%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |
Something slightly loftier, pointed and hopefuly witty. |
| The ever popular question of what now comes to mind on yet another end and begining. |
| Unless you are left handed you probably do not realize what a right-dimensional world we live in. The desks in school are set up for right-handers’, the writing on a pen will be inverted if held by a left-hander, and even a coffee cup’s handle is for right-handed use. I am one of the select few that were blessed a “south-paw.” My left handedness has come up in recent weeks while working with my drum instructor. Because I have always favored my left hand for most activities; writing, throwing a ball, and eating, to name a few, we are having a difficult time perfecting some of my drumming movements. I do have a certain degree of ambidexterity which makes this all the more difficult to over come. I play guitar as a right hander and bat right handed. For the most part, my drums are set up for a right handed player. There is a saying for left-handers’ which claims they are the only ones in their right mind. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ All this left-handed business started me thinking about what I took for granted my whole life; being left handed, and prompted some research on this “condition.” It is estimated that 7-10 percent of the adult population is left-handed. I was surprised to learn that left-handedness was looked at as more of a “condition” rather than merely an inherent trait. In reading a 1998 study; performed by Raymond, M.; Pontier, D.; Dufour, A.; and Pape, M. (1996). “Frequency-dependent maintenance of left-handedness in humans", Proceedings of the Royal Society of London, B, 263, 1627-1633; it found that most left-handedness was discovered in identical twins, males, or those suffering from some form of mental illness such as epilepsy, Down's Syndrome, autism, mental retardation and dyslexia. Great, so on top of being left-handed, I am now considered to be a head-case as well. I guess that explains so much in retrospect. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Some “causes” or as I would describe them; theories for left-handedness were discovered to be related to a gene, pro-longed right handed impairment, testosterone, or the ultra-sound theory. The gene LRRTM1, or Leucine-rich repeat transmembrane neuronal protein 1, is the first gene linked to increased odds of being left-handed. The researchers also claim that possessing this gene slightly raises the risk of psychotic mental illnesses such as schizophrenia. As the name implies, its protein product is a transmembrane protein, which contains many leucine rich repeats, that is present in neurons. Those that have lost the ability to use their right hand have been found to favor their left hand even after the injury has healed. During the fetal incubation period it was discovered that a greater introduction of testosterone could lead to a left-handed child. Testosterone is typically introduced into the right hemisphere of the brain, which controls the left side of the body, thus the increase in right-hemisphere activity. Of course, this right-hemisphere dominance may be responsible for auto-immune disorders, learning disorders, dyslexia, and stuttering, as well as increased spatial ability. The ultra-sound theory claims that ultrasound scans may affect the brain of unborn children, causing higher rates of left-handedness in mothers who have ultrasound scans compared to those who do not. This theory rules me out, being born prior to the use of ultra-sounds. I am none-the-less astonished by the social stigma left-handers are subjected to in our society. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Historically, being left-handed was cause for concern and considered a “curse. The left hand was rarely used “socially” such as greeting with handshakes. Some cultures including our own “force” the left-handedness out of their children like some demonic exercise. Politically speaking, being left-wing means radical beliefs while right-wingers are more “rational” or conservative. People are put on the “right” path or the path of the righteous while the word sinister is the Latin word meaning “left.” In China, being on the “left path” stands for illegal or immoral means and I found similar references in other cultures from the ancient Romans to the Norwegian’s. Having “two left feet” typically refers to a person’s clumsy dancing ability, as is the meaning of the Portuguese word “canhoto,” or clumsy. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ For me, learning to write was cause for concern as I was forced to curl my hand around the pen or pencil thus, all my words would inevitably become smudged from my trailing hand moving across the paper. It would not be until later in life that I discovered a slight tilt of the paper would produce the desired cursive slant common in right-handed writers, but the damage was done; I have poor hand writing and prefer to print when using pen and paper. Other left-handed obstacles in this right-handed world were the use of a pair of scissors. Often the handle is molded for right-hand use making it uncomfortable to hold. During my time in the Marines, I had to force myself to shoot the M-16 as a right hander as the bullet casings were ejected out the right side of the weapon. Holding it left-handed would cause those hot casings to be ejected into the side of my face. I did manage to score rifle expert through out my military service if that can be considered a plus. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ So, if you are left handed you are probably feeling pretty low about now. I am actually considering putting a bullet in my head as I sit here but I wondered if there were any up-sides to being a south-paw and continued my quest. My personal experience with left-handers has always been positive. My son, a fellow left-hander, is a self taught pianist and exhibits no signs of mental illness aside from some of my awkward inherent traits of tidiness. In his book Right-Hand, Left-Hand, Chris McManus of University College London, argues that the proportion of left-handers is rising and left-handed people as a group have historically produced an above-average quota of high achievers. He says that left-handers' brains are structured differently in a way that widens their range of abilities, and the genes that determine left-handedness also govern development of the language centers of the brain. In 2006, researchers at Lafayette College and Johns Hopkins University in a study found that left-handed men are 15 percent richer than right-handed men for those who attended college, and 26 percent richer if they graduated. The wage difference is still unexplainable and does not appear to apply to women. This doesn’t apply to me as I am neither rich nor a woman, but it is interesting. I have also heard rumored that a large majority of medical people are left-handed but again, it is just rumor as most of my family works in that field and none are left-handed. I was not very interested in that profession, but my son is studying to become a doctor. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ For me, my left-handedness has caused little grief and I feel an advantage to my right-handed counter-parts both in the way “we” process information and for the simple fact that I am an original. The Marine Corps slogan has always been, “a few good men.” I guess that applies to me all the more as a south-paw. Reference: Online source, Wikipedia Left-hand friendly web-sites: http://www.indiana.edu/~primate/left.html http://www.lefthandersday.com/ http://www.lefthandedstore.com/ |
| This probably won’t be met with much sympathy by those of you buried beneath drifts of snow and ice, but this was day two of a long-forgotten and not missed routine of scraping my windshield before heading off to work. Now, as a Phoenician and former Chicago-dweller, I have long since retired the tools of winter survival. When I announced my intentions of relocating to the valley of the sun eleven years ago, friends and family alike gathered for the passing of the ice scraper ceremony. Everyone gathered at the trunk of my car in heated anticipation of the pending events to unfold. There it sat in unbridled splendor; the clear plastic handle of a piece of engineering wonder the likes of which there was no other, mended together with duct tape from years of faithful service, beside the spare tire and can of fix-a-flat. They all stood in a silent prayer-like trance as I carefully lifted it out from the depths of my trunk; stray carpet fibers sticking to the peeling duct tape. I turned to face the disciples of ice and snow, raising the ice scraper over my head, the sun light passing through the opaque plastic body which cast an eerie rainbow on their mesmerized faces, allowing them to see the prize in all its glory. Then, and without warning I turned and tossed the ice scraper over my shoulder and into the air; its silhouette captured by the sun as it tumbled end-over-end in suspended animation above the crazed group. This unleashed a frenzied battle as cousins fought cousins and friends, not wanting to miss out on a chance to own the holy grail of ice scrapers, tackled grandma. Brothers and sisters kicked while Uncle Lou sacked Aunt Mary. A heap of tangled arms and legs came to rest in a sweaty pile of torn cloths and tattered hair; and there beside them, in a drift of snow, appeared the ice scraper, embedded handle up like the sword and the stone where it is rumored to still remain, unclaimed and is, to this day, a heated topic at family occasions. I think back to the days of my little ice scraper and silently thank it for its years of service and wonder if it is related to the credit card I am now forced to use in Phoenix to clear the ice from my windshield. |
| Imagine my surprise to learn that it is Super Bowl Sunday. Not only that, but we are hosting it this year at the new football stadium in Glendale, Arizona. Alright, so my male priorities are not typical and I could probably care less. I do, however at least know the names of the two teams playing, so a little credit please. I don’t ever recall a time in my life when sports was a factor in my day-to-day activities. I had other interests that kept me occupied that didn’t include “group” showers or sweaty guys patting me on the ass. The whole stereo-typical gum-chewing-whistle-blowing-alpha-male type made me uncomfortable from an early age. I had always questioned the rational of all my class subjects if I felt they defied logic, so gym class was a natural target. As a young boy, my uncle would take me to the YMCA where he played handball. Despite his best efforts to get me involved, I never really took to that whole environment. His wife, my aunt, had a cure for my rebellious anti-sport attitude and often took me into the city for shopping and lunch. Now, there is something I can support. I guess I just don’t understand the logic of these very over-paid athletes and the importance our country places on their existence. They do not alter my life one way or another; don’t help me pay my bills no matter how much I cheer for them. It’s really not that noble of a pursuit. I suppose it is a matter of perspective. So, from my perspective, I will enjoy my cloudy day in the desert comfortably enjoying a book or movie and then hit the drums for a time. Ciao mi amico’s. |
| At last, the month of Monday is behind me and with it, the heaviness commonly associated with a dreaded Monday morning. I look forward to the month of “Tuesday” for a number of reasons but mainly getting back into the swing of another semester of school. I attend Phoenix Community College where I have been “dabbling” for the past few years in obtaining a degree in a writing related field. I do best when my mind is occupied with learning new things and meeting new people. My class of twelve or so is a unique mix of eager-young journalism students and writers. Prior to the instructor arriving everyone sits in that silent mode of uncertainty, flipping through the text book or simply taking in the layout of the room. The room is located in building “A” which houses the English and math departments and will be my new weekly home for the next sixteen weeks. Class took off right on time as students trickled in one-by-one and as typical with the first day of class came the introductions as we went around the room, beginning with the instructor. Mr. Rodriguez, our instructor, shared his credentials and years of experience in the journalism field and moved into the outline of the syllabus. Although I don’t believe I have any aspirations to become a reporter, I would enjoy to one day have my own column which shares the stories of our Arizona veteran’s and help keep their spirit alive. As the tension of the new setting lifted we relaxed and shared some laughs while becoming acquainted with each other. Before I realized it was time to wrap for the night which is a good sign of things to come. If the class passes quickly it should be a good learning experience. |
| It’s nice to take advantage of a rainy day. In Phoenix a rainy day is like a sunny day in some other states and I think it is met with similar bravado. We Phoenicians feel a certain sense of guilt if we “waste” a sunny day on indoor activities such as lazing about in slippers and robe, but a rainy day gives us permission to hide and do nothing at all. From my third place I watch as people skip over puddles, huddled in small masses as they move from their cars to the warm shelter of Starbucks. A colorful collection of umbrella’s gathers near the front entrance while their owners belly up to order a warming cup of coffee. Rainy days in Phoenix carry the soothing smell of the desert landscape; orange blossom, eucalyptus, along with a wide range of cactus and creates a natural aroma therapy which, unlike typical rainy states, seems to put people in a friendlier mood. The streets are another story as we seem to loose all sense of driving ability, but then we don’t have much practice in poor weather driving. Sun glare might be one obstacle or the summer dust storm, but that’s about all. Off to visit with some friends. Enjoy your “rainy” Sunday. |
| From the brightly lit window of my third place the morning sun warms my face and helps me shake off the turmoil of the prior day. As is customary with Phoenicians, the sun has always brought out a wide range of fashion practices, most meant to provide comfort in the desert heat. This time of year, when the air carries the chill of an eastern fall and the sun contradicts with tempting temperatures, people seem to throw better judgment to the wind and wear outfits that are normally found at a Saturday bizarre. The Sunday crowds are early risers and vary from the sharply dressed just-come-from-church look to the sweaty just-had-a morning-run look. So far, so good; I am one of the casual dressers donned in my jogging outfit for comfort. No, running is something better left for marathon runners or those fleeing the police. I prefer to stroll at a nice leisurely pace and take in my surroundings. That being said, let’s get back to the fashion disasters that I typically see while enjoying my daily intake of caffeine. Girls; if you are no longer a teenager and especially are pushing the age of grandmother years, mini-skirts are not for you. Actually, anything that has the word “mini” in it should probably be avoided at all costs. I don’t think this is a shallow observation judging by the other “bitter-beer” type looks of my fellow coffee drinkers, some here with their families. Guys; just have your wives, girlfriends, mothers, or neighbor look you over before you head out. Of course, if she is the mini-skirt wearer above, go elsewhere. It used to be the symbol of a plumber hard at work, but now I am seeing more “crack” then a dealer of the same name. They are not always sported by my male counter-parts as the denim pant has dropped in altitude and the invention of the thong has been thrust upon us. Again, a second pair of eyes should be employed prior to leaving the house as only certain people can “pull” off that look without causing nausea and blurred vision. This rule applies to half-shirts as well. If you look like the top of a muffin, you should not wear half-shirts, halters tops, or bikini tops in public. Guys, this applies to us as well but for the following reasons. You’re not as “buff” as you might think and beer-guts do not count. Also, if you look like a woolly-mammoth follow the advice of the “No-Shirt, No-Service” rule and cover up. No one wants to hear the sound of you back hair rustling in the breeze. Please, a little common courtesy and self respect will go along way. This has been a public service message. |
| I was reading, with tears in my eyes, from the New York Times today a story of war veteran’s home from Iraq, but not home from the war in their heads. Most suffer from a form of post traumatic stress disorder and are left dangling to deal with the images that scar their brains. The transition back into a civilized society is daunting and traumatic in and of itself and it saddens me that our government, the same government that called them into service seems to take a back seat to their rehabilitation. My transition back to civilian life was challenging and at times frightening. Loud noises would cause me to leap out of my skin and my fit-full nights were haunted with images and even the smells of the events of my experiences. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The following is an excerpt from the New York Times story, written by Deborah Sontag and lizette Avlarez: Late one night in the summer of 2005, Matthew Sepi, a 20-year-old Iraq combat veteran, headed out to a 7-Eleven in the seedy Las Vegas neighborhood where he had settled after leaving the Army. This particular 7-Eleven sits in the shadow of the Stratosphere casino-hotel in a section of town called the Naked City. By day, the area, littered with malt liquor cans, looks depressed but not menacing. By night, it becomes, in the words of a local homicide detective, “like Falluja.” Mr. Sepi did not like to venture outside too late. But, plagued by nightmares about an Iraqi civilian killed by his unit, he often needed alcohol to fall asleep. And so it was that night, when, seized by a gut feeling of lurking danger, he slid a trench coat over his slight frame — and tucked an assault rifle inside it. “Matthew knew he shouldn’t be taking his AK-47 to the 7-Eleven,” Detective Laura Andersen said, “but he was scared to death in that neighborhood, he was military trained and, in his mind, he needed the weapon to protect himself.” Head bowed, Mr. Sepi scurried down an alley, ignoring shouts about trespassing on gang turf. A battle-weary grenadier who was still legally under-age, he paid a stranger to buy him two tall cans of beer, his self-prescribed treatment for post-traumatic stress disorder. As Mr. Sepi started home, two gang members, both large and both armed, stepped out of the darkness. Mr. Sepi said in an interview that he spied the butt of a gun, heard a boom, saw a flash and “just snapped.” In the end, one gang member lay dead, bleeding onto the pavement. The other was wounded. And Mr.Sepi fled, “breaking contact” with the enemy, as he later described it. With his rifle raised, he crept home, loaded 180 rounds of ammunition into his car and drove until police lights flashed behind him. “Who did I take fire from?” he asked urgently. Wearing his Army camouflage pants, the diminutive young man said he had been ambushed and then instinctively “engaged the targets.” He shook. He also cried. “I felt very bad for him,” Detective Andersen said. Nonetheless, Mr. Sepi was booked, and a local newspaper soon reported: “Iraq veteran arrested in killing.” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ If your heart doesn't go out to this young man, and the many other veteran's struggling to survive then you are part of the problem. Why are the very people providing our freedom's living homeless in the streets and loosing the very thing they give us? Hug a veteran and let them know that they matter and are welcome home. C.Anthony |
| Paradiddle, paradiddle, paradiddle. It was my second meeting with A.D this morning and I have already gotten so much out of our two hours together. It is difficult trying to get my limbs to operate independently of each other, my right hand and foot getting tangled with my left hand and foot., but A.D gets me through it painlessly and in no time I am producing sounds I never thought possible; and it’s me playing them. It’s an amazing transformation from just hitting the instrument to actually playing it. His energy is uplifting and encouraging which is a natural motivator for me to push harder. I was wearing my tan knit cap today in true Neil Peart fashion and working through an exercise; A.D sitting out in the “audience,” with a huge grin on his face while counting out loud for me when out of nowhere he noticed my cap and said “dude, you look like Neil back there.” I told him, “I don’t want to look like Neil, just play like him.” We shared a laugh but he insists I bring my camera next week. I left completely satisfied with this week’s time behind the drums and decided to visit my local music store to “browse” the rows of drums and percussion equipment and continue my drum day. I was in the market for a new snare stand, but after a very expensive week of tuition payments for the new semester, and some other unforeseen expenses, I wasn’t planning on a purchase today. As I walked up and down the aisle I spotted a uniquely packaged set of limited edition Pro Mark sticks and had to have a closer look. I immediately recognized the Rush logos from the albums "Counterparts," "Grace Under Pressure," and "Test for Echo," and thought what an excellent addition to my music studio they would make. They are signed by Neil Peart in cooperation with Pro Mark sticks. It was too ironic that A.D’s last words before I left was how I looked like Neil Peart, and here before me were three pair of his sticks. I just had to buy them and while I was at it, I got the snare stand. Its only money I’m told. I spent the rest of the day arranging and rearranging the music room and making some adjustments to my kit. I’m sore, but what a great sore. |
| Knowing that I was in the market for a new drum instructor, Steve, a friend of mine from my third place, suggested that I call his drummer, A.D and set up a time to meet with him. I placed the call right away. I introduced myself and explained that I was a friend of Steve and that’s all it took. He acted as if we were long-time friends. I spoke to A.D about where I was musically and that I was looking for another dynamic; another approach in sharpening my skills as a drummer. “Bro, I can defiantly help you out,” he told me. I met A.D at his studio the following week. He is my age, shaved head, both ears pierced and says dude allot. We hit it off right away and I felt like I was hanging out with a friend and not so much like a teacher-student. His studio is located in an industrial park area in west Phoenix and not much to look at from the outside. He led me through a series of doors and hallways; all covered in old cymbals and record album covers. Stacked along the walls were speaker crates, mic stands, speaker cable, and other musical paraphernalia. “Excuse the mess dude,” he begged. A.D explained that they were installing a new mixing board and processor and were here until 3am the previous morning. I wasn’t worried about “the mess.” It looked as it should. There against the back wall and setting on a riser was a completed set of acoustic drums. I poked around while A.D started switching on the components and lighting for his make-shift stage. The walls were covered in a gray egg carton-like foam material to contain the sounds produced during practice sessions. More speaker crates and stacks of speakers were haphazardly placed throughout the room. A lighting rig framed the shinny black drum kit and centered above that was an old disco ball. A.D offered me bottled water and told me to climb on up and get comfortable. I gave A.D all the training material I had been using with Arik and explained that we had been working through the table of time, stick control and form at which time I heard the sound of the books hitting the floor. “Hey bro, this stuff is good but let’s not be so anal,” he said through a smile. “Play something for me,” he asked. “Like what,” I asked. A.D sat in the chair next to me, his legs crossed patiently waiting. “Just play the drums dude,” he told me. I slowly started pounding out the beats that typically fill my head on a daily basis, trying to make a good impression while getting the feel of the kit. I went through some rolls on the snare and expanded to the toms and cymbals while A.D yelped words of praise and encouragement. “Right-on dude,” he cheered. From my little performance, A.D started showing me variations, based on sixteen paradiddle exercises that could be arranged to obtain a whole range of beats. We worked off of sheet music that he wrote as we went along, each note my own and strictly from my lesson. It was not just a lesson, but an experience that has only just begun. It is what I have been looking for in a mentor and look forward to getting back up on that little stage in west Phoenix. |
| The Arizona desert has been at its peak of perfection for the New Year. Welcoming mornings with mild temperatures make starting the day an easy task. In contrast to the poor frozen souls of my hometown Chicago, I am in Xanadu. Despite the interruptions of a job, it has been like a permanent vacation of sorts that I never tire of experiencing. There is something magical about being surrounded by mountain peaks which stretch towards the heavens, like the open arms of a comforting mother, we always feel safe and welcome. This permanent vacation does make it hard to concentrate on the task of working with the sun beaconing from office windows all day long. Little day-dreams intrude and feed my flights of fancy of writing a story, furthering my drumming abilities, or finding a new part of the desert to explore. These day dreams have inspired my new music room that was once my master bedroom. Living in a condo has created certain limitations for this little drummer-boy, as one might imagine. Not everyone has my zest for a smooth 4/4 beat with heavy bass and the crash of the ride cymbals every time I decide to pick up my sticks; which sometimes happens to be in the late evenings. So, in order to keep the home owner’s association from having meeting upon meeting about the insane musician living in B9, I emptied the master bedroom to the bear walls and started my music room plans. I set about in my best feng shui approach to make a practical studio that would reflect my style and appreciation of music. The drum kit would have to take center stage and used them as the center piece of my new studio. I started in on the tedious task of tearing down the kit and transferring the parts and pieces on-by-one to their new home. My kit is an all electronic set which has a realistic look and feel but enables me to hush out the sound by wearing a set of headphones. I set up the thirteen inch snare on its stand and reconstructed the frame for the remaining drums to be hung around, above, and below in a semi-circle that would eventually surround me once seated on the little black throne. Neil Peart speaks about the “stage presence” a set of drums has just by their being placed there. The geometric shapes, the sparkle of the hardware, the reflection off the cymbals all add to the hypnotic allure that now fill my room. I stepped back to admire them as they sat idle in their new location and was pleased. The remainder of the room fell into place in quick order with the hanging of various framed concert show books and ticket stubs, musical books would add to the theme, while carefully placed issues of Rolling Stone magazine would provide some reading material for any visiting guests. I hung my small collection of guitars in shadow boxes on either side of the drum kit to give the room a more dramatic feel and set aside a place to sit and strum if the urge struck me. The studio was set and ready to properly break in. I switched on the amps and drum processor and slipped into a steady beat and day dream of another kind. |
 Log in to Leave Feedback |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
