Vilhauer « Black Marks on Wood Pulp / by Corey Vilhauer

Category: Vilhauer

The Story of Phake

June 28th, 2010

A quick story on persistence.

I was in a band. It was called Phake. The name was a play on the idea that, though we had attempted to infiltrate the local punk rock scene, we weren’t punk rock at all. We were fake punkers, fighting for a niche in the local hardcore punk scene, and in the early days of ironic t-shirts I threw together a self-made number that proclaimed our not-punk-though-really-we-wished-we-were status.

It was our fifth name in a year of practicing. It stuck.

With it came a distressing label: “Not Very Good.” But, let’s be honest. That label might have been deserved.

We weren’t very good.

At that time, we didn’t care. Or we didn’t know it. A little of both, really.

But we tried, and here’s the thing: we eventually worked our way into the public conscience, like worm wriggling into rotten wood. We got better – still not good, but BETTER – and, as things often work, we stumbled into some kind of routine. Our practices sounded something like this [WARNING - shitty garage band alert.]

Then, one guy got kicked out and another guy decided he was done and soon the band was over, just as we had supposedly found our niche and identity.

I don’t bring this up because I’m nostalgic, or because I needed an excuse to play this video that our friend Jim inexplicably kept long past its freshness date, but because I realize how badly we all needed to flail and stumble and fail before we could really belong.

Except for me (the non-musician in the group) all four members ended up becoming fantastic musicians and songwriters and people in general. Some still play today. Bring the five of us back together, and there might be something special.

And while I didn’t gain anything musically, I did gain confidence, which I suppose is the ultimate instrument of a lead vocalist.

I failed. We all failed. We had a whole lot of fun and made a bunch of friends that we still hang out with today and, hey, we can all say “Yeah, we were in a band once,” and that kind of cool points doesn’t come around that often.

Given the chance – and given the friends and experiences and confidence I gained – I’d fail all over again.

Comments: 4

Issues Considered: Friends, Music, Vilhauer

A quick talk to the new-school locals who are resettling Jackson, Wyoming, from someone who never was a local but probably should be

June 25th, 2010

You can go ahead and talk about how you’ve moved to Jackson, how you’ve done well in life and can now afford a stately 500k home in the ghetto part of town, how you brave the traffic and float your kayak down the Snake and how, sometimes, you run into Teton Village for dinner at some restaurant that just opened.

Something Thai, I’m sure. Something expensive and trendy.

Go ahead. I know I’ve never formally lived in the Jackson Hole area. I’ve never called it home, and that nowadays I only visit every four years and barely have any family connection in the town. Even my grandma had to ditch the place. Probably the fault of people like you. I’ll pin that you y’all, if you don’t mind.

Here’s the thing. I might not be from Jackson, but I’m fiercely protective of it. That Thai restaurant wasn’t here when I wandered its streets every summer for years. Teton Village was just a tiny little ski resort. Jackson was still overrun by cowboys, not Subarus; ranchers, not transplants.

Maybe you’ve got your own personal Jackson – some place you’ve never lived but still stick to, allowed to become a part of your soul, of which you shun visitors and push away the people who just don’t get it. That’s it, right?

They just don’t get it, do they?

Jackson isn’t my home. It never has been. Still, I consider myself a local – thanks to generations of family and history and a bunch of my own experiences – and I’ll be damned if I’m going to feel guilty about it.

Sorry, man. I know you just moved here.

But unless you’re new place has some way to replicate three decades of tradition and sheer force of connection, you’ll never be a local.

At least not in my eyes. Not in my experience.

Not to THIS local-who-never-was.

Comments: 2

Issues Considered: Family, Grandpa Boyer, Home, Travel, Vilhauer

Back to the grid, missing the valley

June 8th, 2010

Though I’ve only been away for four days, I still miss the West. So much it hurts.

Something about the simplicity, about brush filling in the prairie gaps between mountains, about rivers that go on forever, about altitude changes that form sawtoothed horizons. Where every fence is wooden. Every bagel shop generous. Every tourist in awe, and every resident following suit.

For me, it’s the Jackson Hole area. For others, it might be the northwest. New York City. The lake district in England, or the hills of Tuscany. An area that invites painful longing; that we experience but never own, our vacations and trips merely a rental of the area, backed by deposits, contracted to be returned unscathed.

We need these areas. Not because we enjoy being someplace we’re not, but because it puts our homes in perspective.

I love northwest Wyoming – it’s the area my family settled, and the area where I spent my summers. Take away all of my ties, and I might be there in a second. Take away my family, my job, my friends, my opportunities, and I’d move to the valley in a second.

But those things are what make Sioux Falls so good.

Those things make this home.

Jackson Hole is no home. And while I still long to be back there, helping my grandmother with the lawn and staring down the Snake River, I know that it offers nothing of what good ol’ Sioux Falls does.

The valley holds my desires. The prairie holds my life.

A personal note about going off grid

May 27th, 2010

Some people soak in the attention that comes with a Last Day of Work. I, however, sort of bristle at it.

And, for real, this might come as a surprise considering my habit of documenting every personal thought I’ve had for the past five years, but, hey, give me this. This is my thing. It’s not that I hate goodbyes – I just hate the attention that comes with them.

So let’s keep this short and sweet. Today was my last day of work at HenkinSchultz, a job that treated me well and taught me a lot and really I couldn’t have asked for a better place to break into the creative services world. And, in ten days, I begin again, doing what I’d hoped I’d be doing, workin’ the Web and enjoying being a full fledged part of making things on the Internet, at Blend Interactive.

In the meantime – an expanse of time in which I will literally be unemployed – I’m going to make myself scarce. As of tonight, I’m going off the grid. I’m recharging and resting and cleaning out the cobwebs as I prepare to change my direction entirely.

Thanks to HenkinSchultz for taking a risk four years ago. I appreciate it.

See you in 10 days, Internet.

Devils Tower on the horizon

May 25th, 2010

There’s a stretch of Interstate 90 – near the Wyoming/South Dakota border – where, on a clear day, you can see Devils Tower on the horizon.

Devil's Tower (c)AAA

When I was young, we’d drive past it in the early morning on the way home; our trip from Jackson Hole to Sioux Falls always included a break for the night in nearby Gillette.

It looks no bigger than a thimble. But there it is. Just a few miles away, promising something fantastic – that is, if you’re willing to veer off track and head in a different direction.

There’s a lesson there, I guess. About the limitless potential of traveling the nation’s Interstates. Or about following your dreams.

Whichever works for you this morning.

I’ve (almost) arrived

May 11th, 2010

So let’s just say this is probably a decade or more in the making.

It started with a bunch of crappy basic HTML sites for hardcore bands and fake wrestling leagues and it turned into a blog before blogs became “blogs” and, now, after I had convinced myself that I was supposed to be a teacher, and after I spent a few years managing a call center, and after I finally understood that I should be either writing or working on the Web (and the writing opportunity came first) here I am.

Here I am.

(More specifically, here I will be in four weeks.)

I’ve spent four years writing ads and marketing. And I wouldn’t trade a minute of it. I’ve learned a lot. I’ve learned how to talk to clients. I’ve learned how to break out of my shell. I’ve learned how to embrace the knowledge that people can offer. I’ve learned to be humble.

And, to be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if I still had something to learn in the next three weeks, as I graciously make my exit: about humility and closure and saying goodbye to something I might never had said goodbye to if things had worked out a little differently.

But I move. From one industry to another. To learn new languages. To sermonize about content and architecture. To serve the role I’m probably already hardwired to serve.

More than that, I move to a culture I’ve always admired. One that can develop a project like 48 Hour Magazine. That can still get excited about progress, understanding that everything changes, always, constantly. That continues to mix sardonic wit with soul-bearing clarity.

I’d call it a testament to positive thinking if I believed in all of that zen crap, but, really, it’s a testament to persistence, my ego unwilling to allow progress to move forward without grasping a part of it. I’ve always wanted to be a part of the Web, and, success willing, I’m now in a position where I can help a bunch of Web people make a bunch of awesome Web things.

It’s in my blood, I guess.

Granted, there are a lot of people that I respect that have had it in their blood for even longer, and (justifiably) view me as a punk who doesn’t know what he’s in for. I’m okay with that. More than anything, I hope I can prove myself.

I guess what I’m trying to say is this:

“Hey, Internet. I’ve been pretending for a while. And I’ve been a big fan for a long time.

But I’m one of you, now.

Be gentle.”

Comments: 3

Issues Considered: Career, Content Strategy, Technology, Vilhauer, Writing

The “Aha” moment

May 10th, 2010

Sierra used to draw in scribbles. She colored to see the colors, not to make shapes; more interested in the basic elements of creation, she had no regard for form or development or art.

And then, one day, she began drawing people.

There was no in between. It was as if everything clicked into place at once, the idea of a body, the idea of a face, the idea of arms and legs, all in relative agreement and, though most of her drawings look like Ralph Steadman-inspired Humpty Dumptys, they are, without a doubt, PEOPLE.

These are “aha moments,” the currency of learning, when a concept suddenly snaps to grid. As we get older, these dynamic leaps become less common. Learning becomes gradual and the massive gaps from knowing to not knowing are filled in by experience.

As a student teacher, aha moments drove me to continue. Teaching science to junior high kids is a non-stop parade of aha moments. But they’re not groundshaking – an aha moment in a kid is a helpful byproduct of teaching.

Now, my aha moments are less about concepts and more about shifts in perception and principle. I’ll never rediscover the carbon cycle, but I CAN discover something I’d once thought impossible, or come to a realization that goes against my personal conventional wisdom.

Really, they might as well be called “Holy shit, that makes total sense!” moments. Or “You mean that’s really a thing?” moments. I had it the first time I realized you could make a career out of caring about content on the Web. I had it the first time I understood how much more fulfilling a day in the yard with your kids can be if you just let go of the damned yardwork.

What I guess I’m trying to say is that we never stop having aha moments. God forbid you ever DO stop, you guys. It’ll just mean you’ve stopped trying to figure out the world.

Comments: 2

Issues Considered: On..., Sierra, Vilhauer