You Shall Know Google by its Trail of Dead

Sean Gallagher at Ars Technica on Google’s acquisition of Sparrow:

Like most Sparrow users, the news caught me off-guard; the application had recently been updated in Apple’s App Store, and the latest version had widened its performance lead on Apple’s Mail.app and other Mac OS mail software. But the update turned out to be a final act instead of a prelude to something bigger—and the bow was an undisclosed payday for Leca and Kima Ventures, the French venture capital team that originally backed the company. This is the sort of exit that’s become common to software and Web companies in the current economy, where the only way to get the big payout is to be acquired by a Google, or a Facebook, a Microsoft or an Apple.

I use Sparrow on my desktop and iOS. I absolutely love the application. Sparrow makes email bearable for me, so this is naturally disappointing news.

It’s hard to fault Dom Leca and the Sparrow development team for making the choice to sell out, just as it’s hard to question the decision of Instagram brass to be absorbed into Facebook. What’s disturbing to me, though, is the unstable user environment created by such acquisitions.

I expect such developments when dealing in free apps and lottery ticket business models. It’s harder to stomach when it happens to a shop generating healthy revenue under a viable business strategy. No one saw this one coming.

When you’re hungry, make fire.

For three weeks, my family has been living without a kitchen. We are in the middle of a complete remodel that involves taking the walls down to the studs and the floors down to their joists. This project not only impacts our kitchen, but also the adjacent dining room. The heart of our home has been rendered unusable. While progress is being made, it is slow due to the complicated nature of many moving parts.

The kitchen, when complete, will be wonderful. In the interim, though, we are living with a refrigerator in our family room and our dining set — with all associated plates, glasses and kitchen supplies — filling our guest room. Our family routine has been eradicated and we have become very resourceful when it comes to preparing food and sharing family meals.

In a way, I feel like we’ve been camping in our own home. We don’t want to succumb to the unhealthy lure of convenience sold by TV dinners and fast food, so we’ve meticulously been planning our meals to fit our busy schedules. We’ve gotten creative with ingredients and resorted to an outside grill to cook mostly everything.

If it’s raining at dinner time, I cook in the downpour and try to notice each falling drop as it strikes me.

Living without normal modern amenities, however temporary, is a healthy wake-up call. Sometimes I think we become numb to the concept of convenience. Hot? Turn on the A.C. Need a gallon milk? Jump in the car and drive a few miles to the store. Need directions? Google it on the go. These are the times in which we live.

Technology promises progress, and with that comes convenience. But when technology and convenience are removed from the equation, we are left with same problems — problems that can be equally answered using lowest-common-denominator solutions. Sometimes the answer is so simple.

When you’re hungry, make fire.

Thoughts of My Father

I’m up early on this Father’s Day. The house is quiet with sleep and the rising sun is starting to cast sharp shadows in my back yard. It is peaceful.

In a matter of minutes, my son will likely rise and be excited to begin our day together, a day that will see a range of activities from fishing to laser tag. My thoughts in this quiet moment, however, fall not on my own experience of fatherhood, but rather on memories of my father.

This is my second Father’s Day without dad. While I think about him every day, certain days are harder than others. Birthdays and holidays are persistent reminders, but today — a day dedicated to the special love of a father — has come to be the hardest for me.

My dad was the kind of guy who would do anything for a friend or member of the family. He was so funny and playful, and had a good time no matter what he was doing. He was a random gift-giver, some amazing and impactful (my first guitar at the age of eight) and others slightly missing the mark (Christmas 1995: the frilly pirate shirt).

Dad was always looking to help. He would spend hours at the drop of a hat helping me fix something in my house or teaching me a useful skill that would get me out of a jam down the road. He built crazy things — lo-fi inventions — that served a purpose no commercial product could provide. He was a life hacker before there were life hackers.

My father also taught me about honesty and respect. He showed me through his actions the importance of hard work and always telling the truth, even if the truth was unpopular. Later in life, we fell on opposite sides of the political spectrum and our debates taught me how to have spirited conversations with the people who don’t agree.

He was able to singularly occupy that unique space of teacher, mentor and friend.

Dad was one-of-a-kind. And while he is dearly missed, I’ll take this day to reflect on these fond thoughts of my time with him. I’ll tell my son all about him and share some of my favorite memories.

Even though he’s gone, dad still guides me. When I find myself in uncertain situations I catch myself thinking, “What would dad do?”

That eternal guidance is the trait of someone special. Knowing this, I will continue to push forward (that’s what he would do) and work tirelessly toward becoming half the man he was.

The Nova Scotia Summer

I remember it being dark. Not eyes-closed dark, but complete absence-of-light dark. And cold. The unforgiving brisk that only the Nova Scotia summer can deliver. The pre-dawn chill cut straight through my coat down to my shaky, scattered bones.

We gathered in clouds of breath and the blinding glow of headlights as we prepared for our ascent. We were all here — some rested after an early night to bed, some having never slept, others the victims of that 4am in-between state of asleep and awake. The not-so-nuclear family. I had sick-to-my-stomach nerves, but I tried keep cool.

Sometimes letting go is harder than hanging on.

As we caravanned the winding stretch of road the passengers remained silent. Words were somehow not appropriate. Out of place, if anything. Memories instead filled the van with a web of thoughts words could never penetrate. The road winded and stretched upward to the cavernous hole that was the night sky. We were getting closer.

Up and up we rode until the trees got small and the lavender air became so pure it took my breath away. The night had almost expired. We didn’t have much time. Hurried and tentative, we found our place facing east. Eyes on the emerging horizon.

At first sight of the distant ribbon of light, my brother and I, forever bonded by our duty, stepped forward and released two souls back into the universe. This was their wish.

As the minutes passed, the sun raced toward us with furious velocity. It sprinted across the water and jumped the shoreline with reckless abandon. When it hit the mountain’s base I felt the wind shift toward our tearing cheeks. The line of demarcation grew closer and the brilliant angles of light met our tired eyes head-on.

The wind now took my breath away. Blinding bursts shot across the east-facing cliff like wartime bullets of hate. But there was no hate here. We became enveloped in the new day’s light, a blanket of bright comfort to strengthen us for the days and years to come.

As we emerged, we found ourselves in a place calm. A place of peace. A place of acceptance. There were no more tears. There were no more thoughts of sadness. There was only love.

Sweet, beautiful, warming love.

The Nest

It’s early and I’m still half-asleep. I’m in the midst of my morning coffee protocol when I suddenly catch movement out of the corner of my eye. A brown blur with a crest of red, she moves in fits and bursts delicately forming a bowl of earth and straw outside my window.

The days have just gotten longer and we are approaching our dodge with the sun. She is preparing; she is making a home.

Days pass and I watch her create this nest. Every now and then, she’ll catch me peeking out the window and stop for a moment. Our eyes lock and then release with an unspoken agreement that neither wishes the other harm. She is meticulous, as many mothers are with matters of the family. She works tirelessly for the future, flying nameless random patterns in search of material to craft her bed.

They’re coming. I can feel it.

I awake the next morning to find some additions to the nest. Three ocean-tinted, speckled, chalky eggs have arrived overnight. The mother is proud, there’s no question. In an instant she’s gone from scavenger of building supplies, to protector of her fragile packages. She settles in and incubates.

For several days, the mother stays with her eggs. A trait of protection, she only leaves for seconds at a time. The weather has also turned cold. She has become the furnace.

Each morning, coffee in hand, I peer out the window to see if our new flock has arrived. And each morning the mother sits in silence. She eyes me with the same look my mother used to have. “Patience,” she conveys. Just when I thought the shells were in penetrable and void of life, I notice new movement in the nest.

The first egg has hatched. With beak inverted toward the sky, the new chick greets the world with an open mouth. She is hungry for her first meal and anxious for her siblings to join her. The mother is absent, but only for a moment until she returns with some nourishment for the babe.

I almost consider taking the day off from work to watch the other two eggs hatch, but several meetings are scheduled so I have to leave. Several times that day, in those very meetings, I catch myself wondering if the triad is complete. When I arrive home that night, I find it to be.

Three perfectly fragile baby chicks. They were all beak and full of cute.

The next couple of days pass and the chicks grow slightly bigger with each sunrise and cup of morning coffee. As they get stronger, their chirping grows louder. They are now fully capable of elevating their heads above the nest. The peek left and right, but ultimately end up back in the all-too-familiar position of beaks in the air, mother providing. When she isn’t feeding, she continues to warm the home.

As the chicks grow, I imagine watching as they emerge from the nest with fresh feathers and take that unpredictable leap into flight. I imagine them soaring with beaky smiles and playing like flying children would.

But that would never be the case.

I’m not sure how many days it was after the chicks arrived that I came home from work to find the nest disheveled and disturbed. No chicks. No mother. There had been an incident. There had been a struggle.

“Hello? Mr. Inscho? There’s been an accident.”

I won’t let myself imagine or consider the circumstances that took the chicks away from this world, just as I can’t dwell on the darkness in areas of my past that are filled with loss and despair.

Sometimes life has plans other than our own intentions. We are only passengers.

What I will do, though, is hold close the way our eyes met during those first few days and the connection we experienced in those quiet morning moments. I’ll cherish the opportunity to be a part of this mother’s dedication to her family and I will forever remember my vision of them flying off into the powder blue sky.

We Are All For Sale

If we learn one thing from the Facebook – Instagram merger, it should be that we are all for sale and there is no such thing as FREE. These services we use every day are not free services. When we do not directly pay for a service with real money, we pay for it with our data. We pay for it when we broadcast our location, social graph and our status updates.

In the case of yesterday’s acquisition, we are the product being sold.

Facebookization of the masses has caused a morphing of social norms where sharing has become the default. This is obvious to many, but it doesn’t have to be the reality. In order for real change to take place, the curtain of “free service culture” must be lifted through a tipping point of user awareness.

Let’s Break It Down

We are all for sale. Just yesterday, I and 30 million other users were sold for about $33.00 each – a brilliant move for the Instagram folks. Regardless of whether or not this was a smart and strategic business move for Facebook, the reality is this: The images, location data and platform activity of all current and future Instagram users now have a new owner. This new owner happens to be a company I do not personally trust. Therefore, my user account and data are no more.

Maybe you’re completely comfortable with this acquisition. Maybe you don’t care. That’s fine, but you should at least be aware of what’s happening with your data. Often times, the concept of faux-free overshadows the reality that these services are profiting from our activity. While it is the nature of our times and it’s not going away, it should be out in the open.

High profile deals like the Facebook/Instagram acquisition can help with awareness, but with payoffs north of nine zeros they can also create an environment of copycat strategies. How many social startups now have the goal of becoming the next Instagram?

A Plea to Developers

I loved Instagram. The application lived in prominence on my Home Screen. I wrote about how it supplanted the native camera on my phone and I would have happily paid for the service. I’d wager a good portion of the user base, in some capacity, would have as well.

Developers of the next Instagram: please give users the opportunity to directly support your service by paying for it! Please take our money! Please have a sustainable business plan, or better yet, a platform philosophy!

Some platforms are doing it and it’s working. Look at Pinboard. Look at 500pixels. Look at Instapaper. All thriving with a paying user base. It’s time for us, as empowered users of technology, to start following the money.

The Instagram team would have been foolish to turn down a billion dollars. People play the Mega Millions for a reason. They play for a chance to win big. And winning big is a very rare occurrence. Facebook offer removed, Instagram could have leveraged their active user base to earn millions of dollars year over year had they pursued a sustainable revenue stream.

A lottery ticket is not a sustainable business practice.

In Praise of an Amateur Approach

There was a time in my life when I aspired for expertise and the notoriety that came along with it. Early on in my career, I read lots of books about best practices (whatever that term means); I attended professional development workshops led by marketing experts who shared tips, techniques and best practices (there’s that term again); and I worked tirelessly toward developing a knowledge base I hoped one day would lead others to describe me as an expert in my field.

As I look back, these goals were extremely misguided. My efforts payed off, though, and the phone started ringing off the hook with invitations to speak about my work. I traveled far and wide to conferences and universities and meet-ups, waxing technological along my way to becoming a sharer of practices, best or otherwise.

This was all well and good until I realized what really made my work special and why people wanted to hear about it. Quite simply, I was not the expert people thought I was and the projects I created were not templated best-practices. Rather, they were playful experiments that valued humans over technology and meaningful connections over metrics.

In the early days of participatory and/or social media, there were no experts (and I would argue there still aren’t). We were all flying by the seats of our pants in an exciting, reckless and lawless wild west now known as the Internet. I was lucky to be one of a small group of rogue non-profit technologists who formed a kind of professional collective, regularly swapping war stories about projects that worked out well, in addition to projects that ultimately crashed and burned. This neo-collaborative environment fostered a freedom to experiment in a space without limitations. It was extremely conducive to producing uniquely creative work.

We ignored marketing metrics and built initiatives that flew in the face of the newly emerging, self-inflicted gurus. On paper, the projects shouldn’t have been effective, but they were. We were operating in new territory — one that had no textbook, let alone textbook author.

Upon realizing I was no expert and the projects garnering most attention were essentially public experiments, I became extremely conflicted wearing the costume of an expert. Who was I to speak authoritatively about these emerging technologies?

Asking myself hard, inward looking questions caused my professional world-view to change overnight. I stopped accepting offers to speak about my projects, in favor of sharing my experiences with those who have specific questions. To this day, I’ll happily discuss my work with people who are interested or readers who email, but I will never again put myself in a situation that delineates between expert and non-expert. I’m happy to forever consider myself an experimenting amateur.

There is something to be said for approaching one’s work from the perspective of an amateur. They operate with curiosity, openness, and an undeniable aire of possibility. There are no limits to their creativity and ingenuity is engrained within them. Amateurs participate in activities for the simple joy of doing so, not for a paycheck. They ignore rules and are not intimidated by failure.

Just consider the progress that has emerged from ignoring rules and popular conventions. We would be without innovations like Post-It Notes, Corn Flakes, the Pace Maker, Penicillin and countless others were it not for free experimentation and happy accidents. I don’t place my work on the same pedestal that these developments stand upon, but I do feel the best projects are those that force us to adapt to new paradigms and think differently about our environment.

Experts, on the other hand, thrive on stable existence. They live inside convention, measurement, regulations and best practices. With respect to technology, experts believe their methodology is the stuff of authority — a prescription for replicated success — which is rarely the case and often times not.

I think it’s important to differentiate between a lack of expertise and a lack of desire for information. These could not be more different. While amateurs do not possess unparalleled expertise in a subject, their thirst for knowledge about the subject cannot be easily quenched. To an amateur, there is always something more to learn.

In my personal practice, I continue to employ an amateur approach. It’s why I hash out crazy ideas like this here on the site. It’s why I only work with partners who embrace this philosophy. It’s why I admire other people making crazy unique work in the space and invite them to be guests on the podcast each week. I want to know more. I want to grow as an artist. I want to soak it all in. While not an expert at anything, I am hungry for experimentation and greedy for the fantastic.

And that’s enough for me.

Smaller. Slower. Less.

Bigger, better, faster, more. These are the benefits technology promises us. They are promises of the future. A commitment toward progress.

Larger hard drives with ever-growing capacity appear in shiny new devices at every turn of the product cycle. Information flows at a rate that makes many feel as if they are wrapping their mouth around the end of a fire hose. We celebrates excess at a level never before experienced in western culture.

Our television screens have more surface area than our dining room tables. We walk around with pocket-sized personal computers that provide unlimited information at our fingertips, yet we no longer remember phone numbers. And thanks to GPS navigation, we have no idea where we’re headed until we’re well on our way.

Bigger, better, faster, more.

We suffer from elephantiasis of advancement. And we continuously crave even more. More friends. More disk space. More followers. More apps. More page views. More “Likes.” More pixels. More channels. More downloads. More data. More features.

More caliber per capita.

Bigger, better, faster, more. Of these four words, only one is truly qualitative.

Many believe we’re better off thanks to technology. I would be foolish to deny the progress made possible through technological advancement. Diseases have been cured, disasters have been reported and dictators have been overthrown, thanks in great part to technology. Those are all amazing things. I’m sure thousands of similar examples exist proving the benefits of advancement.

But what about us? Is technology making us better as human beings? I’m not so sure, but I suppose that depends upon your subjective definition of better.

Experiment: if you live or work in an urban or suburban area, take a look around you the next time you’re walking down the street or at the mall. Take note of the number of people staring at a mobile device. The next time you are in a café, count the number of people with a laptop accompanying their latté. There is now a generation that knows only the connected way of life. The attached life.

And I’m as guilty as the next person.

I have a difficult time believing the attached life is the better life. It is impossible to avoid the digital aspects of modern society, however non-attachment and the practice of living in the present can cooperate alongside digital culture. If we reject technology’s promise of excess; renounce the ideas of bigger, better and more; and focus on our own personal concept of what better is (and should ultimately be), we can live in harmony with technology.

Smaller, slower, less. And better. Those are the ideals to which I am working.

Running in Silence

I am a runner. I can say that today with confidence, but it wasn’t always so.

When I started running just over a year ago, it was a struggle. I’ve always considered myself to be in relatively good health, but I wasn’t the most athletic person. I was active, but not an athlete. Plain and simple, in the beginning, each stride was painful. A fifteen minute light jog was nearly unbearable, torture even.

During those early days, when I was fighting hard to finish an exhausting three-mile run, my personal motivators were largely technology-based. I brought my phone along with me on those cold winter wars to fire music into my ears that powered my feet to keep moving, step after step, mile after mile. I tracked my progress with Runkeeper, a GPS-enabled application that measures mileage, pace, calories burned and a slew of additional metrics. Runkeeper’s sultry-voiced narrator would occasionally chirp distance and pace updates into my earbuds, letting me know just how far I had gone, and how much farther I had yet to go.

With consistency came comfort. As the runs became easier, I upped my distance to include one long run per week. This caused my outings to last longer, sometimes longer than 90 minutes. On these longer runs I listened to a regular rotation of technology podcasts from the 5x5 and 70 Decibels networks.

While the music, tech musings and automated metrics kept my mind from focussing on the discomfort my body was feeling, I also discovered that this constant connectivity (even while in the middle of the woods on a trail run) was keeping my mind from appreciating my surroundings in those moments, following an exploratory train-of-thought around professional ideas and concepts, or simply experiencing the silence and patterns in my breath.

The technology had created a barrier. I was distracted, no longer fully aware and I became more interested in outcomes, results and metrics, than process.

Realizing this, I made the decision several weeks ago to eliminate technology during my runs. No music, no podcasts and no Runkeeper updates. I would leave my phone at home and become one with my path and my thoughts.

On my first run without technology, I remember noticing the discomfort was gone. I was several miles into the run and feeling fine. I let my mind wander to any thought that entered it and I explored those thoughts without limits. I was aware of the nature surrounding me and I was in tune with my breathing.

Distance didn’t matter. Pacing didn’t matter. Alternatively, my experience during the journey mattered. Process mattered.

Since embracing the silence during my runs, I’ve had a lot of time to think about Static Made (as a whole) and specific client projects in a setting that’s completely removed from a display screen. Pondering technology in the absence of it is liberating. It’s been refreshing and has allowed me to develop creative ideas in a way not inherently tethered to technology.

The lesson for me here is this: technology should never be a tether, but rather the vehicle through which tethers are cut. Outcomes are definitely important, but the process of exploration should enjoy equal footing. The process is journey to the desired result and space in which you can create without limits.

On Authenticity and Remarkability

For almost as long as I can remember, I’ve been enamored with artists who operate with authenticity and create work that I consider to be remarkable. It started early on for me with the likes of Fugazi, the beat poets and Jean-Michel Basquiat. During the pre- and early-Internet days it seemed like there was no shortage of musicians, writers and visual artists who were creating work of staggering genius. It took a great deal of effort on my part to discover, but that effort was worth it to me because the work was remarkable.

Since then, the Internet has taken hold. And due to the creative paradigm shift spurred by the web, I’ve found it difficult to discover post-Internet artists of the same authentic and remarkable caliber. While the benefits of the connected world (democratization of media, the enabling of real-time publishing, etc.) are regularly touted, I feel these same benefits are also the fundamental detriment of the world wide web.

The signal-to-noise ratio is completely inverted. There is too much collective and regressive output. Everything is instant and temporary. Meme culture and SEO and pay-per-click and the incessant self-promotion that comes along with the premise of social media is drowning out the amazing art I’m sure is out there. Somewhere. Beneath the din.

I am not alone in this view. Writer JD Bentley feels the same and is taking action. He writes in his fantastic essay, Our Secret Handshake is Not an Algorithm:

Medi­oc­rity reigns supreme, the noise exceeds the sig­nal, the best are drown out by the loud­est because being loud is much eas­ier than being remark­able. While sites of the past felt like secret clubs which demanded a secret hand­shake (that human con­nec­tion), today’s sites are often mass-produced mar­ket­ing non­sense, their secret hand­shakes being noth­ing more than an effort­less algo­rith­mic assump­tion on Google’s servers. It is this with which I’m fed up.

Quite a statement. And Bentley is walking the walk. He’s pulled his site from search engines, removed all social sharing features and is relying solely on reader referrals to grow his audience base. This emphasis on quality vs. quantity allows him to completely focus on his mission: Making remarkable art.

As someone who’s intimately involved at the intersection of mission-based messaging and new media, this approach is so refreshing. I’ve written about digital authenticity in the past. It’s something I’m borderline-obsessed with. I’m constantly thinking about ways to honestly, innovatively and authentically connect with audiences. It always boils down to the mission. Everything is driven by the mission. Aspire to be true with your message, not loud.

I’m excited to see a writer like JD Bentley take this step and I hope more artists and mission-driven organizations follow suit.

Word of the WeeK - Enthusiastic

Now I feel really old. Elliott brought home his first-ever homework assignment. The word of the week at preschool is enthusiastic and he was tasked with completing several statements describing how it feels to be enthusiastic. Jilly transcribed verbatim, but all the responses came straight from his mind.

When I am enthusiastic my eyes… feel loose. When I am enthusiastic my mouth… smiles. When I am enthusiastic my tummy feels… really loose. When I am enthusiastic my muscles feel… like they are jumping. When I am enthusiastic sometimes I… jump, dance and fall. These things can make me feel enthusiastic… the zoo, Chuck E. Cheese, hanging up Christmas decorations, computers and Dylan. When I am enthusiastic I can calm down by doing this… take a deep breath.

Back in the Saddle Again

Some of you may know that I lived a previous life as a songwriter and musician. Almost a decade ago, I gave up the recording and touring life for one that fosters stable relationships and is conducive to raising a family. During the past ten years, I’d pick up a guitar every now & then, or sit down at the keys whenever there was a piano around and play some songs. But that’s about it. And honestly, I didn’t miss it at all. Other things had taken music’s place in my life.

But yesterday I was invited to play some music with A Generous Act, a group of amazing musicians who are writing and recording an album here in Pittsburgh. I threw out a rough idea I had for a song and within an hour it had evolved into a beautiful tune with three-part harmonies and a building, transformational sing-along outro. The tentative title is Sound Came Falling. If it ends up making the record, I’ll be over the moon and will definitely post it here.

It felt really good to create again and I think this experience might be the shot in the arm I need to begin writing again. Thanks, A Generous Act.

Conversations with a 3 Year Old

ELLIOTT: Dad, did you get fired? ME: No. Do you know what “getting fired” means? ELLIOTT: Yeah, it’s what happens when you talk a lot at your job. Instead of doing work. ME: Daddy didn’t get fired. I resigned. ELLIOTT: Oh. What does “resigned” mean? ME: Resigning is the polite & courteous way to leave a job. ELLIOTT: Can I resign from school?

Sadness, Sweat and Sometimes Blood

I used to make music quite regularly and for a (modest) living. I poured sadness into song, and spilled sweat and sometimes blood on stage for handfuls of people who paid a few bucks and honored us with their attention. We were often paid in booze and low percentages. I spent weeks at a time showerless and in a van, resting my head on a different floor in a different city almost every night. Toward the end we earned the privilege of Best Westerns and familiar faces.

I quit making this type of noise almost a decade ago.

People ask me all the time why I don’t make music anymore and I don’t really have a straight answer for them. I’ve been thinking hard about this lately. It’s bigger than family or responsibility, which both hold water as an argument. It’s bigger than burnout, which certainly played a part. The answer, I’ve come to realize, is happiness.

When I quit sadness, I inevitably quit this type of creativity. Out of the hundreds of songs I’ve written, all were driven by sadness. The best songs, in my book, were the saddest songs. They still are. But recently, an opportunity presented itself to make some music again. And I think I’m going to.

Father's Day #1

Rounding the corner to my first Father’s Day is kind of blowing my mind. All my life, Father’s Day has been something I’ve associated strictly with my Dad. Both Grandfathers passed early on in my life, so up until now, this day has been basically exclusive to my father. Granted, the last few years have entailed not much more than a phone call.

And now it’s kind of about me, too. The thought that Elliott will someday greet me on the morning of the 3rd Sunday in June with a “Happy Father’s Day” and a World’s Greatest Dad coffee mug makes my heart smile.

I can’t believe I never understood this stuff before.

So this should be a nice weekend. Don’t really have much planned – and I like it that way. Happy Father’s Day to any Dads who happen to read this. Enjoy the day. It’s all about you.

Girl, You're So Groovy I Want You To Know

I just had one of the most amazing experiences in my life thus far. We started playing music for the baby by putting headphones up to Jilly’s belly. We keep the volume low, making sure it wasn’t too loud. Everyone we’ve talked to has said that this is a great way to instill rhythm, melody and artistic taste – all while in utero.

Anyway, during the first chorus of “Debaser” by the Pixies, baby started rocking out. Taking a cue from dad, he/she landed his/her first rock ’n roll kick square to Jilly’s gut. And right at the perfect spot in the song, too. You know the place…right where Black Francis screams, “I Am Un…Chien.” The kick occurred right on the downbeat…perfect. That’s my boy/girl.

Mirrors

The day began like many others before it. A pulsating buzz married to an excruciatingly loud, painfully blunt Top-40 song sliced through sleep like it was never there to begin with. The room is dark, shades drawn, but the forcibly contrived scenario performed by the airtime-embellished voices now emanating from the dual 4-inch speakers on his nightstand illuminates the dungeon in which he retires.

A spotlight on a shallow soul.

He makes his way out of bed to the bathroom, stumbling over loose floorboards, walking with the tangled grace of someone much older than his twenty-nine years. With every step, a creak. With every creak, a pause, a promise to step lighter. His journey through the hallway is marked by a regiment of photographs. Framed, held captive behind panes of glass, the images depict someone other than the man walking the hall at this moment. The person in these photos appears young, healthy and at ease among friends.

Shortly after his feet exchange wide-plank knotty pine for the infinitely colder tile of the bathroom, he finds himself facing a familiar foe. As far as he’s concerned, mirrors are the tell-tale sign, the absolute reflection of self worth. Unfiltered and unadulterated, a mirror doesn’t lie. At least not the way people do.

As he’s fixed onto the transference of lines, colors and textures reflected in the smudgy glass that hangs above porcelain, he notices movements don’t match. He raises a hand upward, but the foil’s corresponding limb remains firmly planted on his side. A delicate tilt of the head results in a spiteful grin on a statuesque reflection. The lines sprouting from angled eyes are slightly deeper, even more sinister than his own. He is now aware that the subject staring out from the tainted glass is not himself. Someone different, but someone dangerously familiar. Abraham Crowley is not alone.

Rapunzel (Take #2)

Well, it’s long overdue, but here it is. The first new song in quite some time. I couldn’t figure out how to upload a file that was larger than 5MB, so I edited the song a bit. I think I like it better than the original version. I hope you enjoy it.

Digital. Fictional. Peyton Manning.

For some reason, at this moment, my mind is splintered in three directions, so this post will be three-pronged. There is something truly beautiful about a tripod. Like how if one leg were to give, the whole structure would come crashing down. But working together, all three legs support the common purpose - that of elevating, or keeping something up. A three-legged structure is also the most secure structure. With that in mind, think of this entry as a tripod.

First, the idea of writing a novel has been tempting me for quite some time. I have never really endeavored into writing fiction, but I’ve been compiling storylines for past few months or so. I think I’ve now got a pretty solid story, so I’ve begun character development and a draft of the first chapter. What I’m struggling with, however, is how to go about distributing the novel upon its completion. I know, I’m probably putting the cart before the horse, but in case you haven’t noticed, I like to make everything I write, music or otherwise, as accessible as possible - meaning free of charge. Distribution of the novel, will most likely be paper-free and internet-based. If anyone has a good idea about how to go about doing this in an efficient manner, please let me know.

Secondly, I’ve entered the world of digital music with the addition of an iPod. Some of you are probably thinking that it’s about time! Actually, I had been adamantly opposed to the gadget du jour until I was given one last week as a gift. I must say, I stand corrected about everything negative I’ve ever said about the iPod. Mine is being loaded with my Elliott Smith collection as I type this.

Finally, Peyton Manning is at the top of my shit-list. Forget Tom Brady. Forget Dick Cheney. Forget everyone. Peyton Manning, you are dead to me.

The Long, Hard Road

After too many years, off and on, my undergraduate college career came to a close this afternoon. I’ve written my last term paper, made my last commute, and taken my last exam. The time I spent at IUP holds many great memories for me. I made many lasting friendships, including meeting my wife, and essentially grew up on that campus. Looking back at my decision to finish what I started in the fall of 1996, I believe I made the right choice.

I begin my internship at a prominent Pittsburgh communications firm on Monday. If I told you I wasn’t a little nervous I’d be lying. I have the education, but as anyone in the field will inevitably warn you, I hope I have the “it” factor necessary to succeed in such a creative and competitive industry. I guess we’ll find out next week.

Jilly’s last day of class is also today, so we’ll be celebrating at the Pub tonight. Why don’t you stop by and buy us a beer? Cheers.

All Good Things

After a week off for spring break, I returned today to my normal routine. It was definitely nice not having class last week, although I worked like a mofo in a futile attempt to scrape together some scratch. Underpaid and overworked. The story of my life.

Today was a good day though. I received a phone call from an internship site I’m very interested in. They pay their interns extremely well and are THE prominent global PR firm. I’m going in for a writing test tomorrow afternoon. It helps that I have a contact on the inside. Networking is key.

We’re still waiting to hear back with respect to the offer we placed on the house. Hopefully we’ll know something very soon. Jilly and I are both new to the “home buying” process, so we’re taking it very slow and utilizing the expertise of my Grandma. In addition to being the world’s greatest Grandma, she also happens to be an awesome realtor and spiritual guru. Hi Nan!

Today’s Tip: Always change your shoes at least twice a day.

You Know You're a Grown-Up

You know you’re a grown-up when you find yourself considering the purchase of a home. Jilly and I found one we really like. This may be the one. A big part of me enjoys being a responsible adult, but at the same time a small part longs for the “fly by night” days of my youth.

Now that we’re completely stressed and nervous and excited and anxious all at the same time, we’re going next door for some relaxation cocktails. Oh, yeah. Tonight from 9-10:30 the Pub will be giving away free beer (Guinness, Harp, Smithwicks) for an Irish beer promotion. Don’t wait up.

Save Your Breath

This is a song that came together in a relatively short time. It’s funny how some songs take forever to mature and others just pour out in the matter of an hour or so. This song also marks the first time I’ve used inanimate objects for percussion purposes. I think I’ll definitely be using wine glasses again in the future. Here you go.

Canine Noir

I’ve been keeping this online journal for about four months now and I’ve never formally introduced you to my favorite non-human. Ladies and gentlemen, Monty Elliott. Jilly and I adopted Monty Elliott on August 26th, 2003 from the Humane Society of western Pennsylvania.

If you are considering getting a pet, I highly recommend adopting from a shelter. Monty was in pretty bad shape when we adopted him, but we nursed him back to health and the rest is history. A year and a half later, Monty is a healthy and energetic lab/terrier puppy.

I think of him as a son. I get proud when he does something good like piss really fast when its freezing outside. I get sad when he does something unacceptable like rip open a pillow from the Livingroom couch. For the most part he is very well behaved and listens intently.

He can be intense at times, and I like that. He loves people and gets so excited when new people come over, but makes for a great guard dog when someone attempts to enter uninvited. Living on the northside of Pittsburgh, this is a good trait to have. Our friend Katie made the mistake of coming in through our back door and he almost swallowed her whole.

Don’t worry, he didn’t bite her, but he scared her more than the Bush administration scares me on a daily basis.

And now a message from Monty: “For all you bitches out there, I like long walks through the park, Kibbles and Bits from the can (only every so often as a delicacy), playing fetch and licking myself in my nether-region. I’m single and looking for that special lady to party with. I’m fixed so I won’t knock you up. Interested parties can EMAIL me through my Dad and he will relay the message. I’ll hit you back. Word.

A Note of Thanks

I just wanted to thank everyone who came out to the show at Club Cafe last night. I had a lot of fun, although I felt my vocals were a little off due to this dreaded cold I’ve fighting for the last few days. It was really nice to see Jake and Arielle, old neighbors of ours that recently moved across town into swanky new digs.

I’m not sure when the next show will be, as school is really starting to pick up. The research papers, discourse analyses and interpretive theses are coming one after the other with no sign of slowing down. Graduation is on May 7th. I don’t know if I can make it.