.:Colter:.

In January of 2004, I went to the old Gateway store on Chenal Parkway in Little Rock to purchase my first digital camera. Having no idea what my needs were, and with about as much experience taking pictures as your average 11-year old, I chose the camera that was easiest to conceal and carry.[1]

I bought a Minolta DiMAGE X. Over the last almost 4 years, I’ve taken the camera across 33 states and two foreign countries. It’s responsible for nearly all the 1,624 pictures I’ve uploaded to Flickr.[2] Here is the first batch I ever took.

I knew this day was coming soon. It’s been on its last legs, losing screw after screw to the point where I can physically separate most of the chassis. The last time I took some videos, the screen went wonky, but it was temporary. Today, though, as I was trying to switch to video mode to catch a leaf-and-trash tornado in Ft. Green, the screen went blank and the camera could not be resuscitated.

Goodbye, trusty sidekick.

1.) Apparently this trend has continued over the years, as I’m now seeing digital cameras that are roughly the size and thickness of a credit card.
2.) Not to mention the 6,304 pictures I haven’t.

So I found a new place and moved in on Tuesday. It’s a townhouse with a family (mother, father, 11-year old daughter[1]), and I get the top floor, consisting of a large bedroom, bathroom and smallish study. The building is part of an entire block of historic buildings, 18th century revivalist style, with lots of trees and ivy and charm. The neighbors all know each other, and it’s generally an oasis of small-town life in the middle of bustling Brooklyn.

On Friday my old roommate emailed me to say that my replacement bailed out on her.

I hadn’t signed a lease or anything at the new place, and it’s such a great place that I’m sure they’ll have no trouble finding a new tenant. So I moved back on Saturday.

Sheesh. Fortunately I don’t have a lot of stuff, but it’s still a pain in the ass making 12-odd trips up and down the steps to the 3rd floor. And the worst part: driving a rental truck through Brooklyn. The first move was a van, so that wasn’t so bad, but yesterday it was a big truck. The last time I drove one of those things, I scraped my neighbor’s front bumper, so I have a phobia about that sort of thing.

It had to be done. Back here in Red Hook, I’m saving $300 in rent every month, and the commute to my new job is about 20 minutes compared to 40 at the other place. Plus it’s “my neighborhood” and I was already starting to miss it[2]. I don’t have to change my address, nor do I have to stress out my already-stressed-out roommate.

It’s good to be home.

1.) She was cool. She’s an actress who had a small part in BAM’s MacBeth with Patrick Stewart.
2.) I’d miss my $10 Cuban haircuts.

OK I think it’s as official as it’s going to get…

It’s amazing how this town can change the path of your life in under 48 hours. But once again the puzzle pieces have fallen together and the course of my life has laid itself out for me.

Technically it all started three weeks ago in Arkansas when the recruiter who got me my first job called about an interview he wanted to send me on. I hadn’t heard from the guy in a few months, so I figured why not? I had originally intended to drive back to New York to pack up my stuff and move back, but for a potential job, I thought I should fly (which then led to flying out of Kansas City so mom and I could see Tina Turner, another fortuitous alignment of planets). I didn’t make it back in time to even go on the interview, as the position was filled before I arrived. Oh well.

Fast forward another week to last Thursday morning. It began like any other day; I made coffee and watched the previous night’s Daily Show. The phone rang. It was a different recruiter I’d tried over the summer. I thought I had deactivated my resume from their system, so this was another surprise. They had an interview they wanted to send me on, and when would I be available? I said any time, so they said how about 3pm at #3 World Financial Center[1]. AmericanExpress.com

I went to the interview and had a good time. The position sounds like it won’t be as intensive as my last one, it’s an internal team, a 35-40 hour work week, and only a bit less than I was previously making. And I’m mostly taking over some responsibilities from my supervisor, so she’ll always be around for questions and training. It’s a one-year contract, so I’ll have the option to leave at the end if I so desire.

All I’m waiting for are results of the drug test I took on Monday. They say I should start Wednesday of next week.

Life moves pretty fast.

Complicating things somewhat is my roommate’s replacement, who is already on her way from Seattle for a November 1st move-in. Since it’s far easier for me to look for a new place than for her, I’ve been hitting the bricks. I sent out an email to my NY friends and got a call back from Tom, offering a room at his house in New Jersey, so that’s my fallback plan. It would be super-cool to hang with him - he’s a keyboardist extraordinaire, Spiraling rehearses there, and there’s a big vintage piano in the living room. Sadly it’s in Piscataway, meaning I’d need to have my vehicle to get to the NJ train, and then take a monster commute every day to the World Trade Center. It sounds like it would be a lot of work, but might be worthwhile. In the mean time, I’m in search of a Brooklyn residence. I vented my weeklong frustration last night when I wrote this fake ad for Craig’s List.

1.) It’s the one with the pyramid on top.

I’m back safe in Brooklyn, after a long day spent waiting on mechanical problems in Kansas City and running through the airport in Cincinnati. I made my connection with 5 minutes to spare. To my utter amazement, my checked duffel bag made it from plane to plane in the 10 minutes it took me to run from concourse A to B in Cincinnati. They have a magic that I do not pretend to comprehend. I completely expected to wait for hours at JFK for my bag to come on a later flight, but no. Not only did it arrive safely with me, but I must have waited a grand total of 2 minutes to retrieve it from the baggage claim.

It was a long week. Fortunately I had a wide variety of activities to cheer me up:

• Friday I went to the new stadium at Harrison High School to see a football game with my sister.
• Saturday I was able to attend a reception for my friend Kevin and his new wife.
• Also Saturday I went to the Boone County Fair with my nephew Austin.
• Wednesday I went to see Tina Turner in Kansas City with my mom

That last experience was a pleasant surprise. Mom bought her tickets on a lark and was having doubts about being able to do a mid-week show with a 4-hour drive. So I offered to go with her and do some of the driving, and fly out from Kansas City. The show was tremendous. I had no idea that a 68 year old woman could deliver those songs, in all those costumes (yes, a Thunderdome re-enactment was staged with full dress), and in high heels. It may be the best arena rock show I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen the Rolling Stones, Aerosmith, Van Halen, Nine Inch Nails and KISS.

So I was given plenty of distraction from the fact that an old friend is gone. Thanks to all who left comments and who emailed me. It was great to see all the folks I haven’t seen in many years.

I need to collect these here so that I don’t forget them all.

Kerri Long reminded me this morning of the time in 3rd or 4th grade when David got in trouble at lunch for pretending to snort powdered sugar off his piece of cake. I think he got a paddling, and had to write an essay on the dangers of drugs.

I think it was at Crawdad Days or some other festive occasion at the square, David, Laura Brightwell and I actually managed to win a firehose tug of war. There was a prize of some kind but we never got it. I only just now realized that my cohorts were both children of firemen. Perhaps our performance was not so meritorious after all.

Sleepovers at David’s meant sandwiches at Coursey’s next door. Free chips and sodas, too. Most of my early memories of David smell like smoked meats.

I heard License to Ill by the Beastie Boys for the first time at David’s house.

In 2004, I remember going out on David’s boat. The water on the river turned out to be really low, so David had to get out and push. Here’s a picture. And just to embarrass him more, another.

I think it’s fitting that Paul Newman has now passed away. David reminds me a lot of Newman in Cool Hand Luke: the most likely guy to eat fifty eggs for no other reason than fifty seemed like a nice round number.

It started with a text message from Emily Neal: “Please call me. I need to talk to you.” I was in lower Manhattan, a few blocks from Ground Zero. I found a quiet spot in a park to call her back. Then I heard the words, “David is dead.”

They’re still just words to me. They sit like a block of concrete poised above my head, suspended by apparently very strong dental floss that will, I’m sure, snap at any moment. Fortunately not before I endured the longest, most cramped ride on the F train I’ve yet experienced in my 9 months as a New Yorker. So I’ll continue to write in the strange clarity that imminent grief provides.

David was a magnificent jackass. He had a charm that I always appreciated, even if few others seemed to. There was a certain Corey Feldman-esque flavor to him[1]. My fondest recollections of him usually involve us getting into trouble in some form or fashion, like the time Mrs. Smith held us in from recess after we made too much noise playing a game in class. We kind of lost touch during junior high and high school, but we maintained that special bond that two people have when they’ve broken rules together. As Stephen King says in Stand By Me: “I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve.”

We were reunited just a few years ago at our high school reunion when we discovered we’d both been living in Little Rock for some time. So I’d go out to his place in Maumelle to hang out every few months. He or Emily would cook dinner and we’d play dominoes (the man was a kung-fu domino player) or just visit. After their son Cooper was born, I looked forward to being another adopted uncle, and in the back of my mind pictured my future children hanging out with wacky uncle David.

But that’s not the way it’s going to go down. I think this will clinch my decision, though, to return to Arkansas. I was thinking I’d be back in November anyway, but now I definitely want to be available to Emily and Cooper for whatever they might need. This little New York adventure will have been bookended by death. It began with my grandfather and ended with my best friend from 3rd grade. At least I filled up the space.

1.) Which then made me Corey Haim. Or more accurately, Sean Astin. We were the Goonies of Boone County.

For the last week I’ve been driving around New England in a rental car, just exploring the northeast. I’ve been to Providence, Cape Cod, Boston, Portland, various points in New Hampshire and Vermont, and Philadelphia so far. Some destinations were of historical importance (Walden Pond, Sleepy Hollow Cemetary), but most were completely random (Woodstock, Vermont). Here are the lessons I’ve learned:

• The roads in and around Boston and Philadelphia actually make less sense and are more frustrating than New York. NY streets are generally grid-like, whereas Philly and Boston are all triangle patterns and medieval-narrow widths. Trying to get from Berklee College of Music to Fenway Park only a few blocks away, was a Griswoldian nightmare of urban circumnavigation. Also, the suburbs feature parkways that give you no place to turn around, and that are so shrouded in shrubbery that you have no idea if a given exit has an underpass or not. You don’t know what will happen. I drove for 15 minutes down a highway before I took a chance on an overpass.
• Massachusetts apparently has laws against gas nozzle latches. So you have to hold the thing the whole time. This actually sucks worse than New Jersey where you’re not allowed to pump your own gas at all.
• Maps of Massachusetts show a “Walden Pond” deep inside an impenetrable fortress of residential streets in the town of Lynn. Needless to say, this is not the Walden Pond you’re looking for. It’s near Concord, which you’d know if you bothered to look it up.
• Moose collisions are a legitimate threat to your vehicular safety in Maine. Mind you, moose collisions kan be pretti nasti.
• Vermont is a lot like northern Arkansas if every town were like Eureka Springs. Seriously I never once saw a vehicle on blocks, major appliances in a yard, or anything that wasn’t disturbingly picturesque. The entire state is like a watercolor painting, or the set of Gilmore Girls.

More observations as they come to me. I should have written this stuff down earlier but the days have been packed. I’m still not sure what to do with the remainder of the week until the car is due back. I think tomorrow I’ll go up to the Catskills and see what happens.

Oh, and I’d also like to give big ups to Red Roof Inns for having THE most comfortable hotel bed I think I’ve ever slept in. And kudos to the desk clerk who gave me the “all-in” upgrade (king size bed plus free wi-fi) despite my expired AAA card, which made the night only slightly more expensive than the Motel 6’s that have thus far anchored my travels.

August is on its way down. I’ve been here almost 8 months. I’ve gotten a good job and given it up, I’ve explored the city and gone down every road that has caught my attention. I’ve seen shows and hung out with great folks. Yet I’m still not feeling it. I just don’t (yet?) see myself living here for more than a year. I haven’t warmed to New York the way I did to London. I was there for three months, the first few weeks of which were defined by an overriding desire to leave, while the remainder by abiding affection. Part of the reason I chose to try New York was its cultural resemblance to London. So far it hasn’t delivered.

I’m not saying I’m ready to bail, but I’m having a hard time right now envisioning a life here. Even if I found a really good job, I’m already getting tired of…the experience? Here is the short list of complaints:

1. The summer heat. It’s not as bad as Arkansas, but you have to walk around in it. A lot. Plus stuffy hot subway platforms are like dirty, dirty saunas.
2. Grocery shopping is an ordeal. Going to Target even more so.
3. The food isn’t that great. This town loves its comfort food, so the only good stuff is the gourmet stuff, which is prohibitively expensive. Everything cheap is mostly crap. There isn’t a lot of middle ground. When I do find the best food (tastiness at a reasonable price), there is the problem of mileage. I have to cross Manhattan into Tribeca when I want some Vietnamese fried rice as good as Lily’s in LR. And Barbecue? Forget it, unless you want to go all the way up to Harlem[1] to eat at Dinosaur. Which is still only just OK.
4. The pizza comes in two styles: generic NY slice and authentic Italian. That’s a narrow spectrum for me, coming from Little Rock’s wide spectrum of Vino’s, Damgoode Pies, US Pizza, and Shotgun Dan’s. Don’t get me wrong; I’d eat at DiFara’s weekly if I could, but it’s way out in Midwood and takes an hour to prep.
5. I don’t think I could ever play music here. Getting my amp to any gig without a vehicle is going to be either expensive or physically taxing. And even my favorite musicians, the guys who impress me most in the area, are disheartened by the impossibility of making a living as an original band in this town. Compound that with the fact that actually getting a gig here is made difficult enough by all the other people who came here to play music.

That last one reminds me. It seems like there are only 4 reasons to live in New York City:

1. You’re very good at something and you want to do it here with all the other people who are good at something.
2. You want to be famous for doing something you may or may not be good at.
3. You want to be here to observe and/or interact with Groups 1 and 2.
4. Your family is here.

At the end of the day, I think I’m really just a #3. Sure there are things I’m good at, but I don’t think I’m good enough at them to make it worth my while to stay here. Especially since I don’t know what my while is worth. Plus the volumes of #2’s seem to outweigh the population of #1’s by a factor of about 20.

And this is something I’ve been mulling over lately: The New York Celebrity-City Effect. New York City is, in itself, a celebrity. Coming here is like meeting someone famous, and I’d wager that a significant portion of those #2’s are here so that they can see themselves in their minds’ eyes as having New York for their own mental movie backdrop. A quick glance at the top movies of all time shows that New York outpaces Los Angeles as a film setting by almost 2 to 1. NYC is a character all its own[2], providing backdrops for films from such diverse sources as Woody Allen and Spider-Man[3]. That’s the magic of it. But that magic seems to have less spark these days. The artistic community has been all but shoved out of Manhattan by exorbitant rents, with the exception of Harlem, but give it time. Ironically, the cleaning up of the crime here has made nearly every portion of Manhattan a haven almost exclusively for the splendidly wealthy. And Brooklyn is already well on its way down the same path.

It also seems like a lot of people (the #3’s perhaps) move here so that they can have the status of saying “I live in New York City,” to their friends back home, as though simply by relocating they’ve achieved something. Moving here isn’t any harder or easier than moving to Detroit or Pittsburgh or Philadelphia. Yet given the number of expatriate Arkansans here, I have to suspect that a lot of people move here for the sake of saying they’ve moved here. New York City is indeed a place of wonder, and I have to admit it does really feel like you’re advancing to a second or third act in your own personal screenplay, but a change of venue isn’t guaranteed to make your life any more or less interesting or fulfilling. At best you get to see more music and art, but when it comes to things that are really important - being creative, having friends and loved ones, enjoying life - these are things you can do anywhere.

So, I came here for the same reason mountain climbers do what they do: “because it’s there.” Now that I know what’s here…maybe I need more time to find the magic, but at this point I think I’ll most likely be back in Arkansas before the year is out. But who knows.

1.) A distance Elizabeth and I lovingly referred to as “Fayetteville” because that’s how long it takes to get there (or here from there) by train.
2.) Los Angeles is too decentralized and homogenous to have any real identity of its own to captivate an audience the way New York does.
3.) And let’s face it, Metropolis and Gotham City are essentially New York stunt doubles.

I’ve got two music reviews in the Arkansas Times this week, as well as two blog entries over at The Deli, a New York music magazine. The Deli is starting me on blog entries before assigning me stuff for their print version. I wrote short bits on Beau Jennings and Shannon McArdle.

For the Times, I reviewed the new CDs by Isaac Alexander and Hayes Carll. It was weird to review Hayes. He and I played together once at Hendrix College in a theatre production my freshman year. It was called “Unchanging Love,” an old-timey tale with lots of songs. Hayes and I were the musicians, sitting off to the side of the stage with our guitars, cranking out the tunes. I’m glad to see he’s doing well with his music career; he was a nice guy. As a music nerd I heartily applaud his choice of producer on the record, Brad Jones. I think I’m one of the only people in the world with a copy of Brad’s only solo CD, Gilt Flake.

We’ve moved! We’re now located at the slightly less verbose address of pointedstick.net/colter rather than pointedstick.net/colter/journal. The last remnants of the Old Republic have been swept away. Adjust your RSS feeds, links and whatnot. My thanks to Heath for his script fu and ill science.