Table No. 9

She asked for another one and made sure it was the biggest glass she could get.
She slid her pale fingertips into the soggy cardboard box and pulled out the ninth cigarette of this hour.
"Long day?" I asked.
"Long life" She replied.

Patience, now a verb.

I almost forgot about my soul while searching for something instantaneous. A recent discussion with a life long companion hit home for me. I explained to Kyle the similarities between life and running and how he and I should learn from our previous experiences. The life side of this analogy is two twenty (and some change) year old kids attempting to get our best foot in the door (his being a Sperry), find a hand worth holding, possibly a residence large enough for our macs and basil gardens- and a growing numerical number attached to our Visas. Being ex-captains of our sporting teams, prom king/queen as well as past school presidents, an actualization was clouding our heads of when the grand scheme of post college life was going to fall into place like our childhoods once had.

A runner's race is pure strategy and commitment. It is trusting in the training you have done; the long hours and conditioning to mold a body and mind willing to perform. This was when I realized that similar to life, starting the race at a full sprint and wanting to hit the finish line before the first mile marker was no way to earn your blue ribbon. Upon telling him this there was a understanding in the telephone wire that we were both pushing for something that is coming and quite possibly unreachable until life's route says so. If I could list the tangent job searching I have gone on the past five months I would want to burn it in disbelief of my inconsistency. Like a swimmer who feels the loss of buoyancy, they panic and begin to dog paddle. This was me forgetting that in order to float one must relax and believe in their own abilities. I started out this race thinking there would be a finish line in the forecast- something to measure any ounce of success. It has become apparent to me that there will not be a finish line as the journey itself will provide all the satisfaction necessary. Let us be patient and keep sailing.

And then there was one.

Until this fall, I could count the number of taxi's I've hailed in my life. I have officially lost accuracy of goofy jumping expressions, arm flailing and intoxicated stumbles on a curb for the yellow submarines. In the midst of the (hopefully) short rides, I always manage to strike up a conversation with my lucky (20% tipper) driver. Most of it is small talk like, how is the night? What's the score of the Giants game? What is your name and where are you from? One driver hauling me from an interview to the next that I had 5 seconds to get to, informed me that no matter how bad a day may be- "it ain't as bad as that guys" (pointing to a homeless man screaming at a brick wall). This advice stuck with me.

But this weekend- a ride that left me mentally exhausted and emotionally confused. The cab driver came from the middle east in the 90's. He left behind his family and friends to make a living and decided within the first 10 years here that he wanted a middle eastern wife... so like all wants and needs- he ordered one.

His wife and him now have 4 children and he "sometimes talks to her when they must." There was no "dating" as we Americans call it. He did not choose a thing except for her arrival. I may have been riding the gin train but I could hear in each syllable this man's sadness. Not admitting to any further depression, he stated his life and wife are okay as the sedan continued to crawl along the dim streets.

As a young adult, more so female... this everyday occurring cultural process does not even come to mind as to where will I end up. Do I want my coffee hot or cold today? Do I prefer to walk or ride a bike to work? Do I give the last quarter in my pocket to this person or put my head down in ignorance?

I can't say I've ever looked at my left hand ring finger as a piece of ownership or real estate...

For some it is just a ride. For me, it is a 10 minute chance to learn more about the symphony called culture.

Make It A Double

The Two Gallants, a title referring to the story Dubliners (James Joyce)- functions as much more than the original that inspired the band. The book it references focuses on Ireland's national identity quest, marking a historical period in the early 20th century. The band's music could correlate to this as it is a quest of two gentlemen from San Francisco possibly writing their own chapter in musical history. Adam Stephans and Tyson Vogel formed Two Gallants in 2002 and have been writing music together from childhood. When I first opened ears to the kind chords strummed by the young men, my attention surrendered to what it was they wanted to tell me. The vocals are full of distinction, death and love. At first sound, it may rub you differently than any other indie rock melodia. I think this is what makes Two Gallants gifted. Two humans, one sound- and a lot of work to get their current tour on the road with another favorite artist, Blitzen Trapper. Lead vocalist Adam's sui generis coax of the mic is one that sticks in your head long after you take the ear buds off when you get to work. Judging by the stories that unravel in the lyrics, we the listener may have a thing or two to learn from Two Gallants. And if the words don't get you, the harmonica will.


And a night-cap-glance at photos from the 2010 Hardly Stricken Blue Grass Festival...