"The Appropriate Time" and "Bless Your Bones"

Stories to Tell (Two for One)

“The Appropriate Time”

Newspaper format style.

Who: My lady friend and I

What: It’s "over"

When: Thursday night , May 27, 2010

Where: My apartment

How: Read on

There’s a great movie and it’s called “500 Days of Summer.” I love it. I thought it was super impressive and insightful. Well written, well told, well shot, well acted. Well…great. I highly recommend it. There is one of my all-time favorite scenes where the male character is meeting the female character for what he hopes will be a date that will reunite them. On one half of the screen is his expected versions and on the other half of the screen is the reality that took place. It’s amazing.

I’m sure we’ve all been there – when you’re looking forward to something, maybe it’s a date, and you’re excited to see the other person, you get everything ready, you have this expectation that it’s going to go splendidly and then once it starts you realize you’re in for something else.

It’s happened to me several times.

Let me explain a few.

Time number one:

The first was for my prom. I went to an all boys high school and didn’t know many girls. I had met a beautiful girl from Kansas City when I was in Paraguay the summer before my senior year. I was student body VP and had to plan the prom, and although I didn’t want to go, I was forced to go. Luckily, my friend from Kansas City agreed to join me. I was excited. I had a crush on her, but she had a boyfriend (typical). Two weeks before she’s due out to Boston she tells me on the phone that they’ve broken up.

My boys all tell me this is a GREAT sign and that I am in. They broke up because of me.

After days of hearing this from everyone, I buy in, and get excited. I like her. The night before she comes out we’re talking on the phone and she tells me that they just got back together. He’s no fool. I’m bummed.

When she does come out, she’s not nearly as warm and friendly as she was in Paraguay. She’s distant and cold and seems nervous and out of place. My brother doesn’t like her at all. He calls her to this day “The Ice Princess.” I was disappointed and thought she was off her game, but I understood, and I never held it against her. Things happen. I’m still friends with her to this day.

The expectation certainly deviated from the reality.

Time number two:

I dated a girl in college off and on for five years. Towards the end of college we broke up while we were still living together. We were fighting a lot. I wanted to move to LA after graduation. She did not. She was originally from LA and didn’t want to go back. We split up.

Like most breakups, it was not clean. We still loved each other and still had a strong physical attraction.

A few months out of school I was trying to convince her to get back together. She was hestitant. Thought it was a bad idea. But, that didn’t stop us from still visiting and hooking up.

I go away to San Diego for a vacation before I start my first job. While in SD she invites me out to Martha’s Vineyard where she’s staying for the time being the weekend after I get back. I agree. I’m excited. “She’s coming around,” I think to myself.

I get home. I had just bought a car. My first ever. I decide to take a drive. Before you know it, I’m on the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard. It’s a week early, but whatever, I’ll surprise her. It will be awesome. I’m so excited about my car and the job and I figure we’ll hang out for a day or two and then I’ll go home.

I get myself to her house via a cab and then walk up the long driveway. Her dogs start barking and she opens the door. The excitement I’m expecting on her face isn’t quite there. Shocked, yes, but there is some dread on her face. She tells me to come in coldly.

I’m confused.

Sitting around the kitchen counter she informs me that she’s not alone. She has a guest. It’s a guy. It’s a guy I don’t like and never have.

He pulls up shortly after I arrive. He comes in. He tries to shake my hand. I look at it, and say, “I’m all set.”

She then drives me to the ferry.

I have never been so confused / embarrassed / hurt in my whole life. I’m shattered. The ferry ride and car ride are an existential blur.

I go home and pick up the guitar, which I hadn’t played in a year. I write a song called “Pieces” and have never put it down since. That was seven years ago.

I've never been back to Martha's Vineyard.

The worst part about it is that I had to deal with this while I was starting my first consulting job. It was not cool.

The expectation certainly deviated from the reality.

Time number three:

Thursday night.

Many of you know I have a lady friend who I’ve met since I moved to LA.

We’ve hung out several times and always have a fun time. We talk on the phone for long periods of time. We hadn’t seen each other in almost a month because of conflicting schedules and priorities.

She texted me on Friday (almost a week before the incident) to say let’s hang out next week. I was down.

We decide on Thursday for various reasons.

I’m down.

Thursday comes around and I’m excited.

She agrees to come over. I’ll make a quick dinner, and we’ll hang out low key.

The last time I saw her was on a beautiful spring day and we had taken a walk around my neighborhood and talked. We kissed goodbye and she got in her car and left.

I’m wodering if we’re going to pick up where we left off and give a hello kiss. I hope so. I haven’t had a hello kiss in ages. I almost can’t remember what is like or how to do it. I think I’m prepared though.

It was also her birthday recently so I had a birthday present for her. I had made her tickets to be cashed in at any point so that we could go to a concert / show / event of her choice, bought her a card, and some flowers. I mean why not. Girls love flowers.

I want to figure out where this is going. I’ve had a month to think about it, and I have no idea what’s going on. I'm not trying to move to fast or anything, but I just want to know what to prepare myself for. There is a part of me that thinks there is a future and there is a part of me that thinks something else is going on, and that she’s pulling away. Sometimes I think I’m in a movie called “She’s Not That Into You,” and that maybe she’s emotionally not available, but there’s always the phone calls that are fun and long and confusing.

I’m prepared to figure out how it will go.

We agree to meet at eight and have dinner.

At 7:45pm I get a text and phone call confused as to what time we said – 8 or 9pm. (At first we had said either or, but I suggested 8pm when I realized I’d be hungry after swimming).

This is unlike her. Normally she’s on time and super punctual. Oh well. No big deal. I’m not that hungry after all.

She calls to tell me she’s here and is walking up the stairs.

I go to the door wondering what will happen when I open it.

I open the door.

It’s cold.

I get a hug.

It’s like we don’t know each other.

Uh, oh. Here we go…

She’s tired. She seems like she’s dragged herself across town and just wants to be home. She’s not excited to see me at all.

Uh, oh. Here we go…

She puts her purse down and pulls out a cigarette. She wants one already? This is normal. J We have habit of hanging on my front stoop while she smokes and we talk and catch up. I put on my shoes and jacket and we head out.

It’s cold outside. For real.

We chit chat about nothing memorable. She tells me she’s tired. Had a late night last night and the night before that as well.

We go back upstairs to my apartment.

We enter the kitchen, she sits at the table where she normally sits while I cook. I start cooking. I can’t help but feel that something’s off.

The conversation is taking serious work. I look over at her and she’s texting away. Last time we were hanging out and she was texting while I cooked she made it a point to apologize and I just laughed. This time there’s no apology – just more texting.

It gets to the point I can’t take it. I finally speak up. “Is something wrong? Are you OK? It seems like you’re not yourself,” I say.

She responds, “No, it’s just that I’m tired.”

I don’t press the issue. She does look tired.

She actually still has her jacket on. Maybe she’s just cold.

I make dinner. I pour myself a glass of wine. This isn’t what I was hoping for.

She’s not drinking.

That’s fine. I am. I need to relax and take the edge off.

We eat dinner. It’s good. We talk. It’s good. She seems to be loosening up. I’m optimistic. She asks if she can have a glass of wine. She’s warming up.

I pour her a glass.

She then wants to go smoke another cigarette.

We go outside.

We talk. I try. It’s hard. Sometimes I think to myself “Why is this such a struggle?” I’ve got nothing to say to her.

We talk.

We talk.

Silence.

She sighs.

I say, “It’s going to be okay.” I don't know where this came from.

She says, “I was waiting for the appropriate time to say this.”

Uh, oh. Here we go…I guess I was right.

I brace for impact. I can see the metaphysical car bearing down on me, but I can’t get out of the way. It’s going to hit me and it’s going to hurt.

What’s it going to be? She must have gotten back together with her ex. I thought this was coming. Fuck.

She says, “We can’t be 'kissy feely' anymore. I can’t do that. I can’t date anyone. I don’t have time. I don’t have time for anything but my acting. Blah, blah, blah, blah."

I've given this speech before. This is my first time hearing come back to me.

She continues, "And, I’m still in love with my ex-roommate.”

Now we're talking. What?

“Who’s that?" I ask.

She tells me.

I think, really? I met him. He's getting divorced and has a kid. Lots of baggage. He did seem nice. I don't think he was too found of me. And let's be honest, he's no Groundswell.

I had ruled him out as a problem a long time ago. She actually had told me she liked him at one point but nothing could come of it because they we roommates (more like housemates), and that her dream guy wasn't a divorcee with a kid.

I’m stunned. Where did this come from?

I’m not surprised about her being emotionally unavailable. I had a good feeling that was the case. I was just hoping I was wrong.

I was more surprised by whom. Haha. I’ll never figure girls out. I've stopped trying.

We have a long talk. She says that this doesn’t mean that she doesn’t want to talk or doesn’t want to still hang out.

We just can’t hook up, date, etc.

It wouldn’t be fair to me or to her. Sounds mature.

I would’ve been down to be friends with benefits. I can be either character from “500 Days of Summer,” but I can understand where she is coming from. We’ve all been there.

We both agree that she probably “pines for him” because she can’t have him. We’ve all been there. It's a matter of self-preservation.

I tell her I'm not going to psychoanalyze her, but I just did.

She tells me, “I just want you to know that it’s not you, it’s me.”

I laugh and say, "I wish you watched 'Seinfeld,'” and then impersonate George saying “It’s not you, it’s me? I invented it’s not you it’s me. You can’t tell me that it’s not me. It’s me.”

She doesn’t quite get it having never seen it before.

I can’t say that I disagree with her. I’m a catch.

She has issues. She told me that from day one. I mean we all have issues. She elaborates on them again.

I listen.

I think about the girl I had met at my buddy’s bday who was gorgeous and was wishing I had been more assertive and had gotten her number. She was hot.

Oh, well.

We talk.

My neighbors are having guest over and one of them walks out the door - she's a beautiful Argentinian girl, but I've heard about her before, and know she's married. Her husband just arrived. Seems nice. Not as good of a catch as Groundswell. Typical. ;)

I joke about her probably not wanting the birthday present. She says no. Presents equal affection and she’s not good with affection – part of her intimacy issues.

I decide she’s getting it anyways. If we’re going to be friends this will be a perfect excuse to still get together.

I’ll hold off on giving her the flowers though. That seems like a bad idea.

We go back into my apartment to get her wine so she can have it while she smokes her another cigarette.

I ask her if she wants to her the latest song I recorded (the next story I’ll tell). She says yes so we go into my room.

I have her listen to the song, and she likes it. Says it’s very heartfelt. Loves Zolani's voice.

We then listen to “Mrs. Robinson” on vinyl so she can hear my new stereo system.

This is totally not going how I thought it would.

I give her the present. She tells me that it’s definitely the most creative present she’s gotten.

The flowers sit in my closet on the shelf. She has no idea.

We go out and she smokes another cigarette, and then it’s time to leave.

I walk her to her car, give her a hug, and tell her to make sure to cash those tickets in.

She says she will.

I turn and walk back to my house. I’m disappointed. I’m not sure if I’ll ever see her again. I walk into my apartment dumbfounded. I go to bed immediately.

I sleep like shit. At one point, I wake up in a cold sweat. Disgusting.

I’m up every three hours.

I wake up at 8am and I can’t believe I have to work. I just get right to it. I want this day to be over as fast as possible.

Work is slow. I can’t seem to shake the feeling of disappointment. Endings just suck especially because girls I like are few and far between.

We weren’t even that emotionally invested, but it still sucks when timing is so off.

When work is done, I make some phone calls to family and friends to talk and help work through the disappointment.

They are all great and supportive and give me the standard advice of many fish in the sea, other train’s coming, girls who just want to fuck, etc.

My favorite comes from a text from my friend MM, and I quote “Out with the dumb-asses and in with the hot-asses.” I think that’s just brilliant. (Not to suggest my lady friend is a dumbass, on the contrary, she's very intelligent. Just confused.)

Friday was a long night until I met up with my neighbors downstairs and chill, but that didn’t start until 11PM. It was lonely before that.

I couldn’t stand being in my apartment so I forced myself out for a drink. I was happy I did.

Saturday morning I was having the most amazing dream and then right when it was about to go to ridiculousness I wake up to her face. Literally her face pops into my head and I snap awake. It's like a ghost. This is not cool.

I need to move on.

That dream was too good. Motherfucker.

I woke up and thought about what to do with the flowers. They were a beautiful set of four roses I picked out. I thought about throwing them away, but standing over the trash I realized they were too pretty to be wasted. So I decided to keep them.

My roommate and I now have them on the kitchen table. (See picture.)

When my roommate saw them, she said “She has no idea what’s she’s missing.”

I couldn’t agree more.

Saturday was a great day spent swimming, buying records, hanging with my neighbors and then my friend Jordan came into Venice and we went out drinking. It was like being back in South Africa again. I was glad he made it out.

Today was a good day as well. I worked. I’m getting over being disappointed.

I think and hope that we’ll still be friends. I’d like to. She’s mad cool.

You gotta respect that she came and told me in person. In this digital age, it would have been so easy for her to just disappear and send me a text or do it over the phone or via email.

I’m sure she was dreading having to say that. It couldn’t have been easy for her.

I was dreading hearing it and I kind of knew it was coming. Like I told her. I'm not shocked by this. I'm just disappointed.

I don’t know what happened in that month we didn’t see each other. Maybe her demons got to her. Maybe something else happened. Maybe the fish I cooked her wasn’t as good as she said. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

All I know is that it’s over. The lady friend I had disappeared somewhere after the last time I saw her and never came back. The girl who showed up in her place never even took off her jacket.

I look forward to seeing my old friend at some point...she's as cool as they come.

Morale of the story: Pursuing emotionally unavailable woman, although fun at first, soon starts to feel like you're chasing your own tail. Moving on...it just wasn't the appropriate time.

+++++++++++++++++++

"Bless Your Bones"

“This song is a special song to me for a lot of reasons, but, primarily, because I wrote it the day Aunt Helen passed away, about a very special woman we all love.

My mom and I were sitting in her living room in silence and I had my guitar in hand. I started to play a melody on it and I recognized it as being pretty, so I played it again. After a few repetitions, my mom picked up on it, and chimed in, “You should write a song for Aunt Helen and call it ‘Bless Your Bones.’”

I was more than up to the task. This was a perfect idea.

If there was one saying that I will always remember Aunt Helen for it’s for these three words. I had never heard anyone before or anyone since say them like she did – with so much feeling and so much southern charm. It makes me smile just thinking about it.

My mom and I used to laugh about how Aunt Helen made no bones that I was the favorite. She’d call my mom and my mom would give her updates on my siblings and they could be about to cure cancer and homelessness and Aunt Helen only had the slightest interest. When it came time to talk about me, my mom could say anything – “Well, Matthew’s in NYC in the middle of a three-month bender. He’s got no job. No future. No hope. No real plan. He lost his cell phone again last night,” and Aunt Helen’s response would be unwavering and full of love: Bless his bones.

It’s with this joy in her voice that I sat down in the room by myself to work what was a two chord riff into the song that you’re about to hear. It came out in a blur. I barely remember if it was written in one sitting or over six months. I think it was a little of both. I know it wasn’t so much me who wrote it as much as I was just a conduit for an emotion to be expressed. One that we can all relate to. One that we can all feel.

We will forever be connected with this song, and I hope every time you hear it you think of her. I know I will.

Neither myself or Aunt Helen are with you today physically, but I can assure you that we are both there in spirit.

We are both there in song.

Without further ado, “Bless Your Bones.””

-Groundswell’s letter to his mom so she can introduce “Bless Your Bones” at the memorial service.

I had spent two weeks record the song. I had pulled all the strings I could. I had Zolani from Freshlyground sing it (a surprise to my family), I had an amazing guitarist and better friend play lead guitar, I had a great friend play cello, and I played guitar, recorded everything but the vocals, mixed it, agonized over it, and for the majority of the process was delirious with a fever.

Needless to say, I loved it.

One of the best recording experiences of my life.

It awoke the music producer in me again. All I want to do is produce and write music now.

The cellist liked the song so much that he asked me to produce his demo. Done and done.

I’m ready to get out there and tell people I can do it. I just need to find the right people and the right time.

Music is back and Groudswell is ready to produce it.

To hear “Bless Your Bones,” you can download it hear until June 4, 2010: http://www.yousendit.com/download/dXFYZm1WaTFKV1B2Wmc9PQ

I got this note from the daughter of the lady I wrote “Bless Your Bones” about:

Dearest Groundswell:

I've put off writing you because, frankly, I have NO idea what to say. "Bless Your Bones" is and was the most incredible gesture I think I could ever imagine. That you would do this for my mom is so beyond anything I can wrap my head around that I've truly been rendered nearly speechless. I am so indebted to you, Zolani, Jay and Najeeb that I don't quite know what to do or say. I would NEVER, EVER have thought I would or could describe my mother's memorial service as "uplifting" or "joyous" . . . but in fact that's just what it was. Your lovely song, the words, the music, Zolani's incredible voice, the quality of the sound, the energy and love it conveyed turned an otherwise very somber and sad occasion, and what I was anticipating would be a VERY difficult day, into an absolutely beautiful and perfect experience. I am astounded, I am overwhelmed and I am above all honored with your incredibly touching gesture. On behalf of my sweet mother, who loved you so very much and who I know is smiling down from heaven at all of us, thank you.

With much love to you and your incredible collection of friends and collaborators,

[None of your business]

That’s it from LA.

Go Celtics!!!

Beat LA!!!

Love,

Groundswell

"The D-Word"

Have you ever laid in bed, clutching the phone picturing what you’d say to someone? Have you ever done this when it comes to someone of the opposite sex? Have you ever done this when you were thirty?

Well, I can safely answer yes to all of these questions. Cause I just did it. Again.

I can remember being twelve years old and wanting to call a girl I was interested in and sitting with my head on the kitchen table and playing out the phone conversation in my head for however long it took me to work up the nerve to call. And, then the inspiration would overcome me, I’d dial the seven digits (pre cellies bitches so you didn’t have to dial the area code every time), I’d hold my breath, and then, here it comes, “Oh, I’m sorry, she’s in the shower. Can I have her call you back?” Seriously? What? Why’d I waste my time? Silly rabbit.

So here I am, eighteen years later, situation is eerily similar. Phone has digits instead of being rotary. There is no chord on this phone. But, I’m still a pussy. I think there may still be a chord attached to my belly button or some shit.

The odd thing is I’ve hung out with this girl several times now. The first time we hung out by ourselves we went to see some live music and we ended up just talking outside the entire time. Literally saw three minutes of total music and that was when we were buying drinks on several occasions. Not sure if it was a date, or if we were just hanging out getting to know each other, not really sure the difference these days. (I’m going to have to ask for clarification from the other party involved.) I went into it thinking it wasn't really a "date" since we didn't know enough about each other, and we really had to get to know each other better for it to be a "date."

The second time I’m pretty sure it was more "date-like" and if it was a date, it was the best second “date” I’ve ever had. Epic. It was awesome. If it wasn't a date, then it was the best second hang out session I've ever had. Epic. It was awesome. (Someday I’ll blog about it, but not right now.) In fact, I had such a good time with her that when I dropped her off I said, and I kid you not, “Thanks for such a good time. This was the second best date, (beat) I mean the best second date I’ve ever been on.”

Did you hear that?

I used the word date in front of a girl.

The “D-word.”

It’s been like four years since I said that and didn’t mean, “Hey, do you know what the date is? The 21st?” Wow. What’s going on here? Crazy. Who am I? And, how did I get so good looking? ;)

I was shocked, and I had a feeling that she was shocked too - judging both by the look on her face, and how quickly she exited the car. But that's okay, it didn't change how much fun we both admittedly had.

I once heard you can only be a pussy for so long and then life forces you to grow up. Actually, I just made that up. And, I am living proof that it’s probably not true.

So, here I am. Thirty-years old, clutching onto the phone, playing out the entire conversation in my head, and then finally, I work up the nerve. I hit send. (She’s in my contact list; Groundswell don’t need to dial her number.) It’s ringing. It’s ringing. It’s her…voicemail. What the fuck? Are you kidding? Jesus (beat, and an octave lower) Christ. The more things change the more things stay the same. I’m in mid-message, stammering over the English language like a drunken zebra, and I hear a noise that lets me know I’m getting a phone call. Hey, look at this. She’s calling me back. Wow. This is an unexpected twist.

The other twist is that she told me on the first time we hung out that she hates it when a guy starts to like her and starts calling her. Haha. Oh, the joys of technology. I’ve been sticking pretty much to text messaging, and keeping the phone calls to a minimum. I think we’re both on the same page, and unsure of this whole “dating” world, and are in no rush to be anywhere where we're not, but we're figuring it out. People always do. Communication is key.

She also told me she had no interest in dating anyone because they tend to get in the way of her friends and her acting. I kid you not. She’s like a female version of me, but instead of the word “friends” and “acting” insert “music.” See, I told you communication was key.

That was of course until she came back from the bathroom break later in the night and the alcohol was kicking in and she told me “well that’s all true, BUT, if the right guy came along….” I’m still working that one out. Sometimes, communication can be confusing, especially when drinking with a beautiful girl.

Where’s my guitar?

So, the phone conversation went well. She said he absolutely would like to hang out again and we were going to hang out on what was, now, this past Friday for my roommate's birthday. Good Italian food and wine - it was a guaranteed good time.

The phone call was quick, painless, and one might even say pleasant. It was, however, entirely different than the one I had played out in my head while lying on my bed. Shocking.

I think the reason the phone is scary is that you can't see the other person's face to get feedback. You have to just believe it's there. When I first talked to her on the phone she had told me that she normally doesn't like to talk on the phone for this exact reason - she can't see the other person's face. I thought this was very astute and made total sense.

But, sometimes, I feel that a phone call is better than text messaging. Maybe I'm old school. Maybe I just like hearing a female voice at the other end of the line. Maybe it's the excitement and adrenaline rush. Maybe it's all of the above. Maybe it's "c." Who really knows. I'm just guessing most of the time when it comes to girls.

The morale of the story (guessing): Grow a pair. Call her. Most girls like zebras, especially when drunk (you can decide if I mean the zebras or the girls).

PS - I talked to her about the whole "d-word" incident this past Friday while we were hanging out again and drinking celebrating my roommate's birthday. Turns out the first time we were just hanging out we were, just as I thought, getting to know each other better, but it was during our conversation that she started to like me. And, me using the “d-word” as we said goodbye after the second time we hung out, totally freaked her out too. She said a wave of anxiety went through her when I said it. Haha. I love it. The two of us are ridiculous, and it makes me laugh. :)

The good news is that when we do hang out it’s always a good time. So why worry about the details? If we're just hanging out or if we're on a "date" doesn't really matter. It's the enjoyment that is important. Fuck the details. That’s what having a day job is for - boring details.

Peace,
Groundswell

"She's Got Legs"

I was at work recently, at a team meeting. There were twenty-five to thirty people there – all of them needed to be there, all of them, except me. I’m a temp worker. I’m enjoying myself. Working with these people is great, they’re all so nice and friendly, but I don’t think this is the position for me. I’ve done stuff like this – 5 years ago – to do it again would be a step back. I moved to California to take steps forward. For the right position, something that would get me my dream job, I would definitely take a step back. Maybe even two. But, not for this job. I was surprised that I was even sent the Outlook invite and listed as required. It’s nice to be included, but in this case I wasn’t sure why.

I showed up for the part. I had a notepad. I had a pen. I had no intention / expectation that I would be using either, but I at least came dressed for the part. It is, after all, Los Angeles.

I took a seat towards the end of the long conference table, next to a new hire, (and new friend). The seat to my right was open, the seat next to that was filled by a supervisor and very nice woman who’s vegan. We started chatting about all things vegan, vegetarian, healthy living, yoga, “Food, Inc,” and other things. Very pleasant conversation. She’s one of the nicest people I work with, and they are ALL super nice.

After a good twenty minutes of chit-chat and settling-in, a beautiful blond takes the seat to my right, and the meeting gets started.

Off to a good start, but as I thought, it has very little to do with me, but it’s fun to be there.

Then, my attention is caught. I’m sitting with my back facing the windows over looking the lot, but I’m looking towards the hallway. My view is through large glass windows, probably ten feet in height, but there is a middle section that is an opaque white color. Above and below the opaque section is a three to four foot section that is see-through glass. The glass runs the entire length of the conference room, which is probably fifty feet long. And it is amazing. Who ever designed this knew exactly what they were doing.

This all hits me as a pair of beautiful female legs saunters the entire length of the conference on display courtesy of a knee-high floral-pattern skirt. These legs are perfect- firm, tanned, long. Judging by the light, airy walk, whoever is walking by seems to be in a good mood, and it’s rubbing off on me. I’m now in a great mood.

And it so happened, it was a beautiful summer-like day in Los Angeles, which meant that dresses and skirts were out like the birds and the bees. For the next hour, I was inundated with a stream of beautiful sets of legs walking by, and it was like art, meets fashion, meets voyeurism. The legs on California females, for the most part, are amazing. Toned, tanned, and long. Accentuated with high heals and a nice flowing skirt, it’s like being in heaven. Faceless, nameless, beautiful legs, and me appreciating every pair, every gate, and every nuance as they walked by on display. I couldn’t have been happier. What a way to start off my day.

(The meeting was great. We are making some real progress hiring people.)

But the second floor of that building is awesome. I need to get myself a job up there, or at the very least, at more conferences in that conference room.

As ZZ Top said, “She’s got legs, and she knows how to use them.”

-Groundswell

"Man Up"

I was disappointed two Fridays ago. I was waiting for a package. A very important package it ‘twas. It was actually my thirtieth birthday present to myself. Technically, my biggest birthday present to myself was getting to LA for my thirtieth birthday. I did, however, feel entitled to get myself something special to mark both the move and the completion of the thirtieth rotation around the sun. This was special. The earth’s orbit is huge. To make it around once is a feat, to make it around thirty times is fucking awesome. I guess that’s why life gets better as you age – you realize it is no small feat surviving. If life was easy, everyone would do it, and do it well. Life, as both you and I know, is anything but easy.

Somewhere around the age of ten, when I lost an arm-wrestling match to a girl, Elissa, who I had a major crush on, I started to detest my birthday. I never felt like celebrating it. It’d tend to be just me and my family and some cold fucking weather. Big deal. I was born. Yea me! My mom probably deserved most of the credit. I was just along for the ride.

When I turned twenty that changed. On my twentieth birthday, I was released from the hospital. I had snapped. The Matt that existed for nineteen previous years was no longer. He died. He didn’t make it out. A new Matt had emerged from the ashes and this is the same voice that is writing the words you’ve been reading. This new Matt appreciated his birth. He understood the significance. The pain that he was born out of; the hurt; the loneliness; the isolation; the depression; the anxiety; the uncertainty. The constant questions of who the fuck am I and what the fuck am I doing here. I know I have a purpose, but how do I live up to it. Death and rebirth.

So physically, I am thirty years old. My new mental birth has me at ten years old. Mental maturity I’m at about fifteen years old. Like I almost have girls figured out, but I still don’t really know what the hell to do when we say goodbye. I’d say that’s about fifteen years old.

I turned twenty-one in South Africa. I had spent the day on the beach with four of my new friends. At night, the fire was raging on Table Mountain. I turned twenty-two and twenty-three in Providence back at Brown with my college friends. I turned twenty-four in Providence as well. Twenty-five, I started my music company. Twenty-six was at a surprise party thrown in Boston by my then girlfriend. Twenty-seven I was with family in Grafton, MA. Twenty-eight, my “golden’ birthday (twenty-eight on the twenty-eight of the month) was celebrated as a new resident of New York City, playing a show live on stage. Twenty-nine was also in NYC, this time more low key. Thirty in Los Angeles.

On the previously mentioned Friday, I went to check the door to make sure my package wasn’t there, and I saw the note left by FedEx. They had attempted to drop the package off at 9:03AM. Are you kidding me? When has FedEx ever tried to drop a package off so early? I was shocked. My whole day had been planned around getting that package. I had a special place picked out to hang it up on the wall. And now I had nothing. I enjoyed the nice weather and looked for a job.

I made sure to take it easy on Friday night. I went to see a country music band in Playa Del Rey. A friend of my roommate’s band was playing. They were up from Austin. My friend Amal was in from NYC and joined us. It was a fun night, a dive bar, a cute girl turning twenty-one and giving me the “gaga” eyes. I said hello. The band was solid.

My alarm went off at 8:55AM. I was up and ready for FedEx this time. No getting by me. Like a kid waiting for Santa Claus, the anticipation was killing me. Then, all of a sudden, my stomach started to signal me that is was time to make room for another day of eating. When mother nature calls, it’s hard to argue. Death and rebirth.

I was reading the Brown Alumni Magazine. It was a beautiful sunny day. The birds were chirping. I was relaxed. All of a sudden a rumbling of an oversized engine disturbed the tranquility. I instinctively knew. FedEx. I peaked my head out the bathroom and saw the FedEx truck come whirling around the corner, the low frequency of the engine drowning out the birds. Fuck, we must live right next to the FedEx distribution plant. I was going to have to cut this bathroom visit short. I mean, I was pretty much done, but I had more to read and still had to clean up. Hustle. Bustle. Rustling of the belt, and I was at the door. Ready and waiting. One knock and the door flung open. Signature signed and the package was mine. Ahh. I love my birthday present to myself.

I took it out of the package and just looked at it. I put it on my bed. I put it on the floor. I put it on my desk. I bided my time. It was early still and I couldn’t rationalize waking my roommate to nail it to the wall. Soon enough I would, but not until 11AM I told myself. I mean if you’re not up at 11AM on Saturday you’re probably hung over, and then you’re going to be sleeping through everything.

When the time did come, I nailed my present to the wall like it was Jesus himself – fast and swift. Straight. Picturesque. Then I just admired it. I wanted to touch it, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It was so pure that I couldn’t taint it with my fingers.

For the next few days, I just found myself mesmerized by it. I think no matter where I am – Heaven or Hell – I’ll look for at this and I’ll think about all the stories I could tell.

I’m looking at it right now. I’m still transfixed. It’s good to be thirty.

Saturday night was spent in Beverly Hills with an old friend and amazing guitarist, J. J is the man. I love him. We just chilled. He’s been in LA for a few months now. He lives with his girlfriend. He’s actually the guitarist who played the majority of lead guitar on “Head.” Some people aspire to be famous and be know by their first name: Madonna, Oprah, Barak. Others are so cool that their first name gets shortened to a letter – J.

I really am glad that J’s here in LA. It’s like having a family member here to hang with, and although he’s super busy, I’m optimistic that we will be able to connect musically again. Because, playing music with J is like having sex with a girl (or whomever you want). It’s hard to explain if you’re not a musician, but that is music at its highpoint – total uninhibited freedom.

On Sunday night, my friend Amal and I went out for some drinks. We stayed local and headed down to the beach for some dinner and drinks. When the karaoke was brought out, we knew it was time for us to change locations. We headed over to Abbot Kinney, a famous Venice locale. really a street with a bunch of shops, restaurants, stores, and bars. We went to a bar that my roommate had introduced me to, the “Other Room.” It is a dark bar. Candles. When alcohol’s thrown in, it’s most certainly a trap where you could wake up the next morning wondering how you got into a situation you might not otherwise have found yourself in if the lighting had been better. Luckily, this is not a story I have to relate.

Instead, I get to tell you a story about how I was advised to never get married and then shown exactly why. Here goes. (All names have been changed.)

Amal and I are drinking a glass of wine and talking. We’re both checking out the scene to see if there is anyone we want to talk to. No.

Then Amal is approached. A tall brunette in a long, flowing, formless dress asks Amal what time the bar closes. He guesses one or two. That is what I told him. That’s it. She’s in. She, Laura, turns out to be a very friendly, married lawyer. She’s waiting for her friends who are outside doing something. Shortly into the conversation, she reveals herself as a flirt. I’m intrigued. I love flirting. I find flirting to be harmless, and at it’s best, intellectually stimulation. Intellectual stimulation is hard to find these days.

Laura is definitely stimulating intellectually. A graduate of a top university in Canada, she’s now a defender of immigrant children who are underrepresented in the legal system. She’s also drinking Prosecco, a sparkling wine.

Her friends finally come in. There are three of them: Ashley, Elsa, and Sasha. Ashley is a tall blonde. She has a beautiful face, and I like her. She’s married. Shocking. Elsa and Sasha are there. I don’t have much more to say about them. They seem nice. They’re single and they’re unattractive. Shocking.

By the luck of the Irish, or because Amal is an amazing wingman, I find myself seated between Ashley and Laura. I’m thinking threesome. We’re talking marriage.

It turns out Laura is “happily” married. Been together with her husband for six years, but there is an undercurrent to what she’s saying. She definitely is thinking about cheating on him. He’s always out of town. She was previously a “slut.” A term she described herself as, but somehow she kept her numbers low, “ten.” I doubt it. I’ve heard that you should multiply a girl’s number by three to get the appropriate number. Thirty seems reasonable. I don’t care either way. I’m just talking, and I’m more attracted to Ashley.

As the night progresses, and Laura moves through more and more Prosecco, she gets more and more drunk. Shocking. As the inebriation gets deeper, she starts to tell me how cute I am, and implores me to not sit so close. I oblige and scoot over laughing. Soon, Laura moves herself across the table as to avoid temptation. I’m okay with this. I start talking to Ashley.

Ashley it turns out is in town from Switzerland visiting. Actually, she came for a weekend. That was three weeks ago. She hates Switzerland and the town where she reside. She loves her husband, but as she says, “Love solves nothing.” Spoken like a veteran of marriage. She’s been married for less than a year.

When it was time for her flight home, she just didn’t show up. I love the balls. She doesn’t want to go back. Her husband is planning to come out for two weeks and check out LA. He has a job interview lined up. Their road is not lit up by lights. They are making their way through this marriage with the lights off, and neither of them knows what to do. I try and empathize. I assure her that I’m not getting married anytime soon. I explain to her about my music and how I’m married to that presently, and my history of relationships that suffered because of my music. I’ve vowed to not make that mistake again. She’s impressed with the maturity. I empathize some more. We have a heart-to-heart because we both know that we’ll never see each other again.

After an unknown amount of time, maybe thirty minutes, Laura comes back and sits next to me. Flirtatious as ever, she’s glad to be back. We have a good time. We laugh we talk about marriage. We talk about infidelity. It turns out she has kissed a guy since she’s been married, but that doesn’t count these days.

Soon the conversation has turned for the ‘worst.’ She wants to make out with me. I can’t do this. I’m too sober and I know she’s just really drunk. I don’t want this on my conscious. Maybe if it was Ashley, but no. I don’t want this.

Laura is not going away easily. She tries to convince me to go to the bathroom with her. I tell her that’s not a good idea. She presses on. She tells me she wants to take me home and sleep with me. That I’m “too damn cute.” I tell her I’m flattered, but that’s not a good idea.

Then comes my favorite part. She tells me I have to “man up.”

“Are you questioning my manhood?” I ask.

She says, “Yes.”

I just start laughing. It has gotten to the point of ridiculousness. Never before have I been implored by a married woman to “man up” because I won’t have an affair with her. Never mind that fact that her three friends are right there and well aware of everything that is going on – their eyes are piercing. One false move and my Linus will be removed. Ridiculous.

It’s decided that it’s time for the to leave. Ashley gives me a kiss on the cheek. I tell her good luck with everything. She says the same.

Laura disappears into the night without saying goodbye. The last thing she did utter to me was “It’s your loss.”

Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t.

I woke up the next morning glad to be in my own bed. I think of Laura and I’m sure that when she wakes up she’ll be glad to be in her own bed too – without me.

I don’t have much time to dwell on this as I have an interview set up with a temp agency that staffs the movie studios. I find that usually temp agencies are a great in when looking for employment. Full-time work is hard to find. Temp work tends to be much easier, especially when your resume is stacked like mine. I’ve been doing some crazy shit to stay afloat for the past few years. My Brown education has been used to the best of my ability while I pursue music. I’ve always enjoyed both the analytical and creative sides of my brain. I’m certainly glad that I still have these skills when looking for a job.

As it turns out, the temp agency has two positions but they’re both HR related and I don’t have that experience. Or so the recruiter thought. I then explain to her that while in NY I read twelve thousand plus resumes over a fourth month period for a hedge fund. She implores me to put that on my resume before I leave. I do. They send it over to the studio.

I get home and my phone rings. The studio is interested. They’ll be calling me in an hour. Ten minutes later, the studio is giving me a ten-minute phone interview.

I find out during lunch with Amal that the studio wants me. I’m excited, but the pay is dismal.

I have to think about it. Amal lends his thoughts.

While at lunch on the Venice boardwalk, the girl to our right catches our eye. It turns out she’s a cute, corn-fed girl from Kansas. She’s in town with a “friend” to see her sister who lives here. We chat on and off throughout the end of the meal. Very casual. She’s wide-eyed and looks star struck when she talks. It’s pretty awesome.

At one point, Amal leans over and asks if there are any good places to go out at night. She says she doesn’t know, but asks her sister. Her sister gives us some info, but we know most of it. Amal then decides it’s time to divulge some more information. He tells them that we are looking for a younger hangout, since the previous night was very much “cougar” centric. They laugh and understand.

We continue to eat our meals. I finish mine and Amal and I are talking. In the midst of our conversation, I notice that the girls’ “friend” who has had her back to us the whole time is actually more than a friend – she’s older – she’s their mother. The light goes off. I start to chuckle to myself thinking about Amal’s cougar comment.

A few minutes later the mother figure is off to the bathroom. Amal covers his mouth and leans in towards me and says, “I think that’s their mother.” I start laughing. I say, “I know. I figured it out a few minutes ago.”

Amal plays it cool because that is exactly what he is. A straight shooter from Texas, and Shehan’s brother (the UT alumnus from the road trip), Amal is at ease with people. He’s in sales. He works on deals worth millions of dollars for a large technology company. Saying that we had a “cougar” centric night in front of a mother is nothing he hasn’t dealt with before.

We later excuse ourselves. Tell the ladies to enjoy the trip and walk back into the beautiful eighty-degree weather. It’s a picture perfect day, and we’re in LA. Life is good.

I decide to take the job. I figure the pay is the one knock against it. The positives are many.

They want me to start the next day, Tuesday. I tell them I can’t. I have a meeting in the morning that is too important.

I wake up on Tuesday morning. It’s seven o’clock. I’m groggy. It’s early. I fire up my computer. I brush my teeth. I throw on a skull-cap to cover my bed head. I’m not showering. I’m supposed to be in the valley at 9:30AM. Traffic may be brutal. I’m supposed to leave early. I open up my Internet browser and click on yahoo. First thing I see is the headline “4.4 magnitude earthquake strikes southern California.” Downtown LA is pictured. I click on the link to find more details. It turns out at four o’clock in the morning, ten miles east of downtown Los Angeles there was a mild earthquake felt throughout the San Ferdinando valley all the way to Santa Monica and Venice. I slept through it. I’m a deep sleeper. I’ll find out when I get home that my roommate woke up during the quake. Exciting shit. Kind of. Well a little nerve wracking. The article points out that it may be a precursor for a larger even. I don’t like that line. Let’s hope not.

The traffic on the 405 is gentle. Nothing bad going North. South is a different beast. Luckily, I’m not heading south for a few hours.

I show up to the rendezvous early, but that’s okay. I’m the nobody at this meeting. I’m meeting up with a very talented engineer and producer who has won Grammy’s and worked on mixing Nirvana records. I’ve done pretty much nothing musically that compares. When he does show, it’s good to see him again. I had met him seven years prior when I was interning in LA with a small music company. He was recording a session. The music industry was just about to begin its collapse. I still remember it was the first time I ever had seen an iPod. Had only I known.

Our meeting is cordial. We catch up. We laugh. His business partner shows up because my producer contact forgot his credit card at home. His partner is a nice guy from South Carolina. They’ve got some great stories about driving cross-country, and how cocaine may or may not help you stay awake.

They inform me that I did not ‘drive cross-country,” but rather took a vacation across country. I find it hard to argue.

It turns out, that my producer contact is more interested in the business side of my resume than anything music related. He has some interesting ideas as to how to make money, and not too surprisingly, they don’t consider music in the sense anyone over ten years of age thinks about music. As he says, “Nobody’s making money in music. I mean nobody.” I’m intrigued by his ideas. Disappointed by the state of the music industry. It’s tough to watch your love die in front of you and not be able to do anything. I guess this is life teach me another lesson. All things die. Enjoy them while they last.

I was hoping to become a studio rat, but I can always do that at a later point. I leave the meeting with some homework assignments and optimism that maybe we can form a relationship that is symbiotic. We both make money. I help him out. He helps me out. I’m still working on my homework assignment.

The next day I’m up early. It’s time to drive to the movie studio lot. I’m ironing my shirt. I’m putting on a tie. It’s been a long time. There’s something soothing about ironing. It brings me back to being a kid when I’d be eating breakfast and I’d watch my mom or my dad iron a shirt while the kitchen was bustling with life. It’s funny how those things only exist in my mind – much of my life is spent by myself now. I’m three thousand miles from my family. We’re all older now. They all have their lives. I’m starting mine. The bustling kitchens are like the receding tide – they may come back sometime, but they won’t be the same. The surroundings will have changed. The players will be different. The feeling may be reminiscent. But who really knows. I know I like to iron.

It’s exciting to be at the studio. The people are really nice. I’m totally over dressed. At one point, one of the experienced members of the HR staff tells me, “Don’t ever wear a tie again.” I laugh, but can tell he’s serious. I’m glad. I don’t like wearing ties.

The work I’ll be doing isn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I’m okay with that. It’ll keep me occupied. I’ll meet people. After four years of working from home, it’ll be nice to interact with people in person. The HR staff is all amazingly friendly and laid back. I like it.

Lunchtime is my favorite. There are a few bustling eateries with lots of cute girls running around. I can imagine that for full-time employees it’s a great place to meet people. I feel more like a fly on the wall. I’m observing everything while I eat my lunch.

I usually eat it with the other temp and the intern that I know. They’re both nice girls. We get along. We all come from vastly different backgrounds, but we’re all their learning.

I like when I’m done eating and I get to walk around the lot. It’s fun to see everyone doing his or her thing. The stages are more like airplane hangers. They’re huge. We’re not allowed to go on them, but we can walk by them. You can feel the history. The legends who were once there. On the tour that I was given, they talk about Marilyn Monroe changing in front of the windows and the tunnels JFK used to prowl on his way to meet her. I’ve heard stories like this before when I was in Washington, D.C. Seems like JFK spent a lot of time in tunnels.

I feel at home on the lot. I feel like I walk differently. I feel like I’m somebody there.

The studio may not know it. It turns out they spelt my name wrong. They spelled it “Mathew.” I think it’s funny. I am going to keep it when my assignment’s over so that when I am ‘somebody’ I can show people that. We all have to start somewhere.

I’ve started in the HR department on the Lott.

Oh shit, that's where my missing 't' is.