The Fourth of July Hippie

There’s a newspaper here in Nashville called the Contributor. It’s a paper that homeless people sell as a way to make money without having to beg. Really cool idea and a great organization.

I see homeless people selling that paper every day in Nashville as I’m driving around taking care of my needs for the day. I don’t usually buy the paper. Why? Cause I think if you buy the paper you should buy it cause your interested in it. Other wise just give the person some money and forget the paper. But I don’t wanna get into that whole debate right now.

So most of the people selling the paper just kinda stand there holding it, or walk up and down the side of an intersection. Most of the time there’s some waves and smiles.

But yesterday I was driving in a part of town that I’m not usually in and I saw a homeless woman totally WORKING IT. She wanted to sell. She was not content letting her housing situation do the selling. She was dressed up like a 4th of July hippy. She was excited. Top hat. Long silver wig, some scarves, crazy glasses…and she walked with a strut.

There was not a single car that past that she didn’t look them in the eyes and wave. It was totally out of place and totally amazing.

I didn’t buy a paper from that lady either cause, but I should have, I did the wrong thing. She was passionate and she was inspirational to everyone who laid eyes on her.

She might never know that I was effected by her passion.

But passion wasn’t necessarily designed as a vehicle for our affirmation.

The things you do and the way you do it matters. That homeless lady will not be homeless for long because she gets it and is willing to lay it on the line.

I wish I was more like her.

King Size

There’s something special about vending machines. Especially ones that don’t have the clear glass front.

When I was a kid I used to try and trick the machines in all kinds of ways. Fake money, fishing line tied to real money, tape taped to money, hitting the coin return as soon as I put in the coins…anything for free pop (I’m from Minnesota remember).

But I will say, hearing the can of pop tumble down the shoot is just kind of exciting. I don’t know. There’s some type of wonder that I associate with it.

Partly too, is because buying something out of a vending machines means I’m likely at a place where I’m feeling sassy anyway. Like a hotel, an airport, or the lobby of a used car dealership. So not only am I a leg up on most of society, but I’m about to enjoy a sugary snack.

Spoiler: I’m at a hotel, I have multiple pillows, a giant bed, and I have snacks now.

The Unveiling

That’s what I think is absent from a lot of life today. There’s no reveal. Your best shot is to be a magician, but there’s even youtube videos to make that a yawn fest too. The second you think you have a tid bit of new info to bestow upon your friends, much less your community/state/country, everyone always already knows at least a little bit about it. Or all of it.

That’s the thing, we become temporary holding cells of information very quickly. But is there really any point to knowing all the stories of the moment?

And I know you’ve been there too. A friend or your brother or wife starts with an excited tone, telling you a story of something they saw or read or heard at some point during that day. Literally the entire time they’re telling the story, I’m thinking “should I tell them to stop or not”. Cause I’ve already heard about everything they’re saying, but they seem so happy to be telling the story.

Man, I’m a jerk. I can’t even enjoy my comrades enthusiasm cause all I’m thinking about is how to let him know that I already know, without bursting his bubble. And oooh believe me, I want him to know that I know. That is of utmost importance.

I can’t play the fool, or the friend, and just roll with it and ask questions and conversate (there’s a wide debate as to whether or not ‘conversate’ is an actual word….did you know that?). I have to be seen as smart, as in-the-know, as a hip cool dude who’s seen the videos, read the blogs, tweeted the tweets and surfed the high heights of the internet. Daily.

We need to chill and be willing to be amazed and surprised. And don’t be a jerk when you already know the punch line.

Gabe The Bass Player

I never really intended on being a bass player. I thought drums were very cool, also guitar, because you could pump your right arm so hard when you played. So cocky but so passionate too. Go back and watch your fav music docs, lots of angst and energy gets put into that right arm of guitar players.

I got my first bass guitar when I lived in Motley, MN. A nasty ol’ Ibanez Silver Cadet. But hey, it was mine. The next day I got in a fight with a friend about what notes the strings should be tuned to, so we phoned the wise men at Guitar Center in Edina, MN (the city in which I was born, and also where parts of Mighty Ducks was filmed). They informed us of the proper tuning. Friend won, and I will never hear the end of it.

The bass guitar is an interesting thing these days. It seems as though it gets noticed more for when it’s absent than when it’s present. If there’s no bass, there’s no bootys shakin…unless it’s a last chorus of a giant Bon Jovi song where it’s only drums and vocals. People will continue the shaking through that part.

I imagine the mailman feels similarly. When he shows up, I think nothing of it. But man, when he’s a no show and daddy is expecting that publishers clearing house check (I’m in the top 15 right now), I’m livid and I don’t know if life will continue.

Everyone loooooves bass and has no idea. Like Bob Costas with the Olympics. I love the Olympics, everything about them. But Costas out with the pink eyes is like having no bass line on Another One Bites The Dust. I’m devastated, the athletes feel the loss, there’s more cloud cover in Nashville and the mailman “forgets” my clearing house update letter. So give Bob the head chair at the dinner table and may he be served with 80% dark chocolate gold medals till he gives us that money-making NBC smile again.

Bass and Bob Costas are essential. And now we know it.