Being a Shansenmaker

Oil Eyes

shoelessj — Tue, 09 Nov 2010 22:27:34 +0000

“We missed a beautiful day and now it’s raining,” her sorrowful, gravity stricken lips say.

This is what happens when a maniacal husband, on a quest to cure their basement of the dank doldrums, decides to forgo the frolicking and falling leaves for a NIOSH mask and a paint brush.

“But I just want to get it done! Our laundry is piling up and I can’t stand to do laundry in a dungeon any more!” What more could be said? Plenty.

“I know,” she said, “you’re driven and it’s what drives me crazy about you. Nothing can deter you, you can’t be swayed. I just think we need to plan fun. You don’t want to plan fun, you want it to happen spontaneously, but I can’t keep working in the basement when I’m working all week.”

I had to defend myself for a second, while relishing in the quiet before the storm. “I think you’re remembering a conversation from four years ago. We can plan fun, of course we can,” I agreed.

We rouse ourselves with banter about our jobs, how this house is my dream and my accomplishment, my baby and how she needs time away from construction, time away, more fun, more funnies.

It’s at this point that we’re trading war stories and why we’re sitting in the car, rain pounding with just minutes until the paint store closes when I raise my voice and I say, “I JUST WANT TO FUCK SOMETHING!” Having come to terms, realizing each others plight, this moment of glory was stamped with a line from Hot Tub Time Machine. That’s classic.

We laugh and pull out of the driveway only to see our neighbor standing next to his car, smirking and yeah, he heard the whole thing.

Laughing all the way to the paint store, the sun came out, Mt. Tabor greeted us with crisply scented pine needles and the skyline was unobscured. We followed this with a Lambrusco, cheese and a movie. Life has a way of turning out for the best especially when pouting lips protrude.

Those First Days

shoelessj — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 17:48:15 +0000

I love first days.

The first day you called me.

The first day I remember finding distortion on my amp.

The first day I played tennis without a knee brace in umpteen years. Wow.

I’m getting there. Fitness is a fleeting opponent if you’re not keeping up and I guess I’m really beginning to see the results.

It’s not the time to crack some bubbly, it’s rather the time to respect myself for what I’ve done and set new goals. Play once more without the brace to see how it goes. Challenge fitness so your body isn’t continually working on the same muscle groups. When I’m in the type of shape I know I can be, miracles can happen. And they will. It’s just a matter of keeping my mind in the right gear.

Park It. In the park.

shoelessj — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 00:16:15 +0000

Here, we live near a beautiful park plunked down in the middle of likely the best neighborhoods in the city. As we meander through the urba-scape to get there, we (the Shansenmakers) decide to take a myriad of photos to keep us warm during the baron, rayless days of winter wetness.

It’s a feeling I only get a few times (an hour), but the remnants last (an hour more). That little-kid-on-a-sugar-high urge to freak out. Why flamey leaves do that to me, I’ll never understand. But this I do: autumn is beautiful around these parts and so similar to the east coast, I could close my eyes and become lost. I think I can do that anyway.

Scents and Subtle Songs

shoelessj — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 16:57:57 +0000

I used to really love Phish. Like madly in love. I would travel afar (actually, mostly near) to a massive venue joining legions of hippie cats and dancing dogs for a night in mixolydian heaven. What did you say? Oh, mixolydian is modal scale that most jam bands use nearly exclusively to illicit that rumbling, tension and release that makes most humans feel warm. Like the feeling you may get when your lover isn’t sure she agrees with what you’re saying and then blurts out, “I love you for who you are!” Because that’s the way this music goes; we love it for the way it is. It is NOT a ballad. It is NOT a blues song. It is NOT a gentle nudge by Sigur Ros. It’s a journey and we love its parts, we love its whole. But it’s decidedly not what an evolving listener wants to hear all the time; sometimes you just need to forgo the music’s story in lieu of the poetry of the words. Give me some Joan Baez for a minute, give me some Elton John, or even give me some drunken Tom Waits, THEN give me some mixolydian. Ahh. Good to the last drop.

The Desk

shoelessj — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 23:07:53 +0000

It is here I support endeavors of the visionary, the tactical and the average Joe. It’s a “cushy” job thanks to my tempurpedic seat rest. Everything else that happens out there in the world while I’m sitting here blazes by, in glory.

This leads to me to a few things I’m thinking about.

I live in a city under construction siege. I have almost hit two people in the last two days (one ped, one skater) and I just saw lightning as I’m typing. My pockets are full of lottery tickets and the thunder bangers have emerged. Is someone listening to me? These lottery tickets are my journey-mobiles! France! Italy! Australia! And once I’m completely satiated by the travel bug (or itch), I’m going to start a foundation to support arts in communities that are in need. Guitars for those about to rock. Oboes and flutes for the butterfly girls. Charcoal and gummy erasers to the left brained maestros scribbling in crayon on crushed cardboard. There are better times head you guys! And for those I almost hit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean scare you voiceless…your sunny days will never end!