Hey guys, like always its been a while, a little too long. A lots happened in the past few months. A list of highlights include playing lead guitar for Justin Myles at Southern MD's Rockfest.
Our seven piece band rocked the heavens that day, which was no easy task, considering we were playing right after Sam Grow Band (the best band in Southern MD - they blend southern rock and pop with soulful vocals and screaming guitar solos). Everyone in Sam's band is just a monster. As I was getting out of my car when we first arrived, I could hear Mike Stacey just destroying a guitar solo....after soiling myself, I regrouped and headed to seek shade.....and some wet wipes. Joe Barrick was on the drums beating them to smitherines with his human metronome-like arms. Gene was ripping up the bass and Sam was belting out pure beauty. It was a little intimidating to know we were following.
Adding more of a challenge was the fact that our band was made of 7 members who had never played together before, some had never even met and we had 3 rehearsals to get everything airtight. Let's not forget it was about 110 degrees out. I actually saw a cloud get heat stroke and fall to the ground. Two people caught on fire. A seagull melted.
But in all seriousness the bass player for Sara and Chelsea (a duo of beautiful girls with beautiful voices backed by seasoned rockers) actually had passed out from the heat. It could have been just because he was on stage with Sara. The world may never know. They still all went on to rock out and sound amazing (and look amazing).
This was by far the biggest challenge of my musical career thus far. But I think we pulled it off very well, and everyone before and after sounded fantastic. And thank you to everyone who showed up, James and Amanda Lepore from Baynet Radio especially!
Band lineup:
Justin Myles - Acoustic Guitar, Vocals
Joe Pipitone - Drums (NY based drummer that grooves solid and strong, sounds Carter Buford meets Neil Pert)
Anthony Damron - Bass (bass player for "The Piranhas" , and hired gun for about every band in the SOMD music scene)
Shiloh Kestel - Sax (Kenny G, kill yourself........Shiloh will ruin your career with one note)
Danny Jauregui - Keyboards, Vocals (Jazz vocal major from Towson University, can scat like ella and croon like sinatra)
Dylan Galvin - Electric Guitar, Vocals (I playa the guitar......)
Russel Williams - Percussion (big name player here! Played w/ Lloyd Dobler Effect and Jill Scott, he has a furious, show stopping style and his hands are lethal weapons.....no seriously)
Justin has a laundry list of accomplishments, including touring with STOMP!, having a degree in dance, playing several instruments, recording, performing and producing his own CD and being a bad-ass tapdancer. Click on his name to hear his stuff, its got loads of groove, tight bass playing, complex DMB-esque guitar riffs with a heavy dose of R & B and funky soulful pop vocals. Not to be overlooked.
And in other news... I'm now in a duo with singer/keyboardist Danny Jauregui. We call ourselves "The Young Professionals". Fitting, right? Were doing covers right now, but in about a year, when we are solid and probably getting really sick of those covers, were going to start writing original music. Whoop. I'll moving back up to Annapolis again and doing music in the duo full time. Look for us in downtown Annapolis, Northern Va, Southern MD and also DC and Baltimore...hopefully we'll tack on a few more states over the next year, also. Im looking forward to seeing some of your beautiful faces out in the audience!
Dylan
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Write poetry in the middle of the night
I was a little restless last night, so I decided I would bide my time by taking a stab at some poetry. Not meant to be good or bad, just poetry. Here it is:
"Writhing Thoughts"
My thoughts twist and writhe
a wet worm out of the ground
eternally squirming
slipping out of the hands or sleep
that try so desperately to grip
but fail in vain
again and again
"Muse of the Dreamworld"
oh, muse of the dreamworld
please croon an ancient lullabye
of somber intoxication
the feather soft fluttering of sleep
slip into my mind and seep into the cracks
leave no part untouched
wash over the grey matter
flood my thoughts,
drown my anxieties
short out the lights
and bring the crystal clarity of deep dark rest
Hope you enjoy it. Feel free to post some of your own.
"Writhing Thoughts"
My thoughts twist and writhe
a wet worm out of the ground
eternally squirming
slipping out of the hands or sleep
that try so desperately to grip
but fail in vain
again and again
"Muse of the Dreamworld"
oh, muse of the dreamworld
please croon an ancient lullabye
of somber intoxication
the feather soft fluttering of sleep
slip into my mind and seep into the cracks
leave no part untouched
wash over the grey matter
flood my thoughts,
drown my anxieties
short out the lights
and bring the crystal clarity of deep dark rest
Hope you enjoy it. Feel free to post some of your own.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Slappa' da Bass
The goofy Verizon song rings on my phone. The robotic female voice monotonously repeats "Call from Sean Postanowicz". I pick up.
"Hey whats up man?" he says.
"Nothing, I'm just doing some practicing"
"Playing guitar?"
"Actually bass"
"Hey what would you think about teaching bass"
"What, like...teach it to someone?
"Yeah"
"Um, I mean yeah I guess, I have only played it for like a couple weeks"
"Okay well I have this dilemma I was supposed to teach at this place......but..then I accidentally got another job somewhere else. Do you think you could write a pretty good bass lesson?"
"What kind of bass lesson, this is for a beginner, right?"
"Yeah, of course, cool, write it up, you have to give a bass lesson to one of the head instructors at this music school at 4"
"WHAT!?"
"I'll text you the address and meet you at 4, see ya"
"But wait, I.."
click.
And this is how began my career as a bass instructor. Believe it or not, this intro lesson actually went pretty well. I actually have one more introductory lesson to give and then I'm official. I love the unpredictability of music life, but I'm rushing to learn like mad because in as short as time possible, I need to go from this:
To this:
Since the moment this phone call ended, I have been in a Rocky montage but instead of punching meat I've been slappin' da bass (or at least trying to). Im trying to learn how to slap, walk, groove, shimmy, etc....so if any of you blokes out there play a mean bass, I would love for any tips, tricks, shortcuts to help speed the process of becoming a bass badass.
"Hey whats up man?" he says.
"Nothing, I'm just doing some practicing"
"Playing guitar?"
"Actually bass"
"Hey what would you think about teaching bass"
"What, like...teach it to someone?
"Yeah"
"Um, I mean yeah I guess, I have only played it for like a couple weeks"
"Okay well I have this dilemma I was supposed to teach at this place......but..then I accidentally got another job somewhere else. Do you think you could write a pretty good bass lesson?"
"What kind of bass lesson, this is for a beginner, right?"
"Yeah, of course, cool, write it up, you have to give a bass lesson to one of the head instructors at this music school at 4"
"WHAT!?"
"I'll text you the address and meet you at 4, see ya"
"But wait, I.."
click.
And this is how began my career as a bass instructor. Believe it or not, this intro lesson actually went pretty well. I actually have one more introductory lesson to give and then I'm official. I love the unpredictability of music life, but I'm rushing to learn like mad because in as short as time possible, I need to go from this:
To this:
Since the moment this phone call ended, I have been in a Rocky montage but instead of punching meat I've been slappin' da bass (or at least trying to). Im trying to learn how to slap, walk, groove, shimmy, etc....so if any of you blokes out there play a mean bass, I would love for any tips, tricks, shortcuts to help speed the process of becoming a bass badass.
Monday, April 11, 2011
"Looking Up" - Video
Hey remember that time when I was going up post a recording of "Looking Up", that original song I wrote? I know it's been so long everyone has probably almost lost interest. I went through a while of going back and forth between what lyrics I wanted so I just said screw it and put something up last night, I hope you like it. Let me know what you think.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
How are the Resolutions?
So, like many Americans, I have made a few resolutions this year. One is to run a half marathon (I might to for a full one, but it just seems a little boring to run for about 4 hours). Another is to finally get my rock/blues/funk/fusion chops together and apply all that stuff I learned at Berklee and never used (for my music friends; using Mmaj7th arpeggios in solos, harmonic minor runs, melodic minor chord scales, etc.). I would like to start trying to really learn Japanese as my next language. I messed around with it in Community College, but only remember random phrases like "I am the Pokemon Master". I realize Spanish is much more practical and probably easier, but I've wanted to learn it for a while. Oh yes, and how could I forget the last and not least of the resolutions: One year, no beer (and all other alcohol included). I am attempting to stay clear from all alcohol for a year. This may be very challenging, especially on St. Patrick's day and the weddings coming up, but I figure if you can't enjoy the fun parts of life without a buzz, thats a problem. So please, respond to this with your New Year's resolutions and tell me how they're holding out so far. Hopefully still going strong, as we haven;t even rounded the first month yet! Lets make this year one to proud of.
Dylan
Dylan
Monday, December 13, 2010
Be like Water......?
This blog is part of a little paper Im writing. It's not particularly aimed toward music, but I thought it would be an interesting read for some of you. It's a little phenomenon I've noticed over the years, I tried to take it out of the abstract and throw in some simple analogies so it doesn't sound like the rantings of a sleep-deprived Scientologist. I hope you enjoy. Give me your two cents or even ten cents if you got it.
Staying in the same exact place physically, emotionally or mentally, or an extended period of time will hault all of your “momentum” through time and thus increases your entropy, or chaos. Think of yourself like water: if you move you stay fresh, like a clean fast flowing river, if you don’t move you become stale, stagnant and unhealthy, like a dirty black swamp. Studies are showing (medical journals, websites, private studies, etc.) increasing evidence that this “stagnation” actually is detrimental to your overall health, which would seem to be the universe’s way of letting us know not do it. Sitting for hours on end in the same spot (physical stagnation) increases risk of death according to the New American Cancer Society. Dwelling on thoughts or past events (emotional stagnation) can lead to depression, anxiety, according to a researcher at the University of Missouri-Columbia. Simply not thinking or challenging the mind (mental stagnation) can lead to Alzheimer’s, Attention Deficit Disorder and overall lack of cognition and/or concentration. The observable detriments of not moving should be obvious indicators that human beings are not made to move or behave in such a way.
In his 1962 handwritten essay, one of my personal favorite people of history, Bruce Lee, states “Water is so fine that it is impossible to grasp a handful of it; strike it, yet it does not suffer hurt; stab it, and it is not wounded; sever it, yet it is not divided. It has no shape of its own but moulds itself to the receptacle that contains it. When heated to the state of steam it is invisible but has enough power to split the earth itself. When frozen it crystallizes into a mighty rock. First it is turbulent like Niagara Falls, and then calm like a still pond, fearful like a torrent, and refreshing like a spring on a hot summer's day."
Bruce Lee's whole spiel on the system of martial arts he developed, Jeet Kun Do, was to be like water. Once you could truly understand what that meant, you would never loose a fight. Once mastered, one would have an awareness of everything going on around and could react in a way that would diffuse incoming energy to nothing. It seems like water is an even better role model than Dr. Phil. Whoop. Also, water doesn't cheat on its wife.
The theme of this story would be: move. All the time. In every way. When you stop moving, the universe begins to make you get fat, dumb and stressed. Think of every moment you are not improving something, you are slowly becoming an emotionally vulnerable, quadriplegic Pillsbury Doughboy. The battle against entropy is a never ending one. So go for a run (or a walk). Read a book. Try to experience new sights, sounds and sensations. Go somewhere you've never been. Try new flavors, hear new sounds, try new hobbies and for the terribly lazy even new TV channels will get your mental cogs turning a little bit (like a TLC documentary on the origins of our solar system instead of a rerun of "Real Housewives of Orange County") Even a new beer or wine you've never had will stimulate your brain and help you from becoming a stale soul. Change up the pace you've established in your life. You'll stay fresh and clear headed and hopefully people will stop telling you you smell like a swamp.
Staying in the same exact place physically, emotionally or mentally, or an extended period of time will hault all of your “momentum” through time and thus increases your entropy, or chaos. Think of yourself like water: if you move you stay fresh, like a clean fast flowing river, if you don’t move you become stale, stagnant and unhealthy, like a dirty black swamp. Studies are showing (medical journals, websites, private studies, etc.) increasing evidence that this “stagnation” actually is detrimental to your overall health, which would seem to be the universe’s way of letting us know not do it. Sitting for hours on end in the same spot (physical stagnation) increases risk of death according to the New American Cancer Society. Dwelling on thoughts or past events (emotional stagnation) can lead to depression, anxiety, according to a researcher at the University of Missouri-Columbia. Simply not thinking or challenging the mind (mental stagnation) can lead to Alzheimer’s, Attention Deficit Disorder and overall lack of cognition and/or concentration. The observable detriments of not moving should be obvious indicators that human beings are not made to move or behave in such a way.
In his 1962 handwritten essay, one of my personal favorite people of history, Bruce Lee, states “Water is so fine that it is impossible to grasp a handful of it; strike it, yet it does not suffer hurt; stab it, and it is not wounded; sever it, yet it is not divided. It has no shape of its own but moulds itself to the receptacle that contains it. When heated to the state of steam it is invisible but has enough power to split the earth itself. When frozen it crystallizes into a mighty rock. First it is turbulent like Niagara Falls, and then calm like a still pond, fearful like a torrent, and refreshing like a spring on a hot summer's day."
Bruce Lee's whole spiel on the system of martial arts he developed, Jeet Kun Do, was to be like water. Once you could truly understand what that meant, you would never loose a fight. Once mastered, one would have an awareness of everything going on around and could react in a way that would diffuse incoming energy to nothing. It seems like water is an even better role model than Dr. Phil. Whoop. Also, water doesn't cheat on its wife.
The theme of this story would be: move. All the time. In every way. When you stop moving, the universe begins to make you get fat, dumb and stressed. Think of every moment you are not improving something, you are slowly becoming an emotionally vulnerable, quadriplegic Pillsbury Doughboy. The battle against entropy is a never ending one. So go for a run (or a walk). Read a book. Try to experience new sights, sounds and sensations. Go somewhere you've never been. Try new flavors, hear new sounds, try new hobbies and for the terribly lazy even new TV channels will get your mental cogs turning a little bit (like a TLC documentary on the origins of our solar system instead of a rerun of "Real Housewives of Orange County") Even a new beer or wine you've never had will stimulate your brain and help you from becoming a stale soul. Change up the pace you've established in your life. You'll stay fresh and clear headed and hopefully people will stop telling you you smell like a swamp.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
The Tough Mudder
Once again, its been too long since my last entry. Im just dying to get me hands on a digital camera so I can stop having to pester all my camera owning friends for pictures of the blog worthy events. But let's get to the real blog.
Last weekend I ran the Tri State Tough Mudder in Englishtown, NJ. It was the first race of my life and probably not the best way to ease into racing, but once I had registered it was too late. On its homepage, the Tough Mudder is described as follows:
"Tough Mudder is not your average lame-ass mud run or spirit-crushing ‘endurance’ road race. It’s Ironman meets Burning Man, and it is coming to a city near you. Our 7-12 mile obstacle courses are designed by British Special Forces to test all around strength, stamina, mental grit, and camaraderie. Forget finish times. Simply completing a Tough Mudder is a badge of honor. All Tough Mudder sponsorship proceeds go to the Wounded Warrior Project."
I ran the Tough Mudder as a 4 man team with two high school buddies and one of their college buddies, including:
Will - The Team Captain and Navy SEAL in training. He runs Ironmans as a cool down from his real workouts. It is rumored that he once ran the entire length of the Grand Canyon in fifteen minutes.
Mike - Seen here sniping unwanted cats, Mike is a weightlifter and another man of the military that informed us race day that he didn't start running until 7 days prior.
Sean - The unbreakable Polack who trained with me to prep for the race. He also loves pain almost as much as trees.
The journey starts inside of the awkwardly silent Toyota Prius on rt 4 north, destination: Jersey, baby. Snookie was not seen, although she was smelled briefly on the turnpike. After about 300 miles and $0.16 in gas money we arrived at our friend Christy's to stuff ourselves with gluttonous amounts of whole wheat pasta and begin the pre race slumber. Unfortunately for me, I couldn't sleep. So I stared at the ceiling for about 7 hours until everyone started getting up at about 6:00 A.M. After a light breakfast we all jumped in Christy's SUV, which spent all the gas we saved in the Prius in about 10 miles, and headed for Englishtown, about 25 miles from where we were.
We get out for a stretch in the parking lot. I've already been up for 24 hours and now a little wired from the 5 Hour Energy I just drank to take the fog away. Even less to my advantage, I realize I am wearing a pair of blinding white K-Swiss tennis shoes. I will later find I am quite possibly the only person in this entire race without a bad-ass pair of running shoes. A frigid northern wind is sweeping through the lot, biting our noses and ears. I look around the parking lot to see what look like members of SEAL team 6 stretching and lacing up. I am later relieved to realize that not all the race runners will look like the Expendables. These guys were the Mudder Elites, running this race for time and trying to qualify for World's Toughest Mudder, the 50 mile version of this 12 mile race. As we approach the registration booth, a woman on a megaphone is repeating "come sign your death waver here, you cannot register until you sign the death waver".
We all sign our lives away, get our paperwork, get our race numbers and I meet a couple of in line behind us that tell me they were up all night drinking and bar hopping and their friend flying in from Nevada might not even be registered. I suddenly feel less tired and less worried. We start our warm up run.
The air temp is about 38*F with the wind chill, but the cold air will soon be the least of our worries.
November 20, 2010. 9:40 A.M. We are tightly pakced at the starting line, which lies in the middle of an empty football stadium. We are in a mob of fellow runners, some with war paint, some in costume, all gritting teeth and clenched hands. A very enthusiastic man is guiding us through the Tough Mudder creed on a megaphone,
"As a Tough Mudder I pledge that…
* I understand that Tough Mudder is not a race but a challenge.
* I put teamwork and camaraderie before my course time.
* I do not whine – kids whine.
* I help my fellow Mudders complete the course.
* I overcome all fears."
Sounds great. My heart it pounding, my legs are coiled springs ready to run the length of the earth. Silence.
Then an air horn goes off, they throw a smoke bomb into the middle of the crowd and everyone madly sprints towards a monster truck that floors it though the first stretch of track. As we leave the obnoxiously sticky rubber track in the stadium we see several friendly reminders:
So we were off, establishing pace at mile one, and seeing fellow racers who had left earlier coming the opposite way on the track next to us yelling "It's not too late to turn back! Quit now while you still can! You WILL die!". Quite encouraging. After a good 1.5 miles we cross a pair of ropes tied taught over a river. No problem. We all get through easily and then come to a tall wooden platform with a rope. We climb up to see that there's nothing but a drop. And water. Dozens of other racers are jumping in, so without too much thought I plunge in, right next to a guy dressed as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz.
When I hit the water, my body instinctively panics. Instant loss of breath, my skin is burning and my mind screams repeatedly "GET THE F#&^ OUT OF THIS WATER!! Im sure this is what most people were going through. To say it was cold is laughable. This water felt like absolute zero. People are being pulled out left and right by life guards and medical personal. Some people hit the water and instantly panic. One man, upon impact, goes into shock and is rushed to a nearby hospital. Water temp at the time is about 35* fahrenheit. About 10 minutes until hypothermia begins in this kind of water. This was no longer a nice jog in a cold morning New Jersey. The real race had begun. Move forward or die. Everyone, including myself, is scrambling as fast as our quickly numbing bodies allow only to find an obstacle in the water itself. Pairs of barrels blocking the way out. Can't climb over. Are you kidding? I take in a deep breath and go under. All the noises and screams of racers are muted by the water. Complete darkness. The water is so murky not even the slightest hint of light shines through to help guide the way around. The ice cold water is a piercing every inch of my face and body. Im frantically trying to feel my way to the opening and my breath is almost out after only a few seconds. I blindly take a guess and attempt to surface. My God, breathing air never felt so good. I have to do this twice more before Im out of the water.
I can hear Sean and a dozen other random Mudders screaming profanities over my own for a moment. He soon comes running out of the water, steaming and shivering with the rest of the team. Laughing at how absurdly cold the water was, we are off again. We have to trek through the water again before the water obstacles are over. Getting out the second time feels like my skin is coming off of my bones with each step. The 38 degree air felt like a warm afternoon on a California beach after getting out of the water. The course had many spots that almost overlapped itself, so we could see people who were earlier on and further ahead in the race at certain times.
It was easy to tell who had and hadn't gone in the water yet, not even by seeing who was soaked and who wasn't,
but by who was laughing and cheerful and excited
and who looked like they just left a concentration camp.
After that water, every Mudder's game faces were on. We climbed over and under cargo nets,
Ran at least three miles through waist high mud, hills, and turns
Slammed ourselves up and over walls
Climbed through cramped wooden piping lined with jagged rocks
Had to carry a car tire a half mile and then immediately run through field's worth of kerosene-soaked hay, flaming and smoking as much as the inside of a burning building.
Oh and lets not forget the 'suprise obstacle' that wasn't revealed until we were at the starting line. This last little gem was a roughly 20 square foot wooden frame with electrified wire dangling from the top, effectively named "The Jellyfish". What did it feel like? This gives you a little bit of an idea.
Then we see it. The home stretch. Right back where we started. My water-logged K-Swiss felt like Looney Tunes prison shackles with the cannonball attached. We joined arms and took one last sprint through the finish, to a massive and welcoming crowd.
After a brutal 12.09 miles, covered in mud, legs heavy, body shaking from the stress of the race and the extreme temperatures we all rushed to the post-race concessions where we ravenously ate the free energy bars, bananas and muscle-milks.
Immediately after finishing, Will went to the information booth to talk to the registrar. He had already paid for two days and since we weren't going to be in Jersey the next day like we had initially planned, he decided he was just going to get his money's worth by running the entire race over again the same day. But to raise the stakes, he grabs a 25lb kettle bell and begins the entire run over again!
Thats pretty damn tough. My hat goes off to you Will and all you other guys and gals who were carrying 30lb chains, rucksacks filled with weights and you crazy mofo's who dressed in full on suit and ties, briefcases included. The best part of the race was the overall sense of camaraderie. I saw people sacrificing race time to help strangers, groups forming human chains to pull competitors up huge mud covered hills and people pulling down the cargo net so everyone else could just jump over. Thats teamwork.
You don't see that much on the streets, but if there is a place to help that "every man is my brother" mentality, the Tough Mudder is the place where it starts.
We all were rewarded with orange Tough Mudder headbands, shirts and free Dogfish Head Beer. It was one hell of a race and I have nothing but respect for each and every one of you fellow Tough Mudders. Good racing, and I'm looking forward to seeing some of you in either PA or VT.
Dylan
Last weekend I ran the Tri State Tough Mudder in Englishtown, NJ. It was the first race of my life and probably not the best way to ease into racing, but once I had registered it was too late. On its homepage, the Tough Mudder is described as follows:
"Tough Mudder is not your average lame-ass mud run or spirit-crushing ‘endurance’ road race. It’s Ironman meets Burning Man, and it is coming to a city near you. Our 7-12 mile obstacle courses are designed by British Special Forces to test all around strength, stamina, mental grit, and camaraderie. Forget finish times. Simply completing a Tough Mudder is a badge of honor. All Tough Mudder sponsorship proceeds go to the Wounded Warrior Project."
I ran the Tough Mudder as a 4 man team with two high school buddies and one of their college buddies, including:
Will - The Team Captain and Navy SEAL in training. He runs Ironmans as a cool down from his real workouts. It is rumored that he once ran the entire length of the Grand Canyon in fifteen minutes.
Mike - Seen here sniping unwanted cats, Mike is a weightlifter and another man of the military that informed us race day that he didn't start running until 7 days prior.
Sean - The unbreakable Polack who trained with me to prep for the race. He also loves pain almost as much as trees.
The journey starts inside of the awkwardly silent Toyota Prius on rt 4 north, destination: Jersey, baby. Snookie was not seen, although she was smelled briefly on the turnpike. After about 300 miles and $0.16 in gas money we arrived at our friend Christy's to stuff ourselves with gluttonous amounts of whole wheat pasta and begin the pre race slumber. Unfortunately for me, I couldn't sleep. So I stared at the ceiling for about 7 hours until everyone started getting up at about 6:00 A.M. After a light breakfast we all jumped in Christy's SUV, which spent all the gas we saved in the Prius in about 10 miles, and headed for Englishtown, about 25 miles from where we were.
We get out for a stretch in the parking lot. I've already been up for 24 hours and now a little wired from the 5 Hour Energy I just drank to take the fog away. Even less to my advantage, I realize I am wearing a pair of blinding white K-Swiss tennis shoes. I will later find I am quite possibly the only person in this entire race without a bad-ass pair of running shoes. A frigid northern wind is sweeping through the lot, biting our noses and ears. I look around the parking lot to see what look like members of SEAL team 6 stretching and lacing up. I am later relieved to realize that not all the race runners will look like the Expendables. These guys were the Mudder Elites, running this race for time and trying to qualify for World's Toughest Mudder, the 50 mile version of this 12 mile race. As we approach the registration booth, a woman on a megaphone is repeating "come sign your death waver here, you cannot register until you sign the death waver".
We all sign our lives away, get our paperwork, get our race numbers and I meet a couple of in line behind us that tell me they were up all night drinking and bar hopping and their friend flying in from Nevada might not even be registered. I suddenly feel less tired and less worried. We start our warm up run.
The air temp is about 38*F with the wind chill, but the cold air will soon be the least of our worries.
November 20, 2010. 9:40 A.M. We are tightly pakced at the starting line, which lies in the middle of an empty football stadium. We are in a mob of fellow runners, some with war paint, some in costume, all gritting teeth and clenched hands. A very enthusiastic man is guiding us through the Tough Mudder creed on a megaphone,
"As a Tough Mudder I pledge that…
* I understand that Tough Mudder is not a race but a challenge.
* I put teamwork and camaraderie before my course time.
* I do not whine – kids whine.
* I help my fellow Mudders complete the course.
* I overcome all fears."
Sounds great. My heart it pounding, my legs are coiled springs ready to run the length of the earth. Silence.
Then an air horn goes off, they throw a smoke bomb into the middle of the crowd and everyone madly sprints towards a monster truck that floors it though the first stretch of track. As we leave the obnoxiously sticky rubber track in the stadium we see several friendly reminders:
So we were off, establishing pace at mile one, and seeing fellow racers who had left earlier coming the opposite way on the track next to us yelling "It's not too late to turn back! Quit now while you still can! You WILL die!". Quite encouraging. After a good 1.5 miles we cross a pair of ropes tied taught over a river. No problem. We all get through easily and then come to a tall wooden platform with a rope. We climb up to see that there's nothing but a drop. And water. Dozens of other racers are jumping in, so without too much thought I plunge in, right next to a guy dressed as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz.
When I hit the water, my body instinctively panics. Instant loss of breath, my skin is burning and my mind screams repeatedly "GET THE F#&^ OUT OF THIS WATER!! Im sure this is what most people were going through. To say it was cold is laughable. This water felt like absolute zero. People are being pulled out left and right by life guards and medical personal. Some people hit the water and instantly panic. One man, upon impact, goes into shock and is rushed to a nearby hospital. Water temp at the time is about 35* fahrenheit. About 10 minutes until hypothermia begins in this kind of water. This was no longer a nice jog in a cold morning New Jersey. The real race had begun. Move forward or die. Everyone, including myself, is scrambling as fast as our quickly numbing bodies allow only to find an obstacle in the water itself. Pairs of barrels blocking the way out. Can't climb over. Are you kidding? I take in a deep breath and go under. All the noises and screams of racers are muted by the water. Complete darkness. The water is so murky not even the slightest hint of light shines through to help guide the way around. The ice cold water is a piercing every inch of my face and body. Im frantically trying to feel my way to the opening and my breath is almost out after only a few seconds. I blindly take a guess and attempt to surface. My God, breathing air never felt so good. I have to do this twice more before Im out of the water.
I can hear Sean and a dozen other random Mudders screaming profanities over my own for a moment. He soon comes running out of the water, steaming and shivering with the rest of the team. Laughing at how absurdly cold the water was, we are off again. We have to trek through the water again before the water obstacles are over. Getting out the second time feels like my skin is coming off of my bones with each step. The 38 degree air felt like a warm afternoon on a California beach after getting out of the water. The course had many spots that almost overlapped itself, so we could see people who were earlier on and further ahead in the race at certain times.
It was easy to tell who had and hadn't gone in the water yet, not even by seeing who was soaked and who wasn't,
but by who was laughing and cheerful and excited
and who looked like they just left a concentration camp.
After that water, every Mudder's game faces were on. We climbed over and under cargo nets,
Ran at least three miles through waist high mud, hills, and turns
Slammed ourselves up and over walls
Climbed through cramped wooden piping lined with jagged rocks
Had to carry a car tire a half mile and then immediately run through field's worth of kerosene-soaked hay, flaming and smoking as much as the inside of a burning building.
Oh and lets not forget the 'suprise obstacle' that wasn't revealed until we were at the starting line. This last little gem was a roughly 20 square foot wooden frame with electrified wire dangling from the top, effectively named "The Jellyfish". What did it feel like? This gives you a little bit of an idea.
Then we see it. The home stretch. Right back where we started. My water-logged K-Swiss felt like Looney Tunes prison shackles with the cannonball attached. We joined arms and took one last sprint through the finish, to a massive and welcoming crowd.
After a brutal 12.09 miles, covered in mud, legs heavy, body shaking from the stress of the race and the extreme temperatures we all rushed to the post-race concessions where we ravenously ate the free energy bars, bananas and muscle-milks.
Immediately after finishing, Will went to the information booth to talk to the registrar. He had already paid for two days and since we weren't going to be in Jersey the next day like we had initially planned, he decided he was just going to get his money's worth by running the entire race over again the same day. But to raise the stakes, he grabs a 25lb kettle bell and begins the entire run over again!
Thats pretty damn tough. My hat goes off to you Will and all you other guys and gals who were carrying 30lb chains, rucksacks filled with weights and you crazy mofo's who dressed in full on suit and ties, briefcases included. The best part of the race was the overall sense of camaraderie. I saw people sacrificing race time to help strangers, groups forming human chains to pull competitors up huge mud covered hills and people pulling down the cargo net so everyone else could just jump over. Thats teamwork.
You don't see that much on the streets, but if there is a place to help that "every man is my brother" mentality, the Tough Mudder is the place where it starts.
We all were rewarded with orange Tough Mudder headbands, shirts and free Dogfish Head Beer. It was one hell of a race and I have nothing but respect for each and every one of you fellow Tough Mudders. Good racing, and I'm looking forward to seeing some of you in either PA or VT.
Dylan
Monday, October 25, 2010
Blood Sweat and Tears came to my gig!
Ok, ok, long overdue for a blog entry. It's been a bit of a crazy month. One of my best friends finally landed a winning blow on the job market and got hired as a surgeon's assistant in Kentucky. Crazy how someone with a Biochemistry major has touble finding a job. Damn economy. This month I have also been frantically trying to locate the last few pieces of my authentic Sweeney Todd costume (for Halloween, of course). There was a court date I had to worry about (suspended registration for not doing a VEIP emissions test) but I decided to fight to $140.00 fine. The MVA screwed up and reported that I lived in a county I did not at my old address. In St. Marys (my current county) you aren't required by law to take VEIP tests. I explained my dilemma to the judge, despite the state attorney's best efforts to tell me I was guilty because I failed to present a specific document. Long story short,"Not Guilty". Booya. Hit a few local open mics as well. Not to mention a decent amount of gigs this month. So with all that paired with my uncanny propensity for procrastination, I must say I am sorry for such a long delay.
Anyways.
Last week, I was playing at Obrien's again, up in Annapolis MD. It was a wednesday night, not that many people at the bar at first. Sometimes its really hard to give your set all of your energy when you have to play 4 hours 2-5 nights a week, sometimes for only 4 or 5 people. Its hard to always want to play your best because when you play for a living, the job aspect of it really pushes you down at times. Thankfully, a few of my friends showed up, which always makes me feel like the last 3 men of a losing battalion watching 100 reinforcements come rushing over the hill to help them. One of the reinforcements being Ben Bays, a badass percussionist who had played with the Naptown band "The Higher Hands", an infectious groove oriented band with Funk, Go-Go and R & B roots. He just so happened to have his Conga on him. I figured the crowd wouldn't mind a little extra power to the rhythm for the last set. So we jammed out on "Sunday Morning", "Beg, Steal, or Borrow", "Hey Jealousy", and the place started dancing. Everyone was raising their beers, laughing bobbing heads; pretty much every sign you hope to see as a performer. One of them came up to us, introducing himself as Teddy and asked it he could play on a song, informing us that he was in a band. Good enough for us. So Teddy scooted up to Bens Conga and started throwing a cow-skin beatdown. I came in with the the chord progression from "Hotel California". And we rocked out in a fiery unison for the happy patrons. After finishing up the set Ben and I sat down at the bar with Teddy. Turns out Teddy was Teddy Mulet. As in the trumpet player for "Blood Sweat and Tears" and "Gloria Estefan".
(Wahumuna!? Its Teddy Mulet!?)
After looking around the room, I noticed it wasn't just Teddy, but half of band! They just so happened to be touring in Annapolis and were playing at Ram's Head the next night. They were in Obrien's to unwind after a long drive. Teddy was a really nice guy, he was telling us about lots of great spots to play in Florida, stories about the road and how about being a young man in the audience at a "Blood Sweat and Tears" concert, obviously before he himself was a member. He told me "I never could have guessed I would be up there playing with them about 20 years later." I'd say that's about as much inspiration as you can get playing a random local bar gig on a Wednesday night, wouldn't you?
I was actually happy I didn't really know who I was playing for, that would of probably made it a little nerve wracking. They are all such high caliber musicians, and its nice to see them off the stage, realizing they are just chill people who so happen to play music. So we hung out the rest of the night, talking to the rest of the band and having a couple pints. A few weeks before, an entire minor league baseball team from California walked in the door. I guess you should always be trying to play your best, you never know who will walk in the door.
Anyways.
Last week, I was playing at Obrien's again, up in Annapolis MD. It was a wednesday night, not that many people at the bar at first. Sometimes its really hard to give your set all of your energy when you have to play 4 hours 2-5 nights a week, sometimes for only 4 or 5 people. Its hard to always want to play your best because when you play for a living, the job aspect of it really pushes you down at times. Thankfully, a few of my friends showed up, which always makes me feel like the last 3 men of a losing battalion watching 100 reinforcements come rushing over the hill to help them. One of the reinforcements being Ben Bays, a badass percussionist who had played with the Naptown band "The Higher Hands", an infectious groove oriented band with Funk, Go-Go and R & B roots. He just so happened to have his Conga on him. I figured the crowd wouldn't mind a little extra power to the rhythm for the last set. So we jammed out on "Sunday Morning", "Beg, Steal, or Borrow", "Hey Jealousy", and the place started dancing. Everyone was raising their beers, laughing bobbing heads; pretty much every sign you hope to see as a performer. One of them came up to us, introducing himself as Teddy and asked it he could play on a song, informing us that he was in a band. Good enough for us. So Teddy scooted up to Bens Conga and started throwing a cow-skin beatdown. I came in with the the chord progression from "Hotel California". And we rocked out in a fiery unison for the happy patrons. After finishing up the set Ben and I sat down at the bar with Teddy. Turns out Teddy was Teddy Mulet. As in the trumpet player for "Blood Sweat and Tears" and "Gloria Estefan".
(Wahumuna!? Its Teddy Mulet!?)
After looking around the room, I noticed it wasn't just Teddy, but half of band! They just so happened to be touring in Annapolis and were playing at Ram's Head the next night. They were in Obrien's to unwind after a long drive. Teddy was a really nice guy, he was telling us about lots of great spots to play in Florida, stories about the road and how about being a young man in the audience at a "Blood Sweat and Tears" concert, obviously before he himself was a member. He told me "I never could have guessed I would be up there playing with them about 20 years later." I'd say that's about as much inspiration as you can get playing a random local bar gig on a Wednesday night, wouldn't you?
I was actually happy I didn't really know who I was playing for, that would of probably made it a little nerve wracking. They are all such high caliber musicians, and its nice to see them off the stage, realizing they are just chill people who so happen to play music. So we hung out the rest of the night, talking to the rest of the band and having a couple pints. A few weeks before, an entire minor league baseball team from California walked in the door. I guess you should always be trying to play your best, you never know who will walk in the door.
Monday, September 13, 2010
The Song for Ingrid Michaelson
So remember when I said I would write a song for Ingrid Michaelson? Well Im finally finished and I going to let you see the lyrics before I officially record it. Its called "Looking Up". It's my "shot in the dark but I'm still wishing to meet you" song.
Feel free to throw your two cents in, although Im unlikely to change anything about it since I went through about 5 drafts and Im quite happy with the way it sounds, musically and lyrically, I always like to hear feedback. Think Nick Drake, Paulo Nutini, and of course Ingrid. Simple pretty, diatonic finger-picking pattern style playing with soft mid-range vocals and earnest tone.
"Looking Up"
(verse, verse, refrain, verse, refrain, bridge, verse, refrain)
I can’t seem to find a good beginning
That plays as well as the reel my head’s been spinning
But I figured I
At least should try
You might think I am just a little crazy
Or I’m long lost in a sea of reverie
So I’ll just say
Please come my way
I’ve been looking up
Waiting for the chance to come
Maybe we could go out for a coffee
And we could trade a few funny stories
And then from there
Who knows where
I’ve been looking up
Waiting for the chance to come
If you are weary of my intentions
And I won’t ever win your time or your affection
Just tell me I’m looking in the wrong direction
So I can get this crick out of my neck
Til’ then I’ll be holding onto my wishes
Dreaming that the sound of all your kisses
In sweet array
Will gently say
I’ve been looking up
Waiting for the chance to come
(painting by Jim Thalassoudis)
So there it is. Im realizing as iI look at the lyrics more and more this can pretty be used for any two people, so it will be open up to a wider range of listeners who are looking up as well. Since you dont know what the music sounds like I'm interested in how what you expect will differ from what I've written. Hope you enjoy it and again, feel free to let me know what you think. It's one of about 6-8 songs Im going to try and get recorded and put on a new, entirely acoustic album. And Ingrid Michaelson, although your probably never going to read this, Ill be looking up.
Feel free to throw your two cents in, although Im unlikely to change anything about it since I went through about 5 drafts and Im quite happy with the way it sounds, musically and lyrically, I always like to hear feedback. Think Nick Drake, Paulo Nutini, and of course Ingrid. Simple pretty, diatonic finger-picking pattern style playing with soft mid-range vocals and earnest tone.
"Looking Up"
(verse, verse, refrain, verse, refrain, bridge, verse, refrain)
I can’t seem to find a good beginning
That plays as well as the reel my head’s been spinning
But I figured I
At least should try
You might think I am just a little crazy
Or I’m long lost in a sea of reverie
So I’ll just say
Please come my way
I’ve been looking up
Waiting for the chance to come
Maybe we could go out for a coffee
And we could trade a few funny stories
And then from there
Who knows where
I’ve been looking up
Waiting for the chance to come
If you are weary of my intentions
And I won’t ever win your time or your affection
Just tell me I’m looking in the wrong direction
So I can get this crick out of my neck
Til’ then I’ll be holding onto my wishes
Dreaming that the sound of all your kisses
In sweet array
Will gently say
I’ve been looking up
Waiting for the chance to come
(painting by Jim Thalassoudis)
So there it is. Im realizing as iI look at the lyrics more and more this can pretty be used for any two people, so it will be open up to a wider range of listeners who are looking up as well. Since you dont know what the music sounds like I'm interested in how what you expect will differ from what I've written. Hope you enjoy it and again, feel free to let me know what you think. It's one of about 6-8 songs Im going to try and get recorded and put on a new, entirely acoustic album. And Ingrid Michaelson, although your probably never going to read this, Ill be looking up.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
DC stands for Directional Cluster-f#*%
Honestly. I know Im a night owl and my job requires late hours but this is not cool.
I want to know who designed the roads and intersections in DC? Was it designed by a group of lemmings? Look closely at the time stamp on this post. Yes, 5:10 A.M. Why? Because it took me almost an hour and a half to make my way out of the intestinal track of satan that is currently known as downtown DC. Now the gig itself went pretty well (James Hoban's; an Irish pub with a really cool staff and lots o' drinks, wa woo wee wa). My Mapquest directions led me there correctly but the last tenth of a mile was absurd. Du Pont circle is pretty much the biggest shit show of city road planning you will ever see. It looks something like this:
("Welcome to Du Pont circle, please check your mental health and well being at the first stop light")
Yeah, Imagine that steaming dump of a traffic circle with fifteen side streets that all have the same name and stop lights every 12 feet that stay red for 5 minutes and green for .06 seconds. Seriously, why do pedestrians need 45 seconds to cross a 10 foot area? Is everyone in DC quadriplegic? Are they out walking their turtles? After already being late to my gig from having to circle the restaurant 5 times around figure A to find a parking spot I was a little on edge. The 3 hours of playing music to pretty girls and fellow Irish brethren helped me quell my heart attack for while. A couple of Jameson's on the rocks didn't hurt, either. However, after the gig was over and I was packed up and headed back home I pretty much had a full on aneurism within ten minutes of trying to follow the Mapquest directions backwards. On top of having to follow the directions backward and being in completely unfamiliar territory, every road sign in DC looks like this:
So you are lost in DC. It's 2:30 A.M. Everyone is drunk and seemingly a potential threat to your well being. You see a guy puking all over the road, two people are making out on corner (not romantically but sloppily and angrily), a girl gets her heel stuck in a crack and plummets into a fire hydrant. Now these sights can be amusing and/or hilarious, but not when you don't know how to get away from such an area. And just when you think you've taken every single road and you cant get any more lost you come to this little diddy:
(so do I just get out my car?)
I almost lost it after my second attempted escape was foiled by a construction detour that led me right back downtown after 40 minutes of what I thought was proactive driving. Apparently the city was not ready to let me go just yet. My nerves were tingling, my eyes were bloodshot, and people in cars next to me appeared to be uncomfortable when they timidly glanced over at me talking to myself in my seat, rocking back and forth. Just before I became Michael Douglass in "Falling Down", by some miracle, I made it out onto the interstate. I have never been so happy to see the beltway. As of this moment, I never want to go to DC again. Am I being dramatic? Of course, that's half the fun. Actually thats all of the fun because nothing else about this was fun. Getting out of DC when you don't know how is about as much fun as using a cactus as toilet paper. Probably a little less bloody, though.
If you are reading this and you, either wholly or in part, are/were responsible for the designing of the roadways in the downtown area of the District of Columbia, please contact me at 1-800-jump off of a bridge with rocks tied to your feet.
You have a blessed day.
I want to know who designed the roads and intersections in DC? Was it designed by a group of lemmings? Look closely at the time stamp on this post. Yes, 5:10 A.M. Why? Because it took me almost an hour and a half to make my way out of the intestinal track of satan that is currently known as downtown DC. Now the gig itself went pretty well (James Hoban's; an Irish pub with a really cool staff and lots o' drinks, wa woo wee wa). My Mapquest directions led me there correctly but the last tenth of a mile was absurd. Du Pont circle is pretty much the biggest shit show of city road planning you will ever see. It looks something like this:
("Welcome to Du Pont circle, please check your mental health and well being at the first stop light")
Yeah, Imagine that steaming dump of a traffic circle with fifteen side streets that all have the same name and stop lights every 12 feet that stay red for 5 minutes and green for .06 seconds. Seriously, why do pedestrians need 45 seconds to cross a 10 foot area? Is everyone in DC quadriplegic? Are they out walking their turtles? After already being late to my gig from having to circle the restaurant 5 times around figure A to find a parking spot I was a little on edge. The 3 hours of playing music to pretty girls and fellow Irish brethren helped me quell my heart attack for while. A couple of Jameson's on the rocks didn't hurt, either. However, after the gig was over and I was packed up and headed back home I pretty much had a full on aneurism within ten minutes of trying to follow the Mapquest directions backwards. On top of having to follow the directions backward and being in completely unfamiliar territory, every road sign in DC looks like this:
So you are lost in DC. It's 2:30 A.M. Everyone is drunk and seemingly a potential threat to your well being. You see a guy puking all over the road, two people are making out on corner (not romantically but sloppily and angrily), a girl gets her heel stuck in a crack and plummets into a fire hydrant. Now these sights can be amusing and/or hilarious, but not when you don't know how to get away from such an area. And just when you think you've taken every single road and you cant get any more lost you come to this little diddy:
(so do I just get out my car?)
I almost lost it after my second attempted escape was foiled by a construction detour that led me right back downtown after 40 minutes of what I thought was proactive driving. Apparently the city was not ready to let me go just yet. My nerves were tingling, my eyes were bloodshot, and people in cars next to me appeared to be uncomfortable when they timidly glanced over at me talking to myself in my seat, rocking back and forth. Just before I became Michael Douglass in "Falling Down", by some miracle, I made it out onto the interstate. I have never been so happy to see the beltway. As of this moment, I never want to go to DC again. Am I being dramatic? Of course, that's half the fun. Actually thats all of the fun because nothing else about this was fun. Getting out of DC when you don't know how is about as much fun as using a cactus as toilet paper. Probably a little less bloody, though.
If you are reading this and you, either wholly or in part, are/were responsible for the designing of the roadways in the downtown area of the District of Columbia, please contact me at 1-800-jump off of a bridge with rocks tied to your feet.
You have a blessed day.
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