everything is concrete and barbed wire

I sense the Lord wants me to minister in Vancouver, British Columbia. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fabulous “Americana” music scene there… seriously… I promise… why would you even assume that?

I mean, look at my justifications… I mean, the facts (i.e. stuff I found on Wikipedia):
- population of 587,891 – with a metropolitan region spanning 2,180,737 (expected to reach 2.6 million by 2020)… that’s a lot of souls
- ethnically diverse population where more than half of the residents have a first language other than English
- over one-quarter of the population is Chinese, with several language groups represented
- many monocultural neighborhoods, such as the Punjabi Market, Little Italy, Greektown and Japantown
- other ethnic groups in area include South Asians (mostly Punjabis), Vietnamese, Filipino, Korean, Cambodian and Japanese.
- growing emphasis on co-housing to prevent urban sprawl
- concern is being expressed over a growing homeless population, exacerbated by conversion of single-room housing into rental properties for the 2010 Olympics.
- the city’s Downtown Eastside neighborhood is characterized by entrenched poverty, sex trade and drug markets

Unfortunately, Vancouver is a very expensive place to live. So, if you want to support my music addiction…. eh, hem… that is, my outreach… please send cash.




~Junkie Song~

Took a walk in my neighborhood
At two in the morning
By the skytrain station
The streets were full of junkies and homeless
And they all wanted something
They all wanted something

And what am I supposed to do?
There are too many of you
Too many of you
Give some change, look you in the eye
Say that I too am human, I could easily be you

Don’t we all hover between apathy and compassion?
Fill up all our days with so much distraction
Makes it easier to see what we don't want to
But we all live here
We all live here
We all live here don't we?

pull up a chair...

...or, here, take mine.

I was talking with a friend yesterday about community development and missions and such, and he relayed a conversation he had recently with someone he holds a great deal of respect for. They were discussing in James where it discusses the discrimination involved in offering a good seat to a man in fine clothes while telling a poor man to sit on the floor at your feet. My friend's dilemma was that he leans toward the opposite tendency... that of showing favoritism to the poor man at the expense of the rich. How does one find room at the table for both? His conversation partner had a simple response ~ surrender your own seat, and voluntarily take your place on the floor.

In a related story, our very own Ramon Chaparro has had an essay published at Burnside Writers Collective. I'm quite proud of him, so I invite you all to read, comment and discuss.

Establishing tables of equality can start nowhere other than in our own lives. Who do we invite into our homes? Whose are the voices that we let speak into our lives? If we find ourselves agreeing with everyone we spend time with, it might be time we broadened our social circles a bit. This is not simply a matter of being cosmopolitan. This is a foundational step in what it means to move toward a different society, a better kingdom - a kingdom where the weak come to the table with as much confidence as the strong that they will be heard.

~ Ramon Chaparro

have you got nothing to say?

There is a post I am aching to work on, and I talked to Marty about it today, but I am so doped up on allergy/sinus meds that I can not even get it started. So instead, I will fall back to one of the music posts. I did not intend to jump right in with this particular show, but it is the one foremost in my mind, and I know that Gretchen and Aubrey will appreciate it. Besides, I did vow to be unhindered by chronology, and I do not wish to be considered a hypocritical blogger.

The year was 1998, only a few months until I would graduate from college. The “Christian Coalition” was alive and well at OBU, a tornado had wiped out a good portion of downtown Arkadelphia almost a year before, and a little band with three guys had a pretty popular video which featured some sexy little turtlenecks. Now most of the students on our campus thought this was a pretty little ditty, paying nary enough attention to the lyrics to understand that the guy was talking about the painful experience of driving his girlfriend to get an abortion and the numbness that followed. Luckily, by this point I had met my musical soul mates who enjoyed not only this tune but all of the brilliantly beautiful talent, sarcasm and insight that was Ben Folds Five.

Being as we were well into the semester and the concert was on a Wednesday night, we had a pretty quick turnaround time. Aubrey, Gretchen and I hit the road after our afternoon classes and headed west to the Metroplex. I’d like to say we drove straight to Deep Ellum, but Dallas is a bit like the elusive Emerald City… so, in fact, we drove around for a bit trying to get to the gigantic island of downtown buildings we could see clearly but could not for any of our lives figure out how to get to.

Once we finally made our way down to Deep Ellum, we parked the car, put our money in the proper parking slot (remember this part, you’ll be quizzed on it later) and headed over to stand in line for this general admission show. *sidenote* Can we please note the ticket price of $15.00?! Inflation has been a bit excessive over these 10 years…

Ending up with quite a nice spot in line, we began making friends with those in line around us. This comes in quite handy, as we will see later. In particular, there were three people we thoroughly enjoyed getting to know. One of the guys, obviously a Weezer fan, was sporting an Izod cardigan and Buddy Holly glasses. His compadre (and, as we would later learn, bandmate) looked like a mechanic in his Dickies outfit (mechanic’s girlfriend was with him, but her appearance was fairly non-descript, though she was kind and friendly). All was fun and happy banter, until we were approached by a girl who we knew from OBU and her friends (one of which would be mine and Gretchen’s future boss at CD Warehouse). The line had grown to snake-like proportions by this time and they wanted to casually squeeze into line with us. Being high on the enjoyment of new friendships, we allowed them to. We were saps.

Once the line got moving, the chick and her friends were long gone to the front of the stage… and, no, space was not reserved for us. However, we did make our way through the crowd to happen upon our friends Buddy & Mechanic, who graciously moved backward to create space in front of them for us.

Robbie Fulks was the opening act, and other than the fact that both acts were from North Carolina, there was absolutely no connection. Did you know North Carolina is the cigarette state? That’s what we learned on February 11, 1998. That, and opening acts who are getting no audience response because they are completely opposite of the band we are geared up to see should not keep playing encores. Encores must be requested by the audience. If the band is not ready, just get off stage and let us talk to pass the time. Don’t make us give you our obligatory attention. *second sidenote* I have since become a Robbie Fulks fan outside of this context…

So the band did eventually take the stage, and they were fabulous. We sang along with every song, joined by Buddy, Mechanic and Mechanic’s Girl. We watched in smug indignation as OBU Chick handed up to the piano a box of conversation hearts on which she had written “To Mr. Ben Folds, love *first name* *middle name* *last name*. I still get a bit nauseous whenever I see these precious little valentines staples.

So after the amazing concert we headed back to the car in a euphoric fog, and encountered some UT-Austin students in quite a different kind of fog. They seemed to have misplaced their car. After some inquiry, we discovered that they most likely had parked their car in the same lot as ours (they were pretty certain), but were not aware that you had to pay to park there. We suggested they call the phone number on the huge “Pay Here or We Will Tow Your Car” sign, and sho’nuff, their car was at the impound lot.

We circled the city until we found the shadiest part of town, stopped at the most well-lit ATM we could find so the UT kids could get cash for their car, dropped them off at the straight-out-of-an-80s-horror-flick impound lot, turned down the twenty-sixth offer to accept some pot as gratitude for our kindness (they were utterly stunned that we would decline their offer) and wished them luck.

After a night spent at Aubrey’s aunt’s house midway between Dallas and Arka-do-nothing, we hit the road to make it back in time for classes. I was actually going to miss my morning Art in the Humanities class, but had made arrangements to attend Gretchen’s class which was later in the day. As we were running a bit late, we called Raouf to let him know that we would indeed be there (we didn’t want to lose our Teacher’s Pet status). Halaby somehow misinterpreted this message from his beloved students, and we found out later had asked our classmates to pray for us as we were having trouble on the road. Regardless, we eventually made it to class, passed our quizzes with flying colors, and dazzled our professor with our love for and knowledge of art.

Some of the best 24 hours of my life.

The pics are of a lovely little card Aubrey sent me that next week to commemorate the experience. *last sidenote* the head in left corner of the picture is the previously mentioned future (past) CD Warehouse boss... a Quentin Tarantino look-a-like.

Jane be Jane. You're better that way.
Not when you try imitating something you think you saw.
Jane be Jane, and, if sometimes that might drive them away, let them stay there.
You don't need them anyway.
You're worried there might not be anything at all inside.
But that you're worried should tell you that's not right.
Don't try to see yourself the way that others do, it's no use.
Jane be Jane.
You've had it harder than anyone could know, so hard to let it go.
But it's your life and you can decorate it as you like.
Beneath the paint and armor in your eyes the truth still shines.
Jane be Jane.

stars of track and field we were...

terrycloth. izod. coordinating outfits. Its a wonder my sister and I didn't stage a formal revolt against my mother... but luckily for her we love her too much.

While my mom's influence on my musical tastes still has lasting influence (she made us listen to country music, and that late 70s/early 80s style is still my favorite; she waxed nostalgic on the 50's and 60's; and she introduced me to Steve Earle), my sister was definately my saving grace when it came to music appreciation.

I've always been fairly easy to please when it comes to music. When I was young, my interests primarily revolved around two women, Dolly & Madonna.

and I loved anything on MTV (or Friday Night Videos prior to that)... especially the Go-Gos and Scandal. We are the kids in America... indeed

After my parents divorced, my mom remarried and we moved to New Mexico to be near her family. The silver lining? A fabulous music scene and a sister four years older who soaked it up. And unlike her red version of the yellow track shorts I already owned, these hand-me-downs were eagerly received. I fell into REM on my own, but in fourth grade she had me listening to the Violent Femmes and falling in love with Morrissey (at that time still part of the Smiths). While the posters papering our walls were a bit frightening, I was developing a life-long love of music... especially music not everyone listened to... music you had to stay up late and catch the midnight show to hear... music you received from a copy of a copy of a tape your friend's older brother got from the ex-girlfriend of the band's road manager. Remember when you had to scotch tape the little black cassettes to tape over them? Good times. So, here's to New Wave/Punk and what it ushered in. You created a monster.

~ my comfort zone ~

Put her fiddle in a box
Said it's getting awful late
She's on her way to Little Rock
and Little Rock can't wait
~ Sis Draper
Guy Clark


TONIGHT: food, music, community, joy

31 flavors and then some...

So I was browsing around Pollstar today (in between working very hard, of course) and I think I have Spring fever. Below is my “narrowed down” list of shows I would like to catch (the bold are ones I probably actually will):

3/17 - Sondre Lerche @ Gypsy Tea Room (Dallas); 3/17 - Vienna Teng in Dallas; 3/31 - Tim Reynolds @ Revolution; 3/31 - The Greencards @ Sticky Fingerz; 4/7 - Patrice Pike @ Sticky Fingerz; 4/7 – Guster in Dallas; 4/11 - Old Crow Medicine Show @ George’s Majestic (Fayetteville); 4/13 - Runaway Planet @ Whitewater; 4/13 - Neko Case in Memphis; 4/18 - Brandi Carlile in Memphis; 4/21 - Soul Asylum @ Horseshoe Casino(Memphis-ish); 4/23 - Lucinda Williams in Memphis; 4/25 - Runaway Planet @ Sticky Fingerz (KABF Benefit); 4/27 - Chantal Kreviazuk in Dallas; 4/29 - Big Head Todd @ Horseshoe Casino; 5/2 - Son Volt @ Revolution; 5/2 - Norah Jones in St Louis; 5/8 - Erykah Badu in Dallas; 5/9 - Joss Stone in Dallas; 5/11 - Old 97’s in Dallas; 5/27 - India.Arie @ the Orpheum (Memphis)

Little Rock’s older, cooler sister Memphis has a fun line up as always for her Beale Street Music Festival (even though I’ve sworn off ever paying money again for such a well stocked yet poorly executed festival): Social Distortion, Old Crow Medicine Show, Barenaked Ladies, Corrine Bailey Rae, Counting Crows, Guster, John Legend…

Pat Benatar will be playing at this year’s Riverfest, though Gretchen has informed me that she now refuses to sing Hit Me With Your Best Shot. Come on Pat! Even Steve Earle performed Copperhead Road, and he deserves to be smug about his music:

A Various Assortment of Drunk Riverfest Patrons Screaming at Random Intervals Both Between and During Songs: “Play Copperhead Road!”

The Beautiful and Talented Steve Earle: “Do you really think I’m not going to play that song? Do you really think I’m not going to play it? I’ll play it when I’m damn good and ready to.”




I started to make this post about the “top ten shows” I’ve been to, but the list just kept growing and I kept thinking of stories surrounding each one. Therefore I’ve decided to launch a series a la Myles’s “life in coffee”. If nothing else, it should keep me out of writer’s block hell for a while and provide entertaining memories for the people who were actually there with me. So, be on the lookout and let me know if you have any special requests (I’m not planning to go in any kind of sequential or sentimental order).

the waiting is the hardest part...

Perhaps there is only one cardinal sin: impatience. Because of impatience we were driven out of Paradise, because of impatience we cannot return.
~ W.H. Auden

And you may ask yourself, what is that beautiful house?And you may ask yourself, where does that highway go?And you may ask yourself, am I right? Am I wrong?And you may tell yourself, my God! What have I done?
~ Talking Heads

Probably the closest thing I’ve had to my dream house is the one Gretchen and I refer to affectionately and simply as “the Hillcrest house.” Despite the fact that it was falling apart - the rent was cheap, the location was perfect, and the porch was fabulous! It was rarely as festive as we had dreams of it being, since our friends tended to be scattered about, but it definitely had its shining moments.



Growing up, change was just another abnormal part of life ~ people, houses, circumstances… everything was consistently in flux. I always had an infatuation with houses. I would draw house plans with a separate room for every activity imaginable and individual bedrooms for each of my eight children. I pored over home decorating magazines and noted the necessities for a cozy abode: lots of windows (check), throw pillows (check), fresh flowers (check, check). I even cut out a picture of the perfect laundry room.

After living in a dorm for four years, I immediately grabbed myself an apartment after graduating from college. A cheap two-bedroom in Southwest Little Rock (I had taken a job in addiction services for a mere $18,000 salary), was quickly filled with flea market finds and cheap-but-cozy-what-nots to create an instant first home. And the little snowball of debt that had formed in college started rolling.

I had practiced waiting all of my life (though rarely voluntarily), and I had given into the lie that having a job meant you didn’t have to wait anymore. If I want it, I should get it. After all, I’ll pay for it… eventually.

I’m paying for it now. And payment = patience. I got a bug to open a Bed and Breakfast back in my junior year of college, when I went by myself to Boston and stayed in a tiny leaky room with a shared bathroom at a B&B run by a very eccentric old man. I was smitten. That desire has only intensified, fueled by the idea of giving my friends who are headed out all over the world a place to call home in Little Rock, even if they have no family here. While I’m very good at planning everything I would do with my “Guest House”, I am less skilled at implementing the necessary steps to get out of debt and save money to make the dream a reality. And the older I get, the more I feel like I deserve it now… whether or not I have done anything needed to acquire it. I suppose maturity doesn’t automatically come with age.

Patience requires true and hard examination of priorities. It requires consistency and determination. It requires wise stewardship. I like flexibility. I like surrounding myself with artifacts. I like giving… whether or not I have it to give. Patience means surrendering what you want today, for what may come tomorrow. There is no guarantee in patience.

I have a True Love Waits card I signed in high school. I’m still waiting. Somehow with this commitment I know that the payoff of waiting is so much greater than the fleeting enjoyment of giving in… yet I also know that there is no guarantee of marriage. I’m ok with that. So why is this business of sacrificing immediate gratification of material wants now for the greater possibility of my dream later so difficult for me to wrap my heart around?


This is my dream porch. I don’t know these people (wish I did… its The Be Good Tanyas and friends), but they’re on my porch. A gathering spot… music… conversation… laughter… rejuvenation. This is what the wait is for.

I’m gazing in these deep well waters, where the pennies of my life have all been cast. I’ve decided I am going to save my money to do something that lasts. I’m past the wishing.
~ Sara Groves

Mammas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be...

Shooter Jennings put on a great show last time he was in town.
Not sure if I will make it this time or not, but if you get a chance you should check him out at Revolution this Friday night (9ish). Besides, he's hot (except in Walk the Line with his hair cut and face shaved... that was just weird...)!

Writing my stories on my worst mornings; Pulling my heart strings to help me find myself...

stuff

I really want this.




...or maybe I was just inspired by Ramon's latest post?


...or maybe I should stop window shopping and go to sleep?

~ bring on spring ~

I am definately ready for spring cleaning... new growth... longer periods of light

I've finally been ready to write the last few weeks, and then I couldn't remember my damn login. Many thoughts were lost to their moments, and that frustrates me to no end. My mind has been preoccupied with so many other things the past few months, and it is in need of some serious release.

...your mental illnesses arrive at the desk like your sickest, most secretive relatives. And they pull up chairs in a semicircle around the computer, and they try to be quiet but you know they are there with their weird coppery breath, leering at you behind your back. (Anne Lamott ~ Bird by Bird)

Organization is becoming my muse. Every item I can get rid of seems to be space created for exploring new ideas. Every weight released opens up another corner of my imagination. Every dream surrendered to reality is a new platform from which to jump off. Concreteness and disillusionment mixed with eternal optimisim... this is my starting point.

Here's to the short Arkansas Spring, may it bring refreshment and usher in a bit of clarity.

Moonlight be a friend tonight, we're all wrecked up on these dreams. Holding on a bit too tight, I've got splinters from these moonbeams. If it seems I'm falling down, if it seems we're falling through, darling you know that is nothing... you know that is nothing new. (VOL)