Bulgogi Bloated Blogging

Inspiration vs. Validation. Can a person truly produce art, or any transaction for that matter, void of the expectation/need for the validation that will presumably follow the completion of said act? Are we ever truly inspired or rather desperate to produce something that will garner a reaction for us to gauge/defend our talents or opinions to aid in the process of defining this idea of self?

So this was the question that was discussed after two Hendricks martinis (straight up with olives) during a wonderful dinner with my great friend and favorite Asian, Ms. Jo Philbin. Let me set the scene. Reservations for two. Korean BBQ in the West Village. Gin martinis, Bulgogi, SSam Bop, Watercrest Salads, Kimchi, all the fixings, and our own grill. This place fulfilled a long list of prerequisites that are required to ensure an enjoyable evening with yours truly in NYC. Most importantly: ambient lighting. I need it. You need it. I don’t even turn on the overhead lighting in my own apartment so God knows I appreciate a soft glow. An Edison bulb has done nothing but breed good conversation since Prohibition. Now I’m no coupon queeeeen, but isn’t it a little absurd to pay more to cook our own food and serve ourselves at this fine dining venue. If you are handing me the ingredients to a meal and it is my job to implement the actual process of cooking, aren’t you just a glorified Korean supermarket at that point. But, let’s not pretend that I did absolutely any of the cooking or prep work for this meal. Being friends with mostly Type A’s has its perks. Especially when you choose to surrender all responsibility and take a backseat because not only will you avoid an argument, you get to enjoy a martini and tell a story whilst your dear friend battles with her own control issues resulting in a delicious meal that magically appears at the completion of your terribly banal tale.

Jo and I actually have a history with Korean food as we became friends at the hands of an 80 year old Korean man. I know, just one more cliché story where boy meets girl, who meets ancient Korean opera singer, who promotes friendship, good vocal technique, and the benefits of persimmons. This man is Dr. In Dal Choi. He was our voice teacher in college and I’m sure that I will devote an entire blog to all things Choi. Basically, just picture Splinter from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Not because he is anything like that, but rather because I’m wearing an awesome Ninja Turtles t-shirt that I got for 50 cents in Richmond, Virginia. I think it helps my literary case when you can visualize my sense of style.

Anyway, this question that we debated over this delicious feast seems like the perfect talking point for the next post in WanderLost. It was either this intense philosophical quandary or the trials and tribulations of Gia Guidice (the unfortunate yet recently highlighted young star of the Real Housewives of New Jersey). Here is the real question: Is Gia Guidice kidding me? First of all, her vocal stylings were incredibly underwhelming at the pizzeria when she sang that song about her Dio Joe. I use the phrase “sang” but it was more like a spoken Sprechstimme of a dodecaphonic German mess. If I wanted to hear the Italian pop version of “Pierrot Lunaire”, I would go take an Ethnomusicology class in Naples. Secondly, her fishnet top with hot pink training sports bra left much to be desired at her most recent dance call. I’m worried that she is bound to a non-equity regional contract life of My Big Gay Italian Wedding. I digress.

The real question – Inspiration vs. Validation. I have to admit that this is something I struggle with. I want to think that I can be creatively satiated by the completion of an artistic endeavor, but I know that I have actively rushed the final details of a project in order to post an Instagrammed photo (Brannan filter) of my completed work on Facebook. This way I can be validated twice as often on the interweb. Comments of praise from two different sets of online communities can be twice as rewarding or double trouble when the praise is nowhere to be found.

Speaking of Double Trouble. “Double Trouble’s in jail.” Remember the beloved “Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?” That show caused a series of early onset vocal nodules as I would constantly scream at the thirteen year olds that had no idea how to comprehend the geographical basics.

Chief (Lynne Thigpen): “Locate Chile on the map, Gumshoe.”

Me (Mike Harrison): “It’s the long, skinny country on the west coast of South America…noo…that’s Africa you idiot….ok…closer….slam your stupid pole in the slot…no that’s Argentina…no that’s Paraguay…..ahhhhh!!!! I hate you!”

Funny story about that show. As many of you know, I was in a professional a cappella group for about a year after college. That’s not the end to the funny story. At an a cappella party, because grown adults have those, I found myself face to face with Rockapella (the stars of the PBS hit, “Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?”). Unfortunately, I had a gig the next morning so I was not drinking, much to the disappointment of Rockapella’s legendary bass Barry Carl. Barry was a little tipsy. Let’s just say he was one Gin and Tonic away from an intervention with Dr. Drew. After I explained my predicament of an early morning gig, I was met with a response that reshaped the memory of what I thought my childhood to be. This feeling was comparable to realizing Santa Claus wasn’t real or the trauma of finding out Vanna White isn’t your real mother. Ladies and Gentlemen, the wise words of Barry Carl (childhood legend).

“I remember those early morning gigs with Rockapella….never any fun. God….we were so coked up and sore from banging all those hookers the night before that it became hard to look those little shits in the eye each morning.”

Needless to say the geographically challenged 13 year olds were the least of PBS’ problems on set during those years.

Back to the question at hand. I now question many things: my art, my music, my writing, my entire creative persona. Am I so desperate for a validating revelation that I’m forcing my subconscious to produce biased artistic results in an effort to garner more praise? I want to change that. Believe me that the humor is not lost on me that I’m about to post a blog about validation to a social networking site that enables the lowest level of validation possible…the like button. This is a new goal at age 30. I want to actively pursue validation for my creative outlets, but only from myself. Public affirmation or critique should be the RESULT and not the REASON for creation. Another goal is to introduce Gia Guidice to Dr. In Dal Choi. That is a vocal match made in heaven.

Boredom: the desire for desires.

On July 5th 2012 I turned 30.


I have never feared the number 30. Actually, I've never feared any number (unless it was delivered by the Count from Sesame Street because even as a child I found him utterly terrifying). If anything, I have welcomed the number with humor, confidence, and a huge grain of salt. Looking like a perpetual 21 year old has not hurt my cause either. In preparation for the "milestone" birthday I mocked the incongruency between my pubescent view of what 30 would look like, sound like, feel like, and what it had actually become. As a teenager, I viewed three decades into life as the epitome of stabiliy...emotionally, physically, financially, professionally. Possibly a father, a husband, routinely wearing suits and taking names. It's easy to find the genesis of this viewpoint. Look no further than the TV show Full House. A childhood favorite, (minus Michelle Tanner because I had an irrational fear of Troll dolls and no one can deny that those twins didn't resemble walking Troll dolls) there was a little episode in season 1 (the 11th episode actually) entitled "The Big Three-0". During this episode the beloved Danny Tanner, father of three, turns 30! I know. I actually caught the episode last year and had to pick my jaw up off the floor when I realized that I was Danny Tanner's age. Also, you know that you have entered a new stage of life when the storyline of a sitcom loses all credibility when you are only fixated on the real estate presented in the show and continually crunch the numbers in your head to determine how the fictional characters are able to afford that much space in a major city. What was the going rate for a three story townhouse in San Francisco in 1987? I mean, they had a fully finished basement that housed a recording studio...was this factored as liveable square footage when it was appraised? I digress.


Unlike Danny Tanner, I'm not stable. Financially, emotionally, creatively, socially, romantically, professionally...etc. I'm not wearing suits, not taking names. This instability is what defined my twenties and I wore that badge proudly. Never knowing what was next, diving head first was not the deterrent, but rather the motivation for any and all decisions. But recently, I question whether this number change has actually contributed to the current cylic funk that I've inhabited. Now that once invigorating leap seems to be met with doubt, uncertainty, and factors that affect the years to come. I think I have become more aware of change. As someone who embraces the word, the feeling, the idea of change, it has been interesting to see my current reaction to this inevitable ideal. Change has morphed from fleeting to permanent. Usually inspired by change, as any project-based creative should be, I have somehow paralleled change with a fork in the road where the only options are success and failure. This notion ends up killing creativity which breeds upon change and constant failures. What would've happened if Sonja Morgan hadn't taken on new creative life opportunities? I wouldn't have a pre-ordered toaster oven recipes cookbook, that's what would've happend. That woman has blazed a culinary trail because she wasn't afraid to stand up for what she believed in...luxurious living with an almost obsolete kitchen appliance.


By no means do I fear getting older, nor do I have the audacity to think that age 30 symbolizes the end of youth, but it does seem to be a definitive number where many social "norms" are prepared to begin their comparison. As someone who actively persues new adventures, I found myself in a literal metaphor this week. I left my apartment just to get some fresh air and inspiration. I stood on the sidewalk for fifteen minutes when I realized I had no idea where to go. I had no agenda, no timeline, no tasks, no errands, no end point, no direction. I took a couple of steps in one direction, turned around, took a couple of steps back and then just froze on the sidewalk. My feet were planted and my mind was dormant. I just stood there waiting for a reason or motivation to move. I would've been embarrassed by the image I must have presented to those surrounding me, but thankfully there was a homeless man masturbating on the stoop next to me so I had nothing to fear. That moment sums up how I've felt this past week and this blog is going to temporarily be my reason to move.


In conclusion, I have no rhyme or reason for starting a blog nor do I care if it has even one visitor. I'm not even sure what it will become...an online diary, a social commentary, trashy pop culture references, who knows? I just desperately needed a project that enhances and challenges my self-expression and honesty. Painting, interior design, music...etc...are not doing the job right now so maybe writing will do the trick. Feel free to read, to peruse, to skim, to look at pictures, to suggest topics, to delete updates on your newsfeed. This blog is a way for me to survive the monotony of a New York summer and prepare me for the decade ahead, or at least for the next week when I switch interests again and focus my energy on the art of needlepoint.