new TWTR.Widget({ version: 2, type: 'profile', rpp: 4, interval: 30000, width: 250, height: 300, theme: { shell: { background: '#851010', color: '#f7edf7' }, tweets: { background: '#faf2fa', color: '#080708', links: '#2207eb' } }, features: { scrollbar: true, loop: false, live: true, behavior: 'all' } }).render().setUser('WeTheCompass').start(); The Compass is a creator collective, a gathering of eight young artists and writers honing their craft and starting a conversation. It was founded on the belief that creative voices must be heard by others. Inspired by the best this country and this world has to offer, the contributors seek to promote possibility. We are dedicated to using our prose, art and music to inspire others to look to themselves for their creativity. In the face of ignorance and apathy, we share our passion for the idea that contemplation and creation are essential for a better world, a more connected world. We offer our work -- our words, our images, our music -- to all of you as a reminder that we all can be creators.
I haven't been on a plane to Florida in years. And why would I? My father's railroad hands have allowed us to take the AutoTrain from Virginia to the greater Orlando area every time we've wanted to since 2000. Though it's several times as long, the ride has provided me with two meals and the opportunity to watch the country pass by while I sit in contemplation. But here I am in seat 19C, gum in my mouth and seatbelt fastened. Jill is bringing me down to Walt Disney World with her mom and sister for her cousin's 40th birthday celebration. It's not a very long trip, but even a taste of Disney is worth the journey. We land at the Orlando International Airport and take a monorail to the main terminal. I remember this from my youth, from the first time we visited Mickey Mouse. It was the first indication that I was entering a very special world, a place unlike anything that I had seen in my Delaware hometown. To me, that's what Disney World is. It's the wonderment of the world around you, a world that's a combination of reality and imagination. Some people say that Disney World isn't real. Well, what is real? Just because those buildings aren't castles built by long-dead kings and queens or actual homes long since abandoned to ghosts doesn't mean that they're not real. Since I've gotten back from Disney World, I've been diving deep into the history and criticism of this place and the man who thought of it. There are many blogs run by people who love the parks, especially WDW, and celebrate what makes it great while lamenting what sullies that greatness. One thing that's great about the parks is the central beacon from which everything else flows. In Magic Kingdom, it's Cinderella's Castle. In EPCOT, it's Spaceship Earth. In Animal Kingdom, it's the Tree of Life. In Disney's Hollywood Studios, it used to be a replica of the Grauman's Chinese Theatre. But now it's a giant version of Mickey's hat from his performance as "The Sorcerer's Apprentice" in Fantasia. It's repugnant – not because Fantasia isn't a great film, or because it doesn't deserve recognition in that park. That giant blue hat is repugnant because it immediately draws you out of the intricate, immersive world of 1930s Hollywood. You realize you're in a theme park, forking over $20s left and right for food and plush toys. The sense of wonder is gone. Still, I can understand that we can't spend all of our time in the world of nostalgia. The past wasn't perfect, and it's important to remember that. For that reason, I've always loved EPCOT and Tomorrowland in the Magic Kingdom. These are the places that celebrate the possibilities of tomorrow, the chance we have to make the future a better place than today. To recognize what the mistakes we're making with our interactions with the earth and each other. But now those places are being overrun by cartoon characters and low-brow entertainment. And it's not that those things have no place in Disney World, or that it means certain doom for the parks or guests. But it reflects a distrust of the future that didn't always exist. When the parks were first built, people were excited about the future. Sure, there was the threat of nuclear annihilation – but there was also the hope that we would come together and create new and better worlds. Colonies in space, lands underwater. Healthier interactions with the earth and the people on it. Today, I don't see that. I see venom spat by politicians at one another. I see distrust of the system, a cynicism that assumes the worst in others. We don't listen to the points of view of others – we call them bigots or elitists or declare that they're ruining the country. It seems like we don't realize that we're all connected, that we're all a part of making the future, whatever it is. I want to have big dreams of the future. I want to imagine technology that helps us get closer instead of isolating us. With our voices and faces being able to travel miles in seconds, there's so much possibility of collaboration and connection. I want to imagine that diversity is celebrated not for points in the game of public relations, but because it leads to richer discussions and deeper insight into the challenges we face as human beings. I have a new album out. It's called E Pluribus Album, and it would not exist if it were not for the many friends and family members I have in my life. Starting in February, I began reaching out to as many people as I could to create an album celebrating connections and community. The album is being sold to benefit City Year New Hampshire, an organization that I served with for two years. Many City Year alumni are on the album in various forms: vocals, words, drums, guitars. The Compass' own Tim designed the artwork for the album, as he has done for my previous three releases. This is my best collection of songs yet, and I hope that you listen to it and consider buying it. We are not islands. We need each other. I enjoyed seeing a new post on here a few weeks ago and I hope it's not the last. The world needs visionaries. The world needs people showing the power of teamwork. I hope we can be some of those people. -Paul
So it's been awhile for everyone, but meanwhile in the real world there was a physical manifestation of some Compass work. Luke was tasked with publishing a chapbook and chose one of Patrick's stories from an old Compass post to publish. I was lucky enough to be asked to provide a cover for the book and happily obliged.
It was a great project and one I hope we will continue if we can pull away from the internet for long enough. Reception has been very positive on all fronts and it was incredibly interesting to see something tangible emerge from this blog we put together years ago.
If you're interested in purchasing one of the books, contact Luke ( [email protected] )
Hey all. It's pretty quiet around these parts. I hope you're out there banging some pots and pans together yourself, because we all certainly are pretty busy. The Compass is, to be honest, not what it once was. But it still matters and will still serve as a space for our creations, your creations, for whatever we want it to be. This is the latest episode of Soundtrack Stories. Can you believe that it's up within a month of the previous video? I can't. I rushed to upload it before the end of January because I will begin my work on FAWM in less than 20 minutes. I hope that you enjoy it. An incredible thank you to James for his Soundtrack Stories acting debut. Let me know what you think of the acting - is it an element worth exploring for future episodes? Thanks for watching. Take care of yourselves. -Paul
Here is the long awaited Part 2 of the riveting tale of moving! (Part 1)
Erica in the kitchen making pancakes.
-Hey.
-Hey.
-Um good morning?
Erica laughed.
-Yeah good morning. I’m making breakfast. Grab some coffee and sit down.
-Uh thanks. Emil went inside the dining room. He sat down at the beautiful oak table. The sides had intricate carvings of knot work.
-Happy ever after in the market place. Erica sang in the kitchen.
Emil adjusted his legs placing his left over his right so that his left ankle rested on his right knee. He sipped his coffee. He smiled at nobody because nobody was in the room for him to smile at. Just a sleeping cat on a chair in the corner. The back wall was nearly all glass, the windows were so big. The sunlight warmed the room so much that it felt more like June than January. Outside, the backyard had a patio and a fire pit covered in snow. Beyond that there was a great big pond, frozen over. It really must be something when the spring brought leaves to all the trees. Emil reminded himself to say that to Erica.
Bored, Tim got up and walked out of his room and down the second hallway that was much shorter. He saw the pull chord for the attic. He knew that people always found really cool stuff in the attic. Like Civil War guns or old pictures that were worth a million dollars. He jumped up to reach the chord but he wasn’t even close. He took a running start but the hallway wasn’t long enough. He slammed into the wall.
-Hey little man watch out for that wall. The mover from before had come around the corner.
Tim didn’t say anything, he just rubbed his arm.
-You alright?
-Yeah.
-What are you trying to do? Break up the joint? The mover smiled. He didn’t have all his teeth.
- I was just trying to get up there. Tim meekly pointed to the attic.
-Aw you don’t want to do that! It’s probably has spiders and bugs and dirt everywhere. I think your mom would be pretty upset.
That was true. And the spiders didn’t sound nice either. Tim hated spiders, they weren’t like ants. When they bit you, you died.
-Why don’t you run along and play? Maybe in the backyard?
Tim nodded and went outside.
-This is delicious. Emil said.
-Thank you.
-The trees…
-Listen Emil, How much do you remember from last night?
-Uh not much. He paused.
- If I have anything to apologize for I am sorry.
Erica laughed the kind of laugh which is really more of a quick exhale through the nose and a smile.
-No, Nothing to apologize for. But I’m married and that’s that. Nothing can happen. -Did we? Emil caught himself before finishing the question that he already knew the answer to.
-Why did we sleep in different rooms?
-It is like I said. I’m married. Nothing can happen. No matter what happened nothing happened. Do you understand?
Emil nodded. He thought it was strange that he found her more attractive than ever. It wasn’t because he couldn’t have her and it wasn’t a case of forbidden fruit. Emil was fairly sure that it could, if he pushed the issue. It was because she had a plan. And confidence. She was handling a situation that cannot be handled, even if it was by ignoring that it happened. And she lost no charm in doing so. Objectively, she might be being a bitch, but it didn’t feel like she was. She set the tone and let him know the rules of the situation that had no rules and Emil was thankful for it.
They ate and drank in silence for a little while.
-I am going down to Florida for my dad’s funeral. Emil said finally.
-Yeah I know.
-I probably won’t be coming back.
-I know that too. But I don’t want things to be weird.
-They aren’t. Well, they are but that is not why I am staying down there. My mom is all alone and I think I need to be with her for a while.
-I’ll miss you but maybe that is for the best.
-Yeah, said Emil, thanks.
They looked at each other.
-What about the trees? Erica said.
-What?
- What were you saying about the trees?
-Oh. I forget.
Emil took a bite of pancake and looked out the window.
It was hard to tell where the backyard ended. Tim went all the way back to where the forest began. He knew he wasn’t supposed to go too far away but nobody would notice. He grabbed a fat stick and swung it in front of him like it was a machete. Breaking down reeds and knocking away branches, he went forward stepping in puddles and muck. He was like a famous zoologist. Hunting for a swamp ape. Or a rare albino leopard
The trees stopped just short of a steep hill. The hill was hard to climb but when Tim reached the top he found a road. On the other side there were more trees.
Tim knew that his backyard had definitely ended at the road but he pushed on through the trees. He found himself in a big field with pathways winding all over and statues around. They were mostly big metal blocks and shapes that looked nothing like what they were supposed to be. The one labeled Iris wasn’t much like a flower at all. It was a big red circle with the middle cut out and parts sticking out all over the place.
There was one statue that had a lady holding a plate of monsters on her back and her kids were huddled underneath her. She looked like Atlas. But the best statue Tim saw was a crying giant. He looked like something Tim drew in art class. He had a big round body and long arms and legs. He held his face in his hands. Tim knew the statue wasn’t real he knew that it was silly to feel bad for it. But Tim couldn’t help it. He felt like he got there too late to help. Tim wanted to stop the giant from crying. He wanted to play with the giant and be its friend. He hugged its leg.
Emil grabbed his stuff
- I better get going.
Emil and Erica went to the door.
-I’ll write you when I get a chance.
Erica smiled.
-Thanks. Don’t worry about it. I know we all get busy.
-Thanks for the pancakes.
-Yeah don’t mention it.
-Don’t worry I won’t.
Emil smiled. Erica did too.
-Well goodbye, I guess.
-Yeah goodbye.
Erica kissed Emil and Emil kissed her back. They lingered in an extended embrace.
1) You may have seen previous posts about Carey Murdock. He's a young musician with a wonderful voice and in "Shot In The Dark," a powerful song. I've posted a video of a live performance of the song before. Below is the studio version that he recorded as part of his 45 Project. Every four months starting this January, Carey will release two tracks - a digital 45, with an A and a B side. "Shot In The Dark" is the first A-side and man, it's outstanding. I know that it may not be your cup of tea, but it's a song that is kicking me into gear as I write this to do something with my night.
"Shot In The Dark" - Carey Murdock
2) I must preface this next item with the acknowledgement that this is a developing story and all of the facts aren't in. But if you are interested in hearing about how people working on Glee may have taken a musician's song without asking, check out this piece from The AV Club. Jonathan Coulton, famed internet singer-songwriter and TMBG opener, originally recorded a cover of "Baby Got Back" with a radically different arrangement back in the mid-2000s. It looks like the song was directly copied with no notice to Coulton. You're big kids and can form your own opinions, but I thought it was worth mentioning.
The movers were strong and fast. They were all men and bigger than Tim’s father. Some of them knew how to speak Spanish. They had tattoos. Mother directed them around the house. She told them what went where. The beds upstairs. The table in the great room. The men moved as if moved as if mother was unnecessary, as if mother didn’t need to say a word except for “careful.” Mother said careful a lot.
-Careful with that box. It’s filled with crystal stemware.
-Careful with that bar, it’s an antique.
-Careful going up the stairs. Watch the wall.
Tim watched them move purposefully like ants. He liked the men because he liked ants. There was a type of ant that can bite so hard that it felt like walking on hot coals with a nail in your heel. Black ants didn’t bite as much but red ants did. That is why red ants were called fire ants.
One time at an Indian pow wow, the Indian chief was telling stories and he pulled kids up to tell stories just for them. He brought up Tim and told him a story about a little boy who everyone thought was dumb and made fun of for being dumb. One day, the boy sat down on a red ant hill. And the ants swarmed over him but did not bite him at all. The ants crawled up into his ear and told him secrets and things. They told him that --
-Hey there little man. Watch out. Don’t want to hit your head.
The movers were coming up the steps. They were carrying a large chest of drawers that belonged to his sister. Tim moved out from under the movers.
-Tim. Get out of their way. Those men are working. Go play somewhere. Oh careful with that.
Tim left the balcony at the top of the stairs. He walked down the long hallway. The house was much bigger than their old house. Tim missed their old house. This house was old. Maybe somebody died here.
Big, old houses had ghosts in them, like the Bellevue Mansion. That had a slave and a woman and another man. Tim saw them on Halloween. His new house only had one ghost, probably. Tim wondered how he died and if he was a mean ghost or scary.
Jenna would know. Tim walked down the hall, running his hand on the wooden molding that ran down the length of the wall. He would never do it again. There would soon be tables with vases up and down the hallway. And soon afterward, mother would take out the molding and paint the walls a nice lilac color.
The door was ajar and Tim looked in. Jenna was on her new floor and sitting with her back against her bed. She was talking on her new phone to her new friends.
-Yeah it’s big and all, but we won’t have the internet for two days. It totally sucks. My dad’s so retarded. I mean I have really important things to do you know? Huh? Yeah, hold on a sec.
Jenna stood up and walked over to the door that was ajar. She motioned for Tim to back up and she shut the door.
Tim walked up the hallway some more. Then he walked quickly up and down the hallway letting his fingers thunk along the molding. Then he started to run. He stopped because he heard someone coming.
-These fucking people.
-I know. You get a load of the husband? One whole cheese pizza for five guys? It is almost too generous.
-Seriously. At that point don’t even bother.
Tim knew that he would be in the way very soon, so he went to his room. It didn’t look like his room. Most of his room stuff wasn’t there. His bed was, but it had no sheets on it. Tim lied down on top of it.
The ceiling fan looked like a turtle. Like a turtle from Mario, only he wasn’t small and he only had his left eye. And he had no body or he had no head or his head and his body were the same thing. And his four feet were all lights. They came out his body-head. They were all regular light but Tim pretended that they were red, yellow, blue and white. The turtle was green. And on top of its propellers was the whole world.
Emil opened his eyed. He looked around the room but when he sat up, the sharp pain and milder but still awful dizziness laid him back down.
He stared up at the fan. The light bulb holders looked like giant pitcher plants dipped in a light coat of plaster. The pull chord dangled down and swayed slightly due to the light breeze of the slow turning fan. Emil thought about a jungle somewhere with these giant plants that had sticky ropes hanging out of the plant. On the end, there were what looked like beautiful naked women. Men would see them and try to have sex with them, either because they thought it was a woman or because they didn’t care that it wasn’t. The man would get stuck and the plant would wind up the sticky ropes and the man would be slowly digested in the plant.
It would make a good short story. But it was already a short story. Emil had read it in a Sci-fi magazine. It was by some sci-fi writer. Nelson somebody. He couldn’t remember.
He couldn’t remember much at all. The only thing Emil was aware of was the creeping feeling of regret that he always got when he got drunk. Emil had awoken loads of times without knowing where he was, but never for this long. He honestly believed that he had never set eyes on this room in all his life, before that moment.
The bed he was in was big but worn out. There was a bookshelf to his left that was overloaded with books. Technical manuals and Shakespeare. At the foot of the bed there was a pile of blankets and clothing. In the corner there was a disused treadmill.
Emil laid back and watched the lazy propellers of the fan spin.
If you followed the propellers around with your eyes you could make them slow down. But that made Tim’s eyes hurt if he did it for too long.
If you looked at them in the right way you could make the propellers skip backward. They went backward all statically like a flipbook or that toy that Tim had that you could use to make a skeleton dance on the wall, when all the lights were out and you turned the crank. Tim stared up at the fan thinking about controlling time. Slowing it down or making it go backward.
I've been registered on ReverbNation for a few years now. I don't use it as much as I could, I guess. I've never been really good with the self-promotion aspects of life as a musician. I don't have that driving force to get out there and find gigs, and I'm not sure how to describe what I do. So when the time came to write an Artist Bio, I avoided it. Until now. Below is my attempt to create an artistic biography. I know that it doesn't include the cool things I've done like other bios do - noteworthy performances, words of praise from those of positive repute. Mostly that's because such details don't yet exist. So instead I focused on where I've come from, musically, and where I intend to go. With this new year upon us, with its infinite possibilities, I think it's an appropriate time to share my declaration of self. Saturday morning. Any one. It's cleaning day at the Riley house. His mom is dusting to the sounds of the artists that will shape his music for years: a man who sang of desolation and redemption, another who recorded scenes from a piano bench. Melodies created by pals too powerful to remain united, genius that drove a man to a sandbox. Paul Riley is eleven years old, and he knows this is his future. Music has the power to change lives. To comfort you while sobbing alone after devastation. To guide you through the best day of your life. To keep you going when everything else wants to freeze you in your tracks. Paul Riley writes words to serve as a catalyst, like the great lines before him. "This machine kills fascists." "How many years can a man exist before you call him a man?" "I was born in the U.S.A." He makes sounds to bring joy to lives, to lift others upon ebullient gusts of acoustic guitar strumming and electric melody. He's aiming to take what he sees in the world - the injustices and the righteousness, the sadness and the beauty - and put it on the page and on his strings. To be an American folk singer for the digital age, informed by the world but not ordered by it. Paul Riley is an idealist with a voice to be heard. -Paul P.S. Remember when I did FAWM last year? Well, I'm doing it again this year. But this time, I'm looking to collaborate with as many people as possible - even people who are not musical at all. If you're interested in helping out in any way, or just want to keep in the loop, follow this Tumblr. Looking forward to seeing you over there.
Since James and I are the only ones to have posted in 2013, it seems appropriate to share this song. I found it on The AV Club website this week as part of their "Hear This" series. So yeah, you should hear this.
"The Mother We Share" - Chvrches
I'll post another essay or piece on Monday, and I'm working on another episode of Soundtrack Stories for this month.
So a few days ago, there was a little Hebrew boy’s birthday. Maybe you noticed it. I myself practically missed it. For all the kvetching about the awful commercialism of Christmas (something I don’t feel nearly as offended by as the consumerism of just after Christmas. In my mind buying gifts is better than returning them.) this year just didn’t feel right. Maybe Toby Keith was right.
But seriously, all the hoopla about being a bright and shiny human being didn’t hit me this year. Maybe it is the government foolery. Maybe it was the shooting at Sandy Hook. Maybe it is a number of things. What it definitely was was that I did not see A Muppet Christmas Carol this year. 2012 didn’t deserve it. But being that December 25 was the traditional celebration of the birth of the closest thing we have had to a truly good human being, the spectrum of human behavior is on my mind.
No matter your religious beliefs, you would most likely place Jesus at one end of the spectrum of human behavior. And more than likely you would place someone like Adolf Hitler at the other. Two men at opposite ends of a rather large room with all of us in-between them. A convenient practice to justify our behavior; I am not quite Hitler and not quite Jesus. Two men that are such wonderful one-dimensional touchstones. Two men, who I am convinced, that would love each other as fully as anyone can if they were given the opportunity. But I must stress the word opportunity as distinct from chance. Everyone has the chance to be a NBA basketball player. I, for example, could try out for the New York Knicks and, by chance, make it. The fact that I have just as much chance for the empty spaces in my body to line up with the empty spaces in the floor so that I slip completely through it while trying to make a layup is completely irrelevant. I have the chance to make the team, but I highly doubt I would ever have the opportunity. Opportunity, even the great opportunity to love, requires tools, training and timing. As the great poet M. M. Shady said “Opportunity knocks once in a lifetime, But the postman always rings twice.” I digress.
Given that people could more easily imagine Jesus loving Hitler than the other way around, it is odd that people who seem the keenest on Jesus want to focus on the Hitler-like aspects of God. According to the Christian faith, God and Jesus are the same, except when Jesus is a dick, when he commits genocide, when he burns human beings in fire, he is called God the Father. We seldom consider ways in which Hitler is like the son aspect of God. Even right now it sounds like I am setting up a joke or like I am a lunatic. Rest assured that I don’t believe that Hitler did anything even remotely good with his political career or has any personal parallels to Jesus, save for the fact that they both were failures at their original careers and were marginally more successful at their second.
But my point involves a set of seemingly unconnected foils: Charlie Chaplin and Groucho Marx. As Chaplin died on Christmas, the pair is not as randomly chosen as you might have though. Plus, you know, the mustaches.
While Chaplin was a movie start long before Marx, they were contemporaries, being born just one year apart. They also happen to be a great archetypes of what Stephan Fry is talking about in this video:
To put it less articulately, Americans love loses that win and the English love losers that lose. Americans love slackers, smart alecks, and fools that outwit or outluck other. Bugs Bunny, Bill Murray, or any other American comic hero. Well hell there it is! Comic Hero.
Here is the thing, the most popular comic out there right now, at least in the comic’s world, is Louis C.K. In his show, he is most certainly a loser that loses. Similarly, shows like It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia feature losers that lose, though in a distinct way from Louie. The thing that connects them is that they are American losers. They live and lose in a distinctly American way. Right now what seems to resonate with our funnybones is the person who makes mistakes and doesn’t learn anything from the disastrous fallout. In the case of the crew from It’s Always Sunny, they are horrible people while Louie is much less so. But in the case of both life does not work out well for the losers, sure they make it through but that is all they can hope for: Making it through. Is that what we are responding to? Do we see ourselves in these people? Is that the joke of the modern age? And what the hell does this got to do with Hitler and Jesus?
Well simply this, we might be on the verge of a ideological shift. When what we laugh at changes, it is a pretty good indication that we are changing the way we think. But I object to my own argument. What about Parks and Recreation, you love that show!
It is true, I do. Well let’s look at that. Leslie Knope is not a loser who loses. And she is not a loser that wins. But here is the biggest thing, she is not an individualist. American Comic heroes are leaders or loners, but Leslie is not truly either. She is technically the boss but really Parks and Rec is about the community. Leslie is earnest and capable, caring and smart and she fails and succeeds. She grows. There are other shows that feature this kind of community and individual growth. Right now I can’t think of the name. 30 Rock? Oh well. You get the point.
And here is the truth, Even in Louie or It is Always Sunny, the characters don’t always lose, sometimes they win. Sometimes they catch a break. And so I am left without a formula or rubric for what we and I laugh at.
Ultimately, though, I think that the breakdown of comic formulas, while retaining a great deal of familiar forms, show that what we find funny is the complications of life. You don’t win and you aren’t above life. Life is not something that is dumped on you and it is not something you can get over. Just dealing with it, that is funny. And if we think that that stuff is funny, it is only a matter of time before we start taking the complications of life seriously and start taking the complications of others seriously. To start dealing with other humans humanely.
Or maybe not. How should I know? My New Year’s resolution is to not make any sense. So Far so good.
Everyone knows there’s one person in Wellsville who knows how to do anything: Monica the Kreb Scout. She’s got merit badges in everything from ethnic dance to ninjitsu—so we asked Scoutmaster Shaenon K. Garrity to draw up a set for the zine (where they’ll be laid out so you can cut ‘em out and affix them to your official Kreb Scout sash without damaging the rest of the book).
For now, though, here’s a preview of nine of our favorites:
Astronomy - Scout can accurately identify at least six constellations.
Bowling - Scout has demonstrated mastery over the ball.
Cephalopods - Scout has demonstrated proficiency in the care and feeding of our tentacled friends.
Chemistry - Scout can use science to pinpoint the source of urine in a public swimming pool.
Funeral Arts - Scout has successfully completed courses in embalming, interment, and monument design and construction.
Lunar Ballet - Scout has demonstrated proficiency at Lunar ballet (Earth-gravity variants acceptable).
Nightcrawler - Scout has successfully stayed awake for a minimum of 24 consecutive hours.
Survival (Indoor) - Scout can survive for up to three days on the bounty of the classroom.
Time Travel - Scout has successfully traveled in time and can identify at least three sources of riboflavin.
(For Ethnic Dance, Extraterrestrial Life, Food Service, Halloweenie, Orienteering, Rooftop Gardening, Survival (Outdoor), Word Problems, Wrestling, Little Viking, Waiting for October, and the world-famous Bus Driver Service Award, you’ll have to wait for the zine itself.)
Did you know that there's an Adventures of Pete and Pete zine? Well, there is. And while you will not be able to order a copy for your favorite little viking before Christmas (both because it's three days until Santa arrives and they are delaying their third run of printing), there's no reason you can't keep Christmas going through January or February. Just remember that you've got to keep your tree inside. -Paul
There was a time, some months ago, that many of us thought it would be cool to relive our college radio days by posting fake radio playlists. That "many of us" includes Anthony and Tim, spectres who still cling to this world of The Compass. It is said that if you are a very good little boy or girl, they will visit you in the night and deliver a thoughtful essay or striking painting into your shoe. "Many of us" also includes some people who don't post on The Compass but are still rad human beings.
Last week was the Riley Brothers' Third Annual Holiday Hootenanny. I prepared for it by listening to the Christmas episodes of my old radio show, It's Still Rock And Roll. (In college, I recorded all of the episodes - except for those of my first term - for posterity.) I enjoyed listening to those episodes as I cleaned the house, thinking of where I was when those shows were recorded, hoping to hear the voices of friends who would sometimes guest co-host with me in the later years.
A lot of this time of year is spent repeating the past. We bemoan the incessant revolutions of the Christmas standards, the early arrival of candy canes and toy deals in stores. We seem to want something new, and every year we watch and hear people attempting to put a different spin on the season. But, at their core, holidays are about traditions. We do the same things year after year because they help to tie us to something. They connect us to who we were the year before, as younger beings with wider eyes and bigger mouths. Much of adulthood is spent in a dark building, trying to make your way from one door frame to another with too little light to guide you. But the holidays are bright spots, times when you're able to rely on pathways familiar to you.
We bundle up, go to the homes of friends and family, and get closer to one another. And that's why Christmas has continued to be my favorite holiday. Because it's a time that brings us back to each other. There's no distance of time or geography that can't be negated by a Troll Doll bearing gifts and a playlist of familiar songs.
Back in October, James and I hosted The Riley Brothers' Halloween Housewarming and Paul Riley CD Release Party. It was a fun event. During the night, I played a few songs from Winter Sketchbook. To close my performance, I did a version of "Experimental Collaboration" with everyone present. Each person had his or her own instrument, mostly from my stock of instruments, and together we created a song. In the spirit of The Compass, a place that loves collaboration and creativity, I would like to share it with you now.
If you want to know the lyrics, you can read below. I was able to decipher most of the words except for one line. If you think you've figured it out, let me know. It would just be nice to know it.
Experimental Collaboration #2
What a great party this is, hanging out with people playing instruments.
When it comes to improvising, I can think of two lines at a time. And then I gotta pause - oh wait, I guess I don't. I'm just gonna keep singing every note.
If you want, come up closer to the microphones. Uh, Bandit, cause that's not your real name. And The Doctor, ‘cause those are wind instruments and you might not be able to be heard. But that's okay, we're gonna keep playing for another 15 minutes. You can blame Lester because we have a quota to fill ?
Just a few more measures. This is sounding better than Nicki Minaj, and Britney Spears, and Taylor Swift and Sonny Bono and Cher.
But not better than the fifteen people assembled here at this party tonight.
So, I have this good friend named Tony. I met him through City Year New Hampshire (a place I've talked about a great deal before). When we graduated, he gave me a mix disc. Today's selections are my favorite songs from that disc.
1) The past few years have seen me grow more interested in songs like this: slow, repetitive and ethereal tracks. The lyrics may be unintelligible, but the song still conveys a feeling. Maybe it's not a feeling as gloomy as the images of this video, but I prefer videos of moving images than a static image of the album cover.
"Have A Nice Life" - Bloodhail
2) Brand New is a band I was slow to come to. A buddy in high school wanted Deja Entendu for his birthday, so I bought it for him. But he got it from somebody else, so he made me keep it. Once I listened, I found a few songs that really mattered. I've lost touch with the albums after The Devil And God Are Raging Inside Me; this song is a reminder to get back there.
"At The Bottom" - Brand New
3) What makes a song a novelty? Growing up, my favorite artist was "Weird Al" Yankovic which required me to explain how I could like somebody who only did joke songs. But why should they only be joke songs? Weird Al's songs mean something to me. They helped me in some dark times. In that spirit, here is something that could be more than a silly song.
"Ahab" - MC Lars
4) Danceable tracks, I like them.
"Groove Me" - Maximum Balloon
5) I think that if a few things in my life had been different, this is the kind of band I would've been in as a high school kid. I'm happy with the acoustic songs that I write now, but part of me will always want to get an electric guitar, crank up the distortion and jump around a stage. This song lets me live out the fantasy.
"Analog Boy" - RX Bandits
6) In that spirit, I close today's grab bag with Donald Duck dancing to NoFX. Because this is the internet, and nothing makes sense.
"All Outta Angst" - NoFX
[This post is, as all others, unaffiliated with City Year.]
The Terror of Werewolf Words: A Choose Your Own Scareventure
Since I have not had a chance to write a longer form story, I return this week with another choose your own textventure. Join me won't you for...The Terror of Werewolf Woods
Today you are moving in with your uncle, Rang Dipkin, in his cozy home in the Carpathians. Your parents are going on a year long sabbatical to the Congo to monitor the state of their fiscally and ethically unsound blood diamond operation. Your father's farewell words ring in your ear, "Those darkies are getting uppity. We can't have them reading Upton Sinclair novels on the job. It's just not financially solvent."
You are excited because your uncle owns a motorcycle and promises to let you stay up as late as you want and probably will not beat you.
Upon arrival, you find your uncle is not outside to greet you. The front door is open. Do you go inside or explore the woods around the house to look for him?
Go inside.
Your uncle's house is elaborately decorated to look incredibly awesome. Animal heads adorn the walls, several full suits of armor line the halls, there is literally a saber tooth tiger skin rug, an oh what's that? Yes, the liquor cabinet is unlocked.
As you begin examining your uncle's finest scotch, you find a note addressed to you. It reads, "Dearest nephew, Hello bro, I'm out back choppin' some wood. Help yourself to some booze amigo. I'll be back in a cool 20. There's a popcorn machine in the living room, so help yourself. Just do me a solid and stay out of the basement. Stay cool, Uncle Rang"
Do you use the sweet popcorn machine to make a snack or disobey your uncle and investigate the basement?
Duh, basement
"Man, I won't listen to no adult!" you say to yourself, and head down the rickety stairs to the basement. At the bottom of the stairs is a huge steel door, it looks very heavy and quite sturdy but mercifully it is open. Walking inside you find the room is mostly bare concrete except for a bitchin' poster of Nicolas Cage in Con-Air. Across the walls are long scratches as if made by large claws. In the middle of the room is a large burlap sack. You are about to investigate when suddenly you hear a loud noise outside.
Do you continue or check out the woods?
Sack checkin
"What's in the sack?!" you mutter as you untie the chord around the top of the bag. As if in answer to your pop culture reference, out of the sack falls a mass of bloody entrails. The smell is excruciating.
What sort of weird stuff is your uncle into? Is this some sort of creepy offering to Nicolas Cage? Does he worship Nicolas Cage? Holy shit.
You hear the sound of someone walking around upstairs. If you run up quickly maybe you could make your uncle think you have not been down here.
Do you run upstairs and play it cool or keep looking around the basement?
Upstairs and be cool
You run upstairs, jump over the back of the couch, put on your sunglasses and put your feet on the table. "Eyyyyy pops!" you call out.
"Eyyyyy nephew, everything copacetic?" Your uncle asks. You tell him everything is great. "Groovy," he says, "Listen little dude, I can't stress how much you need to stay out of that basement. It would be, like, a total bummer if you went down there."
You spend a delightful evening with your uncle who is totally cool with you drinking and also eating dessert before dinner. It is getting late and you are pretty tired. You go upstairs to your room and your uncle again reminds you to stay out of the basement
"Oh,and one more thing! Those woods out there, 'Werewolf Woods', well I don't want to sound superstitious, but maybe don't go out there. It's a full moon tonight."
You take his advice under consideration.
That night you are woken from your slumber by a loud noise in the basement. Do you investigate, or chalk it up to too much ice cream cake before bed?
Duh. Investigate.
You head down to the basement. The door is closed, but unlocked. You open it a crack and see a hideous mass of fur and flesh tearing at the sack in the room. Could it be!? A werewolf?! You are shocked at how literally this story is.
Suddenly it stops and begins sniffing the air. It turns to look at you, its fur matted with blood, its gleaming. "I told you bro, I told you not to come down here. This next part is going to be a real bummer!"
You recognize the voice: your uncle's!
Gasp! What a twist! Do you attempt to hide in the house or flee into the woods?
Hide in the house
You run upstairs and, with lightning speed, assemble one of the suits of armor around yourself. Your were-uncle follows but cannot seem to find you.
"Dawg, why you gotta be such a buzkill? I just want to eat you bro, I just want to devour you dude."
After a few tense moments in the hallway, he passes into the kitchen. Do you continue hiding or make a break for it while he is distracted?
Hiding
At this point we took a break and resumed a week late
When last we left off you were hiding from your uncle, whose true nature as a bloodthirsty, but pretty chill except for the whole eating you thing, werewolf had just been revealed. Prepare yourself.
Prepared
Your uncle's keen werewolf senses have apparently dulled somewhat from these many years in isolation. Try as he might he cannot find you in your, admittedly very clever, hiding place.
"Come on bro. Bro, come on!" your uncle shouts.
Wisely you do "come on", and your increasingly frustrated uncle takes his search out of the cabin, knocking over some chairs and muttering something about having to "hit the gym so hard to burn off all this stress." He heads off into the woods.
Do you run out the back door or stay in hiding?
Back door
You move quickly to the backdoor, not even stopping to remove your suit of armor. You crash and clang your way outside, but luckily you hear nothing to indicate that you have drawn your uncle's attention.
Behind the house a totally awesome motorcycle lies parked. A quick investigation reveals the gas tank to be full and the key to be hanging on the wall nearby. Ahead of you is a dense forest, there is no way to tell how deep it goes.
Do you flee into the woods on foot or use the radical motorcycle?
Duh, motorcycle
You hop on the motorcycle. You rev its engines and roar away from the house. Trees fly by and you marvel at how lucky you are that none of their limbs have decapitated you.
Suddenly, the forest clears. Ahead of you is a sheer cliff. You try to stop, but at this speed there is no way to avoid falling off the edge. You quietly make peace with your god, at the same time asking that he lay a deadly curse on the rest of your shitty, jerkwad family.
Your bike soars off the cliff, wind rips past your ears as you plummet. You close your eyes and wait for the hideous crash. You wait. And wait. And wait.
But it never comes. Suddenly, you hear voices and movement around you. You open your eyes. Somehow you have made a perfect landing in he middle of a small village. You are overwhelmed with self satisfaction.
"What is your name stranger?" a villager asks cautiously.
You take a moment to think. Reaching into the convenient pocket in the suit of armor on a whim, you find a pair of sunglasses.
"Awesome Bill," you say, looking up slowly. You put your sunglasses on. "From Dawsonville," you add.
You feel confident that you might get laid tonight.
I had hoped to upload this video on Halloween since it centers on that day in 2004. I didn't for a few reasons, none of which matter much now. I really enjoyed putting this video together and I think that it's even better than the last one. However, it is lacking any performance footage for the music portion, to its detriment. But I'd rather have this video up now than have to wait even longer to shoot it. A great thank you to James for helping me to workshop the essay, to Jill for the use of her camera and Jamieson Riling for shooting the footage on the campus of Elmira College. Collaboration is the name of the game. Now, I'm going to get to work on the next video. I'm aiming for a January release. Look out! -Paul
Sitting in a lounge of an Atlantic City casino, I think, "I would love to come into easy money." I have spent enough money to know that the big payoff isn't going to happen this weekend. After finding a game that I liked, a game that I could understand, I devoted myself to it. I realized sometime later that the big money comes from the tables, but I didn't want to learn how to operate them. The interactions between me and the dealer, between me and the other people hoping for big money - I don't want to have to practice my social skills. So I stayed away. I have decided to end my time at the casino and now I'm sitting, waiting for my friends. To be given a sum of bills north of four figures is to be told, "You don't need to worry about things for a while." Bills and other expenses we're responsible for - they cease to be a yoke pulling us down a path we would have otherwise ignored. The freedom that comes with a large bank account is one that I assume others want as well. If only I had more money, we tell ourselves, I could do the things that I really wanted to. But are those possibilities suddenly within reach once we have greater resources? I don't think that's true. Consider a person with a job and friends in her town. Is it suddenly easier for her to abandon things that have been reinforced as responsibilities? No. I don't think so. Those things still demand her focus. Many things swirl in the mental to-do lists we have. But maybe you're not like this. Maybe you really do live free of constraints. Maybe you view everything that others view as burdens as opportunities. Or maybe you refuse to do anything that doesn't jive with who you are. But I'm not like that. I feel pulled in many directions: the need to make money, the desire to make music, helping out with the alumni board, posting something to The Compass, reading all those books I have, meeting up with friends, finding interesting things to do in the city. All of these things and more swirl around. Still I hope to catch a big break. Because the promise of a future time when things are magically easier is tantalyzing. It's the magic that I crave, the comfort of knowing that I didn't have to work that hard to get what I wanted. But what kind of life is that? Just waiting for things to turn themselves around while I lie back and float? Why should I allow myself to be a passive figure, a background character in my own story? "I'd rather be working for a paycheck than waiting to win the lottery," as Conor Oberst once sang. Not because we need to just put our heads down and work with no dreams. But because waiting means you're missing something. Waiting takes away your agency. With so many things demanding you do something, why give in? -Paul
While I have several stories I'd like to get out soon, school is making that a rather arduous task. That said, I don't exactly want to go another two weeks without posting anything, so today I will begin sharing with you what I do three Fridays of just about every month.
At the University of Louisville School of Medicine our course work is divided into month-long, or perhaps a little longer, blocks at the end of which we take a 6 hour long exam covering every subject all jumbled up together. Between the start of the block and the exam, we also take what amounts to 3 three hour long quizzes. Only about 30 minutes of this is spent talking a standard multiple choice exam, while the rest of the time is spent doing group questions. This leads to a good deal of downtime, downtime I decided to fill. To do that, I began texting one of my classmates a Choose Your Own Adventure story every week. Below, you will find the first two. My classmates responses will be in bold.
THE SLUG FROM OUT OF SPACE
You are nearing the home of your estranged uncle, Lawrence Beaumont "Monty" Cavendish, in Harwick County Massachusetts.
Uncle Monty has been missing for 3 weeks, which by Harwick law makes him legally dead. Harwick law, as you will come to find, is equal parts antiquated racism and violent misogyny. By chance, Harwick law also requires that you, Monty's distant nephew, must investigate his manor for disturbance in order to receive your inheritance.
On approaching the manor house you see a strange figure in the road. Do you stop to investigate or proceed forward to the house?
Stop.
The figure is a woman who is best described as a "crone". In fact that is her official title, Harwick County requiring no less than 24 crones operating at any given time. It's a living.
"Helloooo sonny," she says, not at all (read: extremely) creepily.
How did she know my name is Sonny, you wonder.
"You'll need this!" she says and hands you a salt shaker. It feels full.
This is strange until you remember that Harwick law requires all passerby be offered the most relevant spice to their current state of being. Unless they are black. If they are black they must be beaten.
Do you accept the salt or return it rudely?
ACCEPT
You accept the salt and place it in your coat pocket.
You return to your car and give one last wave to the crone who promptly shits herself as per Harwick custom. Arriving at the house, disgusted but amused, your find it in disarray. Window shutters broken, glass shattered, weeds growing. The cellar and front door both appear to be unlocked.
Do you enter the basement or the front door?
FRONT DOOR
Unfortunately Harwick law requires that the cellar be investigated first in the event of an estranged uncle's demise. Monty's nosy neighbors have notified the authorities who will be arriving in 30 minutes to jail you and have you flogged appropriately. However, if you found your uncle's rotting corpse you might be able to convince them that you were under emotional duress.
Searching the first floor you find everything in disarray. Books are strewn across the floor, chairs are broken, and a strange ooze appears to over everything. There appears to be a film of salt over every surface as well.
You hear a strange sound from the basement and see an intriguing book on the floor. Do you go to the cellar or read the book?
BASEMENT
Upon approaching the basement door, you hear a strange gurgling sound. In the darkness, you see a vague outline of a moving figure. It does not appear human, but the same could be said for your extremely obese uncle.
Heading into the basement you find it full of chains, whips, racks and various other sundries indicative of more of your uncle's personal life than you care to know about.
On inspection you find several piles of salt and a receipt for Steve's Salt Shipments showing a shipment due today. Written on the wall in blood are the letters "NaCl".
Suddenly you hear a hideous sound and turn to see a monstrous, slimy mass crawling towards you. Do you stay and confront the beast or run?
CONFRONT
You attempt to punch the creature but find that your fist enters the creature's mass and cannot be removed. As an intense burning pain shoots through your hand, you struggle to free yourself and your salt falls from your pocket causing the creature to recoil in terror.
Seizing this opportunity your run out of the cellar only to see a Steve's Salt Shipments truck out front. Steve, of Steve's Salt Shipments, informs you that by Harwick law the salt now belongs to you.
Do you instruct Steve to distribute the salt around the house or tell him to just put it in the basement...yea...right down there. No, it's open, just go in.
BASEMENT
Steve, believing that you are a decent human being with no intent to harm or injure him heads willingly into the basement. His screams are as horrifying as they are brief and in a few moments the creature bursts from the cellar. You can see through its translucent skin the bodies of both Steve and your uncle. While Monty is too digested to have any discernible expression, Steve is obviously very upset.
In his haste though, Steve has left the keys to his salt truck in the ignition. Do you place a splintered piece of wood on the gas and send the truck and its contents hurtling into the creature, or get in the car and drive away in fear?
HURTLING
The car crashes literally into the creature who absorbs the salt creating a beautiful explosion of slug and spice. Were you an artist you would paint it. Were you a photographer you would photograph it. Were you a writer, you would drink.
The creature is dead, your uncle's body has been found and you have a story for the police. By Harwick law you now own your uncle's manor, his extensive collection of space slug summoning manuals and his wide array of S&M equipment, which you find you are more than a little excited about. You may also, by law, flog your neighbors for their accusations.
Using your Harwick given right, you go through the front door, fix yourself a cup of tea, and ponder what to do with all this salt and leather. You do not notice the small piece of slug crawling its way out of your pocket.
THE END...OR IS IT????
I LOVE YOU
Click "Read More" for Story #2: Curse Of The Mummy's Curse
You are joining your uncle, Thaddeus P. Winterbotham, on his expedition to the tomb of the ancient Pharaoh Imamamamoomoo, a tomb that has remained sealed, unmolested by outsiders for thousand of years. Your uncle invited you along to take your mind off your parents' messy divorce, due in large part to your father's significant gambling debts. It's a very touchy subject for you.
Accompanying you are several swarthy individuals of varying ethnic descent. Approaching the dig site via camel, one of the swarthy men offers you a Banana and winks salaciously.
Do you take the banana or politely decline and inform him of the sanctity of your "no-no square"?
BANANA. TOTALLY BANANA.
The swarthy man hands you the banana, his finger lingering for a moment on your hand. He licks his lips.
"What's all this then!?" shouts your uncle. "Not gambling away your food supply aye? Wouldn't want to follow in your father's footsteps now would you?"
You chuckle awkwardly. Your uncle is a dick.
You place the banana in your satchel. Would you like to investigate the dig site with your swarthy, slightly rapey, companion, or enter the pyramid with your douchebag uncle?
RAPEY
Your swarthy friend is breathing heavily as you approach the dig site. Attempts at conversation are met with strange laughter and suggestive hand signs. While helping you dismount your camel his hand "accidentally" cradles a sensitive area.
You come upon various other swarthy men crawling around in the dirt. Seeing you and your companion, one excitedly calls you over.
It appears he has found some hieroglyphics which may contain information about the tomb. Your companion motions with his hand indicating that this is bullshit and gestures towards his tent.
Do you read the hieroglyphs or make a huge mistake?
MISTAKE
Hurrying you into his tent, the swarthy man tells you to close your eyes. In keeping with you apparent desire to be raped by a hired hand, you do so. A few moments later he tells you to open them.
Standing before you is your father, Franklin Grumblington. "I am so glad to see you my son, and glad too to see that your taste in sexual fetishes has not changed. I need your help. In the pyramid lies the whole of Imamamamoomoo's earthly wealth. With even a fraction of that I could pay off my debts forever and still have ample funds for whores. Will you help me my son?"
You are moderately disappointed with the outcome of this scenario.
Will you help your father or turn him in to your uncle?
HELP FATHER
"Good, good. I'm proud of you son. You've grown into a fine young man, despite your mother's influence, that bitch."
Together you sneak your way through the camp and around the base of the pyramid. You come upon the entrance to the pyramid. It is an old dusty staircase that descends into a dark stone room. Ahead lies a maze of hallways, possibly full of traps.
Do you run ahead brazenly into the darkness, or tread carefully?
BRAZENLY
Imamamamoomoo, it seems, had poor taste in craftsmen. While there are obviously many traps along the way, and your father clearly steps on a pressure plate, nothing seems to happen.
You find your way to the central chamber. It is full of gold and various treasures. Your father strides up and grasps a golden goblet.
"At last I have the means to show that ugly bitch of a wife that I'm worth a damn!"
Suddenly a loud shot rings out. Your father collapses to the ground. Your uncle stands in the doorway holding a smoking blunderbuss.
With his dying breath your father tells you, "Tell your mother...she's an ugly bitch...a stupid...ugly...bitch."
Do you attempt to avenge your father or feign innocence?
AVENGE!
You lunge at your uncle, knocking the blunderbuss from his hands. You struggle around the room, exchanging blows. In your tussle you do not notice the strange rumbling coming from the sarcophagus.
Freeing himself from your grip, your uncle catches his breath by leaning on the sarcophagus. Suddenly it bursts open and a hideous, mummified corpse rises up and begins to throttle your uncle.
Do you come to his aid or flee?
FLEE, THAT FUCKER
You hear a horrible snapping sound as the mummy breaks your uncle's neck. You run frantically, but you can hear the mummy give chase. In your hurried attempt to flee, you feel something fall from your satchel, but in the dark you cannot tell what.
The mummy is drawing closer, do you keep running or hide?
HIDE
You conceal yourself in the shadows. The mummy comes closer, still running. It stops near you in the hallway and looks down. It picks up a banana peel. If it had kept running it would have surely tripped giving you the time to escape.
It sniffs the air and turns towards you. Slowly, it approaches. You hold your breath hoping it will not hear you, however, via a mysterious artifice, it perceives you in the darkness. It's bony hand finds its way to your neck and with an inhuman grip it begins to strangle you.
This is the end of your adventure, this pyramid will be the final resting place for you and your horrible family, except your mother, that bitch, who is vacationing in Aruba with a swarthy man.
