There Are No Rules

I was chatting with an artist buddy yesterday about his craft. After making and selling for a few years, he took a class where the biggest thing he took out of it came from a discussion on technique.

He was stepping through how to set up to do this one thing, and his teacher asked why, and he said he had always done it that way. She asked again, “Why?” He stammered and repeated that he had always done it that way. That’s when she said there are no rules – do it differently, who cares, you’re still making art.

I’m still sitting with that, digesting it.

Quirktastic or Corporate Bingo

Ever read a passage from an article on a lazy Sunday afternoon while sipping a cappuccino, and say, “Man, I totally gotta lift that and make that the basis of my next blog post?”

Nope, me neither.

I also remember watching my dad speak to everyone in the town square on the Fourth of July. He was up in this little white gazebo, and he was talking about the state of the city. He used the word “ain’t” at least a dozen times, so afterward I gave him the gift of feedback. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “Are you really trying to help me get better or are you embarrassed?”

I said, “Honestly, a little bit of both.”

He said: “Son, this is who I am. And look out there. This is who they are. And if they can see me be imperfect and be the mayor, then one of them will aspire to be the mayor, too. People prefer their leaders with flaws because it makes these positions more attainable for the rest of us.“

Here, Brad Smith, CEO of Intuit, in an interview by Adam Bryant for yesterday’s ‘Corner Office’ column of the SundayBusiness section of The New York Times, talks about his parents. In the process, he talks about the benefits of appearing human when in a position of leadership. Sure, the mayorship appears more attainable, and I would argue that is because the mayor appears more relatable.

Ever listen to a public relations message or a corporate pep talk and it is littered with stuffy-sounding jargon? “At the end of the day”, “Productize”, “Quality Initiative”, “Deliverable”, “Going Forward”, “Opportunity For Improvement”, some buzzphrases sound self-aggrandizing, some of these come off as adding no value, some do both, and man do these really grind my gears. They are very effective at being incredibly impersonal. Don’t use them.

Be relatable.

Hell, I’m trying, but that’s because I’m really a robot.

A handsome, charming, Spanish, sword-fighting robot. Don’t tell my wife.

ScrumOfFun or Local Drummer Boy

I aspire to be a drum busker.

Seriously, look at those guys – they are a breathing and addictively audible example of how “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure”. I’ve seen some of these dudes with just upside-down paint buckets, but sometimes their kits have more variety.

As a classically trained pianist, I’m bummed that I can’t roll around a piano with me and perform in public – this species of instrument, if out and about, is generally found in restaurants, bars, or concert halls… not parks or public squares. For the most part, the piano makes you come to it. What a dick.

The piano is also a tough cookie to fall asleep with. Trust me. As a kid, it first occurred to me to sleep with my instrument, not girls. So picture this, if you will: there I’d be, laying face-up on the piano bench, one hand on the keys, trying to play myself a lullaby. Of course, my arm would fall if I were tired enough, and then the music would stop, and then I’d wake up. It sucked.

So you can imagine my joy when I first got a guitar. Junior year of high school, I bought it off a guy who borrowed it from another guy – a second-hand hand-me-down. That first night, I took it to bed with me. With it resting on my chest, I’d play a little something and fall asleep. The next morning, I woke up in a cold sweat from nightmares, only to realize my breathing had been constricted due to this thing on top of me all night. On the plus side, my hands hadn’t really moved all night, so I just picked up from where I think I left off. It was awesome.

But I digress all over myself. Sorry. I blame the piano.

See, playing the piano well ain’t a cake walk. Like all things requiring mastery, if that’s what you want, it takes time and effort – both of which I happily put in as a kid – growing up, I’d play for 2 hours a day, stopping ’cause my Mom would remind me to do my homework.

I composed, too. Little stuff, nothing too fancy, but that didn’t stop my dear piano from being my creative vent. What a magical (and simply mechanical) machine – just walk up to it, with no knowledge of what’s up, press a key, and kinetic energy is turned into sound. It is efficient. It is powerful.

Don’t tell me that ain’t powerful.

When I am behind the piano, I am wielding a weapon: me and this thing can change your emotions.

Don’t tell me that ain’t powerful.

This is power I’d like to give to others, and I’d like to show it is easy to do, or at least easier than one might think. And definitely more fun. This is where drum busking comes back into the picture.

In the spirit of lowering the barrier to entry for performing music, I have this silly idea: Drum Busker Academy. Picture this:

You’re walking down the street on a sunny day, meandering towards a jungle beat just around the corner. You turn the corner, and the previously muffled sounds become clear, just behind a small crowd of tourists holding maps. Approaching the busker, drumming away in a wife beater, you see a second ‘drum kit’, with a sign in front, “Drum with me. Get $1.”

Whether it’s a little kid who ain’t shy, or some guy who’s doing it on a dare, or some gal who’s doing it for Instagram, take this to your logical conclusion. It’s not a fully formed idea, but it’s a fully fun idea.

Don’t tell me that ain’t powerful.

Scrum And The City

It spoke to me in a hushed, spiteful tone.

You suck!

I turned to face the source of such antagonistic mockery and made eye contact. From the same hole that was staring me down, it sneered a taunt from just out of reach, actively engaging in guerrilla warfare.

Welcome home, you jerk-faced low-life.

I was already feeling like crap, so this was the last thing I wanted upon dragging duffel bags filled with college text books up a couple of flights of stairs. Granted, it was one way to stay warm on a drizzly January afternoon. Granted, it was one way to fit in my daily work-out. Granted, it was a Sisyphusian reminder to ditch the dead tree I’ve dragged from home to home. Granted, it was –

Hey, you uncreative low-lifed jerk-face.

I had it – this was getting out of hand.

Yeah? Well whacha gonna do about it, punk?

I turned towards the fridge, knelt down, and stood back up, Cheerio in hand. I looked around the kitchen for a place to put it, preferably a container that loosely resembled a trash can. A rubbish bin. A garbage receptacle. An empty container of little-to-no value.

Like your soulless shell of a body, ya bum?

Again, I was already feeling like crap. I just came off a rough break-up, resulting in a desperate apartment hunt in mid-January, which is way off-season in this college town. I somehow found a place and threw wads of cash at the realtor to take it off the market. Now, everything of value to me was splayed across the kitchen floor in a haggered landscape of memories – all 5 taxi-loads. Except for the desk – I had a guy from Craig’s List help me with that. I had nothing to offer him besides the agreed upon amount, so we toasted with the one thing in my fridge: vodka.

You gonna offer me a shot, loser? Or are you just gonna continue projecting your inner monologue through a piece of cereal you picked off the floor of your filthy apartment?

The Cheerio was right. I was lonely. And physically spent. And emotionally spent. And in need of a trash can.

I thus started my single life in Boston – with a list. First item on that list: trash can. Defeated, I put my new and abusive friend back under the fridge.

Hey, if you like lists so much, why don’t you use that stupid Scrum certification to get your life in order, tough guy.

Again, the Cheerio was right.