The Cloud vs. Mixes, or "Get Off My Lawn: Music Edition"

From: Rebecca Ferraro

To: Matt Kasznel

Subject: The Cloud vs. Mixes

So, I've been meaning to get to you about this article I read in the September 8, 2014 issue of The New Yorker. It's called "The Classical Cloud" by Alex Ross. He/she (I don't freaking know) was talking about rearranging CDs and how sad it is that they are becoming obsolete. 

Some quotes:

"The tide has turned against the collector of recordings, not to mention the collector of books: what was once known as building a library is now considered hoarding. One is expected to banish all clutter and consume culture in a gleaming, empty room."

"If I were a music-obsessed teenager today, I would probably be revelling in this endless feast [of cloud/Spotify/online music], and dismissing the complaints of curmudgeons. No longer would I need to prop a tape recorder next to a transistor radio in order to capture [a song]."

Kids don't know what they're missing. I LOVED doing that. And seriously, if you have ever made or received a mix tape you understand the absurd amount of time that goes into perfectly timing not only the flow of the songs but also the time on each side to provide continuum to the second and not cut a song off. 

Additionally, songs played on Spotify only grant the artist "two hundredths of a cent" for each play of the most popular track. As more people subscribe to Spotify, they have promised the pay will go up, in what Ross calls a chilly "if you give us dominance, we will be more generous" proposition. 

Thoughts on any or all of the above?

From: Matt Kasznel

To: Rebecca Ferraro

Thoughts - Alex Ross is a man, not a woman.

Oh, the rest of it? Okay.

I never really used cassette tapes to make mixes - I wasn't exactly a big music fan until middle school, when CD-writing disc drives starting becoming the norm in desktop computers.

But I loved the challenge of trying to distill a single band, moment in life, or gift into 80 minutes. It's much harder to pick an hour's worth of songs to give someone than it is to dump 10 gigs of MP3's.

Mix tapes have given way to mix CDs, which gave way to iTunes playlists, which have now given way to Spotify and Pandora radio stations. It used to be "I like you, here's this mix of 8-10 songs I made you," or "If you really like Pink Floyd, here's a tape of songs you might like." Now, everyone has an unlimited quantity of tunes at their disposal at all times. There's no longer a need to be selective in acquiring songs. I'm as guilty of this as anyone - hey, Google's got a free Ariana Grande CD? It's mine! I don't even know anything about her, but I have it now.

Theoretically, more options should lead to people finding more good songs and more good bands coming to the forefront, but it never works like that. Bands get drowned out by the options. It's the same reason not everyone is a genius or a walking encyclopedia even though we all have access to literally all human knowledge via the Internet.

From: Rebecca

To: Matt

I get that. I feel that it's a loss though. There's something inherently missing from today's society in that it's depriving people the struggle and pleasure of trying to parse through an entire library of songs to select the ones that flow just right and convey just the right message for one particular person. A mix is a unique thing. One I would make for you is different than one I would make for my sister, Alex, Jenna, or even Ki. There's a message behind each, a way of saying "I get you. I know what you're into. These bands sound like you." 

A playlist is easy. Take every song in your library, add it to a list, and share.  No thought, no struggle. It's my biggest issue with today in general: there are wayyyy too many options for EVERYTHING. Be selective, make a decision, and commit. A slightly tangential point but one I feel is true nonetheless.

Music: Why We Like What We Do

From: Rebecca Ferraro

To: Matt Kasznel

Re: Music

So, I just walked 3.5 miles to Starbucks so I could get an internet connection and write this email to you. I was left with two realizations when I arrived. 

1) It is absurd that my household is still without internet in mid-late 2014. 

2) There are A LOT of hills in Pittsburgh. A fair portion of my journey was uphill, and these hills are steep. Like, it took me between 10 and 12 minutes to crest the top of one. 

Thank goodness for Coheed singing me through my journey. 

Anyway. So we talked about music, and our need to compare everything we hear to other bands. You mentioned the new Gaslight album only being a comparison in your mind to other artists-- I can empathize with this, as every time I hear them I think of Bruce Springsteen. 

Your question to me was then "Is this the fault of the artist for only putting out derivative stuff, or the limitations of people who listen, since we can only compare it to stuff we already know?" 

I have a question to throw back at you: Why do we bother compare music to anything at all? Why can't we just listen to it and appreciate it as is? 

But honestly, when was the last time you heard anything NEW and truly original-sounding? 

We discussed the Madden Brothers tune "We Are Done" being an oldies, "Age of Aquarius"-esque bit of music, you mentioned the potential originality of the latest Arctic Monkeys album, and how Enter Shikari is original to some degree only in that the band combines two distinct genres that have been done but meshes them together. 

The Beatles = revolutionary. 

You said Van Halen's lead guitar was amazing but not groundbreaking. Paul Simon and Nirvana were tossed around-- Nirvana definitely world-shattering for the time (see the book "Love is a Mix Tape") and that Foo Fighters essentially rode the wave of emo-tending modern rock (although good Lord, does anyone do this better than Dave Grohl?). 

In response to my offering of Lana del Rey, you determined that she owes Florence Welsh an apology. I brought up Green Day, who potentially did the punk-pop-rock thing before anyone else, but you determined that it had a lot to do with the Sex Pistols and the Ramones. And even dear Florence isn't alone because she brings in the orchestral sound that bands of the '90s already did ("Bittersweet Symphony", anyone?), although after hearing "Heavy in Your Arms" when it first came out, before Flo was even a big deal, I thought "This chick has one hell of a voice" and I stand by that opinion.

I said I had relevant things to contribute to this discussion. I was sitting at the table reading "The New Yorker" this morning and eating my Raisin Bran (how OLD am I?!?!) and I stumbled across an article called "Cross Country: Nashville expands its range" with a caricature of Luke Bryan and Eric Church. I was JUST in Nashville a week ago and I enjoy the musical talents of both of these artists, so I perused the article.

It at least reassured me that the "our" in "our need to compare music" is a general one and not limited to us and our group. The article was discussing how general and relatable country music is and how it has these overarching themes, such as "finger-picked guitar arpeggios that sound more like Dire Straits'" and that Church's song "Outsiders" off of the album of the same name "feels more like 'We Will Rock You' than like Johnny Cash." There are references to instrumental breaks sounding like Yes, and a crescendo/bridge adhering to a style Metallica would gladly claim (although isn't the idea of Metallica doing anything gladly kind of amusing? I got a chuckle out of this mental image).

The entire album is likened to Pink Floyd. Meanwhile, Luke Bryan is compared to the beachy feel of Kenny Chesney and one of his newer tunes, "Roller Coaster", is apparently diverse enough to be a pop hit for the likes of One Direction, Pink!, or Bruno Mars. 

The moral of the story is that it seems to be the norm for us to compare our musical tastes against one another and try to find the common ground, the reason that we are so drawn to it. The music you listen to is essentially an audible definition of who we are as individuals-- it represents us and what we like to listen to at varying phases of our lives. Finding the thread among them that ties them all together is a way of discovering ourselves.

From: Matt Kasznel

To: Rebecca Ferraro

First off, I think I had to have been drunk if I said Van Halen wasn’t groundbreaking. I mean, Christ.

Second, to answer your question: the comparisons are less for us than for other people.

I know, for example, that the Hold Steady is an awesome band. Musical preferences are generally opinions, but I can say unequivocally, and without fear of contradiction, that they are a fantastic band, and your tastes are clearly warped and unreliable if you disagree. (He says tongue planted firmly in cheek)

It may be a challenge to explain to you exactly why they are awesome, though, without finding, as you said, that common thread. I could say, for example, that they play classic rock, but my God, that opens up a silo full of cans of worms. Blues rock, like Aerosmith or the Stones? Theatrical prog rock like Styx or Zeppelin? Arena rock? Punk rock? And if it’s blues rock, then what kind? Boogie? Garage rock? Southern garage rock with a touch of the psychedelic? THE COLORS DUKE, THE COLORS

So just saying “classic rock” is not a goo representation of the band, nor does it let you know what you’re getting into if you pick up their CD, as your definition of “classic rock” could be miles from mine. Or, I could say, “Oh, they’re a lot heavier on licks than groove, but still reliant on the 12 bar boogie with a hint of…” and watch your eyes roll into the back of your head. Nobody knows what any of that means, nor do they give a shit. It’s nonsense.

But if I tell you, “They’re like George Thorogood and Bruce Springsteen with a super literary singer,” that’s a pretty clear picture right there. “Hey, I like Bruce. I’m okay with George Thorogood. This could be interesting.” Or, “Hey, I hate Bruce and I’m terrified by George Thorogood’s teeth. ABANDON SHIP.” Either way, you know what to expect now.

I think that’s why Pandora Radio is so popular. “Based on your previous selections…” is the music genome version of “Hey, I saw you had the new Big D and the Kids Table CD in your car. You should check out…”

So I guess my answer is, it definitely says more about us than the artists. Sure, every time a band or singer wants to re-brand themselves, they start pumping out names of famous “influences” in press releases and interviews. (Remember when Brandon Flowers suddenly become a HUGE Bruce fan just a year or so after the Killers were still trying to be Duran Duran?) But it’s only because they know we’ll respond to it.

From: Rebecca

To: Matt

I completely agree with everything you said. I mean, maybe except the Van Halen part. I don't think the band is untalented or anything, I just don't like them as much as...lots of other bands. 

Anyway. I feel like this is a good time to bring up the fact that we are talking about actual music versus, say, some of the nonsense that's pumped to the masses these days via Top 40 radio. Could I continue this thread by comparing Ke$ha to slaughtered cats? Justin Beiber? "He sounds like your 8 year old niece... with better jewelry" and you could hear that, right?

One question though: You said they start spewing other names because they know we'll respond to it. HOW do they know? And WHY do we respond to it? What is it that makes us go through these radical changes in what types of music we find preferential to others?

From: Matt

To: Rebecca

Don't be so mean to slaughtered cats...or your eight-year-old niece.

Maybe they describe their own music in terms of other bands because that's what they used to do before they became "serious musicians" and starting defining music by modes and time signatures instead of "yo dude, get a load of that SICK breakdown, bro!" It's a populist view.

I think I've also figured out what causes our changes in music over time. You know, besides maturity and trends and the whole "our generation's music was better than this generation's music" thing (South Park did a whole episode on it). I think it's time.

Yesterday, I was listening to the first two episodes of this new radio show Serial, a This American Life spinoff that's taking a deeper dive into a 15-year-old murder case over the course of 10 episodes (at least this season). The case revolves around two high school students who dated for a few months before splitting up. The girl was found dead a few months after the breakup, and the ex-boyfriend, correctly or not, was found guilty of the killing.

While the show's host and retroactive investigative reporter, Sarah Koenig, put together the story of the two young lovers, she came across diary entries reflecting not only how intensely the two felt for each other, but also the dark, angst-ridden side of adolescence. As the school's English teacher said, it was difficult to determine whether the boy, Anand, had a legitimately concerning "dark side" because "all teenagers had that sort of side to them."

I remember that part of it myself - sure, I liked some poppy, joyful tunes, but it was way more satisfying listening to brooding, morose alternative rock. If I was born in the later 60s or early 70s, I guarantee you I'd have grown up with at least three Robert Smith posters in my room.

Is it because teenagers lack perspective of the physical and emotional changes they're experiencing? Sure. But I think it's also related to how much time you have to stew inside your own head. As I've grown older, I've had far less time to toss and turn over "feelings" with the added responsibilities of college, employment, bills, etc. If I have too much time to myself, though, I'll occasionally gravitate back to the real-life simulators that are my subconscious, endocrine, and exocrine systems.

(I differentiate "feelings" from actual feelings. "Feelings" are what happens when an otherwise ordinary individual starts jumping to conclusions the way Pat Soltano does in Silver Linings Playbook)

I think that's why we start to enjoy more straightforward lyrics and tunes as we grow older. We don't have the time to parse a Nirvana song six ways to Sunday anymore. Just let Bruce or Paul Westerberg tell you what you want to hear.

From: Rebecca

To: Matt

SO TRUE.

I was actually thinking of that the other day, apropos of nothing. I know my musical tastes have changed. Not like I listened to garbage before and now I'm listening to the GOOD stuff, man. But I definitely went from really dark grungy stuff and a lot of whining emo to more upbeat, Belle & Sebastian type stuff or more straight-forward Gaslight stuff. 

I am a busy person, as is almost anyone over the age of 18. I have memories of being an OLSHer, wrapping myself up in a hoodie, and lying outside at night either in the grass, on the porch swing, or on the hood of my mum's '98 Sunfire and listening to a new album in my portable CD player. I would focus on nothing else, letting the music wash over me and dissecting the lyrics while I stared at the stars. "Hamburg Song" by Keane was so lonely and broken it made me cry. Seriously. I listened to angry girl music a la Paramore and applied the lyrics to my current situations.

Now I listen to music while studying for the GRE or while I'm running or driving or drying my hair (the only comfortable time to sing along (at least SOME things don't change)). There's not a lot of time to dissect or even learn lyrics when your mind is mostly somewhere else. Very few songs these days do I know every word to. I feel like I'm missing out on something elemental though. The music was made to be listened to, and I feel like now we're kind of just hearing it.

I sort of wonder if Romeo and Juliet would have been so quick to act if 1) they weren't teenagers and 2) they had some grunge to mellow out to. "Un Giorgno per Noi" isn't exactly emo.

Will Somebody Please Drink This Sprite?

Sprite

Seriously, guys, somebody please drink this Sprite. Sprite gives me a headache, but I bought it for a party, and there's one left, and it's been there for months, and nobody will just put it out of its goddamn misery.

Drink it, mix it with something, whip it at a passing child, I don't care. Just dispose of this lemon-lime thorn in my side. I can't even look at it anymore. Simply knowing it's in the house is driving me to the brink of insanity.

Reward: $100,000, or let's be honest, whatever you want. Ever wanted me to write a song/blog post/300-page novel about balsa wood? Or how much I love Nazis? How about turning myself in to the feds as the second JFK shooter? Here's your big chance, and all you have to do is consume a day's worth of sugar in one caffeine-free sitting. Do it for me.

Damn it all.

*resumes banging head against wall*

Ziggin' and Zaggin' with the Heart of a Lion: Local MMA Fighter Prepared to Win Match July 12

Ziggin' and Zaggin' with the Heart of a Lion: 

Local MMA Fighter Prepared to Win Match July 12

by Rebecca L. Ferraro

Zach "Zig Zag" Forrester

On Steubenville Pike, bordering the line between Oakdale and Imperial, is a little MMA apparel store attached to the Fort Pitt Bar called Out of the Cage. The store, which doubles as an MMA gym, is where Zach “Zig Zag” Forrester has been training for his upcoming fight on July 12, 2014.

           On June 29, a mere two weeks before his eleventh combat competition, Zach, 26, an Imperial native, practices sparring with John Miller, Bobby “The Bug” Mader, and Out of the Cage owner and coach Drew Lyscik. Zach leaps and dances around the red gym mats, bobbing and weaving with his brother and sparring partner John Miller, 25, before giving him a taunting smile. Zach is constantly in motion, moving his feet in maze-like patterns that make it evident where the nickname “Zig Zag” comes from.

“It’s about speed, the way I move,” he grins. “I bounce around like a rabbit, I don’t know if you noticed.”

            Zach, Bobby, John, and Drew trade off between sparring and grappling with each other on the mat or sitting on the sidelines coaching. While actual fights have 3 three-minute rounds, these practice rounds run at five minutes to build endurance.

            Zach is playful in spite of the 89 degree gym and the four thermal shirts he’s wearing to shed any excess water weight. He’s turning cartwheels and somersaults in between sparring, and manages to stay humble and good-natured to the compliments and teasing that his fellow fighters pepper him with alternately.

“Hey, make sure you write down that his nose is easy to hit!” Bobby yells, turning his face away from Zach for a moment—just long enough for Zach to leap on Bobby as lithe as a spider monkey. Drew reminds Zach that nobody fights quite like Bobby, and that coupled with the extreme size advantage Bobby has will culminate in Zach being a better, more prepared fighter.

From left to right: Bobby Mader, Zach Forrester, Drew Lyscik, and John Miller. 

Drew, with his signature seriousness and crossed arms, shares his confidence in Zach’s ability to win the upcoming fight.

         “I have never trained nor trained with anyone who puts in more effort than Zach. He is definitely one of the toughest up and coming fighters in the city,” he said.

Zach’s been into fighting since the first UFC fight he saw piqued his interest and continued to watch them into adulthood.

“Aw man, it was way back in the day, Don Frye versus the Shamrock. Don Frye used to just go out and swing like crazy and knock people out. He wasn’t afraid and just went brawling,” he said.

After that, he spent a good portion of his childhood watching the fights and was really influenced by Jens Pulver, primarily because of the obstacles he overcame to be a fighter. Pulver had a childhood that he referred to as a living hell, primarily because of his abusive alcoholic father. The underdog story hit home with Zach, who admitted that his home life growing up wasn’t always the greatest, but adds that he and his family counted on their grandmother to brighten things up. “Being there [at her house] just made things better,” he says, his brown eyes completely sincere.

 In spite of growing up watching MMA fights, it wasn’t something Zach considered doing until Bobby encouraged him to join. Bobby, John, and Zach have been close since childhood and that’s how, in 2011, Zach found himself training as a fighter, initially just to lose weight. However, at the beginning of this year, Zach saw Drew setting up Out of the Cage and learned that it was going to be a store and a gym. “I’ll be back when you open,” he had said to Drew, and he was. Now he’s down 30 pounds to 145, and will be fighting in the Bantamweight category at 5’7”, 135 pounds.

Zach grappling with Bobby at Out of the Cage

Since he’s been at Out of the Cage, he admits that while the hardest part is making sure that he comes in every Sunday through Thursday for two hours, he’s having a positive experience training there.

“It builds confidence and it’s a good get-away. Say you’re having a bad day. You leave here smiling,” Zach says. “There are good people to help you out and believe in you. It’s always nice to have someone like that on your side. Ain’t nothing like sparring with your brothers, and I got three brothers—Bobby, Allen [Bennett], and John,” he added, referring to his brother and two fighters from OTC.

In addition to a rigorous training regime including wrestling, boxing, jiu-jitsu, muay Thai, and cardio, he has been focused on eating healthy-- primarily berries, chicken breast, and lots of vegetables.

          “I’m eating healthy but when I’m not training, it’s milk and cookies all night every night. Put this down—oh my God, Oreos, chocolate chips, Nutter Butters…the peanut butter ones are my favorite!” He looks off just enough to make it apparent he’s dreaming of peanut butter cookies, then shifts his weight and gets serious.

 “I feel better than I have in a long time,” he shares. “I feel confident, not cocky, and I’ve been training harder than I ever have.” 

Bobby, Zach, Drew, and John at Out of the Cage

Zach acknowledges his opponent Cortland Woodard as a “tough kid” from the Pittsburgh Fight Club. He’s looking forward to walking out to greet his adversary to the bass-heavy Queen classic “Another One Bites the Dust” decked out in red, white, and black DuoMachy Fight Gear emblazoned with Out of the Cage and Kick ‘n’ Butts Vape Pals, his sponsors. Most likely, he’ll be sporting a red Mohawk to match his gear, similar to that of his favorite fighter Dan Hardy.

“I feel like it makes me a little tougher,” he laughs unpretentiously. “You look good, you feel good, you do good.” He adds that he is a man with the heart of a lion, completely fearless in the ring.

When asked what his best move is, Zach contemplates for a moment and then smiles sheepishly, unable to determine just one.

“I’d say my best move is my jab, left hook, or spinning heel kick."

His what?

 “Spinning heel kick. I can kick a dime in mid-air. Probably need about three tries.”

            He proceeded to demonstrate this, successfully, in three tries.

Zach and Bobby grappling at OTC

His ultimate goal as a fighter is to fight at Bellator (an MMA competition founded in 2008), something he feels “would be awesome.” Although he is a promising young fighter now, Zach already has plans for the future, when his fighting days are over. He plans to open up his own gym and wants to coach, especially kids.

His advice to any aspiring fighters? For this, he doesn’t miss a beat.

“Listen to your coach, train hard, and show up to the gym,” Zach says, smiling widely.

Tickets for Zach’s fight are available at Out of the Cage (7780 Steubenville Pike) for $40 each. The fight takes place on July 12, 2014, at 7:00pm at the South Pointe Iceoplex in Canonsburg. 

 

Taking Off

(Editor's note: I wrote this about 9 days ago on my flight out to Ireland. I'm posting it now because it's my blog and not yours and I make the rules and you should just shut up. There'll be something else coming later this week)

The first thought I had taking off was, “Wow, I haven’t been on a plane in a while.”

The second, somewhat more morbid thought, was, “Wow, we could all crash into the ocean and die. Oh shit.”

The third was, “How am I gonna sleep now?”

Welcome to my brain for the first twenty minutes of our flight to Ireland.

My brother is studying abroad in Norwich, England, and my mother used this as a good excuse to finally take a family vacation to Europe. It was me, my mother and grandmother, all crammed into coach on my first ever cross-continental flight.

I’ve never been to Europe. Never been outside North America, either. Hell, aside from a two-day portion of a family road trip that took us to Canada’s side of Niagra Falls when I was 12, I have yet to set foot outside the land of the free and the home of the 70-ounce slurpee. My exposure to foreign culture essentially boils down to the “Foods of the World” part of Epcot and the part of the South Park movie where Cartman sings about Kyle’s mom in different languages.

I had a couple chances. In high school, I was slated to travel to Germany for American Music Abroad with the school symphonic band (TUBAS ON TOUR, BITCH). But the fund my mom and I had to get me there instead went towards the repair of my mother’s friend’s new car, which I smacked into while whipping out of my parking spot on the way to a basketball game. I also had a chance to study aboard in Ireland my final semester of college, but passed so I could be the sports editor of my college newspaper instead. I figured this would be a better choice in my pursuit of a journalism career and would aid me in my job search after college. As you may know, that’s going pretty well so far.

 So when my mom suggested we visit my brother, I decided I couldn’t push it off any more. Everyone who has more maturity and life experience keeps telling me to travel while I’m young, because it only gets more difficult and more expensive. Therefore, before I decide to settle down, start a family, and breed a dozen children like a good Catholic, I had to go.

I’m not afraid of flying. I’ve been on short flights between Philadelphia and Pittsburgh and longer flights from Atlanta to Vegas. The mere act of going through security, boarding the giant, metal bird and watching us rise off the ground from a window seat usually doesn’t bother me.

But for some reason, I got spooked this time. Maybe it was because it’s been a few years since I’ve had to fly. I travel by car most of the time now. Renting a car and driving where I need to go is usually the same price or cheaper than taking the skies, and it gives me more freedom when I get to my destination. My friends don’t have to taxi me around, and I’m not a slave to public transportation, which I find to be unreliable, uncomfortable, and usually far more expensive than something unreliable and uncomfortable should be. (Otherwise, I have no thoughts on public transportation)

Maybe it was the delay. One of the runways was closed for construction, so our takeoff time was pushed back about an hour and a half, enough time for me to watch nearly three-quarters of the movie “In a World…” from my seat. Enough time to realize how fucking spoiled rotten I am to be watching a move in an airplane while I also have a laptop, iPod and books with me to keep me entertained. This is why the terrorists hate us.

But I’m going with the third option – we’re flying over an ocean holy crap oh my God.

Subliminally, the missing Malaysian Airlines flight and the images of Captain Sullenberger’s downed aircraft could have been tugging at my psyche, but even still, there’s something downright eerie about flying over the ocean at night. Where do we land in case of an emergency? Are we gonna have time to whip around and hit the Caribbean or Greenland or Iceland or an aircraft carrier the back of a whale or something? What if Kareem Abdul-Jabbar is our captain? Has he learned since last time?

At moments like this, my mind doesn’t consider that transatlantic flights happen every day without a hitch, the same way my mind didn’t consider that thousands of people stand on the reinforced glass ledge out over the edge of the Willis Tower in Chicago the day I staggered out onto it, swearing like a sailor in fear around a couple dozen kids and their parents.

And I have to sleep now? With the time change, our flight’s going to land at 7 AM, at which point I need to be awake and relatively alert to help navigate to our inn. I have about three hours until then. At most, I’ll probably sleep for 45 minutes. I can’t sleep on planes or moving vehicles. I’ve tried several times. It doesn’t work. My back tightens and clenches like an angry man’s fist while sitting upright, and I can’t get comfortable enough, so my best bet is to at least get something productive done.

Of course, now I’m complaining about not being able to sleep on our state-of-the-art aircraft where I’m about to be offered dinner and a drink while watching “American Hustle” out of the corner of my eye and tapping away at my laptop. So it goes.

I saw a video recently of two elderly Dutch women flying for the first time in their lives. For one reason or another, they’d never had any reason to board a plane until a pair of online filmmakers taped them on a first-class flight to Madrid. The women marveled at the takeoff, the turbulence, and the amazing view. When they landed, one called her husband and began sobbing in joy as she recounted the experience.

That kind of amazement still exists. And it’s moments like that I try to remember when I get perturbed by minor inconveniences. Yeah, maybe I can’t sleep well, but I can’t sleep well on this enormous steel contraption that’s going to get me from the east coast of the United States to the west coast of Ireland in a hundredth of the time it took a few hundred years ago. And if I’m tired, it will be a minor hiccup on the trip of a lifetime.

I Don't Want to Change the World, I Don't Want the World to Change Me

“So, why are we here? What do you guys think?”

We were about an hour away from Delaware when my esteemed co-blogger, from her perch in the backseat, whipped out the unanswerable question that has flummoxed philosophers and potheads alike since the beginning of time. It was Monday night, and the three of us (me, Rebecca and my girlfriend Jenna) were over the 1500-mile mark near the conclusion of our five-day trek through New England.

In five days, we’d spent at least 25 hours in the car, sweeping through the Northeast in search of some deep story or coming-of-age tale, something that would fulfill every liberal arts major’s insatiable desire to write a Big Important Story that Has An Affecting Message, all while Seeing the World and Meeting People. It was frankly surprising it took until the final leg of our journey for our conversations to take a turn for the metaphysical.

Jenna and I were silent for a few seconds. I repeated the question, then the two of us made some cracks about how “lighthearted” and “frivolous” the question was, then we all chuckled, and then we set to work solving the world’s problems.

Our trip was hatched when Rebecca texted me a few months ago suggesting we go on a Bill Bryson-esque trip through New England. We talked about it a little more, discussing how we drive around the woods and the harbors, sleep in our car, interview complete strangers about their life stories and write a book or an essay or a blog post or a This American Life segment. It was the quintessential “Stuff White People Like” entry.

I filed it away under “One of Those Plans You Talk About All the Time, But Never See to Fruition for Practicality’s Sake.” (My filing system sucks) After all, there was the time, and the money, and the method of transportation, and the company we’d keep, and the lodging (or lack thereof), and the fact that, let’s be honest, talking to random strangers sucks.

Hey, you! Sorry to bother you and keep you from doing your job or getting to where you’re trying to go. You’ve never met me and have no possible reason to trust me. Can you please speak into this iPhone for three minutes while I ask you intensely personal questions and write down your every word? Did I mention we don’t know what we’re going to use this for and it has just as much a chance of winding up in an actual publication as I do of owning a Rolls-Royce ever? Hello? Hey, where’re you going?...

A long, brutal winter will set your imagination running, though, and in the midst of a half-dozen snowstorms that kept me bottled up inside for even more of the season than usual, I needed something to look forward to. I started plotting out some cities and sites on the map, one thing led to another, and long story short, I’m now the premier of Newfoundland as we prepare for unsanctioned naval combat with Greenland.

Ah wait…hold on, I’m mixing up my “memoir” notes and my “science fiction” notes. Give me a second. Okay, we’re good now.

I sent a planned route to Rebecca, who approved. I asked Jenna if she was interested in taking off of work to join two idealistic liberal arts students looking to play roving novelist for a few days (and see a few sights). She agreed. Finding a fourth person, preferably a dude, to come along for the trip, balance out the testosterone-to-estrogen ratio and keep Rebecca from a half-week-long stay in the Third Wheel Suite, proved fruitless, but we were already too deep in the process to turn back.

We planned copious amounts of sightseeing on our trip, from the 9/11 memorial to Yale’s campus, from the Athenaeum Library to the House of Seven Gables, from Boston Common to a storm-deluged wharf in Maine, from the Rockwell Museum to ESPN and the Basketball Hall of Fame. All the way, we read magazines, traded stories, listened to hours of music (my personal favorite was the streak of classic metal we hit as we drove through the mountains of Vermont and New Hampshire), and consumed enough sodium to keep our bodies from producing it for months on end.

We employed a multitude of time-killing devices on our way, from games straight out of the family vacation playbook (pointing out every single Prius we saw on the road – had to have been at least a hundred) to the stuff of more stir-crazy individuals (saying the word “snacks” in a rising and falling voice mostly reserved for “ooohing” at a kindergartener’s macaroni diorama, and laughing like goddamn idiots every time we did). We chatted up tour guides and hotel employees and gas station attendants, including one particularly bubbly convenience store fellow in Maine who originally thought I said I was from New York ("I've got a cousin that lives out in Buffalo!"), then realized I'd said "Newark" instead ("Hey, my brother lives down there! Works in construction!").

The whole time, though, there was always the nagging voice in my head reminding me, “Hey, dumbass, get to work on this book or pamphlet or sonnet or whatever the hell it is.”

Some person in Salem loves her knick knacks...er, chotchkies...er...whatever they are

I’ve tried to illustrate many times before on this blog my desire to go back into writing or broadcasting, though a combination of my own life choices and job scarcity have held such desires at bay. This was my big chance. Maybe we’d meet some extraordinary street musician, or an old shop owner with stories as long as his beard, or a woman who treated her menial work like a daily challenge to improve the world. Maybe, in the process, we’d find some single, unifying theme tethering them all together, and maybe we’d learn a little bit about ourselves…and the world. (Pause here to look up at the sky wistfully and observe a shooting star)

In fact, we met each one of those people on our trip. We talked to each one. And we gleaned next to nothing from them.

Rebecca talked to a hotel breakfast server in Coventry named Rose about the happiest moment in her life; Rose responded with stories about nearly everything that ever happened to her ever. We tried to pry a story out of the aging owner of a going-out-of-business bookstore in Salem, who made it clear from the outset that the happiest moment of his life would be whenever the three of us would shut up, buy something (“75 percent off,” he’d advise each patron on their way through the door) and get the hell out of his store. We asked a rainbow-clad Boston Common street musician about his five-drum, dozen-whistle…thing on wheels that he played, but he seemed preoccupied by a few aspiring documentarians who apparently had the same idea we did, only they had cameras and a boom mic and we had an iPhone and a bag of souvenirs from Quincy Market.

Three strikes, you’re out. Thanks for playing. That doesn't event count the sole visible employee of a Salem "witch/wizard" souvenir shop who insisted that Salem was not, in fact, a "town," as I'd so erroneously considered it before - which I guess means that the handful of potted plants we have sitting on our kitchen windowsill constitutes a "garden," too.

This all could be viewed as a slight against the people we “interviewed,” but it truly isn’t. As my old journalism professor Dr. Dillon reminded us regularly, “Write the story you found, not the story you set out to write.” We simply set out with round holes and only found square pegs to put in them. 

Or, more likely, it may be interpreted as a slight against us. We set out with the intention to write another tome in the long line of travel memoirs and testimonials and instead put more effort into seeking out the world’s largest chocolate moose (no, that’s the right spelling, jerk), or places to use the bathroom.  Great enterprising journalism there, losers.

So, at least in my mind, we were returning to base camp with plenty of stories, but no story. Nothing I’d turn in to a publisher or editor with any intention of even an inch of their publication being devoted to it, at least.

Still, I felt fully accomplished, like I’d achieved some sort of secret goal.  I couldn’t quite articulate why, though, until the drive home. It started with some comment Jenna made about Chris Christie, and continued into a discussion ranging from student loans to Obamacare to the housing market.

Then, Rebecca’s voice abruptly replaced our political discussion with a more philosophical one.

“So, why are we here?”

Cue the pause. Cue the mood-lightening jokes and the chuckles. Cue the “deep” discussion.

We bounced ideas off each other for an hour trying to solve the question we, like most other humans, are woefully unqualified to answer (particularly given the amount of aspartame we…okay, I, had ingested in the past five days). I thought that people often see their purpose in life as some sort of massive undertaking, a macro objective that will somehow outlive their relatively small amount of time on earth, which isn’t right for everyone – at least not right away. I proposed we were all little specks, bouncing off all the other specks in life, and, depending on when or at what trajectory we hit each other, we sent each other spinning in some other direction, pinging our way to some cosmic finish line. Then I pantomimed smoking a joint, because I can't make any remotely serious point without making a dumb joke.

“Maybe everyone should be looking at things in more of a micro way,” Rebecca suggested. “Make the lives of their friends and family and loved ones better, make a difference that way.”

Then, I got it. I think we all got it.

When I was 20, I was sure I knew everything about life based on a few economics classes and the fact I could book a flight by myself without borrowing my mom’s credit card. At 24, I’ve never been more aware of how little I know. We may all have the potential to change the world, but we only elect one president every eight years, which doesn’t leave a whole lot of chances for everyone to get a turn. More than likely, most folks’ innate desire to make a lasting impact in the world is going to be somewhere in the realm of “home and school board member” or “guy responsible for bringing the doughnuts into the office on Fridays.” This isn’t demeaning, it’s simply realistic, and it’s not a bad thing.

There’s still some small chance I’ll solve world hunger or cure cancer or become Pope. I’m not ruling it out – I look good in white. For the time being, I’m happy to start with my little microsphere, by spending five days traveling the east coast with my girlfriend and one of my best friends, seeing some of the most notable landmarks and natural beauties with two people I love and growing closer together as a group each day – for reasons that range from deep to dumb (snaaAAAAAAcks). We chatted with a few strangers who weren't pleased to see us, but a few people, like Rose or the gas station store clerk, were. We may not have changed the world or inspired a generation, but we made our own little world, the little balls we bounced off of, a little bit happier.

I’ve got the rest of my life to figure out the “change the world” thing. At the very least, I can always just get a Prius.