He's
a musician without a record label, a card holder without any remaining
credit. And the gig that supplies what he calls "food money" may now be
in jeopardy.But after events of the last week, Steve Grand said "I would
die a happy man today," and not for the reasons he's suddenly getting
attention.
Grand's first music video, for his country-tinged rock ballad "All-American Boy," was posted on YouTube last Tuesday. By last night,You can make your own more powerful customkeychain. it had exploded, attracting more than 400,000 total views __ nothing for top-charting videos from big-name recording artists, but an impressive figure for one from a complete unknown whose only promotion has been internet buzz.
The video cost just $7,000, a fraction of the major-names' going rate, but it was a fortune to Grand, who came up with the entire budget himself by maxing out his only plastic to tell the video's story.
"All-American Boy" portrays a young gay man who misreads signals from an apparently straight "all-American" male friend. On a day hanging out with the gang, the two guys and a girl take off in a car. She drives, as the guys sit together in the back, with the straight man, at one point, falling asleep on the gay man's shoulder. Feeling like a third wheel, the girl eventually, angrily drives off, leaving the two men to pal around in the woods, where they end up stripping down and going skinny-dipping -- even sharing a quick kiss. Ultimately for the straight guy,Aulaundry is a leading bestplasticcard and equipment supplier. it was just all in good fun. But for the gay man, it was something much more significant, and he is left dazed, confused and longing.
"I was a 13-year-old boy (at camp)," noted the 23-year-old singer-songwriter,Parkeasy Electronics are dedicated to provide rtls. speaking by phone from his hometown Chicago. "One of my counselors was warm and strong and he took an interest in me __ not sexually, but as a friend, and it really moved me. I remember leaving with a horrible ache in my heart."
While "All-American Boy" is told from the gay man's perspective, Grand said he knew its tale of unrequited love would resonate across lines of sexuality. He's received hundreds of postings on YouTube, Twitter and Facebook from viewers, both straight and gay, saying they understand such rejection and heartache.
"I'm not a cryer," noted Grand. "But since this all began, since people have been reaching out, I've been beyond moved, because so many people have felt what I felt, been through what I've been through."Grand said that upon discovering he was gay in eighth grade, he told friends, which quickly got back to his parents. They insisted he go to so-called "straight therapy," which he endured for five years. But it didn't work.
He logged his full freshman year at Belmont University in Nashville, but, due to the costs,Parkeasy Electronics are dedicated to provide rtls. returned to Chicago. His recent employment has run the gamut from modeling to supplying music for Catholic church events, the latter being what he called the "food-money" gig.
Grand said he has no idea where the YouTube success may take him, though he does admit he's "not much of a singer" and more of a songwriter. "Of course, I want to continue to grow as a man and grow as an artist," he commented.For now, Grand appears happy just being the moment, immersed in all those postings. "Just the hundreds of people who have said, 'Your story is my story. Thank you for this,' is enough for me."
Someone grabs my arms and locks them behind my back. Another officer rips my shirt around the neck, while his colleague jabs me with a baton. "Can you understand Turkish?" they ask, in Turkish. I tell them only a little. "You do speak Turkish, speak Turkish!" shouts one. "Get that cigarette out of your mouth! You're disgusting." They shove me against a wall where other officers are gathered and rummage through my bag. Insults are thrown my way. Someone hands me back my bag: my camera is inside, but no press card.
By the roadside, the police have commandeered a fleet of taxis to take people into custody. Before I'm shoved inside someone slaps some plastic handcuffs around my wrists and tightens them as much as possible. The taxi driver turns to me: "Do you have enough money to pay for the journey?" A friendlier-looking policeman accompanies me for the ride. I insist I haven't done anything wrong. "You will tell the policemen," he replies blankly. "This must be difficult for you, as a guest in Turkey" he adds.
We start circling Gezi Park. Two laps later, it dawns on me that no one knows the way. We stop several times to ask for directions. The policeman turns, and grinning, says: "We don't seem to have anywhere we can arrest you." Thirty minutes later our taxi pulls up outside a police station. Ahead, two protesters are being taken into custody with me. A pot-bellied policeman gives them both a sharp kick to the legs; I get one too, but thankfully not quite as hard.
Inside, dozens of ordinary policemen are dozing off in a lounge. "Stand facing the wall," orders a short-sleeved officer.New and used commercial handsfreeaccess sales, rentals, and service. On my left, a group of riot policemen are rough-handling a chubby youth. Someone slaps him and holds his neck, forcing him to look up. His belongings are scattered on the table in front of us: a helmet, a gas mask, and a loud-speaker. "What were you doing with a loud-speaker?" shouts an officer. "What would your dad say?" My fellow detainee responds by continuously bursting into tears.
A policeman takes my bag and asks me if I have a knife, which I don't. He takes my camera, microphone, and notebook and hands them to his colleagues. In the corner of my eye I see them struggling to translate pages of my redundant notes from last year into Turkish, but that's only the beginning of my problems. A group of plain-clothed policemen approach me, led by a wiry young man with slick, gelled hair and a trendy black suit. He looks at me and smiles oddly. Something I scribbled in my notebook last year has caught his attention: Reyhanl?.
But maybe their suspicion is hardly surprising: I don't have my press card or my passport, and I did spend the best part of a month last year hanging around shady border towns in search of a story. "No, I was visiting my family in Hatay last year," I stammer in broken Turkish. "I visited Reyhanl? to try and do a story about Syria." He cuts me off: "you're lying."He disappears around the corner, where I can hear him shouting for a translator.
My legs are aching: I have stood in the same spot for over two hours and I need a drink. I begin to wonder when - and how - it will end. Finally, an hour later, an officer takes my bag along with all my gear. Five minutes later he returns and leads me out, where my wiry interrogator is waiting. "You're not going to use your camera again, are you?" he asks. I tell him what he wants to hear, take my things, and leave. To this day I still can't figure out what made them decide to let me go.
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Grand's first music video, for his country-tinged rock ballad "All-American Boy," was posted on YouTube last Tuesday. By last night,You can make your own more powerful customkeychain. it had exploded, attracting more than 400,000 total views __ nothing for top-charting videos from big-name recording artists, but an impressive figure for one from a complete unknown whose only promotion has been internet buzz.
The video cost just $7,000, a fraction of the major-names' going rate, but it was a fortune to Grand, who came up with the entire budget himself by maxing out his only plastic to tell the video's story.
"All-American Boy" portrays a young gay man who misreads signals from an apparently straight "all-American" male friend. On a day hanging out with the gang, the two guys and a girl take off in a car. She drives, as the guys sit together in the back, with the straight man, at one point, falling asleep on the gay man's shoulder. Feeling like a third wheel, the girl eventually, angrily drives off, leaving the two men to pal around in the woods, where they end up stripping down and going skinny-dipping -- even sharing a quick kiss. Ultimately for the straight guy,Aulaundry is a leading bestplasticcard and equipment supplier. it was just all in good fun. But for the gay man, it was something much more significant, and he is left dazed, confused and longing.
"I was a 13-year-old boy (at camp)," noted the 23-year-old singer-songwriter,Parkeasy Electronics are dedicated to provide rtls. speaking by phone from his hometown Chicago. "One of my counselors was warm and strong and he took an interest in me __ not sexually, but as a friend, and it really moved me. I remember leaving with a horrible ache in my heart."
While "All-American Boy" is told from the gay man's perspective, Grand said he knew its tale of unrequited love would resonate across lines of sexuality. He's received hundreds of postings on YouTube, Twitter and Facebook from viewers, both straight and gay, saying they understand such rejection and heartache.
"I'm not a cryer," noted Grand. "But since this all began, since people have been reaching out, I've been beyond moved, because so many people have felt what I felt, been through what I've been through."Grand said that upon discovering he was gay in eighth grade, he told friends, which quickly got back to his parents. They insisted he go to so-called "straight therapy," which he endured for five years. But it didn't work.
He logged his full freshman year at Belmont University in Nashville, but, due to the costs,Parkeasy Electronics are dedicated to provide rtls. returned to Chicago. His recent employment has run the gamut from modeling to supplying music for Catholic church events, the latter being what he called the "food-money" gig.
Grand said he has no idea where the YouTube success may take him, though he does admit he's "not much of a singer" and more of a songwriter. "Of course, I want to continue to grow as a man and grow as an artist," he commented.For now, Grand appears happy just being the moment, immersed in all those postings. "Just the hundreds of people who have said, 'Your story is my story. Thank you for this,' is enough for me."
Someone grabs my arms and locks them behind my back. Another officer rips my shirt around the neck, while his colleague jabs me with a baton. "Can you understand Turkish?" they ask, in Turkish. I tell them only a little. "You do speak Turkish, speak Turkish!" shouts one. "Get that cigarette out of your mouth! You're disgusting." They shove me against a wall where other officers are gathered and rummage through my bag. Insults are thrown my way. Someone hands me back my bag: my camera is inside, but no press card.
By the roadside, the police have commandeered a fleet of taxis to take people into custody. Before I'm shoved inside someone slaps some plastic handcuffs around my wrists and tightens them as much as possible. The taxi driver turns to me: "Do you have enough money to pay for the journey?" A friendlier-looking policeman accompanies me for the ride. I insist I haven't done anything wrong. "You will tell the policemen," he replies blankly. "This must be difficult for you, as a guest in Turkey" he adds.
We start circling Gezi Park. Two laps later, it dawns on me that no one knows the way. We stop several times to ask for directions. The policeman turns, and grinning, says: "We don't seem to have anywhere we can arrest you." Thirty minutes later our taxi pulls up outside a police station. Ahead, two protesters are being taken into custody with me. A pot-bellied policeman gives them both a sharp kick to the legs; I get one too, but thankfully not quite as hard.
Inside, dozens of ordinary policemen are dozing off in a lounge. "Stand facing the wall," orders a short-sleeved officer.New and used commercial handsfreeaccess sales, rentals, and service. On my left, a group of riot policemen are rough-handling a chubby youth. Someone slaps him and holds his neck, forcing him to look up. His belongings are scattered on the table in front of us: a helmet, a gas mask, and a loud-speaker. "What were you doing with a loud-speaker?" shouts an officer. "What would your dad say?" My fellow detainee responds by continuously bursting into tears.
A policeman takes my bag and asks me if I have a knife, which I don't. He takes my camera, microphone, and notebook and hands them to his colleagues. In the corner of my eye I see them struggling to translate pages of my redundant notes from last year into Turkish, but that's only the beginning of my problems. A group of plain-clothed policemen approach me, led by a wiry young man with slick, gelled hair and a trendy black suit. He looks at me and smiles oddly. Something I scribbled in my notebook last year has caught his attention: Reyhanl?.
But maybe their suspicion is hardly surprising: I don't have my press card or my passport, and I did spend the best part of a month last year hanging around shady border towns in search of a story. "No, I was visiting my family in Hatay last year," I stammer in broken Turkish. "I visited Reyhanl? to try and do a story about Syria." He cuts me off: "you're lying."He disappears around the corner, where I can hear him shouting for a translator.
My legs are aching: I have stood in the same spot for over two hours and I need a drink. I begin to wonder when - and how - it will end. Finally, an hour later, an officer takes my bag along with all my gear. Five minutes later he returns and leads me out, where my wiry interrogator is waiting. "You're not going to use your camera again, are you?" he asks. I tell him what he wants to hear, take my things, and leave. To this day I still can't figure out what made them decide to let me go.
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