Timeline
My cursor is blinking as I ponder some summation, understanding, or meaning, from my five days back home in the Middle West. I’m not sure there is any. Except that Waterloo, Iowa, is a long way from New York, New York.
If you take a left out of the parking lot of the Country Inn & Suites at which I’m currently residing, you’d be in corn fields. On this side of the interstate, though, it’s not so different from anywhere else in America.
There’s a Red Lobster across the street. There’s a Lone Star Steakhouse & Saloon next door. There’s a Sam’s Club, a Home Depot, and a Target. I could be in Summit, NJ, Indianapolis, IN, or Valley Forge, PA. I could be anywhere in The Middle.
And I feel kinda’ weird about it. ‘Cuz I don’t like it. I don’t want to live in The Middle of anywhere. It’s nothing against the Midwest. It’s gorgeous here. It’s all elements: earth, water, air. Everything is growing. There’s a beautiful symmetry to the rows of crops. And there’s more sky in one blink than a whole day’s worth of staring at New York.
Ok, here’s what it is: I don’t want to be a consumer; I want to be a creator. I mean, I know that I am a consumer, and that I have to be — I have to eat. I realize that I’m part of the system. But I wanna’ be the part of the system that makes cool stuff like songs and web sites and TV shows and films. I wanna’ take public transportation and listen to NPR, not drive a Chevy and listen to Clear Channel (though fundamentally I am Clear Channel).
What makes me this way? That we moved a lot growing up? That my parents exposed us to other countries, people, cultures? What draws me to The City like (cliche alert) a moth to a flame? What makes me crave the view from the Empire State Building? The midnight screening at the Sunshine Landmark? The lions at the public library? Hipsters on the Lower East Side? Strollers in Central Park?
I can’t imagine living elsewhere other than New York City. And I can’t wait to get home. But I love knowing that I can step off a minute, take in the longview, and see everything just a little bit differently.
We finished the ride today. It’s traditional to dip one’s tire into the Mississippi upon completion. I didn’t think I earned it. I only rode half way across the state. Still, I stepped into the river, and held the bike over my head for the photo op (which, like the beer garden, is my tradition).
I was done, but I’m not sure I’d arrived, after all. I hadn’t really committed to leaving. I was merely along for the ride, the company, and the scenery. Which, come to think of it, is worth celebrating after all.
Top Five Answers
I rode 80 miles today. When I tell you that my ass is sore, I’m talking about a kind of ache that, unless you’ve sat on a bike for six hours a day for two days, you’ll never know.
It rained all day. I rode alone. What does one do on a bike for six hours?
From the home office at the Super 8 Motel in Dewitt, IA, here are The Top Five Things One Does On A Bike For Six Hours:
1- Sing (especially Dar Williams’ ‘Iowa’)
2- Take in the scenery
3- Plan what you’re going to eat when you get there
4- Write Daily Journal posts in my head (which are promptly forgotten)
5- Swear (especially ‘What the f*** am I doing here?’)
Also: marvel at the size of the state, take digital photos, shiver, wish I was there already, think about work, and … do nothing.
And that’s the right answer for vacation, after all: do nothing.
The Hills Of Iowa
There are hills in Iowa. They are rolling ribbons of green and brown topped by rows of soy beans and corn stretching off in every direction. They are capped by an endless sky, and traversed by roads that go on forever.
I’m sitting on my cousins’ couch in North Liberty, IA. Inside, three generations of Wagners are bustling about, save for Chris, Jen, Luke and me, who — having ridden nearly sixty miles in the rain today — aren’t so much bustling as melting into the aforementioned couch.
Yesterday’s trip was a total haze: Laguardia, O’Hare, Cedar Rapids. I got in about one p.m., strapped my bag on my shoulder, and walked down the highway — can you imagine walking out of O’Hare or Laguardia? — to A&W. Two hours and two root beer floats later, my dad showed up.
Dad’s tuckered (trust me, I shared a hotel room with him last night and was stirred by his deep, cacophonous snoring). He’s drivin’ one of two support vehicles: three bikes, one baby seat, and a pile of gear. Uncle Brian’s driving the other: three more bikes, four more guys. When I showed up, they’d been on the road for three days. Everything smells of mud and sweat. The are granola bar crumbs everywhere. And Ethan’s Cheerios. To date, the bikes have gone 350 miles. The trucks have gone over 1000.
The Des Moines Register’s Great Ride Across Iowa (RAGBRAI) is a really big deal for Iowa. It’s in its 32d year. The course is different every year, but always rolls from the Missouri River in the west to the Mississippi in the east. And it’s always the last week in July. For a town like Van Horne or Cultier, a big week is a bumper crop at the grain silo. So for 10,000 bike riders and their 20,000 friends to traipse through town… well, you can imagine. It’s a big deal. Like, County Fair Big Deal.
I’ve ridden RAGBRAI twice before, in 1997 and 2000. It’s always fun, always scenic, and always a radical departure from life in New York. But this year I resolved that if I was taking time off of work, I was going to get more out of it than a sore ass. So I skipped the first half of the week’s ride, and showed up in time for The Big Party.
The entire Wagner clan was gathered at The World’s Most Depressing Indian Casino for Uncle Stan’s 60th. Forget Las Vegas. Forget Atlantic City. This is chintziest, most prefab hotel in the middle of Cornfield Nowhere with a glorified oversized garage full of cheap neon and slot machines. And it’s full of old people pissing away their pensions. I mean, the place is dry, for God’s sake. What’s the point of gambling when there’s no freeze booze? What’s the point of gambling?
I felt a little out of sorts. One minute I’m in a cab heading east on 57th Street, the next I’m sitting on the floor playing with my four-year-old cousin. I felt only slightly less out of sorts riding through the aforementioned hills in the rain on a borrowed bike. Approaching mile sixty, I began lobbying for the beer garden. (I love the phrase “beer garden,” as if something grows there.) Three Bud Lites, two ears of corn, and one dancing Ethan later, I had arrived.
I’m in Iowa. I’m home.
The Leaving
My friend Ken is reading the 9/11 Commission Report. He and I watched Tower Two fall from the window of our office at 8th Street. I distinctly recall the look on his face as we parted company that morning into the unknown State Of Manhattan. We’ve discussed the resulting ramifications, war(s), and our thoughts, hopes, and fears many times since.
I was sitting on the AC unit behind Ken’s desk yesterday, looking down on Time’s Square and thumbing through the book, as we discussed the subject some more. Seems the 900+ page report is written like a screenplay or novel: it begins on the hijacked planes in the minutes before impact, then backtracks from there.
So I’m reading a few pages myself as we talk, and I’m reading these very detailed, very footnoted accounts of cell phone calls, radio dispatches, and the like. And I was struck by one fella’ who managed to get through to his father from his seat aboard one of the doomed flights. “Don’t worry about me, Dad,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”
So I read this part aloud to Ken and he goes, “Can you imagine knowing you were about to die? What must that feel like?” And I’m looking down at Time’s Square and it doesn’t take me much to imagine (I’m afraid I’m going to die every time I fly, but I don’t know I’m going to die), and suddenly I’m completely dizzy and nausius.
Can you imagine knowing you were about to die? What must that feel like?
In the instant I feigned to imagine it, I thought to myself, ‘No, wait! I have too much left to do!’
I had breakfast with my mother Saturday morning. She asked how work was, whether I was dating, yada yada yada. The usual mom questions. Fine, yes, blah blah blah. I ran through my plans for the next six months in one breath — Iowa, Miami, Nantcuket, L.A., Costa Rica, Malibu Triathlon, NYC Marathon, my band, country band, new band, new album, new tour — then got back to my eggs.
“Will you sitting still at any point before the end of the year, dear?”
I got my new watch today. It’s significantly fancier. It’s got a bunch of faces for seconds, milliseconds, and God knows what else. I prefer my old watch: simple, elegant. But the new one makes sense now that I know that every second counts.
In nine hours (47 minutes and twelve seconds) or so, I’ll be some 30,000 feet above Manhattan, staring back at the shrinking city. I will have withstood another takeoff. I don’t fear the Terrorists. I fear The Leaving.
I have a lot left to do with my remaining years: more races, more records, more work, more love, more loss. I expect to give my watch to my son or daughter someday. And I don’t expect to have to stare my mortality in the face, and count it down with my chronograph. If I am, though, forced to know that I am about to die, I hope I have the grace to say, “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
The Space Between
I’m the kind of guy whose apartment is in impeccable order: the bed is made, the CDs are alphabetized, and the desk is arranged just so. But take a peak under the couch, and you’ll find a gleeful colony of tantric dust bunnies rolling over on another.
And so it will come to no surprise to you, Dear Reader, that its been well over a month since I last took my contacts out. This, I suspect, is the root cause for the soul-crushing, skull-splitting, bone-shattering headache I am currently suffering under. My constant exposure to electron-spewing computer monitors probably hasn’t helped.
Fret not, I’ve taken the offending lenses out, put on my wire rimmed glasses, and placed a rogue order — my prescription is well overdue — with 1-800-Contacts.
And fret not, in 36 hours USAir flight 2167 will return me to my birth state, Iowa, where I am meeting up with my brother, Christofer, his wife Jennifer, their son Ethan, my father, and various sundry uncles and cousins who are recreationally riding their bikes across the state.
I will, rest assured, be posting to The Daily Journal from hotel rooms at night. But in general, my now-pained gray matter will be forced to entertain little more than the sound of the breeze through the corn, the sight of endless ribbons of country road, and the smell of honeysuckle.
The dust bunnies are not invited.
All About Us
Rock music is ruining my life.
The good news is, I think I’ve finally gotten a handle on this whole home recording thing. The bad news is, I’ve spent 20+ hours on in front of my laptop this weekend recording ONE FUCKING SONG.
Behold: ‘Caramelize.’
It happened like this. I had some time to kill Friday night. I had an idea for (get this) a song about a girl. A song about all that is sweet and beautiful about a girl. A song saccharine and sticky like candy. A song so catchy, so up, that one couldn’t help but want to dance and kiss at the same time. But with a little edge, a little obsessive compulsivism. Three days later, it’s still not really done. But I can’t do it anymore. I can’t hear it any more.
I listened to the rough draft en route last night to The Smith Family show at Two Boots in Brooklyn. It was a terrific performance, incidentally. The Smith Family sounds pretty f’in’ good. But what did I do on the can ride home? I listened to it some more. On repeat.
More than one person has said to me in the last few days, “It’s all about you, Ben.” I worry about narcissism. I worry about having a website bearing my name, about playing shows with a bunch of guys bearing my name. I worry about listening to my own music. On repeat. I take some solace in my former bass player’s suggestion that if we don’t love our own songs, who will?
And I take some solace in my friend John Rosenblatt’s Billy Joel story. John’s piloting a cooking show featuring Billy’s girlfriend. So a few week’s ago, John’s having dinner with ‘em at their Oyster Bay home, and Billy proceeds to do an impromptu request-only performance. For two hours. All about who?
I’m working pretty hard to let go of any worries I have about narcissism. I always say, “It’s not about me. It’s about us.”
John was the first to hear ‘Caramelize’ this afternoon. “Caramelize, huh?” he said. “That’s a tricky procedure.”
Of course the cooking show guy knows: caramelizing is the process of turning sugar, milk and butter into a smooth, chewy confection. And it’s really easy to burn and ruin it. Which seems extra perfect for my song about a girl.
So, have a good listen. And another. And another. It’s the sound of my weekend wasting away. ‘Cuz except for dinner and a DVD (‘Love Actually’), breakfast with my mother, another DVD (‘Starsky & Hutch’), a country show, building a website, designing another, one more DVD (‘Rio Bravo’), plus a run and a bike ride, well, except for all that, I wasted my weekend away.
For us.
Honky Tonk Blues
Note to self: 3:30 a.m. is not an appropriate weekday in-time for an adult. And Breyer’s strawberry ice cream with a Gatorade chaser is not an acceptable preemptive hangover cure.
I’m just in from The Smith Family show at Hank’s in BK. Not the easiest commute: car service to gig ($40), cab back to Union Square ($15), NR to 57th, walk, walk, walk. Still, good times. We’re sounding better and better. And having more and more fun. The music is pure, and honest, and more melancholy than I could ever dream of being. I laugh a lot harder at Smith Family shows than mine, which is the whole idea with a side project. Come to think of it, it’s the whole idea.
And Hank’s jukebox is top notch. I dropped multiple iTune coupons on Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Replacements, Rolling Stones, Zeppelin. And Maker’s Mark. Sweet, poisonous Maker’s Mark.
Hank’s is just down the street from the studio at which I spent September 14-17, 2001, recording a benefit CD. I visited the same ATM on the corner of Fourth & Atlantic that I visited so many times so long ago. Producer Duke Rashkow and I took breaks from re-recording an acoustic version of the single for the CD I was just about to release, the poorly-timed ‘Crash Site’, smoking cigarettes on his roof. To the west were the still-smoldering Twin Towers. Above us, empty air space. Being in the same neighborhood again brought it all back home, and reminded me to appreciate my busy but beautiful life.
Right now, my busy but beautiful life mandates some down time. I need a day off like the flowers need the rain. I need detox like Scott Weilend (well, not quite). A good sweat lodge. Maybe a colonic. Some Epsom salts for my lower g.i. Whatever. A break. A day off. A moment of absolute silence. In the air conditioning. With sushi. And some cheesy Hollywood blockbuster on DVD.
First, though, I need to sleep off The Country. Sweet dreams.
Leftovers
Walking to the subway from Smith Family rehearsal last night, I thought had it all figured out. I’d pick up a Sapporo from the corner store, order in some sushi, and have a quiet night with the tele. Alas, it was not to be. It was to be an evening of leftovers.
Seems that in my efforts to lighten my load en route to rehearsal we have a show at Hank’s in Brooklyn tonight — you comin’?), I’d jettisoned my messenger bag and consolidated my essentials (a lightly-read copy of ‘Vanity Fair,’ my iPod, keys, wallet, and BWD, LLC folder) into my guitar case. Sadly, I discovered at 9:56, I’d left my cell phone at the office. No cell, no LAN line, no ordering in, no sushi.
End of the world, right?
Alas, my apartment is something of a bachelor pad. And so when I consulted the fridge for something, anything, to eat, there was little to satiate my hunger. The contents, in short: one half-full Brita pitcher, a chilled martini shaker filled with olive oil and rice vinegar, the remnants of a head of romaine lettuce, some carrots, and two frozen Bocca burgers. The meal: salad. And a Sapporo.
Leftovers.
This afternoon, sneaking my Daily Journal update in during a late-afternoon lunch (Jamba Juice and a granola bar), I have some leftovers — delicious, random thoughts — for you, Dear Reader:
I’ve been thinking a lot about my next record. I’d like to put something out around November. Not because “my audience” is clamoring for it. Let’s be honest: I have no audience. I’m not discounting you, Dear Reader. But 200 hundred visitors a day a recording career do not make. The reason I want to make a new CD is purely creative. I love making records, and I have tons of new songs. For a minute there I was considering releasing the demos I recorded last winter as ‘The Christopher Street EP.’ And I still may. But I have all of these new songs, and more every day. So, I dunno’. I tried to build a poll last night to get your opinion, but al the free poll applications were lame.
A colleague called me recently on my decision to give away CDs to our summer interns. I consider it a ‘Johnny Appleseed’ move. That is, a freebie or two may get me a gig, some fans, and maybe some sales down the road. But I understand her annoyance at having paid ten bucks for it. And that she was annoyed had me kinda’ troubled. It occurred to me that I count on those who are closest to me, ie: my family and friends, to support this endeavor of mine. And maybe that’s unfair. Maybe that’s a lot to ask. Either way, you should know — since I ask a lot of you too — that I am grateful. You make it possible for me to keep doing this.
What else? Well, I recorded a cover of The Alarm’s ‘Rain In The Summertime’ this morning. You can download it and a bunch of other new songs over at The Morning Mix. If you haven’t discovered The Mix yet, it’s a new area of the site where I upload MP3s of new recordings. It’s good, free Benjamin Wagner fodder for your iPod.
The weekend approaches. I’m relishing the opportunity to execute the aforementioned fantasy: sushi, AC, TV. Odds are good for tomorrow night. The Smith Family performs again Saturday night (exhausting, right?). Other than that, I’m hoping to get in a good run (the Marathon is never far off), a good bike ride (I leave for Iowa next Wednesday for three 75+ mile days of riding), and to find a new watch to replace my recent loss. ‘Cuz man, I haven’t known what time it is for weeks.
Right now, though, it’s time for my Video Music Awards assignment meeting. This is when we green light projects and decide who’s going to be in Miami for the last week of August. It’ll be 9000 degrees, and 15-hour days, but I wanna’ go. You know me: I like the red carpet, I like the flashbulbs, and I like the action. It doesn’t hurt that I have the week after the VMAs off. Nantucket baby. Can’t hardly wait.
Homecoming King
American Airlines Flight #2110 is cruising at an altitude of 37,000 feet somewhere in the skies just northeast of Raleigh Durham. I am in seat 21J, wedged between an elderly Latino couple whose snoring even Keane can’t drown out. I’m almost home.
This morning’s helicopter ride was a bust. Despite my colleague’s best efforts to charm Miami Dade’s finest, every passenger is required to have their criminal record run. Mine was chock-a-block with various felonies and misdemeanors, so I was grounded. I kid, of course, I just didn’t get the requisite paperwork in. So, sadly, I had to watch my coworkers soar off into the drizzle for an aerial tour of Miami. “I’d like to tell you it’s was uncool,” Ocean said once returned safely to terra firma, “But I’d be lying.”
We gathered with the rest of the team shortly thereafter at Miami’s Coast Guard station, a well-secured island just off I-395. There, representatives of MTV, Miami Dade Police, and Fish & Wildlife, and the City of Miami gathered for the first time to discuss various Port of Miami considerations. The city is going a long way to make this event possible, and these guys and their can-do attitudes attest to that.
After the meeting, we walked to the Coast Guard docks for a ride down the Government Cut, a deep-water canal between I-395 and the Port of Miami, a massive cargo port with huge parcels of land for imports and exports from Asia, Africa, and beyond.
I separated from Robert and Michael, my dot com-specific colleagues, at that point, and shuffled off to Parcel B. It had already shown marked improvement from the evening prior. It’s now possible to actually see where our “homebases” will be, as well as the red carpet, and our stages. We paced the dusty rectangle in the searing sun for a few hours, some of us standing in for various set pieces, before sprinting to the airport to try and catch an early flight — any flight — back to JFK.
We made Budget, and then the airport, in no time, and looked well poised to return on a 3:20 plane nearly six hours prior to the original plan. We even had time to dine at America’s Finest Airport Restaurant, Catanas, whose cafeteria style Cuban food was honestly second-to-none. But as our sweat-soaked, irritable gaggle approached security, we noticed a torrential downpour outside. Miami International Airport was thunderstormed in. Our departure time slipped to 4:30 … then 5:30 … then 5:50 …
So we sought the American Airlines Admiral’s Club for peanuts and booze. Pay no mind to the simple math that of Ocean, Deb, Eve, Laura, Jonathan, Trish, and me, only Laura’s actually a member of the American Airlines Admiral’s Club, we were up for an adventure, and we were assuming consent.
Not the coolest place, the American Airlines Admiral’s Club, but it’s pretty fun to share an adventure — walking around a strange airport, a little giddy, a little slap happy — getting to know your teammates. That’s what makes teams. And I dig it. Plus, that Heineken sure was tasty.
We’re over Atlantic City now. I feel myself descending. Seat backs and tray tables have to returned to their original upright and locked positions, so you’ll have to excuse me. I have a homecoming to make.
Into Miami
I’m in the epicenter of American Club Culture with my MTV News colleagues and we spent our evening partying … at The Radisson.
I spent the balance of my Monday in transit. Better living through chemistry made takeoff, flight, and landing painless. My knuckles were far from white. In fact, I slept through everything, including the hour spent circling the Bahamas in inclement weather. But once we touched down, and endeavored towards Budget for our rent-a-Chevy, everything slowed down. We arrived at 4 p.m., but didn’t make the American Airlines Arena, home of the 2004 Video Music Awards (and, as of tomorrow, Shaq), until 6 p.m.
We walked around the arena for an hour, ducking into every lounge, dressing room, skybox, nook and cranny. Pretty posh. We’ll be covering these awards — the biggest night in MTV’s year — from every angle. And then we met the rest our colleagues on Parcel B.
Currently, Parcel B is a few acres of dirt and gravel between the Intercoastal Waterway and the American Airlines Arena (which, by the way, is a pretty cool sports complex, as sports complexes go). A dozen or so of us spent a few hours pacing around, looking at blueprints, and imagining what the space would look like in five short weeks. Between now and then, the City of Miami will transform this pile of dirt into a brand-new city park, complete with a new dock, fresh sod and palms, and a red carpet stretching from the water to the arena. It’s gonna’ be wicked cool.
There is an element of the miraculous in this whole process. Right now, what is a bunch of raw space, is remarkably unremarkable. But the sheer power of Entertainment Programming will make the space over into six stages, a paparazzi pit, boats full of screaming fans, and all kinds of MTV coolness. Pretty amazing.
In nine short hours, I’ll be boarding a Dade Country police helicopter for an airborne tour of the city. I’ve finagled my way into this, and I’m stoked for it. Then we’re taking a boat tour. Then we’re going back to the airport.
In all, I expect to spend 24 hours on the ground here in Miami. I’m certain that Vladimir Zworking has no idea what he’s wrought. But I’m glad he wrought it — should make for a pretty interesting Tuesday.
