So here we are in the midst of yet another holiday season. It's hard to believe that nine years have passed since my wife Cathy bought me a drum kit for Christmas. Nine years since I brought it home, set it up, and eagerly picked up where I'd left off some twenty years before. What's most noticeably different about this, my third time around, is the kit itself. It's an electronic set, a Roland V Series, the only acoustic pieces are the hi hat and cowbell which were part of an earlier set I had in the eighties. Oh and instead of being ditched out in the garage with the rakes and the shovels this baby's set up in the spare bedroom, stylishly flanked on three sides by an album and CD collection I've been procuring since puberty. From The Beatles to The Blasters, from Johnny Cash to Jethro Tull, these are some of the biggest baddest and most successful names in the music biz. These guys are my idols, my heroes, and it wasn't all that long ago that they were everything, and the only thing I ever wanted to be.
I was thirteen years old when I started collecting vinyl. Back then my folks went grocery shopping every Friday after work and packed in with the week's rations was the TV Guide. Now this wasn't the second rate version that came with the Sunday paper, this was the small screen aficionados handbook, the boob tube bible. For thirty-five cents you not only got a complete and thorough listing of all thirteen channels (whoopee) but page after page of insightful stories, features, and previews. Plus, in addition to all that, an irresistible, "Buy 1 get 6 free" offer from the good folks at Columbia Music Club. That's right boys and girls. For the way low introductory price of just $11.99 (plus shipping and handling) you could get a total of seven records or tapes shipped directly to your door. At thirteen and with nothin more than a paper route to fund my new found obsession this was clearly too good a deal to pass up.
Originally the way it worked was you would tear out the perforated insert from the pages of the magazine, painstakingly pencil in the corresponding numbers of your selections, and then send it off via U.S. Mail. However this Neanderthal type process steadily evolved over the years. One of the biggest advancements came with the innovative lick-em-stick-em stamp format. Now, instead of going through the trouble of marking down your selections by hand, you'd simply adhere the preprinted stamps directly onto the page. It was quite effective really, albeit lickin those stamps could get a little messy and if ya got em on crooked and then tried to straighten em out they did have a tendency to rip on ya.
I still remember anxiously awaiting my inaugural shipment. Everyday after school I'd storm into the house to see if my package had arrived, and when it finally did I tore into it with a blistering vengeance. Leaving a trail of plastic wrap in my wake I bee lined it for my sister's room where at the tail end of a Tom Cruise Fruit of the Loom style slide across the hardwood I dropped to my knees directly in front of her ultra modern all-in-one Panasonic hi-fi stereo system. First on the turntable was Bachman Turner Overdrive's Not Fragile. Next was David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, then Foghat's Fool for the City, and so on and so forth. All I can recall thinkin was, "man, this stuff don't sound nothin like my brother's Neil Diamond records."
And so it went for weeks on end sitting at the edge of my sister's bed with the headphones on and the needle cued up, one good spin after another, song after song, record after record, memorizing the lyrics and liner notes, droolin over the photos and artwork. I soaked it all up like a sponge I tell ya, and all the while I never missed a beat, tappin my toes and slappin my thighs into a rosy shade of red. Then, I got an idea: With a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer I poked a small hole into all four corners of the Not Fragile album cover, tied it face up to an old padded footstool with some twine, bought a pair of unmarked sticks and viola, insta-drum. Needless to say I beat on that thing like a belly club happy street cop for months. Until the following Christmas that is, when I got my first "real" drum kit, straight outta the pages of the Sears catalog.
As I'd mentioned it's a spare bedroom, approximately 10x10 in size. I recently spruced the place up a bit with some new blinds and a fresh coat of "Dreamy Space." Trust me I had no idea this particular light blue shade of interior satin was called that when I picked it out at the local Homey D's, but with a name like that it could've been baby shit brown and I still would've had em mix me up a gallon. In addition to the drums and the virtual wall-to-wall record collection, there's a mishmash stereo, a fake ficus I took a shine to at a yard sale, and a rockin chair I bought for Cathy when she was pregnant with our son Tim twenty-two years ago that tend to fill out the remainder of the room quite nicely. Like I said it's a relatively small space, and aside from Rudy, a once frail and frightened seven-ounce baby kitten Cathy heroically rescued last year, it's my space.
So here we sit, Rudy and I, gazing out the upstairs window on a Saturday morning tryin desperately to finish this post. Across the street I can see Mike loadin up the ten speeds for what I'm guessin is gonna be a meandering ride somewhere down Long Beach way. Mike and his wife Terri are great folks, in fact we've been neighbors for, well, long before any of us had kids, and their eldest boy Shaun is playin in the NFL. Again it's hard to believe how the years have flown by, seems like only yesterday we were goin to Shaun's little league games at Highlander Park.
If I recall Shaun didn't start playin football until later in school, however, it didn't take long to get himself established and become recognized as one of the top in his class, being named The L.A. Times Defensive Player of the Year while attending Los Altos High. From there he went on to USC where he made All-American and was Nominated for the coveted Lombardi Trophy before being picked up by the Detroit Lions in the second round of the 2005 draft. He currently plays nose tackle for the Houston Texans, a playoff bound team for the first time in franchise history.
But before we go on, I'd like to take ya back for a moment if I may to those USC years. Because here's a guy mind you who's earned nothin short of mega celeb status while still in high school, garnering nearly every athletic award and accolade imaginable. Now, as a Trojan, he's considered one of the top defensive players in the entire friggin nation, and yet here he is pullin up to the house in a beat up old Dodge Caravan. I mean honestly how cool is that? And trust me I ain't stretchin it a bit when I tell ya this thing was a total heap. Fact is the only salvageable part on that entire rattletrap was probably the shop rag the dude was using as a makeshift gas cap. Of course that all quickly changed when he made the pros and pulled up in a brand spankin new Cadillac Escalade. But happily Shaun didn't. (Change). Even today with all the allures of stardom he's still the good ol boy he's always been, and I for one wish him nothing but continued success.
Directly over my right shoulder beyond the stationary bike is a pint sized library of books, CD's, and DVD's on personal achievement. Written by some of the most well respected names in the industry these guys are in their own right some of the best in the business. And although they're not my idols, while I may not wanna grow up to be just like them, over the past few years they've certainly taught me a thing or two. In fact, maybe if I'd read some of this stuff twenty years ago I wouldn't have stopped drummin, or any other number of things for that matter, including ridin the stationary bike.
The downer is when I start to consider the wealth of info compiled by these advice-giving gurus I can't help but think what the hell am I doin jumpin into the ring with these heavyweights? Who do I think I am puttin in my two cents? And where if at all does Ingzig fit into all this? Although not overly concerned about the whole thing I do ask myself these questions from time to time, and in turn have spent untold hours tryin to better wrap my head around the so called competition. And while I must tell you that I haven't uncovered the definitive answer as of yet, I do know this.
Ingzig is not a movement or revolution. It's not a hell bent crusade or campaign for colossal change. It's not about resisting or defying the status quo for the mere sake of resisting or defying the status quo. It's not "More than a lifestyle" or "A way of life." Nor is it about "Finding a voice within the brand." It's not a well laid out plan with instructional software and a time limited money back guarantee. And it doesn't require or much less demand a deafening public address system of any shape or form, hand held or otherwise.
It's been nine years since I started playin again, and in addition to a few new riffs what I've learned is that reaching a goal or realizing a dream begins with making yourself a promise. And success, while worthy of the grandest stage, is generally achieved when no one's watching or listening, when no one's around to pump you up, cheer you on, or give you that all-encouraging pat on the back.
Nine years and aside from one attention deficient alley cat who pops in every now and then to take care of some personal business I've never had an audience. No praise or applause for a job well done; no one knockin down my door for a pair of autographed sticks. And that's okay, because for me that isn't what it's about these days. Hell even my longtime heroes have lost some of their luster lately, not because I no longer look up to em, but because I no longer look at em as rock stars. These days, dare I say it? They're just fellow artists and musicians who too are earnestly committed to honing their craft.
Ya know it's funny, when I see Shaun single-handedly shut down a running play behind the line of scrimmage in front of millions of fans on national television I don't see a larger than life persona or some gridiron gladiator. I see a wide-eyed little kid roundin for home at Highlander Park, a beat up old Dodge Caravan, and someone who, much like you and I, had himself a heart full of hopes and dreams, and then simply chose to make good on em by bustin his *^&@# ass!
And for me I think that's what personal achievement is essentially all about. The books, the CD's, the keynote speeches and the PBS specials, it's all good. But in the end it's not the polished presentations that impress me the most. It's not the professional advice that's had the greatest impact. It's the personal stories. And if you could take a peek over my right shoulder right now you'd see that those are the pages that tend to be flagged with sticky notes. Because time after time that's the kinda stuff that gets me teary eyed.
So where exactly does Ingzig fit into all this? I'm not sure. Will anyone ever lay eyes on these long-winded words of wisdom? It's hard to say. But again, I do know this: I'm not gonna stop doin what I'm doin. I'm gonna continue bustin my *@^%# ass. Because nine years ago I made myself a promise...one I personally plan to keep. See ya next time. Till then, keeep it up.
Go Texans.
