Talents not necessarily hidden, just maybe unnoticed.

It's tucked away downstairs, far from the eyes and ears of the hotel guests. I like changing from my work clothes to my street clothes in the locker room around the corner and hearing the sound of a fellow worker playing that old abandoned piano. Sometimes I finish dressing and exit in time to see who is bringing life back to forgotten beauty and sometimes the player has left before I open the door.

It's nice to recognize people's talents and passions. More importantly, it's nice to assume that there is more to a person than the job that they do. He might sweep the floors or bus your table, deliver your room service or, like me, drive you in from the airport or carry your bags to your room. All honorable jobs, but never the whole picture. I hope I always remember this as I go through life: being served at restaurants, paying parking garage attendants, waiting in line at various retail counters. These people are always more than their name tags might otherwise indicate.

Last night, the piano played a familiar piece of music as I tied the laces to my shoes. Who it was, I don't know. Maybe a waitress, always hurrying with your drinks, but hearing Debussy's calming music in her heart. Or maybe the head housekeeper, keeping your lobby clean while on the clock but also keeping the memory of how to play "Claire de Lune" fresh and clean in his head when off the clock. Whoever it was last night, what was played made for a wonderful coda to the end of a long, hard night of work. Thank you. Your talent is beautiful.

I'm smiling at this more than I thought I would.

Dexter.

And an interesting article.

I think I'll be a zombie for Halloween. (No costume or makeup required.)

The kids have the weirdly named hand foot mouth disease. The poor things have sores on their tongues which are very painful for them. This, of course, is very inconvenient for me. They're staying home from daycare and I'm up early with them in the mornings, following that with a 2nd shift job that doesn't get me home until late each night. A smart man would hurry home and jump right into bed in order to maximize his limited opportunities for sleep. A smarter man than I, indeed. You should see my tired eyes. This zombie wants a nice, long nap.

I drove home tonight watching out my window as the moon's reflected light followed me across the dam. Newton Dominey's "This Time Of Year" played softly on the iPod and I found myself wondering how a songwriter can so perfectly get the right mood, instrumentation, and words to play together so well as this. It's a song like this that helps me be at peace with the fact that I don't know what the hell I'm doing in life. It asks questions about loneliness and reveals the writer's hopes for what Heaven is like.

The yearning uncertainties sung amidst such a warmly produced tune mirror my own introspective moments' thoughts. If I don't learn how to stop stressing over every little thing, I'll never become whoever it is that I'm supposed to be. Surely, this is not it. Lonely in crowds and unsure of who I am is no way to make a life.

That said, I don't mind that I'm quiet by nature. Getting lost in a masterpiece of a Van Morrison record is a wonderful way to spend some time if I'm going to be alone. And I like that other people's feelings matter to me. It can be a rough life and I do more than my share of worrying, but on these quiet nights when just the right music is playing, I feel certain that I'm looking at life correctly and asking the right questions.

Anyway, that moon is absolutely beautiful tonight. I wonder how many people over the course of time have looked up at it on a noiseless night and felt peace in not having to have the answers. It demands nothing of us. It simply is what it is and it welcomes our ruminative minds.

(Moon picture by Leesa White)

"Who's a good girl?"

Easy Rider, Indeed

I subscribe to BoingBoing so that I may see cool things like this:



It's called the Trampe and it was built into Trondheim, Norway's steepest incline. The bicyclist merely rests his foot on the moving metal plate and up the hill he goes.

In a much improved version of my world, I would use a bicycle as my main means of transportation. With a daily commute between Hermitage and Donelson, not to mention a shift that ends just before midnight, it's unlikely to happen anytime soon. The Vespa (or comparable scooter) dream remains a strong one.

In closing, as Tony Kornheiser always said to end his radio show (and in tribute to the Stones' "Something Happened To Me Yesterday"), "If you're out on your bike tonight, do wear white."

Bon Jovi, All Summed Up

Kelefa Sanneh of The New York Times writes of Bon Jovi's opening of Newark's brand new Prudential Center and says this of Jon Bon Jovi and his songs:

But most of the hits work as well as ever, thanks partly to his breathy, still-boyish voice, which always seems to be delivering the same two messages: “We’re gonna make it” and “C’mere.”

Admit it, ladies. Some of you just swooned at "C'mere," didn't you?

The Teachers Know

American kids, dumber than dirt
Warning: The next generation might just be the biggest pile of idiots in U.S. history

By Mark Morford, SF Gate Columnist

It is not merely a sad slide. It is not just a general dumbing down. It is far uglier than that.

We are, as far as urban public education is concerned, essentially at rock bottom. We are now at a point where we are essentially churning out ignorant teens who are becoming ignorant adults and society as a whole will pay dearly, very soon... more>>

I'm big in the UK. (Oh, wait. That's not me.)

If I took my blog - and the branding of it - seriously, I guess I'd have a stronger opinion of this. But I'm a pretty laid-back guy and I doubt either of us are in this for the big bucks, so I'll just share the video of this kid from the UK with the same moniker as me.

Ladies and gentlemen...

The ChezBez Show!

I'm A Genius

A few nights back, I dropped my iPod onto the locker room floor. It knocked the click-wheel out of place and, while I could still navigate it to play, I could no longer get it to pause or turn off. The bottom of the wheel was indented a bit and wouldn't respond to my touch. Thankfully, I could always just fast-forward to the end of a podcast or song and then let it eventually go to sleep mode, but it was still an unpleasant reminder that damage had been done.

Going to the Apple store to talk to a "Genius" was out of the question for me as broke as I have been lately, so I resigned myself to deal with it as it was, flawed but functional.

Fast-forward to tonight: I left work and turned on the iPod to listen to the rest of Wanker Girl's latest podcast, but the power kept coming and going. 'Perfect,' I thought. 'No more music for me. No more podcasts. The iPod is almost dead.' Instinctively, I gave my cherished machine a hard whack on its back. I don't know if I thought smacking it would fix it or if I was just mad and acted accordingly.

Regardless, it's all better now. I'm a genius and I fixed it. Thanks to my frustrated behavior, the click-wheel popped back in place and the iPod works just like new. Granted, this doesn't necessarily mean that the slightest bump won't break it again, but I'm choosing not to think about that right now. Tom Waits sings "New Coat Of Paint," and I'm happy again.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to kick my car.

Georgia

"Puttin' On The Dog"
-Tom Waits

Well, we could go into a zuki jump
It's rainin', it pours
Big ol' Lincoln with the suicide doors
Tip that bottle from the brim to the dregs
You ain't dancin' till you cross your legs
Puttin' on the dog tonight

We'll be puttin' on the dog tonight
We'll be puttin' on the dog tonight
Puttin' on the dog tonight
Puttin' on the dog
I'll be p-puttin' on the dog

Puttin' on the dog
Puttin' on the dog
Puttin' on the dog
Puttin' on the dog

Even the Word of the Day knows my pain.

Over at RefDesk.com, today's Word of the Day is "pourboire." I was previously unfamiliar with the word, but the example sentence resonated with me quite perfectly.

pourboire
Definition:
(noun) A relatively small amount of money given for services rendered.
Synonyms:
baksheesh, gratuity, tip
Usage:
The bellboy waited expectantly, but no pourboire was forthcoming.

Drops dripped.

"Rains On Me"
-Tom Waits

This is how the world will be
Everywhere I go it rains on me
Forty monkeys drowning in a boiling sea
Everywhere I go it rains on me
I went down into the valley to pray
Everywhere I go it rains on me
I got drunk and I stayed all day
Everywhere I go it rains on me

Everywhere I go
Everywhere I go
Everywhere I go
It rains on me

Joy Amidst The Struggles

Angst and drudgery have got nothing on the good feeling some songs will give you.

There's thanks due to USA Today's Pop Candy blogger Whitney Matheson for turning me on to the overwhelming goodness that is Cannonball Jane's "Take It To Fantastic." Who is Cannonball Jane? Well, she's a humble elementary school music teacher by day who writes, performs, records and mixes her own songs in her home studio by night. Infectious is what "Take It To Fantastic" is. I'm reminded of The Go! Team's high-spirited sonic pep. Its keyboard's quick punches take me back to Kirsty MacColl's seductive and strong, "In These Shoes," while the pitch of her voice brings to mind the vocal stylings of Fleming McWilliams of Nashville's Fleming and John.

It's as if all of these artists got together and decided to write the sexiest song ever. I wish I liked the other songs on her MySpace page better. They are nice enough but really pale in comparison to the great hybrid of fun and excitement that is "Take It To Fantastic." Play and smile. Listen and be moved.

Go West!, or 'There's Gold In Them Thar Halls'

Can't sleep. Too much worry on my mind.

Anyway...

I met a woman last week at the hotel. She was beautiful and she had my curiosity immediately. She wasn't obviously one thing or another and I had a sense that she was someone I'd really benefit from talking to.

This guest was tall, thin and had the most charismatic and angular face. It seems that all of the female travelers are pharmaceutical reps nowadays; her face wasn't like theirs. It was free of makeup and I was struck by a deep need to know her story. A recent episode of television's Hotel Babylon focused on the many masks that we wear, guests and staff. And here was a face which conveyed no fear of honesty. Rich, beautiful lines on the interesting face before me revealed to me measures of truth and confidence.

"I'm here for the gold show," she replied when I asked what brought her to my fair city. A jewelry collector, I guessed to myself.

"That's interesting," I politely offered. "How are you affiliated with the show?"

She then satisfied my expectations by telling me that she was a gold prospector. How about that for not a run of the mill answer? I wear a nice uniform with a name tag and I carry people's luggage from their cars to their hotel rooms for a living. Some people conduct board meetings, crunch numbers and create spreadsheets. All of these jobs are important and worthwhile, but they just don't jump out at you like "gold prospector," do they? Maybe in the late-1840s everyone and their mother was doing it, but my high school guidance counselor didn't tell me that prospecting gold was even an option when I graduated in 1989.

Anyway, this guest was here with the Gold Prospectors Association of America. I didn't have time to talk with her as long as I would have liked, but I did get the chance to play interviewer for a minute or so. She told me that she took many expeditions to Alaska and that she absolutely loved everything about what she did. I asked her about modern technology and its factor in her work and she answered that it's pretty much as it's always been -- lots of sifting for gold, simply so. Territories are also mapped out carefully so as not to violate another prospector's space.

Finally, I asked her if it was dangerous at all. She told me that it's really not too bad, but then added with a smile that one does have to be prepared for the occasional bear checking out the scene. Before I could bend her ear any longer, I was called on my radio to help another guest downstairs. Wishing her well and thanking her for staying with us, I went on my way. The best and most obvious question went unasked: How did she get into gold prospecting in the first place? And it only occurs to me now that this might be less career and more expensive, but potentially lucrative, hobby.

Maybe one day I'll find myself up in Alaska, sifting for gold, enjoying the most beautiful night skies I've ever seen, and eating the tastiest, freshest salmon I can imagine. One never knows what the future will bring. Now if I could just stop worrying about money and get some sleep.

Vehicular High-Maintenance

Whatever. Turns out my alternator was in need of replacement. Parts and labor: $250. Depleted savings and relied on a loan I didn't want to need, but now there's a brand new alternator in the Honda.

I drove away and the jumping needles on the dash (speedometer and RPM) were still jumping. Troubleshooting on the way home, I decided that loose wires were being touched by my foot whenever I hit the clutch. Tap with foot = madness ensues on all things dash related. Once home, I played with them some more and now all needles and guages are stuck sky-high. The car drives fine, but my stomach turns just seeing a dash I cannot trust. I guess I'll go back and ask the guy to repair whatever that's all about. Of course, I'm all out of cash, so wish me luck that it's as simple as a no-charge five minute fix.

I'm this close to quitting my hotel job and getting a job at the hospital around the corner. I'm tired of driving anyway.