Border Skirmish

Dear Reader,

Hi. I'm enjoying writing to you again. I hope you don't mind how rusty I seem to be at this. I'm choosing relatively mundane topics to get back into the swing of things. Then again, the majority of my days are an assemblage of little meaningful moments, and to what end should I blog other than to capture the tiny freckles of memory that would otherwise fade with the winter of age?

Recently, I've gotten addicted to a game called Lux (http://www.sillysoft.net). Well, more accurately, I should say I was "hooked" on Lux by my friend Dave, who is an insistent chap when he feels he knows I need and/or would enjoy something. He's been after me for almost a year now to buy a $25 license key so we could play online together, and finally (after a year of me saying I'd get to it) he surprised me and just bought me a key to use, in my name and everything. (As I said. Insistent.)

Lux is basically a computer version of Risk, which, for those of you who have battled me on the Map of Destiny already know, is one of my favorite games. Lux has all kinds of different maps in addition to the standard "Risk" map. There is a Nazi-era Germany map, a Roman Empire map ("For Gaul!"), even a "Siege" map where you duel other players in and around a well-defended castle. Getting someone out of the Castle Keep is a real challenge, let me tell you. The game makes for very quick gameplay, has good graphics and sound (who doesn't want to see a country literally explode in the flames of victory when you conquer it? Take that, Kamchatka!), and is frankly addictive. All that's missing is the trash-talking at the table, and the game designers have thoughtfully included a chat-window for just such revelry. I highly recommend you check it out.

Not all of my skirmishes today were so digital. My wife and I are not... what's the word... lukewarm people, and when it's on, oh, it's on.

I'd call today's tussle a border skirmish. Diplomatic talks broke down. Someone threw a firebomb. All of a sudden there were bodies everywhere. Explosions. Not everyone can talk about their marriage like a war on terrorism, I know, but against a wife as well-armed as mine, you don't mess around. My wife can kill a man at 20 paces just by telling him the truth.

So, we fought. She stormed out. I stormed... well I stood still and didn't storm anywhere, but I felt tempestuous. My angry clouds were swirling. Chance of precipitation was in the 80s.

I heard the door downstairs slam shut, and I huffed around the apartment for awhile. You know when you get so angry that you can't stand still? You just feel all agitated. Not even really thinking. Occasional violent urges. The odd thought. "I really should drop off my dry-cleaning," followed by a pang of hunger and then more anger.

I was in a huff. And then the strangest quote came into my head from Mr. Rogers. It's from a song that he read to a tough-as-nails senator when Rogers was part of the group defending PBS to the senate. Here are the lyrics:

What do you do with the mad that you feel
When you feel so mad you could bite?
When the whole wide world seems oh, so wrong...
And nothing you do seems very right?

What do you do? Do you punch a bag?
Do you pound some clay or some dough?
Do you round up friends for a game of tag?
Or see how fast you go?

It's great to be able to stop
When you've planned a thing that's wrong,
And be able to do something else instead
And think this song:

I can stop when I want to
Can stop when I wish.
I can stop, stop, stop any time.
And what a good feeling to feel like this
And know that the feeling is really mine.
Know that there's something deep inside
That helps us become what we can.
For a girl can be someday a woman
And a boy can be someday a man.

(watch Mr. Rogers read it to the senator here)

So, I thought of this song. "What do you do with the mad that you feel / When you feel so mad you could bite?" I didn't have any clay. I'm too lazy to make dough unless it's from a tube. I don't have any friends to play tag with, and I was in my skivvies and didn't feel like getting dressed to go run around. So I did the only thing I could think of.

I rearranged the apartment.

Not the whole apartment, mind you. Just the bedrooms. I suppose you could say I'm passive-aggressive, but you can't argue with my taste in throw pillows.

We live in a two-bedroom apartment, and for the entire time we've lived here we (and our stuff) have occupied/slept in/messed up one room while the other sat pristine, preserved like a shrine, for guests. It's like owning a restaurant with a beautiful seating area - candles, tablecloths, artwork on the walls, live music - and only ever getting to eat by the sink in the kitchen.

I moved my piano in there last year and my wife used the closet, but otherwise the guest room just sat there looking inviting, warm, and comfortable while our bedroom was overcome by the rubble of everyday life - scraps of paper, speakers, boxes, checkbooks, video cameras. We did this, we thought, out of respect for guests. It's important to both of us that people come visit and feel at home when they do.

Sometimes I would escape to the guest room and wonder, "Why is this space used as a glorified closet?" So I did it. I took the plunge. I moved the bed around, moved the piano, and I put my computer desk in the guest room. It took three hours. I was sweating bullets.

And my wife nearly killed me when she came home. But spaces have energy. Rooms have energy. Not to get all feng shui on you (which always makes me hungry for General Tso's chicken...mm), but I am a firm believer that spaces elicit powerful reactions on an unconscious level. Our shitty bedroom is a source of tension in our apartment. It's covered in my possessions - my pictures, my posters - and it is not charming, quaint, or relaxing. The computer desk in here made it feel like a dorm room, and the clutter made us try and avoid it. And to top it off, we had a wonderful bedroom right next door reserved only for guests that we only got to look at and never use, a constant reminder of how our bedroom should feel.

So I still need to figure out how to fix up our bedroom. Ironically, the guest bedroom looks even more inviting than before and our bedroom looks like a bomb hit it. Hm.

We fought. I redecorated. We fought about the redecorating. Minor skirmishes. Trade disputes. Arguing over land rights. It's "Risk: Home Edition," and today, Kamchatka moved a computer...

Olympia

Okay, so recently I've been haunting the PianoWorld forums. I'd say I've become something of a piano voyeur, reading about other people's pianos, scrolling through their pictures, imagining that it was me who was bringing home a new Bluthner or Bosendorfer. All that I'm missing is a telescope and a wheelchair.

I love the feeling of possibility with a new piano, the undiscovered country of its keyboard, the roughness around the edges that can only be polished by hours of devoted practice and performance, that feeling of limitless musical potential. A piano and pianist contour to one another like lovers, and the passionate and unselfconscious communication between them is the most intimate getaway, the most romantic breakfast in bed.

Sometimes, when I'm just existing in this moment or the next, I forget the breadth of experience that I've had already in life. Musically there have been many spectacular moments, and as I was perusing the Steinway Pianos website tonight, I found a press-release about the "Olympia" piano designed by Dale Chihuly. It's finally been purchased after 9 years on the road.


One-of-a-kind piano, only one in the world. And guess what? I've performed on it! I gave a whole concert on this piano - a ragtime concert, no less - at a car dealership in Erie, PA, back when I sold pianos. I didn't play all that well, actually. The concert was kind of a surprise to me, and the damn keys are orange and yellow, which didn't help. But it's cool to think that I had my fingers on that piano before it went into a museum, that I had a chance to make my music upon it.

Also, I can confirm that the bench is as comfy as it looks :D

Shade of Blue

Dear Reader,

Feeling kind of down this weekend. Not sure entirely why. We watched a number of movies - "Milk" on Friday, "The Duchess" on Saturday," and "Watchmen" on Sunday. Not exactly light viewing, but it was a treat to get ravaged by so much story in so short a time. Gay rights, the politics of gender, nuclear holocaust... I'm due for a viewing of the "Wizard of Oz," I think. Something to cleanse the palate.

Actually, on Saturday we went to the American History museum and saw the remnants of the Star-Spangled Banner, old trains and cars, and the ruby slippers. I never conceived of just how big that flag is, or how beautiful trains look before they are doused in the smoke and ash of use. And, frankly, the ruby slippers weren't as shiny as I had hoped. Light degrades them, you see. If they were to sit under the same bright lights that made them sparkle in the movie, they would fade and fade, so their presentation in the museum is rather underwhelming: dimly lit, although with a twinkle on the lip of the left shoe that glows like an ember in a dying fire, the last remnants of the old magic. Not enough to get you home, only enough to remind you of it.

Home. I'm not sure where my heart feels it nowadays. Home is siting at the piano and playing. Home is in the twin bed at my mother's house, the passenger seat of my father's truck, the table at Eat 'n Park with Mat. Home is where my wife is. The warm bed where I sleep. Home is behind the wheel of my car, the sunroof open, sitting with my eyes closed in a parking space and listening to the world outside as the sun warms my face.

I've become dubious as of late of lending too much credence to emotion. You can feel "down" for any number of reasons: your sleep schedule is off, your sugar is low, you didn't exercise today, you have too much energy, etc... There's nothing celestial about that. I used to let myself get caught up in the roller coaster. Hell, I took pride in the fact that I felt things strongly enough to be able to call it a roller coaster. Everyone else seemed to be rather zombie-like. Morose. They weren't like me, weren't feeling things as deeply or as authentically. Now I realize that to really feel, to be proximate to Truth, is exhausting. And being a Real Person is exhausting enough, you know, without the emotional roller coaster. Waking up early, putting on your disguise and going to work, cooking and cleaning the apartment, exercising... The motions themselves are enough to tire you out, let alone contemplating the meaning or significance of them.

This is what I didn't know about being an adult that I know now. It's freaking tiring! It was easy for me to ignore that fact when I wasn't working, when I was living off my parents and spending my days playing. And it truly was playing, even when I felt like I was in the real world. I was just playing at the whole bit. Now I'm married, work full-time, plan out weekends months in advance, all while trying to feel authentic and purposeful. And I'm relatively successful at it, if I say so myself. I'm becoming more solid. But a solid what?

Blogs Are Boring When Life is Good

Happy St. Patrick's Day! I celebrated by locking myself in the bedroom with my piano and playing for three hours while Jess went out with friends. It was heavenly, the most time I've had on my piano down here at any one sitting.

In Pittsburgh I've got my Disklavier, a 48" Yamaha U1 that is a fantastic practice instrument. You can read the entertainingly old version of the story of how I won it here.

At my apartment in D.C., however, I needed to get a piano and didn't want to damage the Disklavier by moving it, so now I have a beautiful little Kawai CE-7 that I bought off of craigslist last spring.


I think I had more fun searching for a good used piano than I've had buying anything ever. I scoured craigslist every night, e-mailing people with instruments that looked promising. I would check brands and models against posts at the PianoWorld forums, which was very helpful in avoiding a number of models. (PianoWorld is THE website for piano people... very fun).

I tried out a little Kimball upright that had about as much musicality as a couch pillow. I tried out a solid but poorly-maintained Baldwin Acrosonic at the house of a lovely old couple who, after hearing me play on their piano, came to one of my concerts in NoVA. (A side note: The only piano my grandfather Adam Spitznagel ever owned was a Baldwin Acrosonic, which to me is sad because A) He deserved to play on a real instrument and B) No one ever thought to record him playing anything.) I flirted with the idea of going to a dealer, but knew instinctively that I'd get a lot more piano for the paltry sum of money I had to spend ($1200) if I foraged in the private-seller woods than I would hacking away in the weeds of a dealership.

I finally found, after three weeks of searching, a 42" Kawai upright in walnut, made around 1980.

There is something comforting about wood that is older than you, you know? The piano was at a house out in Reston, and when I went to try it out I found out the house was for sale and the piano was the last big piece of furniture to be moved out. Sweet bargaining position for me, I thought, channeling my grandma's hawkish flea market eye. The house was enormous, one of those million-dollar deals, and the piano was tucked away in the same room as the washing machine. Illustrious, I know. It was, far and away, in the best condition of any piano I had looked at, though. It was like finding a mint '98 Honda Civic in a lot full of '81 Corollas.

It was out of tune, of course - the shudder that piano technicians get when they get the "I bought a piano on craigslist" call is an extremely well-documented and justified event - but as most people who own a piano know folks usually only tune a piano when they are shamed into doing so, and it's not the end of the world. I play professionally and my piano hasn't been tuned in over a year, so I try not to judge people, though this Kawai must have gone 5 or more years without going under the tuning hammer. It's like a car in that way. It's meant to be driven, and when it's not being driven you can spring all kinds of leaks.

No such problems with this piano, though. I knew what to look for: cracks in the pinblock, worn felt on the hammers, keys that didn't work. None of it. Everything was like-new! I pretended to deliberate. I did. Not afraid to admit it, but on the inside I knew I'd found the right piano for me.

The fun part was getting it for $750, knowing that it was easily worth three times that. Pianos are horrific investments unless you buy one of the fancy brands (i.e. Steinway or some such), losing a huge percentage of their value each year. This is bad news for new piano owners but great news for impoverished musicians looking for quality instruments. I only know one professional pianist who owns a Steinway grand, and it's because his partner has a "real job" that brings home real money.

The Kawai is a great practice piano. Nice firm action, really takes some energy to play, and it's solid. I never considered myself a "Kawai" kind of guy, but my experience thus far has been awesome. It holds a tune brilliantly (and I beat the hell out of it), it has a great sound and action for such a little thing, and it makes a lot of sound. The CE-7 has been praised by technicians as being Kawai's best-sounding console... me loves me that solid-spruce soundboard... and the whole point of buying a real acoustic piano instead of a digital was that I wanted to keep my fingers strong in the months where I'm not performing, and in spite of having to dance around the schedules of the neighbors upstairs and down, it was totally a worthwhile purchase.

Pianos are one of those curious things that are more than the sum of their parts. For me, the piano is a freedom machine. I consider it one of the great pleasures of my life, one of my true luxuries, that at any moment I can sit down and transport myself to that melodious pasture called Joy. I wish there was some way to communicate that feeling to the kid who hates piano lessons, the kid who, like I did, just wanted to play the fun music. Keep walking the path. The journey only gets more amazing...