In the past eight years, I’ve learned that there are two types of days that can be categorized. The first is the kind of day that you pretty much accept that things are the way they are because there’s no time to question or complain about anything but what’s right in front of you. Then there’s the second type which isn’t much different than the first except for the fact that you want nothing to do with what’s right in front of you obscuring and interrupting your soul searching questions to the universe wondering why things are the way they are.

Over the last few years, I’ve learned to spend more time in the former rather than the latter in order to keep moving forward. But today I’m taking the time to let the other noise around me to fade out of focus so I can center on the ‘why.’

I last physically saw my little brother with life in his eyes was February 2004. It was the final time we laughed together in the same room. But more importantly, it was the last time we shared the one thing we always wanted to share more of together; music. That cold night rainy night in February we saw Linkin Park. I remember when I surprised him with the tickets over Christmas. It blew him away. Little did I know that only a few short months later, he’d be gone and the musical tie of that band would leave a tangled emotional mess of despair that would eventually germinate into hope.


And for awhile, I wanted nothing to do with it; creating music or Linkin Park. We talked about working on our own music idea. Now that would never happen. And because Linkin Park was the last thing we shared, I didn’t want to not open that proverbial box. But eight years later, I can honestly say to myself that I’m much more open and receptive to the subtlest signs of something clearer. At ground zero when it was all too fresh, I couldn’t see anything, I was blind and jaded by my mistrust of the universe and its plan. Now being aware of my own emotional limits, I can have clarity when it comes to my pit of irreparable pain.

With a little bit of growth and perspective, I now notice the universe trying to communicate with me. There's been an odd shift that I've just recently picked up on and I can't help but think that it’s my little brother trying to connect with me in a way only a sweet lost soul can.


The signs started with a discussion about energy conservation and how we treat our world. The dialogue was primed by a drive up the freeway when “What I’ve Done” came on the music player. It set in motion the talk about improving our world, which is the subtext of the song, and the reopening of an old dormant connection. This song was also on the Transformers soundtrack. This started my obsession with wanting to see Transformers 3. Transformers 3 included my favorite song “Iridescent.” I had forgotten how great this song was and it prompted me to add the album “A Thousand Suns” to my media player. I also work with very creative people. To continue the signs, I had an email exchange with a close friend about the lyrics being revolution-inspiring and the song “New Divide.” This song was on the Transformers 2 soundtrack. While working on my bike one night with the radio as background noise, I heard “Crawling” which reminded me of my little brother’s memorial. Strangely, “Crawling” repeated itself without human intervention. After all, it was my brother’s favorite song.

Then things began to snowball. On a cold and wet walk to the office, “Waiting for the End” began to blast through my ear pods. The very next weekend, the boys and I were watching TV. As I browsed through the online guide, I noticed Palladium had something of interest; Linkin Park live at Milton Keynes in the U.K. The three of us watched and Son #1 made the statement that he really liked the lead singer’s voice. All of this prompted a full-scale overhaul of the tunes on the media player to be replaced by all of my Linkin Park albums. But what really got me is one night while making dinner. The boys were upstairs playing, I could hear their laughter echoing through the house. My wife was napping and I was preparing tacos, drinking an ice cold PBR, and listening to some digital music on Music Choice. As I’m frying shells, “Leave Out All the Rest” came on. And for the first time, I really ‘heard’ the message.

And all of this may not have any significant effect on you and may seem completely coincidental. On the surface it may be nothing more than dumb luck and my own subconscious way of not feeling so alone in such a large sea. But couldn't it be more? Couldn't it be the inexplicable and tangled tapestry of our existence on a larger communicative plane? Think of children with autism so acutely focused on patterns and how their connections are related. Is this not a pattern? Could it not be all related to something? Or maybe even someone?


This is how I know things are connected. I climbed into my brother's wrecked car only hours after his death eight years ago. I was able to understand one last time where he was emotionally because I ejected the last and only CD in his changer. It was Linkin Park. I will always be tied to him through the mist and mystery of where he is now because of this, coincidence or not. In life and death, he and I have this.

So I've been a little delinquent in writing my monthly music reviews. It's been a couple of things like work, travel, kids, and maybe a lack of inspiration. It's not that I haven't picked up anything new. It's actually the opposite. So now after a couple of inquiries from my peers about my absence, it's time to ride the donkey and drop a new review.

This review comes to us by way of Sirius XM radio and the Puyallup Sounder. I have to get to the train station at the butt crack of dawn to get a parking spot. And since I'm there about 45 minutes early, I get a lot of time to listen to satellite radio. One morning, while listening and waiting for my train, I stumbled upon to this group and there new release. And unlike other reviews of other bands, I knew absolutely nothing about this band.

Find the album here.

The band is Useless ID and there new record is called Symptoms. Before I get into the review of the album, how about a little about the band. Useless ID has been around since about 1994. What makes them a little bit more interesting is that they formed in Israel and are one of the most popular bands to emerge from the Israel punk scene. They began touring the US in the late 90s. But where they go their big break in the States was when the Ataris heard them and loved their sound. Ultimately this led to doing a split album with the Ataris. And the rest is success.

The album ‘Symptoms’ is the latest release which just came out in February 2012 on Fat Wreck Records. And if I could describe the sound I would classify it as pop-punk that got kicked in the nuts. That being said, it has pop-punk sensibilities; emotional and metaphorical lyrics, sing song choruses, heavy bass a drum beats perfect for dancing and moshing. But then there is the ‘kicked in the nuts’ part of it. It seems like most of the lyrics are directed at some chick that broke the lead singer’s heart. Some of the singing is mellow and harmonic, while some escalates and becomes borderline shouting. It’s all good though but not revolutionary.

Let’s get to the songs. There are some great ones that start minimally and crescendo into something powerful. This recipe tends to repeat through the album’s entirety. But it is executed successfully on a few tracks.

Live or Die – The album opener is not minimal by any means. A few drum beats and guitar strums and you’re off into a ripper of track. I like the crunchiness in the minor chords that are used in this song. There’s a sense of urgency about the song, like they’re trying to persuasively convince you of something in a pre-described three minutes. Point taken.

Symptoms – This track is almost surreal in its execution. Now the verses of the song are mellow which is fairly nondescript in terms of music. Lyrically, they’re marginally more interesting than the musicality addressing a typical topic of love. But where this song shines is on the chorus in its almost dreamlike sequence.

Somewhere – No screaming just mellow sung lyrics about the work it takes to get to a working relationship. The musical beginnings are so innocent, much like the music. But the instrumentation begins to fill out aggressively and charge a heightened level of energy to the song. And the lyrics accompany it. It ramps up heavily to deliver the message and then falls back peacefully back into its mellowness.

Useless ID has been around for some time and their music is similar throughout their records. This may bother some listeners. While others will like that you can pick up the new record and it will sound like anything you’ve listened to before. Many music groups do this and survive for years. Overall, Symptoms is not The Dark Side of the Moon. But it also doesn’t profess to be that. It has a unidirectional movement that it is efficient at. This album probably isn’t going to be album of the year for most people, but it is perfectly sufficient to listen to if you just want to enjoy some music.

Our Own Country from cshindle1 on 8tracks.

It’s the still of the night where I find some of my deepest and most introspective thoughts and dreams. It’s typically the weekend where I can really afford the time to let go of my conservatisms of being equipped to head to work and be responsible. It’s the kind of night where I’ve been able to sit back and reflect on the aspects of my life which are truly most valuable.

I don’t get a lot of time to do it. The weekends are finite and my energy level and inspiration are much more endangered than ever before. That’s what happens when you’re a dad. Not that it takes chemical stimulation, but I’ve been able to unlock some of my deepest soulful feelings with the help of inebriants. Tonight is no different. And with that, I’m caught thinking about my fortunes and how I’ve never really publically let down my veil of secrecy on this blog.

I spend a lot of time pontificating about what I think life is, my lessons I glean from my kids, and how much I love the music and hate ‘the Man.’ Tonight, I spent the evening watching a chick flick. And normally this would mean nothing, but I also stumbled on to a song earlier while working on a Saturday for the man which seemed to prime to proverbial pump of inspiration. This is an entry to the love of my life that has saved me from everything I thought that would take my life.

If I can start with the simplest message; I love you. And this isn’t enough. I still don’t measure up. I think we both know that the last few months have been difficult by our standards. I haven’t been the most open. My communication has been less than efficient. I know I could’ve explained things better, expressed things clearer, been more transparent with my feelings. You could’ve been more connected to me. I’ve felt your distance, like a cold highway to nowhere at times. Some may have been my gross misinterpretation of reality. To that I’m guilty. But some is the plateau of complacency a relationship can reach at times when life trumps teamwork.

Tonight is my night to sidestep the routine and seize that late night moment of tranquility and inspiration to eloquently plant the seed of confidence and concern.

There’s a contentment that you reach in a relationship and I suppose at times it’s easy to misconstrue for complacency. After all, we’re not the youngsters who had the knotted up sexual tension as a result of bad timing and inappropriate circumstances. As everyone knows, I’m still that young boy that met you years ago and hung onto the gleaming hope that you would give me the time of day. Now that I know the time of day and the clock seems to always be ticking forward despite how hard I dig my heels in, we’re growing up and those innocently guilty years are behind us.

And that’s OK. And as easy as it sounds, we can’t lose the intimate focus of love on each other. It’s easy to look in the rear view mirror and evaluate the road that you’ve driven over these years. And it’s obvious that my metaphoric driving hasn’t been the safest or the most insurable. Before you, the official you, I’ve wrecked many a car. My journey has been riddled with horrible decisions where it’s cost me sanity, self respect, and dignity. All for the thrill of the speed of life. And interestingly, coincidentally, or even karmically, you’ve always been in the traffic jam of my life. It took me years to figure out the direction it would take to find the true depth of love.

Shit it may have been a dozen years of criss-crossing you during the gridlock of our relationships. It was easy to wave out of the window and wonder what it would be like to be in the same car. Only years later we are now caught in traffic together. Enough with the car metaphors. Get to the point.

I wish I could. I used to be eloquent. I could tell the story, elevate the audience to a new level of thinking, and connect them to something so deep. I’d been told that I could recite the alphabet and people would listen on the edge of their seats waiting for that next letter. Tonight, I’m struggling to put it all together. I hate not feeling like I can tell you in words how I feel. It’s hard knowing that you feel something so strong and so deep and you’re not able to effectively and eloquently communicate to the one person that needs to know it more than anyone else.

What I know is this:

No words are enough. Nothing I can write here will ever do justice the level of the deepest most soulful love I have for you. It’s more than a peck the cheek or the firm embrace. It’s more than the stern discipline that we team together on our boys. It’s more than the tender kiss on your neck. Even with a vivid imagination, I can’t even approximate a life where you and I don’t drive together. There’s that car metaphor again. If I could just tell you without words. But I don’t know how. What I do know that is that I hold you above everyone and everything.

You represent everything I’d sacrifice everything for. It’s a unit of teamwork where confidence overrides anxiety. I’m learning everyday that the novelty of intrigue and the unexpected can be happily superseded by the hands of time and lovely comfort.

I had an interesting thought a few months back while painting a room for my wife. Typically painting in our house happens when we’re having house guests or entertaining on a major holiday. There’s some inexplicable reason my wife has for constantly generating projects around our house at those times. In any event, I was enjoying my chore of painting the unreachable areas of the walls in our dining room. While I was rolling away to my heart’s content, I was deftly aware of being critically careful to not drip paint on my hardwood floors. To avoid such an event which would most likely lead to a fanciful flurry of curse words, I spread out our old drop cloths across the floor for protection.

As a finished up my painting, I looked down at the old drop cloths and had an introspective wisdom about the random splotches of paint on the drop cloth. Everybody has a drop cloth. They travel with you on your many moves and typically get dragged around room after room and paint color after paint color. These cloths see us in our darkest hours and brightest days. They also see us in our most creative states and also in the poorest of color choices. All in all, these drop cloths contain assorted splotches of drips and drops of paint that make up the palette of our life’s journey. Each drip marks a milestone, a room, a feeling, and an event that popped up in our travels.

I looked down at our drop cloth and saw so many colors from so many different things. When I sat and focused tightly on each color, I could remember just what room we painted, the reason for the color, the impetus prompting us to paint, and most importantly, just how we felt at that stage in our life. This concept to me seemed like a universally profound connection and we all relate to; a drop cloth can tell the story of your journey.

The smear of a burgundy crimson reminded me of our very first home purchase, a condo in Signal Hill, California. We kind of stumbled onto this place. We originally were looking for a rental and stumbled onto a harsh real estate agent by seeing her sign in Long Beach. We cold-called her and the rest was history. That condo was such a nugget of a spot; poolside, view of the harbor, kick ass neighborhood, and our first place. The master bedroom was painted in this rich burgundy color with cream and light blue accents. Ahhh, where the magic used to happen.

What drove us back to Washington was not just a car, but loss; 2004 for with my bro and 2005 with her mom. In 11 months, who would’ve thought? My wife was pregnant with Son #1, and we just bought our first house in Washington for less than we sold our condo in California. It was new construction and a blank slate. The drops of light blue on the drop cloth reminded me of that first room we painted in our new house. It was Son #1’s bedroom. I still remember struggling to put the dinosaur treatments on the wall. I can remember building the crib in that room, I can remember putting him to bed in his ‘big boy bed’ only to have him come running down the hall in the middle of the night because he was scared. No sleep but so much love. That blue color marked a turn to happiness despite the losses. I know our angels loved it.


Then there was the room across the hall in that house. It was Son #2’s room. But it started out as my wife’s ‘craft room’ to which I was reminded by the splotches of lavender on the drop cloth. It was chick-like and I was reminded that it wasn’t my room. But ultimately, Son #2, the improbable kid, joined us. It was repainted with a soft green and beige with a white chair rail. The drops of those colors reminded me of the cussing about how many times I had to paint that room to cover up the lavender and install the chair rail. But there was a little bit of satisfaction when the baby furniture was arranged. I remember the crib mobile music playing over Son #2 as he fell asleep. Would’ve never thought that such an unanticipated surprise would bring us so much joy and terror.


The overspray of fluorescent colors on the drop cloth marked an epic Halloween. I got the wild hair up my ass to go big on my wife’s favorite holiday. Before anyone jacked my originality, I created my version of Johnny Depp as the Mad Hatter in Alice and Wonderland. I did it before the movie came out and spent a lot of time on the intricate details. The sashes, the hat, the jacket, all hand crafted. My wife was Alice and due to readership here I won’t provide my review of her costume but will pass on that it was ‘popular.’ The Mad Hatter costume including the elaborate makeup was a blast to don. I even won a Seattle Times costume contest.


And over six years later, I’m reminded of the new bedroom in our new house by the light forest green smear on the cloth. Son #1 got to pick his room in this house and the room color. I wanted to give him ownership of it; the freedom to choose and create. He helped me paint his walls, well at least for five minutes before he took off running and screaming with his brother. This is our new house, where we’ll establish new roots and new memories. Where new paint spills and splotches will create the mural of the latest chapter of our life.


It’s an odd concept, but the random assortment of paint drops just got me thinking and reconnecting with those memories. And as I reconnected with those memories from all of those years, I couldn’t help but get a little nostalgic. The drop cloth is an unorganized palette of colors used paint the canvas of life. Each color has its own set of emotions and context. But all are used to paint your life’s version of a Rembrandt smeared together forever; or at least as long as you have the drop cloth. After studying our drop cloths, I began to realize the complexity and intricacy of the journey. I think it’s pretty easy to lose sight of how far you’ve traveled given that we typically don’t have a broad perspective on the future. Mostly, we view each moment as its own unique instance and don’t seem to consider the larger gallery of life. Painting the dining room for another event while annoying, allowed me the opportunity to see all of our history in random palette of splotches.

Now that the holidays have concluded and a bit of normalcy is about to return; and by normalcy, I mean working ungodly hours and not getting the time to capture my thoughts and experiences on this blog. Son #1 has headed back to the public school system of this fine town in which we live. This marks the end of the holiday season and means that the Man is reinserting his foot up my proverbial ass.

But while we’re on the subject of Son #1, let’s discuss his innate ability to create the most interesting conversations. This isn’t the first time I’ve discussed this topic on this platform. However, December had its instances of Son #1 wisdoms. The kid is, as they say, is smart as a whip. But what exactly constitutes being as smart as a whip? Whips are inanimate which by definition would mean lacking some sort of cognitive capacity. Wouldn’t it be more appropriate to say he’s as smart as geek juiced up on Red Bull and Sour Patch Kids?

Anyway, I was reminded of his whip-like smartness while installing a new exhaust system on a friend’s truck. While trying to remove the OEM exhaust, we broke off the exhaust bolts at their attach points. Mostly this was due to corrosion of the bolts and a gripping force comparable to a crackhead with a cheeseburger. While under the vehicle, Son #1 narrated and asked questions. Typically, this is annoying especially when you’re seriously intolerant of seized bolts. In any event, he carried on about the bolts and I explained that when the new exhaust was installed, we’d be using new corrosion resistant steel bolts and they would be tightened to an appropriate torque rating. And like clockwork several hours later as we were hanging the new exhaust, Son #1 was under the truck and reminded me of the appropriate torque rating for the bolts like a seasoned mechanic. A few weeks later, we were back in the garage installing a new billet grill on my vehicle. As I’m attaching some of the hardware, Son #1 has the balls to remind me that the fasteners have a torque rating which I can find in the installation guide.

It’s not that he remembered that I introduced the concept of torque and that he was able to regurgitate in another installation instance, it’s the fact that he now understands a multitude of concepts and can read a ton of shit. This really complicates life. Occasionally, the boys and I have dinner together without my wife. She has professional obligations which take her out of the house around the dinner hour. This gives the three of us the freedom to have creative dinners like chicken fingers and frozen waffles. More importantly, we have some really entertaining conversations.


One night while we dined on fine frozen foods, Son #1 pondered with the facial expression of one in deep thought about life’s problems. Once ready, he spoke up and asked me a question which he put much thought into because it was a concept very dear to me. Music. With some random digital music channel providing the soundtrack to our discussion, he first asked if I liked the song that was playing. Ironically, it was a pop music channel left on by his mother. This prompted me to provide a sarcastic response explaining that it was most likely his mother’s favorite because it played at her senior prom. Once past my attempt at humor, to which he was not amused, we got to the main event.

He asked me what my three favorite songs were. While this may seem trivial to some, this was quite important to him knowing my natural affinity toward music in our life. Adding to the importance of the moment, I could hear my wife’s voice annoyingly chirping in my ear about not blowing him off. Unfortunately, I’m an ass and I have a ‘tendency’ to not listen (read: care) at times. It was very important to me to make sure I answered his question sincerely and thoughtfully.

And interestingly enough, I wasn’t able to answer his question. Not because it was insanely difficult and my meager brain was taxed to the point of malfunction. I just don’t have three favorite songs. I explained to him that music for me satisfies chapters and compartments of my life. It represents millstones along my journey and each song stuck in the ground at that mileage has an equally important contribution to my life. And because of that, all music and no music are my favorite. It was an opportunity to explain to him in simple terms that you don’t have to have a favorite in anything. It’s OK to like things equally. Still I didn’t feel like I answered his question as he was left with a puzzled look on his face.

He went on to tell me that he had three favorite songs. What floored me were his choices of songs and the reasons behind them. His first favorite is Green Day. Yes. This is a band. However, Son #1 has the ability to pick nearly any Green Day song out of a mix. Probably has something to do with the amount of Green Day Rockband played in our home. Son #1 knows my liking for said band and game, wants to be like me and generally likes anything to do with the color green. The second song was the ‘bike movie song.’ Because we watch more bike movies than the evening news, both Son #1 and Son #2 are as drawn as I am to these movie soundtracks. And last but not least, the third favorite song. While both kids profess the desire to be like dad, Son #1 couldn’t leave his mother out of this lineup. Music soothes the savage beast? Yes and it also calms down the unreasonable fit-throwing freakshow child. Son #1 used to, and still does find comfort, in infectious urban music. Enter favorite #3, “Sexy Back” by Justin Timberlake. My wife used to play this to him in the car to chill him out. And now, it’s the comfort music for the car ride with mom. Still a shocking choice given the first two.

And just like that, he provided me comprehensive and complete answers. While he may be able to have complex conversations, if he would just listen when I ask him to clean up the bonus room so the sea of toys in the floor no longer masks the carpet, we would have the perfect kid. Of course it's still a work in progress with him. Like when he scribbled with sidewalk chalk on my garage walls, lied that he didn’t do it, and blamed Son #2 for the damage. He was smart; the scribble looked like the abilities of Son #2. However, he failed to realize during his lie that the scribble was at his height and not his little brother’s height. The evidence incriminated the young punk and he had no choice but to clean it up.


And before I finished editing this blog, Son #1 struck again. One of our dogs escaped our backyard and went on the lam. She caused a ruckus at the neighbors plucking feathers from poultry in her own special way. And as a reward, animal control came and took her to the doggie 'big house.' I got the honor of bailing my mutt out of jail and filing her papers as a ‘dangerous’ breed of canine. Let’s not forget she’s a sled dog. Anyway, one of several methods we’re using to contain her in our yard is an invisible fence and collar transmitter.


The installation of this invisible fence went as planned but its initial operation didn’t. I won’t bore you with the details of the extensive tests to uncover the issue. I’ll just let you know that I had the battery backward in the collar transmitter. Excitedly, I told my wife that her braniac husband fixed the fence and to tell Son #1 of our shared victory. When he came outside to witness the greatness, he told me that he explained to his mom prior to coming out that I need to ‘read the instructions first.’ Nice. Thanks for the advice.