Alright, this explosion was small.  But it was enough to take permenantly out of commission the power source for Plucky, one of my two personal assistants... and by personal assistants, I mean ancient, ailing-but-essential computers.  There was a short in the cord that goes from the computer to the blocky-bit, and I'll admit it, I'd known that for a while- she was a little needy on how she wanted to be positioned if you wanted her to charge.  But last night, with sparks and smoke and a tiny stink bomb of melting rubber, that power adapter said farewell (and good luck with your musicality class), and left the functional world. 

Now there are a few pieces of background you need to know before I can continue:
1. I'm in Boston, which is where I was last night.
2. I drove to Boston yesterday.
3. When I drive, I plug my computer into my car stereo, to keep from arriving only in a ditch.
4. My computer doesn't have enough batter for the Philly-Boston trip, plus 2 classes, plus an hour of djing.
5. Last night I was scheduled for 2 classes, plus an hour of djing.

You see where this is headed?

So there I was, between class one and class two, with my computer howling for more power, despite having been plugged in for an hour, when snap-crackle-pop-oh-dear-oh-dear- no more cord.  No more power.  No more music.  Class two was a musicality class. 

"Oh, no!" cried our heroine, distrought.

"Hark!  A lady in distress!  No music?  No laptop!  I know!  I'll fight the giant dragon called 'Internetus', to reach the castle Emusic, plunder some perfect tunage, and save the day!" Announced our bold hero, Sir John Brooks. 

So he battled the dragon, got the magical music, which she used to weave a spell of magic over her students.  And together they drove away into the night.

All of which is to say a big thank you to John Brooks, for being my knight apon his sturdy laptop, and to Gui and Union Blues for bringing me out- last night, despite the explosion, was delightful.

Off to find a new magic wand,
-m.

This year, come July, you won't find me at Folketshouse.  You won't find me in the Laundry Pit, or even at the Kugen.  In '05 and '07, that's where I'd be, and since this is an odd year (aren't they all, though?), I'd originally planned to try and make Herrang happen.  But this year, something has come up.  Something wonderful.

This year, from July 12-17, I'll be teaching blues dance at the Augusta Heritage Center.  Located in Elkins, WV, Augusta Heritage is home to a 5-week long music camp, each week offering a different theme.  You can probably guess which week is blues.  So what makes this so exciting?  Partly, there's still the thrill of going to camp, in a way.  Partly, there's the fact that everyone at that camp is there because they love blues music in the same way that I love dancing.  And partly, there's a chance to be surrounded by some of the most talented blues musicians on the planet. 

Not to brag, but here's a sample:
Fiona Boyes: About Fiona Boyes
She's the first Australian to win the Blues Foundation's International Blues Challenge.  She's also the first woman to win it.

Phil Wiggins: Wiggins's music
W.C. Handy Ward for Blues Entertainers of the Year and Best Traditional Blues Album of the Year

Saffire- the Uppity Blues Women: Saffire's Songs

Louisiana Red: Louisiana Red's Songs
He's played with some ok guys... like John Lee Hooker.

Courses offered during blues week include: Fiddle/Mandolin and Vocal Repertoire, Guitar, Harmonica, History of the Blues, Mandolin, Piano, Songwriting, Teen Band, and Vocals.  Since my class is a mini-course at night, it doesn't conflict with any of these courses... guess where I'll be spending my day.

Aside from the obvious, there's something else here.  There's opportunity.  If we could get together this many blues musicians, and a bunch of blues dancers, in an environment where everyone's working and learning and generally hanging out... I feel like good things, great things, are bound to happen. 

So, if you're interested in learning blues music and/or dance, and want to be part of something, but don't have the cash to fly to Sweden, think about dropping by West Virginia.  Fiona and Iverson are doing it....

For more information: Augusta Heritage Blues Festival

See you on the dance floor,
-Mike

Nope, not Fitzgerald.  LMNOP, the otter-cowherding-silverfaced dog I'm living with for the short-term.  She doesn't actually look like this.

This is one of those silly, meaningless, what-happened-in-my-life-today posts. You've been warned!

...because it's not at all meaningless to me. Today, I finally experienced the delight that was the Franklin Fountain (link at bottom). It's an old-school (although not that old) ice cream shop at the corner of Second and Market, here in Philadelphia. And while the establishment is only a few years old, everything inside seems like it's been waiting for you for a half-century or more. That's not entirely true- the ice cream is fresh and delicious. The rest, however, is as old-fashioned as it gets. Want to see the oldest working soda fountain, with some sort of fantastic name like the Draft Tower? It's there. Clear-Toy Candy or Teaberry flavored gum? Check. Servers with knit hairnets or armbands? Of course. Marble, brass, and old wood... even belt fans. The winter menu, available for only a few days more this season, offers hot milkshakes (toasted marshmallow, anyone?), mead, hot sodas, and hot chocolate. Me? I got a hot chocolate float, with butter pecan ice cream. Jesse and Dan, in their second round, split an apple pie milkshake. What's that? Why, it's a vanilla milkshake- with a genuine slice of hot apple pie in it. Ridiculous? Yes- in the best way possible.

Oh, and all this goodness? Comes with a paper straw.

The Franklin Fountain

Life is good,
-m.

People tell me, from time to time, that I need to actually write in my blog; they're right. I often consider that maybe if I didn't spend so much time chewing my thoughts over and over, that there'd me more left than mush when I finally consider writing them down. I had grandiose ideas when I set up this blog- it was supposed to be full of wit and wisdom... or at least not be all about dance, like everything else I do. The reason there's only one entry? Probably because I set my standards to high. It's hard to live up to anything grand. So starting today, I'll try and just blog.

Moving has left me with a lot of thoughts, but I question whether that warrants a blog. To be honest, for someone who moves as much as I do, I'm not especially good at it. I mean yes, I'm good at packing- secret #1: don't get attached to your stuff. You can do without most of it. And I'm good at finding out what there is in a city, and where to find people- secret #2: google, and google maps, are the source of all things informed. And sure- I'm even good at getting around in cities I've never been to- see again secret #2.

But the hardest part about moving isn't identifying roads or attending dances. The hardest part about moving is feeling at home. For me, that means making myself a part of the community. It means finding someone I can call at the end of a rough day, and saying, "Hey, come over- let's do nothing together." There are countless groups of nice people that are easy to find in any given city... and yet, there's something else that has to happen- something hardly short of mystical. And the more I talk to other people, the more I feel this is a large pattern. So why?

Sometimes I think it has to do with history, and that the reason frequent movers feel alienated is that they don't have the chance to build a past with someone. It's hard not to feel close to the people who've seen you through your best haircuts and worst relationships. That's cetainly part of it. There may be more to it, though. (warning: this will look like a tangent. Stick with me.)

I read in a book once (TheGeneral Theory of Love) that the value of therapy isn't actually anything the therapist has to say. It's not a matter of telling someone who suffers from some intangible ailment how to see the world rightly. It is, as it turns out, the act of bonding with someone. To enter into a state of limbic resonance with someone more psychologically healthy than you is to learn from them on a subconscious level. The act of forging a bond is the medicine.

I read also that people suffering from emotion are, in a sense, emotionally blind. That is to say, someone who is severely depressed can't look at someone's face and see affection, sarcasm, humor, or irritation. They hear the words, but miss the connotations. This means that acheiving limbic resonance becomes incredibly difficult; the patient loses access the their best chance of healing. (This is why medication + therapy is often the best solution for patients suffering from depression).

So, if someone who is depressed needs to feel accepted and loved, and cannot read acceptance or love... you get the idea.

Perhaps, on a much reduced level, those who are in a state of upheaval suffer a similar situation. Even moves to cities where people already have friends can be shockingly traumatic. Once enough time has passed, the shock wears off, habit sets in, and the limbic brain restores the emotional and social order we pack animals need so very badly. Bonding follows, and voila- you've made yourself a home.

So the next time you move, schedule in some cushioning: plan to call friends, schedule visits, get involved in multiple social circles in your new city, and- most of all- remember that with time and the right group of people, you'll find yourself an indispensible member of the community.

Cheers,
-m.