BRIEF CABIN TOUR & HOMAGE TO BRIAN WILSON & FLULA BORG

 

SORRY FOR THE ABSENCE, BUT HAVE BEEN HARD AT WORK. THOUGHT I WOULD SHOW YOU AROUND MY CONFINES JUST A BIT AND I UTILIZED THE FLULA BORG VIDEO METHOD.  FLULA IS A GOOD FRIEND OF MINE IN LA AND IS ALWAYS AN INSPIRATION. CHECK HIM OUT AT FLULABORG.COM

THE SONG IS "BUSY DOIN' NOTHING" BY A CABIN SECLUDED BRIAN WILSON FROM THE BEACH BOYS FRIENDS ALBUM (LATER YEARS)

HERE IS THE VIDEO INSPIRATION FROM FLULA AND MY FRIENDS BACK IN TINSELTOWN. 

FORTUNATE FALL

"Here we go," you think to yourself on the way down, realizing you are falling yet there is nothing you can do about it. Ice; the great leveler, the great humbler. It will bring you down, especially if you are still sporting your Dr. Martins that everyone has warned you are worthless up here.  Ego and ass bruised, you look around primed to vent anger at someone, something, but there is nobody, nothing to blame. Gravity maybe, but that is about as logical as blaming global warming on the human race; oh wait, there may be a correlation with that one. The truth is YOU fell.  So laying in the snow, I have a flash of insight.

I think of my chosen pursuit of writing the novel.  As with any goal I have designated a plan of action, a path I must walk in order to reach the desired destination (of course nothing less than a Nobel Prize in Literature, a movie deal for my next 5 books, and heaps and heaps of attention from the opposite sex).   The path entails  yoga and meditation upon awakening, vocabulary study over breakfast, guitar session to open the mind, dedicated work time, research over protein filled dinner, endurance testing exercise; all for the maintenance of a healthy body, mind and spirit to be used to create something true.  

All is grand, I'm dreaming of my Nobel acceptance speech and the flirtatious brunette in the front row when zooooop, I've failed to heed the icy conditions of the path and I am flying off my feet, only to find myself in the middle of a 13 hour Grey's Anatomy Season 3 marathon fueled by a 5 pack of Starbursts binge unaware if the sun just went down or is coming back up.  I see myself clearly, dejected by the failures of Meredith and Derek but really more frustrated with my own.  I have indeed fallen.  

Down, on my back, I could blame my cousin for lending me her Grey's DVDs, I could blame Shonda Rhimes (actually I probably should, that show really derailed in a hurry), I could blame the weather as it is STILL about 20 below outside, but I know where the blame lies.  I am the only one in this cabin, I am the only one who set crazily off after the grail, I am the one to blame.  So I am left with the question, what now? I have fallen, I am pathetic, so what is the next move? With nobody to blame the only logical choice is to get up and get back on the path, get some rest and start with yoga and mediation all over again.  

  In rising up and setting forth again, not casting the path or the mission aside, the stride becomes more resolute. I can't help but think of snowboarding and while riding the lift looking down at the little tykes barreling down the mountain fearless when eventually they yard sale, goggles and beenie flying.  They look around despondent yet their parents are not there to pick them up or feel sorry for them, so they get up and do the only thing that is left to do, keep moving down that mountain (unless they bust up a femur or something in which case they usually wail grotesquely and need to be sledded down by the ski patrol). Normally, however, the fall is a correction.  A natural lesson in balance, speed and autonomy.  The epiphany is that the fall surely fails to define us. What makes a person is what comes after the fall. 

So I get back up : meditating, praying, channeling, writing and researching and when I fall, as I know I will, I will actually be cursing my brother and his girlfriend  this time, who sent me The Wire DVDs and a box of Skittles in a very generous care package. "Somebody get the Ski Patrol!"  

TEXTING THROUGH TIME AND POP CULTURE

Since the beginning of my stay up here, I have noticed and have been told by others that my text messages don't always arrive directly after I send them. I don't think I always receive them promptly either, surely due to the remoteness of local. What has perplexed me, however, is where these texts go before they make it to their destination. I have hypothesized a few possibilities.

First, I thought that maybe they are grabbed up by a Puckish digital imp playing cupid on the wireless waves, snatching up my texts and insidiously delivering them at two in the morning, attaching a context that greatly alters the intent of my message. For example;

My friend texts to tell me to look for her in the Price is Right audience, so my text of "What are you wearing? Are you on the bottom?" is perfectly appropriate if it was delivered promptly, Yet not when waking up her and her boyfriend at 3 am.

Or when I text my friend, "Wish I was there to munch your grindage. Hear you got some spread". That would have made sense if it arrived at his Super Bowl BBQ, not at 2:15 in the morning.

I am lonely up here, but not THAT lonely.

Another possibility is that they are lost in time, maybe finding a portal to the past. So if I text my friend, "Check out Feist on SNL", or "Catch My Morning Jacket on Current", they just might be receiving it months or even years earlier, thus inheriting a wealth of "Cool Currency" subsequently sending his or her IMDB star rating soaring, and as we all know, buzz bands touted carries more weight than your resume in Hollywood.  This hypothesis also finally provides a plausible explanation for Zach Braff's rise to stardom.  

(I was listening to The Shins for like 3 years before that shmuck. Really, I am THAT cool. If you don't believe me just listen to Jens Lekman, Sunset Rubdown, Mouthful of Bees, Professor Lacroix, The White Buffalo)

Still another possibility is the crossing of dimensions.  Maybe my texts venture through a vortex, venturing into simultaneous realities.  So when I text, "Yummy, yum. Just made me a tuna sangwich. even cut up little pickles. ROCK ON!!!",  it could in fact be arriving to my friend who in an alternate reality works in government intelligence and my words could be a coded message that sets off the invasion and occupation of Portugal, leaving me grief stricken by the cultural atrocity that is a Lisbon with Old Navy, Hot Topic, and Cinnabon.  Oh wait, that is THIS dimension; all is lost.  I mean, come on, Cinnabon? What an insult to baking and the circulatory system. 

                              

                               

         (This is actually a Cinnabon Jordan poster, even worse)

Finally, I have been thinking that my texts maybe find their way to a metaphysical plane, reaching the dwelling of the divine.  Just in case this is true, I have been using the opportunity to text all the pertinent questions.  "Why do bad things happen to good people?" "What comes after death?" and "Why do only little kid pajamas come with the foot booties attached? I would love some of those right now".  You wonder what number I have been using to text the Almighty, well lets just say when I get back to Hollywood I am not legally allowed within 175 feet of Morgan Freeman.

        

              

I don't know where my texts are going or when they will arrive, but please keep texting me.  I'm not going to stop texting you, deal with it Mr. Freeman. 

EDITORIAL CONFESSIONS

If purchased for me or my flight is delayed I will eat a Cinnabon;  If it is on Comedy Central at one in the morning I do watch Scrubs and laugh uproariously at JD; and my 3 am texts to my old roommate Dave are intentional.  When it is 25 below zero, desiring a spooning isn't considered gay, right? 

GRATUITOUS SIDEBAR

Since I am quite secluded, please let me know if my cultural references are current. The Shins and Morgan Freeman are still of the hook, right?

INSPIRING SIDEBAR 

Here is a lighter and less apocalyptic cabin fever video. Just as some people don't trust those who don't like animals, I don't trust people who can't enjoy The Muppets.

.

THIS WEEK'S MOMENT IN CABIN FEVER and history

THE RESTORATION OF MARCUS

"Hindsight is...well you know, it's a bitch," was the California DMV associate's tactful response to my query of how I was supposed to renew my registration since I was 3,000 miles away and they were requiring a California smog inspection. Before you take off on an eight month road trip across America to hawk shower curtain rings, be warned that the California Department of Motor Vehicles has very little sympathy for the plight of the traveling salesman, my adopted profession to rationalize why my car was so far away and not returning in time for a smog inspection. I was going to go with indie rock star on a low budget tour, but thought I would find more understanding for the Willie Lomans of this world. I was wrong. Feeling forced into malfeasance, I felt no shame in packing a little snow over my tags and rolling the dice, but the strong arm of my grandfather's conscience persuaded me to legalize it (I told you we were occasional rivals).

So I journeyed to Wadena for the nearest licensing bureau to register for Minnesota license plates, where I found their service to be lacking in all the charm of California's DMV. Not only did they smile, look me in the eye, say thank you, and refrain from belittling my intelligence and spitting on my shoes, but they actually restored my title with my given name of Marcus, replacing Marcos, the alleged legal owner of my car for the past three years.

Although it had its perks, improved dancing and ballad singing, I never did feel all that comfortable as Marcos. I have found a great comfort in being returned to my original Marcus status, for which I am most grateful to the state of Minnesota. It would be unjust to cast the entire blame for the misappropriation of my identity on the California DMV since the confusion began much earlier with Senorita Johnson's high school Spanish class. I am guilty as well, perpetuating the persona with post graduate Latin American explorations. Actually, when I come to think of it, the ascension of Marcos may date all the way back to the third grade with my acceptance of my Phoenix YMCA Basketball League Certificate of Participation.

The Minnesota title of registration will only be temporary, however, I hope to retain the sense of self that I am finding in the serenity of this rural escape of my forefathers. As if shedding the roles foisted upon by school, by work, by relationships, I feel lighter, stripped down to the elemental Marcus. I was once told, "In LA it is perhaps better to have a persona than a personality" (*). I now see the truth in that statement. In order to survive the ocean of egos and competitors it is smarter to reserve your true self for only a trusted inner circle of friends. A necessary practice, hiding your real nature away seems logical, but I fear it is detrimental to ones satisfaction and joy. Of course, I think it is quite possible to retain your true self in a metropolis. Those are the people who thrive, who shine.

Living in a cabin of my relatives, everyday I pass a picture of 3 year old Marcus that my aunt has hanging in the hall. I strive to find and take this Marcus with me after I leave my seclusion, and I am beginning to believe that we are not who the world molds, we are not even who we ourselves craft, but we are who we have always been.

THAT IS THE PRIMARY MARCUS ON THE RIGHT WITH BIG BRO AND GRANDPA.

(*) The owner of that statement is a wise and very funny man by the name of Opus, who maintains a fantastic blog you can find here: All New Year. You can also check out his pinata wrangling skills in a hilarious short documentary made a long while back (Pre YouTube Days) by my very good friends, Tomorrow's Brightest Minds, here: Speedy Pinata. These people definitely shine.