Walking with Giants

Washington Monument. The White House. The subways of New York City. The Liberty Bell. A beautiful lake tucked into the mountains in Vermont. I’d never seen any of these things prior to one month ago.

Upon the return from my east coast tour, I embarked on a ten-day trip around Nebraska, playing witness to the shimmering layer of gold that hides just beneath the seemingly flat surface of a state known for the long, flat drive between Chicago and Denver.

Indian Cave, while obscured from view by the flood waters of the Mississippi, miles removed from any light pollution, was lit by the milky way and we had the privilege of hearing animals fighting in the woods, crawling around outside of our tent.

If Indian Cave gave us a starry night, Lake McConaughy provided a black canvas with millions upon millions of pinholes exposing the bright light shining from behind. With no moon, I could clearly see across the secluded hill that led down to the water, the stars floating on the surface of the lake spread out all across the horizon.

Chimney Rock, while disappointing in it’s packaging (visitor’s center, shot glasses, t-shirts, gift shop, single vantage of the formation from no closer than one mile, etc.), was surreal to see in person. To imagine the desperate families of pioneers passing through the Great American Desert, flat for miles, coming across the rock protruding from the ground like a lighthouse guiding them farther west as if to say “You’re doing a good job.”

Scottsbluff National Monument calls the bluff of the small hills in the eastern part of the state, reminiscent of something found in the southwest. Red rocks and long winding roads traveling to the top of large vistas that give a vantage for what seems like 100 miles.

Two hours to the north, 15 miles by dirt road from Fort Robinson (19th century war fort complete with soldiers barracks, officers’ quarters and lodges all available for lodging) we stumbled on Toadstool National Geological park. At the end of the dirt road is a space with eight tent-camping pads, surrounded by scrub grass and sandy ground at the foot of some of the most interesting geological formations I’ve seen (especially in Nebraska). Free to roam in the park, we quickly got lost along the criss-crossing semi-beaten paths over the wall of white rock into the weaving crevasses and peaks of stark-white mushroom-like formations. It’s like traveling to another dimension to the deserts of the southwest.

We travelled from there, looking over our shoulders for a final glimpse at the white, pseudo-mountains we’d climbed for hours the entire way to Niobrara State Park, the east-west highway leading through, closed due to flooding. There we met Park Superintendent Mark Rittig, a man so excited about our project that he got us an interview with a local paper; a man so dedicated to that area that not only was he the superintendent, but he oversaw the work at Ashfall Fossil Beds as well as working for the U.S. Coast Guard. He told us about all of the people that had walked where we’ve walked. I looked out over the hillside, where prehistoric animal remains have been unearthed, and imagined Lewis and Clark walking there. I pictured the outlaws of Nebraska’s history running along the route we drove. I saw indigenous chiefs standing along the ridge. “Giants have walked here,” I thought to myself.

I loved the east coast. It was beautiful out there and I wouldn’t trade that experience away. But you don’t have to have hundreds of dollars and a full week to take a beautiful vacation or explore nature and find inspiration. It’s in our back yard. There is inspiration and beauty and culture waiting to be touched, waiting to be inhaled and exhaled, waiting to send chills up your spine as you look up at a night sky so bright you’d swear to God that there was something out of the ordinary happening.

Long Term Care Center

There’s a picture of me at Christmas when I was 16 years old where I’m sitting at the dinner table playing the first guitar I ever owned. It was a dark brown Johnson acoustic. I didn’t know more than a few chords and I knew how to play one song (I believe it was a song by Brand New) and that’s the song I was singing in the picture. I didn’t know anything about it and never would have dreamed that I’d be releasing albums and writing songs about people and places. I just powered through my awkward inability to strum with any sort of rhythm.

7 1/2 years later, I found myself standing in front of a crowd of 17 octogenarians, dining chairs made erroneous by their wheelchairs, half of them sitting like idle marionettes, heads drooped, arms limp, half asleep, raising their heads and arms to clap at songs that no one would have guessed they even noticed.

A woman with a giant ball of white hair resembling something atop the head of a lego person looked at me and called out to me in a voice that somehow was both a whisper and a yell asked how long I’d been playing. It took me a second to process the fact that I’ve been playing almost 8 years.

“Almost 8 years,” I said loudly.

“What?”

“Almost 8 years,” I said, clearer.

She half closed her eyes and shook her head. Her hand moved in a dismissive motion.

“I can’t hear you,” she said, her tone suggesting that I not bother.

Another man, to my left, asks where I’m from and whispers something quietly about lakes and rivers by my hometown. I have to move so close that we’re inches from each other.

I begin pacing from my spot in the corner of the room to my coffee on the table, unsure of how to interact with these people full of so much experience and knowledge yet so incapable of sharing it, their minds fading slowly. I hold on tightly to my guitar, waiting for the nurses to wheel the rest of my audience into the room, one at a time.

A man named Randall shares a story with me as we wait about a friend of his from some distant time, long before now, who owned a guitar. This friend had moved from Arkansas to St. Louis and, “boy, could he play,” he says, recounting a certain song that his friend used to sing, an indeterminable folk song from the deep south. “Thank you for sharing that!” I say.

I begin playing and close my eyes as I always do. Alarms go off from time to time as some residents attempt to get out of their wheelchairs, setting off their “wander guards”, alarms designed to prevent them from leaving their chairs, a cord attaching them to their chair. The whole thing brought a deep sadness to me, the fact that these people have lived long lives and made great sacrifices and share experiences that I will never endure in my time. Yet, they’ve been resigned to sitting in their chairs, not allowed to walk freely for fear they may harm themselves.

So there I stand, singing my sad songs, watching as these people who lived through the eras and experiences that inspire me, watching them as the nurses tell them they need to sit back down in their chairs, nurses who could easily be these peoples’ grandchildren.

After I finished my last song I sat and ate chocolate ice cream across from Randall. He told me 3 times about when he rescued a little girl in the waters along the dividing line between North and South Korea during his time in the Navy. Each time, the story was a little different, but the telling of it was almost exactly the same. Somehow, that story was more interesting each time. I wanted to know more. I looked into his eyes and saw them full of experience and knowledge and a life lived fully. I wanted to grab his wheelchair and run out of there and say, “RANDALL! WE’RE BREAKING OUT!” but I couldn’t. I said my goodbyes, got my gas money from the event coordinator and walked out feeling strange.

I’d done something great. I’d brought these people something that they rarely get. Something different. Or did I just give them a taste of something they’d once had: Freedom. Will they remember me when I return? When they lay their heads down on their pillows, will their crooked bodies resonate with the words I sang to them or have their lives been too full to contain anything else? Should I be happy that they’ve lived full lives and that I was able to share with them a gift that has been given so freely to me or should I be sad to know that they’re living their final years in a confined space, all of their choices and decisions made for them?

What I do know is that I should never forget that picture. I should never forget the day that I picked up that first guitar and stumbled through the same two simple chords of the only song I knew. I should never forget the gift that has been given so freely to me. I should never forget that I have a responsibility to share it with all people and we all have a responsibility to be passionate and share that passion with the world.

Wonderful Things in Nebraska Music

Dear Human Beings,

A beautiful thing has been happening lately in Nebraska and Lincoln more specifically. A beautiful community is proudly starting to show it’s face and it’s contagious like a cold. It’s a cold I’ve been waiting to catch so I can sneeze it all over everyone’s faces and cough it into their aural inputs.

I find myself paying closer attention to the Facebook events, frequenting the local venue websites, walking downtown simply to see who is playing at what venue. I notice myself reposting random events and links, not because of how it will further my reputation or better my music, but because I think it’s important for people to know about all of the talent Lincoln and Omaha (and other areas) have to offer, and not just in the realm of music performance. Great minds are coming together to work to build something beautiful… something that will foster more creativity and greater community.

The folks over at http://www.hearnebraska.org/ have been producing columns and blogs and have been reaching out to musicians, venues, artists and showgoers alike to give everyone a voice. User blogs allow the average music appreciator to contribute in any capacity that they want. The event calendar gives a place for everyone to find out what shows are coming up. The comprehensive list of venues and musicians allows artists to easily connect with similar performers to set up a show. The columns work together to form a cohesive unit of daily-updated, unique information on the artists that Nebraska music supporters have come to love… i.e. aperture needle: the column that uncovers the stories behind the tattoos adorned by local artists.

All of it is selfless. Nobody is making money here. There’s no personal incentive aside from he desire to foster greater love of local music, a dream of creating an image, a brand for Nebraska that goes beyond cornfields and cows and Pioneer Seed corn hats.

Django G-S at Love Drunk Studio (http://lovedrunkstudio.com/ or http://www.vimeo.com/lovedrunk) is a prime example of someone who cares about music. Talented musician (Down with the Ship, Midwest Dilemma) and all around good guy, he and his crew shoot live, single-take music videos of Nebraska bands at no cost to the bands (somebody buy this guy a meal), all because he believes in the art itself, because he loves the feeling that comes after the product is finished (I imagine that’s why he does it, at least). It’s a beautiful tool for promoting upcoming shows/events and helping to spread the word and the message that Nebraska music is here and it’s beautiful. (to contact him, go to info@lovedrunkstudio.com)

So.. Andrew Norman, Angie Norman, Django G-S and his team, all of the folks at Hear Nebraska, Jeremy “Douglas-Dub” Wardlaw, Jeremy Buckley, Josh Hoyer, House Show House Owners, Radio Hosts, Patrons, Venue Owners, Musicians, Artists, Bartenders, DJ’s, others that I left out but obviously care about… this is for you..

As Kenny Loggins and Michael McDonald would say.. Keep the fire..

If you don’t care about music.. start. Go to a show, start a blog, start a band, buy a local artist’s album, listen to local radio shows, repost links. Maybe the next time you go visit your cousin in California you won’t be asked if they have the internet yet in your home state.

the dining room.

Just 14 days ago I wrote of winters past. Only 14 days ago there was chatter of snow days to be called. Wednesday the temperature is predicted to hover around 60… and I’m okay with that, though it appears as though no igloos will be created (I’m sure there’s still room for a blizzard in March.. which I’m also okay with). The warm sun and the longer days leave me, again, ruminating on the past; on the jagged snags on the wood floor of my parents dining room upon which I so gladly would crawl, finding a spot in the warmth where the sun poked through the lace curtains, a rainbow painted across my face by the glass raindrop hanging from the windowsill.

The old house was always teeming with fragrances and scents: chocolate melting deep within the bowels of a ball of cookie dough, freshly picked flowers (and the allergic reaction they brought), clean laundry dried by the open air on the twice-repaired, hand-made clothes line, the fresh smell of the detergent (Mom always picked the best smelling detergent… distinct… identifiable with home). My toy barn and animals strewn about from an imaginary tornado of my mind’s making, farmer John holding his pitchfork all the while, trying to figure out how the hell they were going to pay the bank when all of his animals were laying on their sides simultaneously.

Certain smells take me back to that snag-ridden wooden floor that claimed the lives of so many socks. Jasmine tea reminds me of the herbs that hung from the windows. Dusty shelves take me back to laying on the warm wood of the dining room for the hour that the sun poked through the bay windows, bored, sick of my toys, rubbing my finger through the dust collected, my mother, frantic to tackle the dreaded spring cleaning before family visits in late spring. The warm interior of a car sitting in the open sunlight all day pulls me back to the long drives back from Lincoln when I’d fall asleep to NPR, waking up at the end of the driveway, my face warm from the spot where the sun hit me, excited to finally be back home, excited to run in as fast as I could, avoiding the daunting task of grocery storage to grab my toys and get back to whatever dramatic tale I’d built in my mind on the long ride home.

I used to dread those long rides, and I’d exclaim, “I’m bored” while laying on the wood floor of the dining room, my mother replying, “There are plenty of chores I could have you do if you’re bored.” I used to hate folding that fresh laundry. How I long to be back there, back then, when the hardest part of my day was when the sunlight moved past the window or when I was called on to help fold the laundry, when I would struggle to help carry the laundry basket, full, through the hot, freshly cut grass. I fear I would be hard pressed to take the time to go there during the day and lay on the dining room floor, soaking up that small section of sunlight, ignoring all responsibilities.

Build an Igloo.

Lay on the dining room floor.

Fold some sun dried laundry.

Play with childhood toys.

Snow Da(y)ze

Oh what a mild winter we’ve had?! I find myself apt to complain on days like today, snow-a-blowin with a layer of ice smothering everything that lives, but let’s be real: compared to last winter, this isn’t bad. Yeah, smoking is not fun in this. Walking places is even worse. One finds oneself likely to not get out of the bed, wrapped in a cocoon of every blanket they’ve ever owned.

I managed to get out for some delicious soup at Bison Witches though and good golly I’m glad I did. Got to see some people and here I am enjoying a cup of coffee. I hear talk of snow days coming up on campus. It’s strange, now that I’ve grown to the ripe age of 23, how little effect “snow days” have on me. In elementary it was a day to go nuts and dig yourself a snowy grave, throwing ice packed snowballs at each other until it wasn’t fun anymore; Jimmy’s bleeding from the forehead threatening his mother on you. All you want is to be at home taking a warm shower, the water burning your already black, frozen fingers.

High school comes and it’s just another day to sit inside, away from school, your parents at work. A day to sleep until 11, watch some movies, listen to some tunes, eat a frozen pizza and drink about 18 Dr. Peppers, talk on the phone for three hours with that girl who you were once sure was the love of your life. “My life is over.. we were in Looooove!” sobbing to yourself, trapped in your town of 200, snow barricading every exit from town. Or something like that..

Then college.. Every time there’s a heavy snow, you spend the hours of 10 pm-3 am looking at the campus website, crossing your fingers. “CLOSE SCHOOL!! PLEASE, GOD!” even though you live only a 5 block trek from campus. Then, when it’s not called off you only get 4 hours of sleep because you’ve been up all night, and if it does get called, you have your shitty, part-time job serving cheap, endless pasta bowls. But it’s dead there because nobody wants to go out in the storm.

Then college ends. You find yourself staring at a blank word document, the cursor blinking at you, saying, “Yeah, I dare you to piece together an effective resume.. idiot.” Same shitty, part-time job serving cheap, endless pasta bowls ($2.13/hour). All the snow does now is makes you want to lay in your bed. Day off? I guess I’ll blanket up. Your friends, still in college, teem with excitement about the potential snow day. “My entire life is a snow day,” you say.

What happened?! When I was seven I once spent something like four hours building an igloo with a small bathroom trash can for building the igloo bricks! When finished, I just lay inside, listening to the quiet sound of snow falling, the absence of sound, the breeze howling across the opening, somehow warming myself in the snow, my muscles sore from trying to maneuver in my “Christmas Story”-esque attire. Now I can’t even get myself out of bed if I hear it MIGHT snow. Something beautiful is lost between 7 and 17 and so on. I cant imagine what I’ll be like at 27. I hope at 27 I revert back, I build igloos and dig tunnels through giant piles of snow and have snowball fights again. I think it’s time for me to MAKE a snow day happen again.

Carpe Snow’em!

Jimmy gives an update

Jimmy has been busy over the past couple months. There is a lot of footage of the past months that needs to be consolidated telling the tales of Mr. Jimmy “The Snake” Pavalatti. Once we figure out the best way to consolidate all of it, you will be privy to some of Jimmy’s deepest secrets, his greatest victories, his highest highs and his lowest lows. In the mean time, I’ll let Jimmy tell you a little bit about what he’s been up to:

hey guys. whatta crazy coupla months its been. i used my first computer. got my first non-garbage job. went on a date. relived some of my demons and fears and here i am. the anthro apology didn’t work out so well. i ended up gettin’ drunk and sleeping through class a coupla days inarow. they didnt like that much. ended up doin the recycling gig for a while. that stuck pretty well. im gonna take this opratune-ity to tell you all a very important message: SORT YOUR FUCKIN RECYCLIN’! GET RID OF THE CAPS!

ennyhow.. i met a beautiful woman on a dating website. i was gettin lonely and ben suggested i try a site called jdate since my name is jimmy and my name starts with j i guess. it was going pretty well but.. well i wont tell you too much. shortly after this some of my history was brought up by those stupid idiot asshole sketch comedy sonsofbitches and i was forced to relive all of my darkest fears. yes.. children’s dance koreahgrafy. yeah.. we all had dreams once.

its hard living in a new city alone when your only friends are a buncha assholes who follow you with their cameras.

anyway.. more to come from nicetrykid and your friend jimmy “the snake” pavalatti.

Shoppers eat big meal day before Tan Friday, remember true meaning of Shopsgiving Eve

The true meaning of the night before Tan Friday (Traditionally the last Friday of November) seems to have been lost in past years, but not this year. Shopsgiving Eve was celebrated in full force this year. Angela Stevens, 32, says,

In years past we’d not done much on shopsgiving eve. Sometimes my family would show up with some food which was nice. We’d sit around, eat, drink and be merry, etc. I finally figured it out this year. The Thursday before Shopsgiving is meant to energize us and allow us to prepare for the labors of what’s become known as Shopsgiving.

Tan Friday has, for years, been a day to get up before the sun rises to go attack other people in hopes of getting that perfect gift for your loved one at an extremely discounted price (attention: only 10 items per location, some locations do not participate). This year, many stores were opening as early as Midnight, some waiting as late as 3:30 or 5:30 AM to open.

When asked about his feelings on the old, boring tradition of “Thanksgiving” Dave Davis, 27, Boulder, CO said,

What’s Thanksgiving?

Thanksgiving?

When asked about Tan Friday he added,

Yeah, I love it. I love watching the aggression and competition that’s been built through years and years of tradition in past matches.

45-17 Go 'Skers

I asked if he thought the Buffs had a chance of overturning the Huskers this year. He responded,

Buffs? Huskers? No, not that competition and aggression, I’m talking about watching my wife at the mall. She really knows how to bust skulls.

rivalry, aggression, talent: Tan Friday.

Area old-man Jim Stevens said he misses the way things used to be, back when stores didn’t open until 5 am and the womenfolk didn’t drag him along. However, he also reported that he missed segregation, so people continued to ignore him. Yes, it appeared that this “Thanksgiving” that so many old racists speak of is dead.

Traditions are racist

It’s nice to finally have a tradition with which everyone is on board. So next year, spend the Thursday before Tan Friday preparing yourself properly. Eat a big, healthy meal (heavy on carbs), stretch, get plenty of rest, DVR the football game and get out there and get some DEALS!

Oprah reveals 2012 VW Beetle, travels through time

Oprah Winfrey, talk show host and president of the United States of America hosted the first of this year’s Favorite Things episodes in which she gives people gifts from the future. When asked to comment on why she would not release this time-travel technology to the public she replied, “It’s just not one of my favorite things.”

President Oprahma

The audience roared in applause and hyperventilated, at times speaking in tongues, eyes rolling back. One audience member, David Smith, 39, Indianapolis, IN, had this to say, “My wife made me come. We have to pay the taxes on the car… in Euro’s. Apparently in 2012 we’ve moved over to the Euro. Also it uses fuel technology that won’t be released until 2012 so we’re paying taxes on an unusable car.” When Mrs. Smith was asked to comment she laughed/cried while screaming something unintelligible about St. Winfrey.

It was shortly after giving out the boring, shitty favorite things, she brought this man onto the stage:

Dad?

He appeared a bit nervous. She asked him how things had been. He said they’d been pretty good. The crowd looked confused.

Shortly after, she brought out this lovely woman:

Mom?

Also a bit nervous, Oprah greeted her and had her sit on the couch. They appeared to not know each other. Oprah asked them if they wanted to tell the audience. The man stood up and said:

The rumors are true. We’re together. We have been for some time now and… well we want to show you something.

That’s when this little guy showed up:

Lovechild

That’s right Oprah, we did it. We finally had the child we’d always wanted.

Oprah looked at the audience and, nodding, started applauding the young, dorky couple. The audience joined in.

At this point, she addressed the audience:

That’s right everyone, and with cloning technology that I stole from the future, you get one! and you get one! and you get one! and you get one! and you get one! and you get one! and you get one! and you get one! …

When asked how she felt about receiving the clone of the lovechild of an old new VW Beetle and a PT Cruiser from the future, Pam Davis said the following:

I actually didn’t get one. She skipped me when she was going around the room. I thought it was a mistake but when I asked one of the production crew about it they said, “No, sorry ma’am, we actually don’t have quite enough,” which I’m fine with. My dad drove a PT Cruiser when I was in high school and it sucked.. and the old new VW Beetle’s are kinda ugly and dorky too. I’ll be fine without one.

Predictions for next year’s favorite things from the future include the Detroit Lions, a Tea Party campaign T-Shirt from the 2016 election that says, “We’re still crazy.. Crazy about AMERICA!,” Brett Favre’s new book, “A Collection of Pictures of my Penis,” and the next Guns and Roses album (brought back from 2032).

NU Quarterback leaves football team to pursue career in dance

Tweeter.

Tweeters spread the news 140 characters at a time all day Sunday. What were they saying? Martinez is gone. He quit. He’s done. Some were talking about a phone call to his father after an injury early in the game. Many were asking, “Just what did Pelini say to him when he was ‘all up in his business’ about it?”

Highly credible community sports news source bleacherreport.com appears to have been the source of this rumor that burned through the blogosphere at alarming speeds throughout Sunday Evening. In an updated report late on Sunday night (after it had been confirmed that Martinez was, in-fact, still on the team), bleacherreport.com had this to say:

Many readers also noted that they wouldn’t believe the Martinez rumors until they heard it from a “real” media outlet. But what’s “real” in the age of new, social media? By “real” do people mean “traditional,” in the sense of newspapers and television?

Indeed, what IS real? Is this chair real? Is bleacherreport.com real news? Am I real? Are we sitting in the desert of the real? Is Neo here? Somebody channel Derrida, Barthes and Lacan and let’s get the post-structuralist take on this whole Martinez situation.

It took me some time, but after some digging, it has been confirmed (by myself) that Martinez is, in-fact, on the road to pursuing his life long dream of being a professional dancer. While being taped in the locker room he sent one text message to his agent notifying him of the situation at hand, asking whether or not this would affect his dance career. His reply: “Yes.” Martinez, in a frenzy, spoke with the trainer and expressed his concern for his future career in the art of dance and questioned whether it was still in the cards to be cast in Step up 4: The Streets Again?! directed by Channing Tatum. He mentioned to the trainer that he wondered if he should quit and the trainer immediately did some tweeting and texting of his own.

When Martinez returned to the field, concerned and dejected, Pelini approached him and with the trademark Pelini vigor screamed to Martinez, “You’ve been working to be a dancer your whole life! Don’t you dare mess this up now! If you’re not 100% I don’t want you putting your future in jeopardy!”

Pelini dodged questions regarding the flare-up in the post-game press conference in an attempt to hide Martinez’s dream from the rest of Husker Nation and the world. Martinez’s father declined to comment, his face saying, “Really? A dancer?”

Martinez declined to comment on his newly uncovered dream saying only, “I love dance, OK?! But don’t say anything. The guys think it’s weird.”

Meanwhile, Martinez’s future hangs in the balance.

To dance?

Or not to dance?

THAT is the question.

Jimmy “the snake” Pavalatti says “how ya doin?”, asks people to be more “green”

(Introducing Jimmy Pavalatti’s first blog post. He refuses to do any revisions or spellchecking.)

 

Hey. I don’t know what it is you want me to say here. Sonofabitch told me to just type like id talk or somethin. So anyway i guess i’ll just tell you whats going on with me today. i woke up bout 3am and started walking around my garbage route. found the final piece to my new surroundsound system. i made it out of single headphones. people throw them shits out all the time jus cause one of the headphones is broken. so i just splice that shit and throw it together into a whole bunch of speakers. bam surroundsound! so anyways..

as you mighta seen in the video this guy posted about me, i once found a queen sized bed thatd been peed on. so i cut it in half and left the pee’d on part out on the curb. twin sized bed. people are so wasteful. don’t throw so much stuff out. we got the greenhouse thing and the sun is all hot all the time these days and people are throwin out their headphones and beds?! c’mon! wake up people this is hurting our world and stuff. what are our kids going to do when all the beds are gone? its gonna be real hot and shit by that time cause all the beds are gonna be on the street corners and the sun is gonna be even more hot and the water’s gonna rise. then we gotta worry about planet x. recycle. everybody needs to recycle (don’t recycle everything or i won’t have a job). but recycle some things. don’t throw out your pee’d on bed mattress.

anyhow, i hope you guys are all doin well out there and i hope everythings cool or whatever. stay sweet. treat the environment right or whatever and stop bein such an asshole.

 

(he insisted I post this picture)

Jimmy wants you to recycle!