B

So, here it is. The final straightaway on the rat race that was 2007. The part of the race where even the most experienced runners hit "the Wall." Where your mind and body, suddenly and without any chance of recovery, begin to break down and give out during that final push. A time, finally, to rest. See, great thing about those first few sentences is that they are a metaphor, which I can now abandon. Were this an actual race, I'd have to give the never-say-die, you-can-make-it-those-last-few-meters speech. But it's not a race, so for God's sake, sit down, stop running and relax.

To some who know me this all may sound hypocritical. I'm not a person who was known for his staggering ability to wind down and chill out at the end of the day. I was, until surprisingly recently, wholly unwilling to slow down or even acknowledge it as a possibility. Slowing down meant thinking about my life, and that, of course, was certain death. But in my old age (I turned 28 last week...mercy help me), the lactic acid had built up in these busy legs, and it has forced me to ease my pace, force a few labored breaths and take inventory. What I'm seeing is how these moments of quiet are simply vital. How serenity is a cornerstone of productivity in any life, particularly the uncertain and angst-fueled life of an artist. These are the moments when you have just one bar left, and just barely remember to recharge before you shut down. I have begun to realize now just how important it is to regroup, if only just to get a fresh order of ideas an emotions delivered in time for the next big flurry of creative activity. For a person who so firmly believes in the power of balance, I had a bit of trouble remembering there was another side to the fence, because I was frankly too busy to notice. But no one is too busy to notice. You just choose to stay ignorant to it, because then you never have to look inward. But look inward. God forbid, you might realize you have a bit of maintenance to do...or worse yet, you might like what you see.

I'm grateful for this time. I'm grateful for a family that makes Christmas remain a magical time of year. I'm grateful for a Muppet that reminds me that there is a life going on while I'm making other plans. And I'm grateful for a spirit that refuses to die, even when it wants to.

Thank you to everyone who tunes in to watch out feature on the CW Morning News (if you missed it you can still catch it on www.cw11.com, in the "Spotlight On..." section). It was an exciting moment for me. Also, if you can, come out tomorrow and catch our first full band show in half a year at the newly redone Lion's Den in NYC. We are excited to be back at it, and debuting a new musician, so come out and share that with us.

The morning of my birthday, I found 4-5 grey hairs on my head. Tell me that this isn't a harbinger of things to come...Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night...

B

This past week was an eventful, if not somewhat surreal one. I played the Toys for Tots Benefit at Caroline's on Broadway, first of all. Now, I have a healthy amount of nerves going into any show, but I'm talking about the kind of nerves you feed off of. That sort of shot of adrenaline that fuels you in a big game situation. This is the second year doing this show, and it was the second year that regular nerves gave way to a purer form of anxiety. I don't normally go down that road, and the only explanation I could rationalize was that it's a comedy show. It's a pile of stand-up comics, at a world-famous comedy club...then me and two other losers playing acoustic renditions of non-secular holiday songs. My terror, I thought, was well founded. But again, just like last year, to a heavy sigh of relief, we were very well-received. I think there's just something about that holiday spirit, people just want to have a good time. There's just unmitigated cheer and joy and, I guess, camaraderie that goes along with the season, and call me a utopian, but I really believe that to be true. That magic that I felt as a child at this time of year still lingers, and seems to always come back fully by the time the day rolls round. I digress. the show was a success, and the kids get some toys. Not a bad night.

Then, later in the week, I had the chance to see two shows on Broadway, "The Seafarer" and "The Farnsworth Invention." Now, I loved both, but I don't write this to be a critic, so I won't go into too much detail. Farnsworth was a particularly exciting night for me, because being an Aaron Sorking fanatic of the magnitude that I am, I was thrillingly curious to see how his style would translate to a stage. Sure enough, though it seemed like more of a history lesson at first, he pulled it around into a poignant saga with a vibrant message. It was also, on a sidenote, surprisingly relevant, as the inception of television and all the problems inherent in that seem to mirror the inception of the Internet, or "New Media," and all the problem therein. Not bad timing, Mr. Sorkin. Not bad at all. Now get back to being on strike.

After one of the shows, I had the opportunity to attend an "industry party." The kind of party where celebrities are just milling about. Now, this was a revelation for me in a way that made me feel foolish afterwards. I'm walking around this party, free expensive wine in hand, wide-eyed and out of my element, saying to myself, "Wow! These celebrities are just milling about! Just like normal people!" After a while of this, I kind of just smacked myself in the forehead, realizing, they ARE normal people. We put them in this celluloid, paparazzi-infested zoo and treat them as novelties, when in reality, they are just people like me in more advanced stages. It's a nice thing to realize. I don't want to namedrop too badly, so I'll just say this. Travolta is just as cool in person as he is on screen.

Hey, those of you in the New York area, be sure to check us out on the CW Morning News on Monday December 24 at 6:40am. It's our "Spotlight On..." interview, promoting our full band show at The Lion's Den on December 26 at 8pm. Giddyap...

B

Last week, I had the privilege of seeing Martin Sexton and Matt Nathanson at Roseland Ballroom here in NYC. I've been a big fan of these guys for a long time, and them sharing a stage was a real treat.

There's an enviable disarming charm about Matt Nathanson onstage, that either makes you want to grab a brew with him after the show, or just be him. His sort of nerdy, never-take-yourself-too-seriously demeanor seems to betray his heart wrenching, emotional pop songwriting. Instead, it makes me want to pay more attention, because now I feel like he's letting us in on a secret. He is one thing in public, but the naked, unpolished truth is woven into those simply, catchy melodies and hooky choruses. I'll be the first to admit that his music could be called saccharine at times, but I'll also be the first to admit that I happen to like that. Even with these simply radio-ready simple 4-chord pop tunes, it is hard to detect any dishonesty in the writing, and that is honorable. Everything, musically, has really been done before in some form or another. What, then, do we have but our own honest take on things?

Then came the main event. Martin Sexton has influenced so many of the artists I listen to, yet has evaded the limelight almost completely. Whether intentionally or not, this sort-of folk legend who has placed his stamp on so many younger songsmiths has managed to steer himself completely clear of mainstream recognition. Yet somehow, everyone has heard of him somewhere along the line. He's like the Tyler Durden of singer/songwriters, starting waves of motion, but never taking credit, even though everyone else does. I believe a great deal of the blame on his never "breaking out" falls on his genre-hopping style. In one set, you'll get folk, blues, jazz, and every pit stop in between. And yet the whole time, you still feel like you're in the passenger seat of his truck, listening to him tell stories like a Dad of some kind. And there's something about his presence onstage that I struggled to come up with a word for, and the only one I could think of is: healed. He seems so healed. There is this contagious sort of serenity, this light, about him that permeates every song. He lets us know the shitty life he's had, the awful mistakes he's made and continues to make, but somehow lets us know that it all worked out okay for him, so why can't it for us?

Combine that with the fact that he is a monster on the guitar and his voice is inhuman, and you've got a man that transcends criticism. Because whatever he does from this point on, he has already spawned a new generation that would be lost without his influence. Halfway through his set, his guitar stopped working completely. If there was ever a one-man-band better equipped to not only handle this situation, but to do it with grace, I have not seen him. I can only hope to one day share a stage with him.

It's Tuesday. If you're out in midtown tonight, come by Caroline's on Broadway tonight to see the Greg Charles Holiday Spectacular. We're doing some holiday tunes to warm your cockles. Yeah, bring your cockles.

B

Yesterday was a very exciting experience that I'd like to share. I did a staged reading of a new play called "White's Lies" at Shetler Studios here in New York, which in itself is nothing special. This was, however, the first opportunity I've had to work with any "names." In addition to myself, the cast featured Anna Chlumsky (My Girl, 30 Rock), Alan Tudyk (Firefly, Serenity, Knocked Up) and Molly Ringwald (Duh). I have personally been a fan of Alan Tudyk's work for some time, and most of the scenes I had were with him, so it was a pretty surreal thing.

It's a task in itself to not be intimidated in a situation like that. I was certainly nervous, but I think I managed to narrowly evade intimidation by simply remembering that I was cast for a reason, and I deserved to be up there as much as anyone else. After the performance, I got a very nice show of respect from Alan, and that was affirming for me. The show itself, with some nips and tucks, could definitely have legs in the future. It has a very current, subtle and self-aware sense of humor that would do well with modern audiences. It relies a lot on proper casting, but I prefer pieces that rely on delivery more than laugh lines. I feel like too many comedic playwrights fall into the trap of writing jokes instead of simply putting their characters in a situation and allowing them to talk to each other. If they are true enough creations, the dialogue will come without being forced. Just a thought.

More music news coming soon this holiday season...until next time....

B

It's always a harrowing experience, being home for Thanksgiving. You start to wonder where exactly in the gene pool you were scraped from. Not that I don't respect my family, I think I just find myself either understanding them less and less, because they are making less and less sense, or understanding them more, and then going through the odd process of seeing them humanized before my eyes. One thing I do see is that I come from a family that acquires most of its experience through second, third and fourth hand sources than from actual experience. For all the problems we make for ourselves, we are white, middle class homeowners who need to create drama or feed off other peoples', because nothing really exciting ever really happens. Especially when you don't allow it to. For every family member who adopts an alien diet because of an imaginary allergy to gluten, there are 100 families who would be grateful just to know what a plate of food looks like. For every strange, quirky step we take to lengthen and amplify our lives, there are 1000 others who are happy they simply made it to the next day without getting blown up.

I guess this is a backhanded way of saying the things I'm grateful for, though in retrospect, the taste of it is a little bitter. My mother even made a comment about how "that's where all my pent up rage comes from." She's kinda right. But I choose not to let that blind me to the things that I really am humbled to have. Everyone has issues with their family, myself included. That being said, I would be nothing but a shadow without them. And I'm grateful for the friends that point out my flaws so I can categorize them into ones I want to fix, and ones I like having. And I'm thankful for not having a lot growing up, because it taught me how to be thankful.

Peace. And I mean that.

B

I was having dinner a couple of nights ago with an older friend of mine. She's a relatively well-known actress whose name I won't mention for her sake, but she was recently pictured on the cover of a magazine, with the caption, "At 51, she finally knows what makes her happy." I saw this magazine on the kitchen counter in her apartment, and I asked her, "so, what makes you happy, then?" After taking a breath and letting it out deliberately, she said: "Being present."

It led to a long conversation about how difficult it is to simply be here, in the moment, always, being present...being alive. Seems so simple, but for me, and a lot of others I know, I am always looking just a few feet to the left of where my life is actually standing. It's paranoia-inducing enough just to feel like you're being watched, but feeling like it's yourself watching you is even more crippling. Because ( and yes, high school English teachers, I DID just start a sentence with "because," and I have no remorse about this) when you are watching yourself, the next logical step is judging yourself. Then, when you judge yourself long enough, you engage in the debilitating habit of double checking every impulse or feeling you have out of fear of "doing it wrong" or "not being perfect." I believe as people, our instincts are generally spot on. Therefore, the more you think about and debate them, the more likely your decision is to be wrong, empty or otherwise cowardly.

It's also laughable that we spend so long planning and agonizing over and daydreaming about the future that we forget that the things we've been spending all that time planning and agonizing over and daydreaming about are happening right now. And what are we doing right now? Planning and agonizing over and daydreaming about the next day. It's shameful, and yet we are all guilty of it.

At least those not yet enlightened enough to live vitally, vividly in the moment. Living our lives as a series of unrestrained explosions (thanks Kevin). Imagine it. Imagine a world where everyone simply did as their impulses commanded. Chaos? Maybe. Or maybe if everyone did it, completely and without question, all our actions would fall into step with one another and create an unprecedented harmony. Or maybe not.

But it would never happen. There needs to be balance. And that imperfection is what makes this whole machine perfect.

B

After a whirlwind few weeks in the City of Angels, and an emotionally taxing return home, I'm going to cut this entry short, because in a few hours, I will be taping an interview and a live acoustic performance for the CW Morning Show. Details to follow.
I do have one thing I'd like to say, and that is, while I was suffering the effects of the strike (read, "while I was loafing on a friend's couch watching TV") I reignited a love affair with the one and only Mr. Aaron Sorkin. My buddy Wally who I stayed with owns everything he has done, and already being a fan of "Studio 60" that I was, I decided I should give his first series, "Sports Night" a try. Well, a few days and 45 episodes later, it just reinforced the reason I fell in love with Sorkin's style to begin with. His utopian view of humanity is so refreshing, even though it is unrealistic at times. Watching his work, I find myself believing that the world can still be an okay place to live, even if horrible things still lurk behind nearly every corner. He writes a world where everyone is bright and communicative, where everyone is well-intentioned and tries their damn best to make things work out, even if the odds are stacked against them. Critics would call this naive and saccharine. But for me and his other loyal followers, it is just the reality I would like to imagine. He always manages to stop just short of being hokey, and that makes everything just a little more poignant. He never underestimates us, his audience, and I respect that he respects us. Is it sometimes highfalutin and condescending? Sure. But that is not enough to kill the profound warmth I walk away from nearly every episode carrying.
Alright, enough. Watch West Wing or something. I'm going to bed. Bartlett in '08!

B

Week 2 in Los Angeles on a friend's couch. This Writer's Guild strike is sounding seeming death tolls throughout Hollywood out here, and the networks seems to care very little. What with their hearty lineup of soulless, bland reality shows, they're going to be making money till the cows come home. And the cows are doing fine out there. They're holding down jobs, supporting families, settling in with no foreseeable plans of ever coming home. The odds are slim that the writers are going to get what they want, whether they deserve it or not (and it my humble opinion that they most certainly do). However, I'm not sure that enough thought was put into the catastrophic ripple effect this move is going to have.

No writers means no scripted television. No scripted television means no actors or directors. No actors means no agents. No agents means major layoffs. And what about the indie writers? What about the up-and-comers who were so proud and called Mom and Dad when they were finally knighted into the prestigious Writer's Guild of America, only now to be told they have to stop pursuing that dream and feeding themselves so that the more established scribes can make MORE scratch. I guess the families, the children of those young upstart writers-the new blood, the future of the industry-are less important than the families that need that extra $200 in Internet residuals to buy that extra ottoman for their third living room.

It's a precarious time for the entire entertainment world. With the growing omnipotence of the Internet looming over all distribution, the music and film businesses are scrambling to hold onto whatever small fraction of income they believe they are entitled. And everyone wants a piece. Most of them deserve it. There just, all the sudden, aren't enough pieces to go around.

I really hope this disagreement is short lived. What this world needs more than anything is a diversion. Shit, that's a large part of the reason I do what I do. Don't take that away from us. Enough has been lost already.

B

I'm writing this from the couch of a friend in West Hollywood, CA, my home for two and a half weeks. The things we do for our dreams...feels strangely romantic and nomadic.

It's a weird feeling to constantly be striving for "the dream," but then at least once a day-in those quiet, solitary moments when no one is listening-you find yourself in a corner looking in a reflective surface going, "dude...what am I DOING?" You might not say "dude," but frankly, that's your loss. My point is, there is this lingering, pestering and threatening doubt that just lingers just a few feet behind you at every turn, like someone who sees you as a best friend but that you hardly like at all. But that's the downfall of doubt. It doesn't linger above you. It lingers behind you, shadowing you, trying to catch up and ride on your back until you tire out. The trick is just to run faster.

The other trick is to not only accept this uncertainty, but to thrive on it. I have a difficult time in my life dealing with the millions upon millions of question marks that rush towards me like oncoming traffic every single hour of every single day. I have a tough time brushing the large, heavy hand of rejection off my shoulder every time it says, "maybe next time," and shoves me off. But trying as it may be at most times, I wouldn't have it any other way. I feed off the instability. I dance in the uncertainty and embrace the insecurity. In a world where everyone is grasping chaotically and fervently for control, I revel in the sweet lack of it. There is nothing more reckless and romantic and noble and terrifying than pursuing a goal that all logic screams is unattainable. And there is nothing more gratifying than looking at The Odds, and politely offering them your middle finger to spin on. It's not an easy life. No one has an easy life. But then, no one ever said it would be.

B

I wanna take this opportunity to quickly tout the two shows that have I am completely taken by this new Fall season. I've been an avid watcher of Prisonbreak since the beginning. It's good this season, but it's a bit of a stretch, and should likely have gone out on top at the end of a tremendous Season 2. Heroes seems to be hitting an unfortunate sophomore slump, but I'm holding out hope. Damages was rewarding, but underwatched. 30 Rock is still holding it together, but by a thin thread. But what are the ones that are mind-blowing week-after-week?

Dexter. This show has not missed a single blood-spattered beat from last season's riveting debut. This show has everything. It's quirky, it's unnerving, it's funny and frightening and everything between. Michael C. Hall has managed to completely sever ties from his former career-making role on Six Feet Under and create such an intense, focused specific character that I canNOT imagine anyone else inhabiting that role. You know, when the next season of a show you really love starts up, there's always those butterflies that it won't live up to the past season, or the hype or whatever. Sadly, that is more often than not, just the case. Dexter, however, has not fallen an inch short of last season, which set the bar damn high. Cmon. A homicide cop who is a serial killer who only kills serial killers who is basically all but assigned to hunt himself? Cmon. That's a short stack of awesome.

Then comes the remarkable new Pushing Daisies. This show is such a departure from the norm that I was almost confused as to why a network would even take the risk of buying episodes. It is a fantastical, magical journey of a show that breaks every rule and makes no apologies for what it is. It's like watching a Tim Burton film on television. The premise, the disembodies narration, the shooting style, the whip-smart dialogue...I was blown away my the imagination that went into this daring, warm, risky and beautiful show. I wish that this kind of creativity was more widely accepted in the grossly micromanaged dictatorship of network television. But then again, maybe then this kind of rare gem wouldn't be as special as it truly is.

Wow. I feel like a reject from the New York Times Reviews section. "A light-hearted family romp says Bryan Fenkart." Hey, gimme credit, I have to throw a few more brightly-colored entries into this blog of mine. Otherwise you'd have no basis for comparison and the sad ones wouldn't be nearly as funereal as they are. Goin to LA for a few weeks. See ya there...

B

It gets dark so early now, I forget how much time I actually have.

I overthink a lot of things. There is a time and a place to be analytical, and I believe as a songwriter, there are also plenty of places to be overanalytical. A more-than-rudimentary understanding of human nature and behavior is vital, I think, to have as someone in the arts. As an actor, I have to understand it in order to better duplicate it. As a writer, I have to be able to pick it apart and observe it from a distance in order to find the right way to put it back together in a more honest form with a melody over it. Also, you have to know, in some sense, how to manipulate people's emotions. To know what moves them, makes them laugh, makes them angry, makes them warm, so that you can later elicit that from them.

All that being said, if you do that too often, you will eventually find that you are never really here. Never really present. And this is the trap I have been falling into. As far back as I can see, especially through the grim sheen of these past few months' blogs, I have been spending virtually all my time in my head. This is a dangerous place. And that's not me being middle school overdramatic, "ohh, my head's so fucked up, like, you wouldn't understand." I'm saying it's lethal for ANYONE to spend that amount of time in their head. I've been spending so much precious time (and make no mistake, every minute, every second, every moment, is precious), analyzing life that I nearly forgot that I've currently living it. The shit I'm preparing for is happening. The things I've picked apart are, like, SO yesterday. The reality is now. So simple, which is maybe why it's so easily forgotten. No, not forgotten. Taken for granted.

This will never be easy. If it were, there would be no reason for doing it, for there would be no reward. So who am I in all of this? My past blogs would point to a pessimist. This blog would suggest an optimist. Or at least a realist. But I don't know that I am any of those things. I think I'm an idealist. But if I take up too much time searching for some arbitrary, manufactured ideal, I'll miss the fact that the things I idealize are going on all over the place around me. It's amazing how something so small can sometimes snap things back into focus for you. And remind you that life isn't what's going to happen, who's going to call tomorrow, where you're going on a plane next week, what show your DVR is going to catch tomorrow. It's now. As far as the future? I know where I'm going. I don't have to know how to get there. The way will be shown to me. I just need to know where to...

B

Happy Columbus Day. Celebrating 515 years of the white man sticking their nose where it doesn't belong. Some things never change, huh?

I'll be honest. My heart is in so many places right now I'm surprised it's pumping blood. I'm confused, and my musings won't get anyone anywhere today. You know, it's really just the same old shit, isn't it? I expound on things that bother me, then make seemingly very little progress. I advance one step, take two back, three forward, etc. Isn't that what all this is?

I'm in love, but I don't know with who. I'm working towards a career, and I don't know what direction I'm working towards. I have faith, but I don't know what in.

I got nothin. Fuck it.

Yanks, rest in peace. You almost had it.

Until next time...

B

I suppose then I'm celebrating a year of blogging. There's no cake for that. Nor should there be. I mean, looking back, it seems to have been a year of befuddlement, questionable decisions, love, music, art, pain, joy, and complaining and expounding ad nauseum about all of the above. In reading over some of my old blogs, I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't frustration. I kind of aggravated myself. I can't even explain exactly why. So I won't. I guess I assigned this space as a temporary sanitarium for whatever fleeting thoughts I was having at the time I wrote them. They were real then, still are now. It would be unfair to myself to see them now as dramatic, self-indulgent, or otherwise cheap, because all these entries are simply the express train of thought that would go speeding by without so much as a glance had it not happened to be on a Tuesday. What can I say that hasn't already been said? Probably nothing. I'll just say it a different way.

Just wrapped up a month of performances of the play "A New Television Arrives Finally" here in NYC. It was a hell of a ride, and the caliber of talent in the piece was one that I felt the need to rise to every night, and I'm grateful to everyone involved for that experience. Now I can get back to numbing my head with television and alcohol, planning my next move. And entering a new year of blogging, I think I may have to try and shake things up a bit. No one reads it anyway, might as well try to take it somewhere else before I give up on it.

How am I doing? That's a really good question...

Until next time...

B

The reinvention of oneself can be a tricky game. Day in and day out, failed attemps by a gaggle of sinking celebrities trying to do the next shocking or charitable or inane thing to keep them in the warm bath of the spotlight. Or even regular everyday people who have just gone through a horrible breakup or divorce and feel the need to get a new eyebrow piercing or a tattoo or diet or fashion sense to prove that a healthy, independent new beginning is nigh. But are these outer, aesthetic gestures really a reinvention? Or are they a vague and thin hope that a drastic exterior shift will affect an equally drastic internal change? They may be a step in the right direction, but it takes more than expensive new jeans and a chinese symbol of hope to become a new and brilliant version of the you you knew.

I am constantly reminded that all things, everywhere and always, are changing. I guess it then follows logically that we as people are also always in a state of metamorphosis. Whether we are changing because our environment is changing, or vice versa, is a topic we could all debate. I choose to believe that both are true, specific to circumstances. A tragedy happens, we shift accordingly. We buy energy saving devices and recycle, the world shifts accordingly. So on and so on. I wonder, then, of the true significance of "reinvention." Is it a true and honest ripping up of the old foundation you were built on-all the values, rules and regulations instilled in you from youth- and rebuilding from scratch? Or is it a put-on external change designed to simply make others believe you are likable, and unique and edgy, and fill-in-the-blank? Was the reinvention created to satisfy the appetites of those feeding off you? Or was it to better yourself on a visceral, real level? Or was it simply to satisfy curiosity until tomorrow?

It might be that we were designed a certain way architecturally, and it's simply up to us throughout the course of our lives to figure out how to read the blueprints and do build ourselves until we are complete. It might be that are not meant to be a certain way, and all these us's we create are just different skins we try on, looking for a pinnacle that may not even exist. Or maybe we're just trying them on till one feels right. And even then, for how long till we grow out of it?

Me, I'm still in the dressing room. Will be for a while. I've come on and out of here so many times, I'm not even sure what I'm wearing right now. I know that, for now, it feels right. It feels comfortable. At the very least, I'm feeling.

Until next time...

B

Everything is a grey area. I spend far too much time wondering whether or not it is possible to do the right thing but by questionable means. Of course it is. Sometimes, it might even be the recommended route. "Doing the right thing" in itself is a subjective matter, and can be easily twisted and molded to fit whatever standards or ethical boundaries one was raised with or chooses to upkeep now. But I find it not just a little interesting that subversive means often get the job done just slightly more efficiently than straightforwardness. I know personally, when I am preached to or otherwise chastised, I am much more inclined to take the exact opposite path as the one suggested. Humans, I think, are rebellious by nature. If we are told to do something, it is quickly bumped to the bottom of the list of things we will do. If we are told NOT to do something, it is miraculously rechristened as priority number one. It's who we are. I mean, what are adults but overgrown 4th graders with day jobs and mortgages?

By all appearances, the methods that work the best are the quiet ones. The ones that play on your emotions and beliefs rather than impose others' on you. After all, isn't that the art of manipulation? Getting someone to do something but making them believe it was their idea? That, in a lot of ways, is what music is. It's emotional manipulation to some degree. You are making someone feel what you felt. Putting them in the room with you during the breakup. Putting them on the front lines of a meaningless and futile war for power. Inviting them on that roadtrip to wipe the lifeslate clean. Every day, I hear songs that I SWEAR were written just for me, about my circumstances, my issues. Of course they are not, but if the song is effective, it works on a universal level that makes you believe that you are a part of the story.

So by all this, I mean that it seems like the best means to accomplish anything are the ones that are more subliminal and meticulously designed than those that are blunt or otherwise unrefined. I tend to be as straightforward as possible in my opinions or advice or what-have-you. However, when it comes to getting something we want or need, we veer in directions that seem sporadic but are actually much more carefully planned than they appear.

This happens in life, as well. And yeah, I wonder if the things I do to get what I think is right are really wrong. But you have to ask yourself to define what right or wrong is to yourself, and 9 times out of 10, you won't get a straight answer. Because it will inevitably vary, depending on the circumstance: who you are dealing with, what you are trying to accomplish, how badly you need it, etc. It's all grey. And grey blends in. It's simple. And you know what? Sometimes it pays to be grey. Simple and grey.

B

DUE TO SOME WEBSITE/SERVER TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES LAST WEEK'S BLOG WAS NOT POSTED... UNTIL TODAY! ENJOY TWO DAYS OF BACK-TO-BACK BLOGGING...

I'm writing this blog from the Courtyard Marriott in Los Angeles. Just got back from day one of shooting this American Airlines commercial. I spent a massive amount of energy bellyaching about taking this job or not taking this job, and about what the "right" decision was. It took me almost too long to realize that no such thing exists in this situation, and probably many others. I mean, I am currently in a play that I've put a great deal of heart and effort and strain into, and I was forced to drop out of 4 performances to do this job. It turned into a money vs. integrity situation for me that it probably never should have, but everybody needs to eat. I hate(d) myself for the waves I've caused in the play, but in my mind, they clarified themselves as necessary for various reasons. Besides, what kind of songwriter would I be without the unpleasant taste of regret in my mouth?

Ah, LA. A nice place to visit, but I wouldn't wanna live here. Nothing against it, it's just...Los Angeles. You know? The pace is just different, if that makes any sense at all. Something about New York feels so much more real and vibrant and present and alive than here, but that may have a lot to do with the fact that I grew up very near NYC, so my love affair with the city started very early, and has only grown stronger since I've been living there. It's hard to get used to LA. It's so spread out, it's like someone took New York and just squished it down so it just scattered all over the place. That being said, I've never been here when the weather isn't clear and magnificent. Lewis Black has a joke that being a weatherman in California has to be the easiest job in the world.

"So here's the weather today in San Diego.....Um. Nice. Back to you."

So, after I finish this gig, at least I can sleep a little better knowing that I hopefully haven't completely sold my soul. I guess this is just a small taste of what this business is going to be like. Sometimes you can make decisions based on your heart, and other times they're going to be swayed slightly more in the direction of your brain or even stomach or wallet. But seeing both sides of the coin, doing the money jobs then affords you the possibility to do the labor-of-love gigs that pay next to nothing. Mark Ruffalo, one of my greatest artistic idols and personal role models, was recently asked in an interview about his choices to do such incredible, cutting-edge performances in these gritty indie films like "We Don;t Live Here Anymore" and "You Can Count On Me" (easily one of my favorite all-time films), but then choosing to do silly romantic comedies like "13 Going on 30" and "Just Like Heaven." He simply stated that those big-budget studio eye-candy flicks are the ones that allow him to do the indies he truly believes in. I like that.

Until next time...

B

Due to a commercial I'm currently shooting in LA, I WILL NOT BE PERFORMING IN THE FOLLOWING SHOWS THIS WEEK:

Sunday Sept 9
Monday Sept 10
Wednesday Sept 12
Friday Sept 14

I will RETURN to the show for the Saturday Sept 15 show, and will finish the run from that point on.

B

As more musical things are being worked on, Bryan will once again try out his acting chops on a New York stage in the limited engagement of "A New Television Arrives, Finally," and absurdist, remarkable play taking place at Shetler Studios in Midtown Manhattan. It stars myself, Kate Russell, and Victor Villar-Hauser and Emmy Award Winner Tom Pelphrey (Guiding Light) alternating the third role. It's running thru most of September, but I WILL NOT be in the September 9, 10, 12 and 14 performances, as I will be in LA shooting a commercial, so it will be Ari Vigoda stepping in instead. All the info is below...hope to see you all soon!

"A New Television Arrives, Finally"
A play by Kevin Mandel
Directed by Kevin Kittle

Starring Tom Pelphrey, Victor Villar-Hauser, Kate Russell, and Bryan Fenkart

Limited Engagement!
September 6-30

Theatre 54
244 W 54th St., 12th floor

All performances at 7pm.

Visit the website for tickets and other info:
www.anewtelevisionarrivesfinally.com

B

I remember when Labor Day was a harbinger of classes starting; that menacing "Back To School" cloud hovering over the otherwise clear and cloudless end if summer. I remember even then hating the thought of that-returning to the unnecessary educational grind, the clique-infested social circles of higher education, the obscene workload, all of it. But now that I've been released into the terrifying "Real World," it's strange how I've begun to miss the simplicity and structure of that life. There was a set time every day that I had to get up. A schedule of classes. A rigid set of rules and appearances. There was a certain charm to it. More than charm there was a distinct feeling of safety associated with it. There was no forced interaction with reality when they were trying to teach you about calculus, sociology...any number of other curricular excuses to ignore the life that waited patiently for you to finish your standardized testing. You were in this sort of safe, impenetrable educational bubble where you were sheltered from any real pain by the armor of false preparation and blissful ignorance.

Unfortunately, any real learning comes solely from the brutal beating of experience. Nothing prepares you for life but the living of it. As much as I miss learning about dangling participles and hyperbolic paraboloids, none of that stuck with me long enough for me to believe I required it as a weapon for any real battle. The real battles spring up without the luxury of preparation, and the only way you learn to deal with them is by fighting them as they appear, and taking the cuts and scars as they come.

But until that time arrived, it was fun to enjoy getting stuffed in lockers, picked on by upperclassmen, working in stock rooms, etc. Without that kind of thing to ground me, I may never have had the gumption to attempt the real death-defying stunts. Like doing what you love for a living. Scary, huh? Nothing is scarier. But nothing is more rewarding. Except maybe an A+ on that calculus test. That was pretty rad.

Come see me in the play "A New Television Arrives, Finally" throughout the month of September. It's an absurdist piece in the style of Ionesco and Albee, and it's a hell of a ride. Hope to see you there.....see ya soon....

B

The last blog I posted, I got a comment saying that it was "the most self indulgent blog." I'd like to respond by saying this. Um, yes. Yes it is. It is a blog. My blog, to be specific. I can't think of a better place to be grossly self-indulgent, can you? Sure, I could do it in the privacy of my own bedroom, while I listen to sad music and masturbate and cry at the same time, but then you wouldn't get to read about it and complain. I'm giving you something to do, you should be grateful. I personally think that blogs are self-indulgent by nature. I could write blogs about things other than me, and I sometims do if my opinion is strong enough on those specific matters. However, if not, I would find it nothing short of presumptuous to do that, because then I would just be assuming that random people gave a shit about my opinion on a certain film, world event, etc. Again, if my view is pointed enough, and it's something I feel I need to release, then I will do it. Otherwise, I tend to simply vomit out feelings in hopes that people will relate. They more often than not do just that. And thank me for it.

This same comment also said "everyone's life is confusing. get over yourself." I don't recall ever saying anyone's life wasn't confusing. I'm keenly aware of the fact that life is confusing for everyone at the party. I just choose to analyze it and verbalize it. I'm not sitting at home rocking back and forth in a corner, unable to cope with a single pitch life throws at me. In fact, it's just this kind of purging that makes this well-examined life that much easier to sail through. I rather enjoy life. I simply choose to pick apart it's finer details in order to get a clearer view of the bigger picture.

Hey, thanks for giving me a topic besides myself to write a blog about. Ah, the irony. See ya next week...

Until next time....

B

Today I wrapped shooting that indie film "Red Hook." Now we get to see if it ever makes it to the light of day. It was a frustrating but educational experience, and I look forward to doing more film in the future. In the meantime, I look forward to finishing out the run of "The Unusual Suspects" at the Fringe. It is unapologetic silliness, said Backstage, and they are right, and I feel like it's just what people may need right now is not to think. Just to enjoy. Just to sit in their chairs, grin like idiots, and flick their index fingers up and down on their lips, going "beedy beedy beedy." Sometimes we all need permission to be stupid.

I feel as if I'm doing a whole lot right now for very little result. Initially, this thought hit me financially, but I'm also cutting away a few of the top layers, and that nagging "why" seems to bleed all the way through to the bottom. It's hard not to know. Exciting, but hard. I don't think I could any other way. I crave stability, yet thrive on instability. I feed on the intoxicating lack of control that comes with this package. It's horrifying and thrilling, maddening and gratifying, awkward and beautiful. I guess right now, I just keep finding myself rounding the same corner and still wondering why nothing's changed. But then, a great deal HAS changed...but I long for enormous, earth-shaking changes that are palpable, that I can reach out and touch, and say "yes." But in the process of shooting for something pretty unreasonable, I've managed to dig my way into a rut. I feel like I've stitched this uncomfortable new life for myself, and now I feel obligated to wear it because I worked so hard on it. Even though it simply isn't the best thing for me.

I have faith this will all work out in the end. And so I remain patient.

Thanks for the folks who came out to Philly. All two of you were fantastic.

And if anyone ever wanted to know who "Tuesday Morning" was about, check out the next few episodes of the FX series "Damages." See if you can pick her out...Congrats, babe. You deserve it.

Until next time....

B

I spent the better part of last week on a film set shooting an indie teen slasher/thriller tentatively called "Red Hook." It was not my first time on a film set, but it was my first experience with anything remotely in the horror genre. I rarely get the opportunity to get stabbed in excess of 40 times and have fake blood pouring out of my mouth.

I had a great time shooting the project (for the most part), but it got my gears turning about the state of horror films. I have been a huge follower of the horror genre for years, and I am confused as to why there is such a need for a strict following of a formula. Just because it worked once does not mean it will work for every subsequent copycat. It seems a shame to me that every time an idea works for a horror film, particularly one that makes a killing at the box office (done with a pun), that a large number of films will then piggyback that idea until it's firmly driven into the ground. I suppose this rule applies to mostly any film genre, but horror flicks do seem to be victimized slightly more often due to their commercial popularity amongst the heavily movie-going Y-generation demographic. There seems to be this sad misconception that if a formula works, then it should be followed note for note, letter for letter. This simply isn't true. Especially not anymore. In a world plagued by second-rate, forced remakes, audiences are craving originality. Moreover, they are craving a genuine scare, not a manufactured facsimile crafted from Wes Craven leftovers with the right ingredients of spooky blue lighting, a jump cut and a smash-in music cue.

This film is unfortunately not an exception to this all too prevalent rule, but I suppose part of its charm is that it doesn't seem to want to be anything else. It knows that it is a rental for a middle school slumber party, and we as a cast sort of united behind it in that same way. In fact, the best part of the experience for me what getting to know this very talented, very cool cast under an umbrella of circumstances that we all felt the same about. Who knows? Maybe it'll be good. Tee hee.

On a side note, hope to see some of you in Philly this Saturday night for some acoustic action. Also, check out "The Unusual Suspects" this month. All the info is on this site and myspace. Until next time...

Until next time....

B

Got a crazy week of rehearsing for the Fringe play, and shooting this indie film, so I'm gonna keep it brief.

A lot of people ask me what the symbol is that I wear on my wrist, so I wanted to address that here. I actually used to wear it around my neck, and then the wristband version I currently wear was given to me by someone who knows what's important and good for me even when I don't. The symbol is called a vesica piscis. It is the symbol on the cover of the Chalice Well in Glastonbury, England. This is, according to legend, where the chalices containing the blood and sweat of Jesus Christ were taken after the crucifixion, never to be seen again. This was, of course, a very VERY long walk and probably never took place, but that's not the point.

This symbol appears in various incarnations around the world. It's essentially a fancy version of two interlocking circles. The two circles represent opposing forces: Love and Hate, Freedom and Captivity, War and Peace, etc. Where the two circles meet is where God, or whatever you believe in, holds the two in balance. It's a yin yang thing, at it most basic level.

I am a firm believer in balance. I don't believe one can feel true happiness without having felt true sadness. I think a disturbing percentage of the population goes through life without so much as a fleeting inward glance. They have their 9-5's, their two and half kids, and their conveniently shelved dreams stay right where they are to be sighed at when there's time. These people are content. But having never known the other, darker end of the spectrum, they mistake this contentment for happiness. But I feel it is safe to say that it is impossible to feel true joy, unadulterated bliss, without having felt desperation and pain. I don't even believe there can be a true sense of peace without the aid of horrific violence as a basis for comparison. How would we even know what right was without the concept of wrong? Fighting the problem never works, because we are still fighting. Finding the solution is the right way. And that is through finding balance. You have to know an enemy with great intimacy before you can find his weakness.

I am doing a lot of things right now I probably shouldn't. I am adding things to my life I shouldn't, and removing things I should still have. I am revisiting old habits, creating new ones, destroying some other old ones, and analyzing it all as it happens in real time, like some sick personal episode of 24. Truthfully though? If I hadn't done these things, "I Miss You" never would have been written. "Imperfect Man," the song OR the album, never would have been conceived. It is my hope that through my exploration, whether it be painful or joyous, that other people will find at least a little snack of enlightenment somewhere in there. Through it all, the one thing I have not lost wholly is faith. And I believe all of this is happening as it should. Whatever that means.....

Until next time....

K

You may be wondering why you haven't seen much music news appearing lately...the reasons are many, and here are a few of them:

1 -- If you listen to the radio ever, keep an ear out for a few commercials for McDonald's, Trojan and d'Angelo's that feature Bryan's voice.

2 -- Bryan is currently shooting the indie feature film "Red Hook." Details to follow as they develop.

3 -- You can catch Bryan acting live onstage in the New York Fringe Festival's production of "The Unusual Suspects" in August. It's a very funny, very ridiculous spoof on a murder mystery, and as it is the Fringe, it is only 5 performances, one of which is already sold out. Come out and see it! All pertinent info can be found on www.unusualsuspectsthemusical.com, and the showtimes are below.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Sat. Aug. 11 @ 12pm
Tues. Aug 14 @ 10pm
Wed. Aug 15 @ 6pm
Tues Aug 21 @ 11:15pm
Sat Aug 25 @ 2pm

The Player's Theater
115 MacDougal St. (just south of W 3rd St.)
A,C,E, B,D,F,V to W 4th St.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

More news to follow soon, as well as more gigs, the first of which is an acoustic show in Philly. So, for those of you in the City of Brotherly Love, keep an eye out for us at Grape Street. We'd love to see you there.

B

Last week I had the pleasure of attending the John Mayer/Ben Folds/James Morrison show at PNC Bank Arts Center in Jersey. John Mayer is one of those rare musical anomalies for me. He's that incredibly rare diamond-in-the-rough artist that gets better every single time I see him on stage, without fail. It's a refreshing splash of water to the face to see someone who clearly works at their craft constantly. Someone whose life is their music/art, and there is nothing else. His stage show is like a picture that just keeps getting more and more detailed and crisp and impressive as it develops. And, say what you want about the man, but he is boundlessly grateful to all of his fans for allowing him the life he currently enjoys. All rockstars say "Thank you" to their fans at a show, unless they are either stupid or crazy. Seldom have I seen someone who I actually believe when they say it. And you know why I believe him? Cuz he's never said it the same way twice. Maybe he's just clever. Or maybe he means it.

I particularly enjoy his self-awareness in the way he front-loads the set with all the popular radio hits in order to weed out the fair-weather concert-goers who are simply there to scream their lungs out to the Top 40 singles and call their exes on their phones during Your Body Is a Wonderland to prove a point (for the record, he played neither that song, or Daughters during the set....more points for him in my book). After that, the show is his and ours, and has that greater degree of intimacy. And I have to say, seeing "Gravity" live can only be described as transcendent.

Ben Folds was his usual carefree, entertaining nerdy self, closing the set the way he always does by winding up and throwing his piano stool squarely at the keys as hard as he can. I guess when you're Ben Folds, you can afford that luxury. And another thing I appreciate about his set is how raw and accessible his act is. It's like he's just hanging out with a few thousand of us in his living room, just trying to show us a good time. The biggest injustice of the evening was seeing how few people showed up early enough to see the incredible and woefully underrated James Morrison, who released one of my favorite CD's in the last few years with "Undiscovered." The growling, soulful voice of this songwriter is so easy to listen to, and so heartfelt and true, it was staggering to me how few people were there to receive it. I had the pleasure of meeting him after the show (since no one really swarmed to him, he sort of just hung out by the concession stand). He's a very kind guy with a great deal of confidence, and it's not a matter of if for him, it's simply a when.

I hope people feel the same way about me. Because if they do, just maybe I have a shot at people feeling the way about me that I do about Mayer. Time will tell. Until then...

B

I got a lot of responses from my blog last week from a lot of folks who said they related to what I said. This would be the easiest place to respond to those things.

Perfection does not exist. I know this. It's an unattainable ideal that people like me strive for in order to, however loosely, maintain a sense of purpose. I'm not beating myself for not being perfect. It's our imperfections that make us so interesting. Fuck, I wrote an album about it. It's that never-ending stride towards that fiction that makes us who we are. All of us are just trying to live the best way we know how. Some of us are looking something better than the best way they know how. But the longer you seek out the way to go, the less time you have to begin the actual journey, which simply and rightly needs to be begun. The fact that it will never be finished should not be a deterrent. The truth is in the journey, not anywhere near the destination.

All of those things that I said I wished I was, that is all true. Everyone has an ideal drawing of themselves rendered in their heads that they aim to bring to life. Many people, for instance, have a poor body image. I'm one of them. They wish they looked different. A bigger chest, thinner thighs, better arms, a smaller nose, a more brilliant smile, different color eyes, thicker hair, nicer feet, less body hair, a better tan, whiter teeth, tighter abs. We all have things that we'd rather not have. And we don't have things we long to have. And again, though we shouldn't quit searching, we should NEVER quit searching, that should in no way prevent you from falling in love with whatever you are now. Shit, it's really all you've got.

So, basically, I was talking about the inner version of the body image issue. The inner parts of me that I wish were more like the polaroids I took of myself in my mind. The 100% authentic me, instead of this Frankenstein I've created with whatever parts I could scrape together from people I've met along the way, my parents, TV, movies, songs, books. I have become this sort of walking amalgum of everything I've ever admired in other people and forms of art. this sort of bizarre hybrid mix every protagonist I've read about, every hero I've watched on celluloid, every songwriter who has made the thousands of hairs on the back of neck stand at attention. Somewhere along the way, I lost track of where they stopped and I started. And so, I dream of that man. The man who does not exist that I want to meet. When the flood comes, and all is gone, that's all we're gonna have. It might as well be someone you like.

B

When I sleep, I dream of a man with dignity. I dream of a man with poise, diction and respect. With honor, courage and and will. With passion, an open-mind and an almost insane drive to accomplish. To succeed. To do right in a suffocating swell of wrong. I dream of a sober man with the uncanny ability to put together the perfect combination of words for whatever circumstance interrupts his way. A man with physical adeptness and scalpel-precise mental acumen. A man with gratitude and ease. With a firm grip and a soft heart. With piercing eyes and a welcoming soul. A man who can reach into your depths and heal. Who is not afraid to love and is not afraid to cry. Who is not afraid to fight and not afraid to die. A man who is above all not afraid to live. I dream of a man who does not pander to the insecurities of others by becoming himself insignificant and small. A man with control and a willingness to let others take it from him. A man with honesty. A man with honesty. A man who is perfect.

A man who does not exist.

When I wake up, he lingers. He hangs on. As the day rolls on, the marble gets chipped away. And chipped away. And chipped away.

When I go back to sleep, that man has not lived. He hopes more of those things he wished to be made it to the surface before the undertow gained strength and dragged them back under. He hopes this made them stronger. He tried. He failed. He hopes he failed better than the last time. He likes to think this man has a chance. He likes to think a lot of things. He goes back to sleep.

And he dreams.

B

When I've been (over)thinking what it is I want to be, a lot of adjectives come swarming to mind. Everyone wants to be a lot of things. You start thinking of the words you'd want people to use to describe you at your funeral. Although, that may not be accurate, because there's a certain amount of responsibility on the eulogy to make the person who has passed wound like the greatest person who ever lived. I don't think I've ever attended a funeral where the departed was not described by at least three people as "the most fill-in-the-blank person I've ever known." And that blank is inevitably filled with something profoundly positive. Not that those people are lying. Their opinions may just be slightly colored in by the solemn circumstances. I guess we're doomed to never really know what anyone else really thinks of us. And at that point, what will it matter?

But I digress. What I'm finding is that one word seems to keep jumping to the forefront of how I want to be: Authentic. I want to be authentic. And it's this recent and far-too-long-in-coming search for authenticity that has been occupying a vast majority of my thoughts and consequent actions. Good or bad, hurtful or helpful, I want it to be genuine...to be real. I want to live a life that is, above all else, true. I'd like to minimize my bullshit footprint (thanks, John) and hold my head up with the pride that comes with knowing that, at the bare minimum, you are being honest with yourself and doing your best for others. I don't believe this philosophy to be selfish. Self-centered, maybe, but not selfish. And there is a wide and frequently ignored gap between the two things. I'm well aware of, and have come to terms with the fact, that I'm a bit of an egomaniac, and I'm not entirely sure that's negative. Like everything else, it's a grey area. You cannot succeed at this profession without putting a large amount of focus on yourself. That's not to say that I don't put a significant percentage of my energy on attempting to bring light into other people's lives, because I do. Perhaps I even spend too much time on that particular effort. But they way I see it, if I spend time and laser-like focus on my art, I will move more people with it than I ever could by concentrating on them one-by-one. I try to be the best person I can be to as many people as a I can. I fail often. I admit my failures. I fail again. But I fail better the next time. If you're gonna fall, at least fall forward.

You are no good to anyone else if you are not good to yourself first. You have to have an identity separate from any other person. You can't see yourself or be seen as a fractional portion of anyone else's being. It's dangerous and foolish. You are yours, and should take care of yourself as such. This is me giving advice to myself more than anyone else, honestly. I have a whole lot of love for a whole lot of people, and not one of them is me. That's who I'm trying to get to know now. It's amazing when you make an honest attempt to the clear the room of all the fallbacks, the safety nets, the vices and the masks, and you are simply left there, sitting there in a room with just you, staring yourself in the face. That's the best time to reintroduce yourself and say, "Hey. It's been a while. We should talk." It's gonna be a long, hard conversation. But most of the really productive and honest ones are.

See ya next week...

B

I'm fully capable of seeing choices, but my eyes can't see as far as the decision. I liked to think that I was making a great deal of decisions blind because I didn't fear consequences. But maybe it's more accurate to say that I just picked something out of an inability to weigh any sort of factors effectively. It seems to me that every time I sneeze, I'm changing my mind about something. Finding some new, hopefully improved solution to yesterday's freshest problem. After enough time, it starts to resemble shopping. Walking down aisle after aisle of answers, all advertising themselves as the best one available, yet none of them exactly what I am looking for. So, once that one is used up, I scan the stock shelves for the better model, but again, none of them seems to have exactly the right combination of ingredients to achieve the effect I'm looking for. Or, now that I re-read that sentence, maybe I just have no idea what the effect I'm looking for is.

No, I do. I at least know what the depth is of the impact I want to make. I'm just uncertain where that impact would be best suited. I don't know the precise "how" either, but that's not my domain. I tend to pick out the end result, and let the way to get there reveal itself a few feet at a time. I've always been very good at the "fuck it" mentality, but the rub is that, the better you get at flipping that switch, the more often you want to do it. In every aspect of life. Even circumstances that are fine as they are, I find myself wanting to just swipe my arm across the table they are set up on, knocking everything over so I can rebuild it. The odds of it being any better than it was before I destroyed it are slim at best. But maybe I'm not looking for better. Maybe I'm simply looking for different. I'm a creature of habit in a lot of things that I do. Things I eat, things I watch, I play favorites. Yet, more often than not, it's not long before I need variety or I go internally stir-crazy, even from just the hint of the mundane. I'd rather be blind than be ordinary. Nothing is worse than being ordinary.

Eventually I'm going to contradict all this and sound like a hypocrite. To that, I say, who doesn't? Everyone changes their mind, their feelings, their actions. Just because I'm acknowledging it beforehand doesn't make me any less committal or courageous or placid than anyone else. It simply makes me slightly more honest. Some people would see these things as disclaimers for later behavior. People will see what they want. I know what I'm doing; at least as well as everyone else does. I'm just admitting that I/we have no idea what that is. And that's kind of fine.

See you next week.

B

Things have been a little crazed this week, so I'm gonna keep it short. Here's the update. In the last 3 weeks, I've recorded 4 voiceovers for radio (2 for McDonald's, 1 for D'Angelo, 1 for some asthma inhaler), my play closed, and I shot a webisode (to be explained momentarily). so, with all that, time got away from me a bit. I would like to address a few things.

For one, it felt good to play an acoustic set in Beacon, NY this past weekend. Though I realize now I should have applied Rustoleum to myself about a month and a half ago because I was STRUGGLING. But hey, I'm always a bit more critical of myself than anyone else. Parry and Jer were ear candy as they always are, and I thank them for that. And thanks to everyone who came out on an irritatingly double-booked evening.

Here's a plug. Earlier on I mentioned a webisode. A few friends of mine started an internet sketch comedy show called The Post Show. It was hilarious enough to catch the attention of some important people over at Turner, and they picked it up for the lineup of their comedy site, www.superdeluxe.com. I shot an episode today in Battery Park, which is my second with them. Kind of. The first one is posted on the site, and is called "Jimmy and the Gaytones," where I play one of those hideously pretentious music historians you see on VH1, wanking their brains out about how much they know about music. In another one, entitled "Douche," I'm in the background being, well, a douche. Check it out if you get the chance, these guys are really really great. Deal with it.

One last thing. This thursday evidently marks the final episode of "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip" on NBC. This was easily, without question or debate, one of the best-written, best-acted, well-timed, moving and hilarious dramas on television. The fact that it is being canceled is laughable. It's STUPID. I don't know if it was the crappy 10pm timeslot, or the whip-smart dialogue that is hard to keep up with if you so much as blink, but the fact remains that the show was outstanding. I don't remember the last time I looked forward to a show so much, or a show where, every time a commercial break hit, I would say to myself, "DAMN this show is amazing." I might be talking it up a bit too much, but I generally take it with a grain of salt when a program, even one I like, is removed from the lineup. It happens. This time, though, I had to say something. It's kind of ludicrous. I'll miss it when it signs off.

See you next week.

B

I don't think I deserve a medal for this, but this is easily the longest slump I've been in. I feel like A-Rod last season. On the outside, it seems like I got a lot going for me. But then, I just can't come through in the clutch. It's unendingly frustrating this feeling. All it does is pour this heap of questions into my lap. Can the questions be answered? On the whole, no. Does it give me good material to draw from as a songwriter and as an actor? Absolutely. So, it's a double edged sword. But in the words of a person whose mind I admire, it's now just a matter of seeing which side gets dull first (thanks Kate).

I am good at a number of things. But am I good ENOUGH at any one thing to succeed? At least at the level I dream of? If someone asked me what I do, what do I say? Does that question mean, "how do you pay your rent?" Well, I write comedy for radio, I do voiceover work, commercial work, I am an actor, and I'm a songwriter. What the hell is that? Now, one could look at that (and often do) and say, "You're a renaissance man. Shut the fuck up with your complaining." Okay, I'm not looking a gift horse in the mouth. I'm not scoffing at the blessings I have. I am simply saying, is any one of these muscles strong enough to move the mountains I desire to move? Or, am I going to have to eventually focus on one particular muscle group and nurture it to full potential while the others atrophy?

Then other questions. Who decides "the rules?" What is right and what is wrong has gotten so obscenely opaque for me, I'm not even sure what's a crime anymore. So many people have gotten mad at me for things I thought I was doing right, and so many people have grown attached to me for things I feel are wrong, that I no longer have much, if any, sense of what the rules are. Are there any? I haven't been struck by lightning yet? And most of the guilt I carry is founded on archaic, closed-minded traditionalism courtesy of growing up Catholic. Not knocking the religion as a whole, as I have taken some vital lessons away from it, but I am not criticizing anything here that hasn't fallen under fire many times before. This is the subject of a whole other blog. My point is, what is really bad? What lies are okay to get away with if they are sparing someone's feelings? What deeds are truly hurtful if they help so many others? What really defines the wrong when the right that is born from it is a hundred times as strong?

This will all make perfect sense someday. I'm generally way more upbeat and optimistic than these last few months would imply. I'm a believer and a fighter. I'm currently just plagued with questions right now. I guess the trick is realizing that I always will be....and being fine with that. But for now, to answer the beautifully sung question posed by the Red House Painters? Yeah, I think right now, I have forgotten.

B

"Now the Devil thinks he's clever, the Devil thinks he's wise,
Filling my head with all these crooked lies,
But lately all I ever seem to do is apologize,
How the hell could I not see through such a thin disguise?"

I am pretty grossly undeserving of most of the kindness that is handed to me. Yet I always try to handle it with the utmost respect and care. I like to think I treat it with great reverence. I like to think I offer that same kindness and greatness and inspiration in return. I like to think a lot of things.

Throughout this period I'm wading through, I've cut ties to a number of people, actions, things. I miss a lot of these people. The weird part? I like missing things. It feels good to miss something. It reminds me that I give a shit. I've been told by some that they are buckled in and in it for the long haul. To those people, I say thank you, and you know the same applies. Some have said to snap out of it, as they can't be around forever. To those people, I say that's your prerogative. I choose to not put expiration dates on things. But if they go sour, so be it. Though I guess if I leave them out long enough, I've sort of forced them sour, huh? Well, maybe I do.

I may keep losing, but I can't or won't stop playing. It's like some sick gambling addiction. No matter how many times my feelings get hurt, I keep wiping off the blood and returning for more. And no matter how many feelings I seem to hurt, I keep trying to glean what I can from those mistakes and try again from another angle. But sometimes in order to do that you need to restart. Just reboot the whole system. And some important files and memories are going to be lost in that process. And I miss some of them. And I like missing them.

The surprising thing though? There are some people, things and actions that I have severed ties with that I don't miss. I really thought I would. Yet I don't. I actually find myself in a position of telling myself that I must, that it makes no sense not to....and yet I don't. Makes you wonder how much you really have been lying to yourself about.

It's not in my blueprints to be a role model. I'm not designed that way. I'm completely underqualified. Yet some responsibilities just get tossed in the room with you like a grenade. And I'm going to end this like the Sopranos finale and just.

B

So, I will keep this brief this week. I just want to drop a quick word about an album that I broke out again this week after a brief hiatus, just to see if my original impression of it was as incredible as I thought. And sure enough, it is still far and away one of the best album I've bought in years. Coldplay's "X&Y" is just one of those rare opportunities to see how a nearly flawless band can somehow become even more flawless. There's not a weak song on the disc. From the ethereal moody opening of "Square One" to the bittersweet closeout of "Till Kingdom Come," it just takes you on such a raw but epic emotional ride.

I think that "Talk" may be one of the most perfect musical arrangements I have heard. The song itself is not remarkably complicated. Come to think of it, none of Coldplay's songs are particularly mindbending, but one of the things I have learned about songwriting from bands like Coldplay, like U2, like Springsteen...is that the beauty is in the simplicity. It's so much easier to touch someone on a visceral level when you leave room to breathe. Don't try to impress necessarily, simply try to reach out. "Talk" is like a miniaturized version of the journey the album as a whole takes you on. It's one of those haunting songs that seems to know you...exactly which strings to pull at exactly which moment, a quality I emulate and try to achieve with every song I write. The guitars, the drums, the synth...they all enter and drop out at precisely the right moment. It always knows the right thing to say. Wish I was like that in life....I'd have a lot fewer problems right now if that were the case.

Colplay's lyrics also lean towards the raw, simple accessible side, which is a perfect fit for the music. And still, no matter how many times I hear "Fix You," I'm still moved by it's tender message. Yes, I said tender. So tender, in fact, I can cut it with a spoon.

So, yes, it's one of those timeless albums that will never get old. I can only hope to be blessed enough to put out a body of work like that someday. Just a reminder to come check out the Ensemble Studio Theatre Marathon 2007. I'm in the second play, entitled "My Dog Heart." It really is a creative take on heartbreak. Hope to see you there. (www.ensemblestudiotheatre.org)

B

The great thing about letting someone have the last word in an argument via text message is that you then have a whole blog to respond with.

Being judged in a fashion that I would consider unfair is reason enough to have ruffled feathers, but to have the assailant be someone who you have met on a number of occasions that could scarcely be counted on one hand is all the more staggering. The ability of people to make blanket assumptions about people they hardly know is all too prevalent a disease. I never presume to know a person until I have carefully cut my way through the first necessary few layers of bullshit, and even then I am keenly aware of the fact that I have a LONG way to go before I even begin to think that I have a shot at getting anywhere close to calling that person an open book. I, today, had someone claim to know my "type" essentially, which is one of those cheap labels you throw on someone who happens to have hurt or disappointed you in the same fashion as someone else did a while back. I never heap someone recklessly into a category because that kind of human classification is simply arrogant.

I was told today that I was a boy, not a man. This is true. The ironic part? Knowing and acknowledging that fact makes me more of a man than most of the men I know. I was also told I had a lot to learn about life. This is also accurate. Anyone who thinks they don't is either incredibly closed-minded or incredibly old. I was told I don't think before I act, and that can be hurtful. Once again, guilty as charged. But flip that coin over, and you'll see that I wouldn't have half the blessings or success I currently enjoy without acting based on that very same recklessness, a term I use loosely. Of course there's gonna be some damage. It's not my intention, it never is. But that is simply built into the system.

I am flawed, I am careless, and I am frequently unintentionally inconsiderate. Yes, there were a few things brought to my attention today that stung pretty badly. Not the first time, won't be the last, I hope. But they didn't sting enough for me to take aim and try to scalp this person. To the one I had this altercation with? Thank you for helping me see a few things I may have overlooked. I have a lot to learn. So do you. And if you feel stronger and more protected by imagining you can pinpoint every subtle nuance of someone you hardly know, more power to you. It's a defended life, but one that probably instills a great deal of confidence. False as it might be at times.

I'm not making an attack here, just responding to one proportionately. Maybe I feel this strongly about it because I rather like the person who said all this stuff about me. Or maybe I'm still a raw nerve about the other recent developments in my life. Either way, no malice is intended. These last few words will of course be ignored, but hey, ill feelings tend to give you selective vision and hearing.

For those of you who have been wondering what I've been up to, some see the One-Act I'm currently performing in, called "My Dog Heart." It is part of the prestigious Ensemble Studio Theatre Marathon Series, which contains 5 one-act plays, and all the pertinent info can be found on their site, www.ensemblestudiotheatre.org. Hey, it's worth it just to see Dana Delany live on stage doing a new Neil Labute play.

B

When I recently asked for blog suggestions, the lovely Bridgette mentioned wanting to know about my most memorable performance to date. I'd say that honor belongs to one of our most recent actually. The House of Blues in Atlantic City. Now, granted we didn't play the main stage....takes a few more years to earn that kind of prestige, but still...just to take the stage at a venue with such a dazzling history was surreal to say the least. Plus, I'm used to playing gigs here in NYC, and I have not yet had the privilege really of seeing how far the influence of the music has reached. But being down there on that stage, and hearing a bunch of fans screaming so loud I couldn;t hear myself in the monitors...well, the mind boggles.

After the show, which was also our longest set, I spent about 20 minutes or so being swarmed by a bunch of people born after 1992 for pictures and autographs. I had one guy come to me with three CD's, and when I asked where the other two people were, he said they were too shy to come over themselves. that hurt my brain. It's so odd, because to ME, I'm still just some dude who writes his truth and communicates it. Yeah, I sing and play instruments, but in my mind, I'm just some guy. It's weird, then, to have people nervous to make eye contact. So don't be! On a sidenote, I'm certainly not knocking this particular demographic. I'm incredibly and humbly grateful for your support and love. It's just bizarre to be talking to people who have never heard of Voltron.

Another highlight of the night was the following. One of my guilty pleasures in life is professional wrestling. It's like my soap opera. For years, I have been an avid fan of WWE and its product. One wrestler I have great admiration for is Darren "Droz" Drozdov. A former NFL star, he entered wrestling under the amusing moniker "Puke" due to his ability to vomit on command. In an unfortunate accident in October of '99, which I was in attendance for, a move went awry, leaving Droz's neck broken and leaving him paralyzed for life. Yet, his spirit went undamaged, and that made me a bigger fan of his than ever. Imagine my surprise, then, when I found him in attendance at the House of Blues, and discovered that he was, in fact, a fan of my music. I had trouble wrapping my head around the fact that I was a fan of a fan. What an honor, truly.

All that, and sharing a backstage area with Third Eye Blind made it an evening to remember for me, and hopefully for everyone there. And with any luck, if the Fates would have it, I'd like to be looking at all your faces from the main stage next time around. And one last shout out to the Zachs family for making that whole evening possible and remarkable.

B

“Waiting patiently for the hammer to fall...” I think the hammer just fell.

It's amazing how your capacity to wound someone is amplified the longer you've known them. It's like, over the years you've earned their trust day in and day out, been a good friend, a loyal friend. You've been there for a ton of the good times and an equal amount of the bad, and you've come out on the other side, scarred, bruised, beaten, but together. All this seems like the formula for a pretty flawless ride. Until that one small breach is put in the trust. Just that one dent. And the effects are catastrophic.

Anyone who says they have no regrets is full of shit. Sure those regrets may turn into “lessons learned” in time, and all that, but the initial reaction has no other name but regret. I had the misfortune of recently making a succession of poor decisions, and those decisions cost me a band mate. A band mate, and a friend. And that way that you recoil into yourself and watch layer upon layer of self-worth fall away? That is regret. That is sadness. And sadness takes up a lot of space.

It's amazing to me that most people are judged most pointedly on their few misdeeds as opposed to their plentiful good ones. A person, can live a life of service, love and loyalty, but if they make one mistake with just the right ingredients, that is somehow what ultimately defines them. You see it all the time. Someone is practically an angel, then they do something wrong, and the automatic, programmed response is, “So, their true colors come out.” Really? Why are THOSE the true colors? Why weren't all the good bits the “true colors?” Why is it that the dark colors-the greys, the blacks, the shadows-are considered the “true colors” in the end? And can those colors ever be forgiven? Forgiveness is a tricky game, and the rules are really hard to follow. And what's the hardest part? Knowing that true forgiveness comes when-and only when- you can say “thank you” for the experience that caused the hurt.

I wrote an album called Imperfect Man. Never before has that felt more true than it does right now. And the worst and most beautiful part? That this is not the last time I'm going to feel like this.

I'd like to wish Mike nothing but the best of luck, the strongest prayers, and the most plentiful love that life can afford in the future.

B

You know this is just one of those nights when I have so many things on my mind that I have no clue where to begin. But if I just write stream of consciousness, this is gonna end up being some weird online journal, and I'll probably say things I regret. But then, if I say things I regret, it'll probably be regrettable because it's controversial in some way, and therefore more interesting to read. Which then begs then question, how much do I want to reveal? Who are we if not a compilation of all our secrets? I'm armed with the knowledge that very few people read this blog, but the ones who do include my parents and a few teenagers. So, how much can I say without being judged? And should it really matter if I am? Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, right?

I'm sure Mom and Dad are looking at this right now thinking, "Well, what can't you tell us?" To that I say, aren't there things you wouldn't/didn't tell your parents? Moreover, aren't there things you wouldn't/don't tell your children? It's that amazing illusion of protection that somehow justifies the keeping of secrets, when the reality of the situation is that you're not protecting anyone but yourself. And even then, it's a pretty thin shield.

I'm sure some younger people are looking at this thinking, "Well, I wanna know, because I bet I can relate to it." Well maybe, maybe not, but whatever confusion and heartache and random quirkiness I write about, you can look forward to a life full of that and more unanswered questions. And I'm not being sarcastic, you really can look forward to that. It's one of the greatest parts of the adventure. the self-discovery. Then shedding that skin and discovering the new self all over again. Lather, rinse, repeat.

I'm sure certain people who love me dearly will read this and either smile because they know me better than anyone, or they will ponder if there are hidden meanings that I'm sprinkling in as some cowardly form of confession. That if I just put a dash of truth into a lot of grand ideas and cleverly worded sentences, that I can get away with it. The answer? Yeah, that's probably what I'm doing. It may not be the bluntest of weaponry, but it sure hurts a bit less.

I guess I'm growing weary of feeling like a fraud. I know everyone is to some degree, but I guess I'm getting sick of seeing it in myself.

This is gonna be an interesting ride.

I'm still open to blog suggestions from anyone who reads this. Just send questions you want answered or topics you want tackled to bryan@bryanfenkart.com, and I'll see what I can do.

Thanks to all the awesome dudes/dudettes at Hunter College who braved the brisk day Sunday to join us at a really cool show. See ya soon...

B

There are few things more sobering than packing up your whole life and moving to a new location. In my case this past weekend, the new location was a measly 5 blocks from the previous one, which gave the move an amplified air of futility and confusion. Sitting here in my new apartment, though, I am coming awake and beginning to remember why this was most definitely the right move.

I've never been one to sit around for too long on one thing. You can parlay that fatal character flaw into my tumultuous relationships as well, and the math there will start to make sense. I digress. I seem to have this habit of jumping before I know the depth of the water. I say this is a habit because I do it repeatedly and without thinking, hence the definition. Why do I do it repeatedly? Because somehow, by the grace of God, it had always paid off. This is the point in a conversation when most people would smirk, and musingly say "knock on wood," but not me. I don't believe in luck. We make our own luck.

My old apartment was $425 a month. A steal by anyone's standards, let alone in one of the most obscenely expensive cities on the planet. But I was living in a virtual closet. A stifling, claustrophobic space with 3 roommates and 1 shifty bathroom. Not a gross situation, but not my ideal. Was offered a new place with some friends I've known for some time. More expensive, same number of roomies, and a mere 5 minute walk from where I had been living. Why the move then? Why the frustration of going through EVERYTHING just for a situation that to the naked eye seemed only marginally better at best?

Because it's different.

A change like this recharges. It relights the pilot light and begins heating the remnants of ideas thought dead. Now don't get me wrong. It's not just the new environment that sparks all of this. It is decidedly a better living situation, more space, with more perks and roommates with similar dreams such that we feed off each other. But the sole fact that it is fresh and new breathes a grand new life into the creative beasts sleeping in my head. It's like ripping the shrink wrap off a brand new life. My old room was livable. It had a bed. It had dressers. It had a TV. But something had been drained. There are no songs left in that room. Who knows how many I'll find in this one?

I know it's going to take adjustment. Hell, I already can't sleep a wink, and when I do drift off, I keep waking up and wondering where the crap I am. But that's a minimal price to pay for the divine adventure of an untapped resource. It could be a dead end. But how would I know if I didn't try. AND, there's a side-effect to this drug...when you make a drastic change of this size, it sort of starts a domino effect that leaves you wondering, what can I do to shake things up next? Time to flip that "fuck it" switch...

Tell your friends at Hunter College we'll see em Sunday...

B

I think my age is starting to show. I'm getting confused by a lot of what is considered cool right now. I know I'm making myself sound like some decrepit old wrinklebag right now, but hear me out. Lemme throw out a few examples, and you can see if you agree with me.

Firstly, my favorite feature on a girl used to be eyes. Now, I suppose, it has to be enormous designer sunglasses. Because no matter what INDOOR location you happen to be in -grocery store, subway, incredible dark bar-it seems that the ESSENTIAL hip accessory is sunglasses for the ladies. What happened? I can understand it as a defense mechanism against glares from creepy dudes with mesh pants and faux hawks (don't even get me STARTED on THAT), but as a general rule, why the glasses, ladies? I wanna see what's behind that. The eyes tell so much, and unless you've got something devastating to hide, I'm interested. And you wonder why guys stare at your chest. You're leaving us with fewer options. Now I guess I'm gonna have to resort to my secondary favorite female features, the smile and the midriff :) Although, the smile rarely works either, because now, I can smile at a beautiful Sunglass Girl on the subway, and there is a good chance she's not only completely unaware of it, but she's probably sleeping.

Then there's carrying dogs in bags. I understand-have written songs about, in fact-the need for companionship. But there's a line. this is a bold and disturbing leap over that line. It's a living creature. Granted it's low on the Cool Animal Ranking Scale, but it's a freakin animal. In a bag. It's an accessory. an accessory that's alive. Alive and probably shitting on your lipstick and cellphone. But why worry about details like THAT when it's just so CUTE! It's like a veritable attention MAGNET!

Now I realize these last two are more or less specifically targeted at women. Then let me take a stab at both sexes here, and even include myself as a massively guilty party. Texting. Seriously, it's become it's own creepy language. I may not exactly be living on the cutting edge, but I like to believe I'm relatively savvy when it comes to the "here-and-now" of technology. But I am rapidly losing track of the abbreviations, folks. Trying to figure them out is becoming such a lengthy effort that I've decided that they all mean "Ha HA! That's really funny!" It saves me trouble and helps my ailing self-esteem. Nothing I like more than K2BW1S (that's killing two birds with one stone. Get with it, techies.) Now there's even texting COMPETITIONS. To see who the fastest texter is! Now, I'm a pretty fast texter, but it's not a skill set that I consider particularly brag-worthy. And if you win, what're you gonna do with the cash prize? Probably buy a dog in a bag. And we've come full circle.

Wow, I feel like I should explode in a geriatric fireball of prunes and Epsom salt right now. Shady Acres Assisted Living Home, here I come!

Hey...come out and join us acoustic-style this Thursday at the Mean Fiddler. It's gonna be me and a Heineken, Jeremy and a Sierra Nevada, and Parry and a Guiness. What will YOU have?

B

As someone in the arts, I generally pride myself on having a pretty good understanding of a good deal of human behavior, simply because it is part of my job to study it. But I don't think I'll ever understand what would possess someone to walk into a school and cold-bloodedly take the lives if 33 people? Is it a desire for infamy? Is it misplaced revenge for some past wrong? Is it plain, dry insanity? Whatever it is, no justification is strong enough to explain behavior that cruel. Is it possible that we have become so woefully desensitized to brutality that somewhere in some dark corner of someone's mind, this is okay? I'd really like to think not, but on the same token, I can watch someone get disemboweled in a horror film and not bat an eye. So, does that make me part of the problem? Or merely someone aware of it?

While I cannot fathom that particular facet of human behavior, there is, always, another side to mankind I have trouble wrapping my head around. This weekend, I had the gross displeasure of getting slammed by the Noreaster that pummeled the Northeast. I spent three hours bailing bucket after bucket of water from my rapidly flooding basement, fighting a losing battle. After a time though, I started thinking, "Wow....I'm complaining about THIS?!?" People have had their homes and entire livelihoods leveled by disasters a million times more devastating, and yet they still wake up in the morning. Sore muscles and wet jeans are a papercut compared to the broken spirits others have had to face. So, that brings me to the other human element I cannot grasp, but so hugely admire. And that is the resiliency of the human spirit. The ability to take pounding after pounding, then get back up, spit out the blood in your mouth, and say, "One more round." I may never fully understand the strength and blind faith it takes to carry on after sheer devastation. In a way, I hope I never do understand it, because then that will mean I will not have to go through pain that severe. Yet somehow, someday I believe I will face that monster. I think we all will.

So, while I don't see or find any reason or rationale behind the violence inherent in our nature, I prefer to focus on the power, beauty and tenacity built painstakingly through our nurture. We're a beautiful machine. One that runs on fuels of both pain and desire. Love and fear. And I don't understand how this machine works. But hey...I don;t know how electricity works...doesn't mean I'm gonna stop turning on the lights...

On a side note, we had the surreal privilege to play a show at the House of Blues in Atlantic City this weekend. We played the Club Harlem Ballroom, and frankly, it really busted things wide open for us as a band. In a strange way, it felt like the beginning of something very exciting. A special shout out to the Zachs family for opening that door for us...your generosity is mind-boggling. Another thing I may never understand, but I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Thank you. Till next time...

B

The more I read and hear about the declining state of the music/entertainment business at large, the less certain I am of what exactly defines success. Here I am, an independent singer/songwriter with nothing but a few good tunes and a backpack full of crossed-fingers, prayers and well-wishes, trying to "live the dream" in a city where a large percentage of the population has the identical dream. We all lug our gear to these dark, beer-drenched venues for negative money, for what we hope will be a significant crowd, or at least an enthusiastically intoxicated one, then pack it all up and pay the 20 bucks you made as cab fare home. Why? Well, if you asked me before, a portion of it would be the hope that "someone important" was sitting out in the audience, just salivating at the opportunity to hunt down and sign fresh, new talented prey.

But now?

Payola, digital sharing, CDs going the way of the dodo. Seems like more and more, established acts are opting out of major label deals in order that they might pursue indie careers, because that's where the real artistry is. Seems inside-out, right? No red tape, no beaurocracy, no pressure from being under the thumb of a suit with a lot of money telling you how to prostitute yourself for the maximum amount of profit to them. Now, I don't know the story with how major labels work, and I don't pretend to. But when you hear a horror story around the campfire enough times, a part of you starts to believe it might be true. That the slick dude in the designer threads and tie lurking in the bushes is waiting to manipulate you and then pin you to a wall when you least expect it, never to be heard from again. At least, not the the way you intended to be heard.

So, with so many of our heroes lambasting the very end that our means are designed to reach, where does that leave us, the freshmen? What, then, defines us as successful? Beats the hell out of me, but I'll tell you when I feel the most successful. It's when I play these shows, and I see a slew of faces that I do not recognize, singing every word I pored over in my heart. When I get emails and "comments" from absolute strangers about how my music has moved them in some way. That is what I wake up in the morning for. There does appear to be a lot wrong with the music industry today, and with that battle raging on around us newbies, I guess the best we can hope for right now is just to be heard. Is the goal still to make a few bucks? Sure, we all gotsta live, right? But if the cost of making that money is the loss of dignity and control, what then? I suppose it's a personal choice. One I have not yet been put in the position of making. But that is looming large. And when it arrives at my door, I plan on trying my best to maintain my sense of self. Dim and shifting as it may be at times.

Looking forward to the House of Blues this weekend...