a blur of good friends, hotel rooms, Coors Light, airports, rehearsals, more friends, good food, racist cabbies, tequila, and the Final Countdown. Since my last blog post focused almost exclusively on writing the wedding music, I should say that it went very well. We rehearsed almost entirely in hotel rooms, which, it turns out, do little to insulate sound. [At one point, I excused myself from the Recessional rehearsal, leaving three trombonist fanfaring away in a room on one end of the building, to return to my room halfway across the floor. Inside, I could still hear them perfectly. But, miraculously, no complaints!] In general, the weekend is one of the best in recent memory, due entirely to the presence of my friends. It is my sincere hope that we can get together again soon.

This past weekend, my former apartment-mate moved out of my apartment and in with her fiancé, taking with her the coffee table, TV stand, some wall art, and almost all the dishes, pots, and pans. I had expected this, as they were, technically, hers. Still, things are in a state of mild disarray: TV and Nintendos on the floor, coffee table stuff by the fireplace, empty kitchen cabinets, etc. On the upside, though, I am free to occupy the large bedroom I have coveted for 15 months, and my bed has been appropriately relocated. Other furniture items will follow, and I am contemplating a large-scale reorganization of my living room, as well. But it’s just so damn hot here right now, and without air-conditioning, it is difficult to find the motivation to so much as roll over in bed, let alone move a 9-piece sectional sofa around. So give me a few weeks, dang. I anticipate that by early-to-mid September, things should be put together.

And, finally, the (near) future! Next weekend, I am off to my grandparents’ place in New Hampshire to enjoy swimming, s’mores, and other summer delights. After that, a trip to Ikea, somewhere (Toronto, Pittsburgh, or Philadelphia?), to buy new furniture and dishes. And after that (Labor Day-ish), a trip home to check out my parents’ new pool, which should be done by then.

Busy busy busy...

Over and out.

Caution: Composer Trying to Concentrate.

I never really thought I would miss the con library as much as I do right now. You see, I am composing again, and I miss my composing spot: the study carols in the con library's addition, along the southern wall. Having a spot is, in my experience, essential to actually being able to concentrate. I don't have one in my house now: the kitchen table has uncomfortable chairs, the sofa is too soft and inviting of sleep, and my TV and computer call to me wherever I am, basically. I need a place of relative quiet, where I can hear no other music, and where there is no TV. I need walls around my head that screen my peripheral vision, and a large, clean surface on which to write. Currently the closest thing I have to a spot is a too-upright green plastic chair on my front porch, where I must contend with such annoyances as bums, hoboes, idlers, scallywags, scofflaws, ne'er-do-wells, and public urinators; colonizing ants (large enough to actually wear tri-corner hats, should they choose to do so); rhythmic thumping from passing cars and revs from criminally unmuffled motorcycles; dogs that look cute until they poop on my lawn, and owners who look equally cute until they fail to pick up the poop (the fabled double-whammy of cuteness lost).

As such, it should come as no surprise that my progress in writing is less speedy than I had hoped. But fret not, my friends, for the impending nuptials of two college friends shall indeed have music. Music, I say!

Also, allow me to report on my professional development: I have officially left the realm of the temporary. Whereas I once stood with feet firmly on the ground, straining to stabilize the corporate ladder for those on their way up, I have now joined the ranks of the ladder-standers. Or something? The point is that I am now an employee at the very company that has used me on a contract basis for the past ten months. My job is basically the same, for now, but I get a little more money and health benefits, and, soon, an embossed nameplate to hang on the side of my cubicle. I've also received a company ID featuring what I believe to be the worst official photograph ever taken of me. Due to the unfortunate placement of the machine relative to my face, the light reflects off my glasses in such a way to make it seem that my left eye is lazy. Additionally, symmetrical shadows have appeared beneath my ears, giving the impression of a mullet. Thankfully, I rarely have to display my ID.

This weekend, I am traveling to Montreal with the gang to visit Manic and Pedantic, a friend from high school. I will issue a report on any international hijinks when I return.

Medical Details, Now Vaguer Than Ever. Also, Canada and Hockey!

Thinking back to my school days (*sigh*), I recall that I was pretty terrible in all history-related classes. I initially attributed this to my inability to memorize such trivial information as “names,” and “dates,” but now I believe this might be part of a larger problem: I simply cannot, with any reliability, remember the chronological order of events, even when those events are recent, and have occurred in my own life. It should therefore come as no surprise that I have a difficult time retaining major occurrences in others’. This is particularly evident to me now, as I determine what of the past several weeks I should mention in this here entry. Where do I set the Event Importance Filter? I never know with these things.

I’ll start with something that would make the cut regardless: the most important thing that has happened to me lately, measured in terms of the overall life-analysis it inspired and the increase in stress it caused, is that I was very nearly diagnosed with a non-life-threatening, but nonetheless incurable and problematic, disease.

Thankfully, I am completely healthy. There were three intense days, though, of not knowing one way or the other. I feel that if, in some grand spiritual sense, the purpose of this experience was to teach me not to take certain things for granted, well, there must have been some less traumatizing way to go about it. But whatever.

Last week, I went to Toronto. Yes, Toronto! Fifth-most populous city in North America, after Mexico City, NY, LA, and Chicago. Let me tell you: it’s big, it’s filled with fancy new buildings, and folks, it’s just as Canadian as ever. I went up with Ang (pronounced Anjjj, as in Angela), kind of spontaneously, and we basically just walked up and down Yonge Street, which is very long and very hip. I bought the new Flaming Lips album (which I recommend, specifically tracks 1, 2, and 11) at a fantastically labyrinthical record store with giant spinning neon records on its facade, and for slightly less money than it would have cost in the US. I’ve decided that I’d love to live in Toronto, and was seriously bummed to remember that it is in a different country, and as such this would involve massive amounts of paperwork. It’s SO CLOSE! I live a mile from the border. Shouldn’t I be able to choose my country of residence? Also, it’s just slightly exotic! For example, this conversation I had with a waitress:

Me: How big is this beer, roughly?
Waitress: 336 millilitres
Me: ...Oh. Right.

Estimating volume is hard enough for me when not conveyed in such precise numbers. Can we just say “oh, about a pint?” Pints are relatively standard measures of beer, right? Regardless, I was totally charmed.

Another charming thing about Canada is hockey, which we happen to have here in Buffalo as well. In fact, the Sabres are now in round two of the Stanley Cup finals (one of the last four teams standing), and on Saturday, they will begin a best-of-seven series against the Carolina Permafrosts, or something like that. Okay, I’ll admit I do not know the name of the team in Carolina, but evidently the Carolinians don’t either: Sabres sold out their playoff tickets in 15 minutes, thanks to lines of fans at supermarket ticket counters and arena box offices that started a full 24 hours in advance. Carolina still has tickets for sale. Go figure.

After every win last week, cars could be heard honking like a wedding party gone mad, as drunk passengers stuck their torsos fully out of car windows, yelling “SAAABBRRRrrrr...,” to pedestrians as they pass.

One of the peculiarities of playoff hockey, however, is that, at least in this market, it was only covered on Canadian TV, which is available to those with cable or exceptionally strong antennas, neither of which I have. And so, I have spent, and will spend, lots of time in neighborhood bars, standing shoulder to shoulder with jersey-wearing, hockey-stick holding sports fans, eyes glued to a little dot flying around the plasma-screen TV. High fives with strangers when they score, and, depending on where you are, shots all around when they win. Good times. I can, for once, relate to people who really like sports.

So let’s see: clean bill of health, Toronto, Sabres.

That about covers it for now, I think.

... Satisfied, Josh?

Okay. Sooo... Plan B...

I’d start by declaring that I’ve been putting the “blah” in “blog” as of late, but I think it’s one of those things that only works when you say it out loud. But you get the idea—I haven’t updated in a while. And it’s not for lack of news, either... just lack of time, and occasionally ambition. Regardless, here’s the rub:

I have officially heard from all grad schools, and have found the financial awards given to me to be somewhat lacking. I try to remind myself that in the grand scheme of things, I did quite well... I got into some good schools, and even got some scholarship money from them. I just didn’t get quite enough. And it’s tough to justify going into massive debt to acquire a degree that does not directly qualify me to do anything. So it’s looking like grad school is pretty much out for next year.

Which kind of leaves me in the lurch. What am I doing for the next year? What am I doing long-term? These (the short-term problem in the long-term problem) are things I must consider.

I have the option of staying in Buffalo and working in a permanent position for the bank that currently employs my services as a contract worker. The primary benefits of this approach are as follows, in no specific order: (1) salary (2) benefits. These are important, and while I’m sure I will not be making all that much, whatever they offer me has got to be better than $11/hour.

I have mixed feelings about staying in Buffalo for (at least) another year. First of all, my living situation will complify significantly in July, when my roommate moves out to get married. This will force me to either pony up the full amount of rent myself (slightly more than double what I am currently paying), or get a new roommate. The thing of it is, I don’t really WANT a roommate. I don’t, exactly, have one now—she mostly lives with her boyfriend. She’s more of a rent sponsor, who, in return for money, is allowed to use the apartment as her personal storage unit. Also, when she leaves, she will take with her all her stuff, some of which I utilize (see: dishes, pots, coffee table) or enjoy (see: giant picture over fireplace, decorative pottery) on a regular basis. I know I can purchase my own pottery, if need be; I hear they have entire barns devoted to this. But the real problem is the prospect of living with another person who is actually present, and this, I will confess, is less than pleasing. So perhaps I will have to move out? I have no idea. What a conundrum.

Also, I was kind of looking forward to summer in Philadelphia. I like summers there; I’ve had some good ones. It’s a nostalgic thing now. Summer in Philadelphia feels more like home than summer in Buffalo, by far, regardless of how many hip art festivals happen almost directly in front of my Buffalo house. Also, air conditioning, which my parents have, would be a nice. And of course, my parents have decided to put in a pool, which I could utilize were I living at home for a spell. I will save my “why do they install a pool as soon as I leave” rant for another time. But Matt, I suspect that you might be able to empathize with me somewhat on the pool front, right? Dang. That’s all I’m saying.

Apart from staying in Buffalo, near-term options I have considered include: finding a job in the music business in New York. If I have a long-term future in business, it would very likely be in the music business, and by getting an entry-level job now I could sort of try it on to see how it fits. You know, before I’m a real, actual adult. But my future in business is predicated on a big if: is it really something I want to do? I like certain things about business: the illusion of job security, the money, and... okay I guess that’s it. Just those things. And if working in music business were close enough to music to make me feel like some inner artistic part of me is occasionally being employed, well, that might just work out fine in the long run, too.

But should I give up on the film scoring idea all together? It could take upwards of 10 years to get established to the point where you could make a living at it. Do I really want to be pushing 40 without a real career? Yikes.

Another long-term option I’ve considered is teaching. I’ve always been too musically diverse for my own good... I play too many instruments and write in too many styles, and wouldn’t be happy picking only one and focusing on that to the exclusion of the others. The many facets that make choosing my musical path difficult would actually serve me well as a teacher. The upsides to this include doing actual hands-on music stuff, adherence to an academic calendar (summers off!), and the presence of resident ensembles that I could force to play my stuff. Also, there is a market for educational ensemble music, and it’d be sweet to tap into that. The downsides, however, include the less-than-stellar pay and job availability.

I can picture myself teaching at the college level down the road somewhat... I think I’d like the professor’s life. College towns, smart people... the problem is what to teach? I’m not sure I have the singular love of classical music that would be necessary to teach composition. Plus I really don’t want to have to teach music history, and at all but the largest conservatories, composition professors usually have to pull double (or triple) duty. My favored route to college right now is to do the high school thing, and then hope I get picked up as the director of bands at some smallish liberal arts school. But even that’s a crapshoot, and is a rather indirect way of doing things. Plus I have no teaching experience whatsoever.

Right.

Perhaps non-profit music business? End up in a conservatory somewhere, the oft-mocked Associate Dean (Hello, Dean!)? Or perhaps in the office of a struggling orchestra in some major American city?

So many options. So, so many.

Hannah, I believe, said something about wishing she could choose between only three careers, as it would make the decision much less difficult. I wholeheartedly concur.

The devil, as they say, is in the details.

And by the way, I recently experienced a little incident that should cast doubt upon the entire admissions process. In January I received a letter from University of Wisconsin – Madison that denied my request for an interview (interviews are pretty much required for composition majors). This basically means that I rejected. That’s how it works... if you don’t get invited for an interview, you’re out of the running. Lots of schools do it. I distinctly recall logging back into my FAFSA account and deleting UW from my list, so I wouldn’t have to deal with extra paperwork for a school that had already rejected me.

Then, on Monday, I got a letter fro UW-M congratulating me on my acceptance into the composition program. So what gives? I called the admissions office and emailed the chair of the comp department. Both seemed surprised by the sequence of events I described. The comp chair asked who signed the letter. Problem is, I think I chucked it. It was bad for my morale. I still had all those interviews to do! Why would I hold on to a rejection letter?! Acceptance letters—sure, keep them. But rejection? No need. If you’re out you’re out.

This, I feel, will weaken my story significantly. And since I didn’t apply for financial aid, there’s REALLY no way I can afford to go there. I foresaw no circumstances under which it would be beneficial to retain a rejection letter for upwards of three months from the date of its receipt. And for this, a school I wanted to go to will in all likelihood be crossed off my list.

I throw my hands up in frustration, my friends. IN FRUSTRATION.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Let me start my explaining that my job has become very busy and stressful as of late, and what with all the typing I do at the office, I don’t really want to come home and type more. Hence, dramatically reduced blog output.

Not much truly important has happened in the past few weeks. Still waiting to hear from a couple grad schools, which just happen to be the ones I would most like to attend. This, clearly, is getting the best of me, and I have the anxiety dreams to prove it. Dreams that, by the way, I remember... and I never remember my dreams. What’s up with that?

I have joined a gym, in spite of a bait-and-switch signup issue where I was told a blatant lie about available plans so that I would spend more money than I had to. (I have since re-negotiated my membership terms to be more favorable, monetarily and otherwise, to me). Let me ask you this: when ya’ll work out (which I’m sure some of you do), do people just strut about naked in the locker room? I mean, okay, I know it’s a locker room, and I suppose if there’s a semi-public place where it is socially acceptable to strut naked, that would be it. But there’s a suspicious level of enjoyment there, as evidenced by the circuitous, meandering routes taken from locker to shower or scale. I know, I know, all that “naked is natural” stuff. Don’t get me wrong, I like nakedness, in some contexts, as much as the next guy. But the locker room is not a nudist enclave, nor is it the privacy of one’s own home. And Old Guy, you have been walking around this three-room suite for upwards of five minutes, so how is it that you have not yet reached your destination? Sink? Right there. Shower to the left. Lockers behind you. If you’re in it for the exercise, fella, there are treadmills upstairs. Put on some clothes. Dang.

Not unlike the salesman at the gym, the weather here has also been blatantly disingenuous. Seventy degrees and sunny! It’s springtime! Flowers and birds! Go to sleep, Buffalo, for tomorrow will be another beautiful day. What’s that? You don’t want snow anymore? Fine, have sleet. And wind. Cold. You put your snowbrush away, didn’t you? You’ll be using your ungloved fingers today, my friend. And flowers? I’d like you to meet my friend heavy frost. He will kill you.

And so it is that I put the fleece lining back into my winter coat. A seasoned Buffalonian, I knew the warm weather wasn’t really here to stay, but I thought we were done with daytime highs below 35 degrees. Wrong-o.

Closing thoughts: I should hire some goons to muscle information out of NYU and Syracuse.

Over and out.