My junior year of high school, I took what must have been some sort of debate or perhaps a speech class. I obviously don’t remember that much about it, but it mostly consisted of a bunch of racist seniors justifying their racism while the teacher, a German foreign-exchange student and myself argued against them. I challenged that their arguments were simply repetitions of what they had been told, at the same time realizing that everything I said were simply repetitions of what I had been told. The German kid (my apologies, but I have no idea what his name was) brought a unique perspective in that he came from a country where things like racist groups were illegal. He was repeating what he had been told as well. I remember at the time naively thinking that that also must be wrong because that’s not the way we did it in America.
The German kid was an urban gothic-dressed angst-ridden foreigner who had been dropped into a tiny Midwest conservative farming all-American town. In my high school, the majority wore plaid flannel shirts, huge belt buckles, cowboy boots and chewed tobacco. Except for one black teacher, you'd have to travel to Des Moines to find someone who wasn't white. Needless to say, the German kid didn’t fit in too well in my high school. Fortunately neither did I, so I spent some time hanging out with him and the other exchange students (which also included two Japanese kids and a Hispanic who would end up living with my family for most of the school year).
One day, it must have been September or October of 1992, I gave the German kid a ride into Ankeny to get our hair cut at the only barbershop within a 20 mile radius of where we went to school. Cecil the barber, like many people in Iowa, was an avid fisherman and hunter, and had fish and animals mounted all over his shop. Cecil cut everyone’s hair the exact same way, so every male in my school district had the exact same haircut, except for the few "rebels" who didn’t get their hair cut at all.
As we drove to Cecil’s in my Volkswagon Bug, I nervously flipped through the radio stations. I didn’t really usually listen to music, but I also couldn’t think of anything to say to the kid and was trying to break the silence. Finally, I came upon a song that the girl I had just started dating liked. In fact, it was "our song" for whatever random reason. Honestly, I’d never paid any attention to it, but I knew it was popular at the time so I assumed it was good. The song was "When I Look Into Your Eyes," by Firehouse.
Immediately, the kid groaned and declared what a horrible song it was. I innocently asked, "Why?" and he proceeded to go into a diatribe about music for the rest of the trip. I had no idea what or who he was talking about. I had never really listened to music except for the Christian stuff I had grown up with. We didn’t have cable, so I had never seen MTV. Pretty much all I knew about secular music was whatever rock band t-shirts the other kids wore. The darndest thing about this fact was that I had spent about an hour a day banging on a drumset since I had gotten one in sixth grade!
I realized that, as a so-called drummer, I should learn about music. But in order to do so, I would have to learn to form my own opinions first. My whole life I had been surrounded by a bunch of zombies who simply did what everybody else did and believed what they were told, and I was one of them. I also realized that different opinions, such as those of the German kid, were as useless to me as the opinions I had grown up believing. No opinion was worthwhile unless I could understand from whence it had been derived, and then scrutinize the conclusions beginning from the origin of the question. (Years later as a philosophy major, I would find out this method is called "radical skepticism.") I would have to become acutely aware of my own sensory and mental perceptions in order to recognize my own tastes and preferences.
Suddenly, I got disoriented. I couldn’t remember which road I was on or which way to turn to get to where I was going. I had driven this same route to the same barbershop for years, but all of a sudden I didn’t know where I was. Or perhaps, for the first time in my life, I simply realized I didn’t know where I was; a fact of my entire existence up until now.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Saturday, March 29, 2008
The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady
The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady, a Charles Mingus album released in early 1963, is easily one of my all-time favorite recordings. It consists of one composition divided into 6 parts. The album effortlessly weaves eleven musicians with uniquely strong individual voices together. At times these eleven can sound like an army (although admittedly some of this is due to the judicious use of overdubs), but the music always has space to breathe. Perhaps making music breathe is what Mingus does best. The CD version is inexplicably broken up into only four tracks, with the fourth track consisting of the last three movements, even though there are clear breaks between the sections. Much ado has been made of the liner notes of this album, written by Mingus’ psychotherapist, but I’m glad that I bought my copy used and the liner notes are missing so I can focus on the music and not be swayed by another’s analysis of its meaning or whatever. (I did an internet search, confused as to why I was hearing more than one alto and thinking I was incorrectly differentiating the tenor and alto, and found the same two reviews, neither of them illuminating or helpful (except in that they did hint that Mingus used overdubs, returning my sanity) and both glaringly vague as if based on heresay, plagiarized about fifty times!)
The suite opens with Danny Richmond, one of my drumming heroes, defining the sexy feel and quick pace of the first movement, entitled "Solo Dancer." He is soon joined by the ensemble playing a suave vamp, which gets nudged by a muted contrabass trombone (Don Butterfield). The tenor sax (Dick Hafer) introduces a melody which he will continue to refer to throughout the piece, then the alto (Charlie Mariano) slyly floats in taking over the solo for just a few measures, after which he tries to hand it back to the tenor as the drums change to a 6/8 feel, but a baritone sax (Jerome Richardson) with a bleeding heart takes over instead. Underneath, the ensemble gets contrastly more exuberant, forcing the bari to leave his sadness behind. The sun in the form of a trumpet peeks out for a moment, but then cold, fog and wet quickly dominate and briefly calms things down. Indomitable, the musicians fight valiantly with the alto at the helm, and then out of nowhere a muted brass cheer erupts, inciting a passionate soprano sax solo (Richardson). He lets go and soars, and eventually those same muted brass can contain themselves no longer and excitedly urge him on. Suddenly and almost inexplicably, the song melts to a quick end.
The second movement, entitled "Duet Solo Dancers," begins with a piano solo (Jaki Byard). It is heavy and burdened; the rain is back. Then, the saxes return, repeating the theme introduced by the tenor in the first movement. The alto expands briefly, then holds a note and lets it fade. The tuba (Butterfield) and baritone march in like two feet on a giant with the drums as its spine. A muted trombone (Quentin Jackson) tries to stop them, and although he is joined by others, the giant seems about to stomp them all out. Briefly, the giant rests, but then the fight continues until finally the muted trombone reels in agony as the drums continue to beat him down. But no, it was all in good fun; the trombone jumps back to life with the ensemble’s support. The alto bends a note in the background for awhile, then reprises the theme.
The third movement, "Group Dancers," again begins with the piano playing hauntingly; the rain is clearing but occasional thunder can still be heard. The ensemble, led this time by flutes (Hafer and Richardson), cheerily encourage the piano and let him continue. Then the alto stops everybody and introduces a Spanish-influenced guitar (Jay Berliner). The ensemble seems to dig this direction and gets behind a spirited alto-driven jaunt. The mood calms but the alto continues. He seems to momentarily split in two due to a soprano sax brashly doubling his part. Then, the alto does split in two, doubling himself, letting us know the solo is an overdub. With the baritone’s support, the alto leaves his upper register. The soprano (also an overdub since the bari is the same musician) jeers above, but the alto comes right back at him. Everyone gives way to let the alto celebrate his victory, but when they do he plays a beautiful cadenza then gets self-conscious and stops.
The fourth movement, "Trio and Group Dancers" (I must say I have no idea what any of these titles are referencing, if anything), starts with a quick introduction of several members vying to take charge. The upright bass, fittingly played by the bandleader himself, demands that they all get along; a singing ensemble of unspeakable brilliance results. But I guess the guitar feels left out, and just begins strumming, much to the chagrin of everybody. They kind of all look around, shrug their shoulders and try to ignore him. But hell no, he’s gonna play his flamenco-esque music and they’re gonna listen! But when he begins incessantly banging a chord repeatedly the ensemble decides they have had enough and try to return to what they were doing. But the guitar has infected them like a virus, and now the trumpets (Rolf Ericson and Richard Williams) are Spanish-tinged too. Suddenly, it’s a fiesta!
Okay, TIMEOUT! Let me just try to come to grips with this. How did any composer ever conceive this? How does he just continue to jump from one theme and style to the next while successfully making it all one song? Mingus, like Mozart, knows how to expertly toss the melody from one instrument to the next, while, like Beethoven, morphing the melody into a whole new vibe. And like Ellington, Mingus always accentuates the strengths of each musician in the band. Despite his obvious vast knowledge of music history, like a true auteur, Mingus never sounds like anybody but Mingus. Oh, but wait- there are still twelve minutes left….
Four ensemble beats bring the party to an abrupt close, and in the short fifth movement, "Single Solos and Group Dance," the piano (certainly it’s Mingus, unless Byard’s fingers suddenly got a lot fatter. This is the second time the bandleader plays a part which seems to restore order to chaos.) hammers away until he’s able to reintroduce the happenings before the rude guitar interruption.
The sixth movement, "Group and Solo Dance," begins as pure big band swing. And does it swing! Short solos constantly weave in and out, above and behind. (This section utilizes overdubs, as you can clearly hear two altos.) Then, the unwavering guitarist is back. The alto joins him in a duet. The ensemble respectfully returns. As the alto continues, a trumpet tries to break free. The alto and trumpet battle aggressively, with the ensemble trying to hold it together while the guitar does his thing. Eventually the tenor restores sanity by returning to his theme. Then, a muted trombone decides to lead a cabaret-esque romp as saxes croon and muted trumpets cheer on, which slowly speeds up until the drums are playing (dare I say inventing?) a fast punk groove. Eventually, the tempo calms, but before you know it, things have sped up and gone ballistic again! This idea repeats a third time, but this time an overdubbed alto and then tenor add their two cents. Finally the alto takes a brief solo very reminiscent of his solo at the beginning of the piece, but apparently Mingus was not satisfied with the original ending, because an overdubbed alto cadenza is pasted at the very end.
The suite opens with Danny Richmond, one of my drumming heroes, defining the sexy feel and quick pace of the first movement, entitled "Solo Dancer." He is soon joined by the ensemble playing a suave vamp, which gets nudged by a muted contrabass trombone (Don Butterfield). The tenor sax (Dick Hafer) introduces a melody which he will continue to refer to throughout the piece, then the alto (Charlie Mariano) slyly floats in taking over the solo for just a few measures, after which he tries to hand it back to the tenor as the drums change to a 6/8 feel, but a baritone sax (Jerome Richardson) with a bleeding heart takes over instead. Underneath, the ensemble gets contrastly more exuberant, forcing the bari to leave his sadness behind. The sun in the form of a trumpet peeks out for a moment, but then cold, fog and wet quickly dominate and briefly calms things down. Indomitable, the musicians fight valiantly with the alto at the helm, and then out of nowhere a muted brass cheer erupts, inciting a passionate soprano sax solo (Richardson). He lets go and soars, and eventually those same muted brass can contain themselves no longer and excitedly urge him on. Suddenly and almost inexplicably, the song melts to a quick end.
The second movement, entitled "Duet Solo Dancers," begins with a piano solo (Jaki Byard). It is heavy and burdened; the rain is back. Then, the saxes return, repeating the theme introduced by the tenor in the first movement. The alto expands briefly, then holds a note and lets it fade. The tuba (Butterfield) and baritone march in like two feet on a giant with the drums as its spine. A muted trombone (Quentin Jackson) tries to stop them, and although he is joined by others, the giant seems about to stomp them all out. Briefly, the giant rests, but then the fight continues until finally the muted trombone reels in agony as the drums continue to beat him down. But no, it was all in good fun; the trombone jumps back to life with the ensemble’s support. The alto bends a note in the background for awhile, then reprises the theme.
The third movement, "Group Dancers," again begins with the piano playing hauntingly; the rain is clearing but occasional thunder can still be heard. The ensemble, led this time by flutes (Hafer and Richardson), cheerily encourage the piano and let him continue. Then the alto stops everybody and introduces a Spanish-influenced guitar (Jay Berliner). The ensemble seems to dig this direction and gets behind a spirited alto-driven jaunt. The mood calms but the alto continues. He seems to momentarily split in two due to a soprano sax brashly doubling his part. Then, the alto does split in two, doubling himself, letting us know the solo is an overdub. With the baritone’s support, the alto leaves his upper register. The soprano (also an overdub since the bari is the same musician) jeers above, but the alto comes right back at him. Everyone gives way to let the alto celebrate his victory, but when they do he plays a beautiful cadenza then gets self-conscious and stops.
The fourth movement, "Trio and Group Dancers" (I must say I have no idea what any of these titles are referencing, if anything), starts with a quick introduction of several members vying to take charge. The upright bass, fittingly played by the bandleader himself, demands that they all get along; a singing ensemble of unspeakable brilliance results. But I guess the guitar feels left out, and just begins strumming, much to the chagrin of everybody. They kind of all look around, shrug their shoulders and try to ignore him. But hell no, he’s gonna play his flamenco-esque music and they’re gonna listen! But when he begins incessantly banging a chord repeatedly the ensemble decides they have had enough and try to return to what they were doing. But the guitar has infected them like a virus, and now the trumpets (Rolf Ericson and Richard Williams) are Spanish-tinged too. Suddenly, it’s a fiesta!
Okay, TIMEOUT! Let me just try to come to grips with this. How did any composer ever conceive this? How does he just continue to jump from one theme and style to the next while successfully making it all one song? Mingus, like Mozart, knows how to expertly toss the melody from one instrument to the next, while, like Beethoven, morphing the melody into a whole new vibe. And like Ellington, Mingus always accentuates the strengths of each musician in the band. Despite his obvious vast knowledge of music history, like a true auteur, Mingus never sounds like anybody but Mingus. Oh, but wait- there are still twelve minutes left….
Four ensemble beats bring the party to an abrupt close, and in the short fifth movement, "Single Solos and Group Dance," the piano (certainly it’s Mingus, unless Byard’s fingers suddenly got a lot fatter. This is the second time the bandleader plays a part which seems to restore order to chaos.) hammers away until he’s able to reintroduce the happenings before the rude guitar interruption.
The sixth movement, "Group and Solo Dance," begins as pure big band swing. And does it swing! Short solos constantly weave in and out, above and behind. (This section utilizes overdubs, as you can clearly hear two altos.) Then, the unwavering guitarist is back. The alto joins him in a duet. The ensemble respectfully returns. As the alto continues, a trumpet tries to break free. The alto and trumpet battle aggressively, with the ensemble trying to hold it together while the guitar does his thing. Eventually the tenor restores sanity by returning to his theme. Then, a muted trombone decides to lead a cabaret-esque romp as saxes croon and muted trumpets cheer on, which slowly speeds up until the drums are playing (dare I say inventing?) a fast punk groove. Eventually, the tempo calms, but before you know it, things have sped up and gone ballistic again! This idea repeats a third time, but this time an overdubbed alto and then tenor add their two cents. Finally the alto takes a brief solo very reminiscent of his solo at the beginning of the piece, but apparently Mingus was not satisfied with the original ending, because an overdubbed alto cadenza is pasted at the very end.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
White Snail gifts
Like many others, I’m not generally very good at keeping in touch with others not in my vicinity. I’ve never been much of a phone talker or e-mailer since I can rarely think of anything interesting but concise to say (as you may have noticed if you’ve been reading my blog). I do like writing letters sometimes since it’s easier to say nothing in a letter and still convey ideas, but I’m usually too lazy to sit down and write anything.
Years ago, I stumbled on a very simple way to keep in touch with old friends that requires little thought or effort. I call it the White Snail gift. The premise can be compared to White Elephant parties, where everyone brings and exchanges gag gifts. The strategy of the White Snail is that, instead of exchanging gifts, you simply mail the gags through the post office (snail mail, get it?).
I believe the White Snail gift is best executed in the following manner: Whenever you come across or are given something that’s not quite trash but that you don’t have any use for, put it into an envelope or box and mail it off to someone you haven’t heard from in awhile. Don’t bother trying to write an explanation because then it’ll be like writing a letter and you’ll just put the whole thing off and the object will never get sent. I prefer to single one person out and just continuously send them crap for a year or so. I probably get something sent about every other month. It’s not really an idea worth wasting money on, so I try to stick to small, light objects. One great thing about the White Snail is you start looking for weird stuff to send.
The first thing you must realize about White Snail gifts is that you should never expect any reciprocation. In fact, you should never expect to find out whether or not they actually received the gift at all. At first I didn’t write my return address on the gifts, since I thought it was funny to have them speculate who it was from, assuming the post office stamp should be enough of a clue; but then I got curious about whether the gift had been received. Besides, putting my return address on the package lets the recipient know I’m thinking of them, and not what could simply be some random stalker. A gag gift exchange would be fun, but if your friends are like mine it would kill the idea in its tracks, since you’d send something off and never hear from them again.
I stumbled across this idea quite by accident. In the late 90’s I lived in a house that had been rented continuously for years by friends who would pass the place on to other friends when they moved out. Consequently, the place was full of junk and nobody knew who it belonged to. I don’t like clutter, so when I was living there I was constantly asking my roommates if stuff was theirs, and if it wasn’t, I usually threw it out.
Somewhere in that house hung two Tom Sawyer-style straw hats. One day, I got sick of them and asked my roommate Jake if they were his. He guessed they were probably some former tenant’s, but didn’t know who. I rolled my eyes and muttered, "I wish we could just send the old tenants all their crap that’s lying around all over the place." Excitedly, Jake replied, "We should!" Giggling gleefully, we threw one of the hats in a box Jake had, taped it shut and wrote Carl’s address on it, I guess since he was the only former tenant whose address we knew. I actually vaguely remember sending both hats, but I don’t know who we would have sent the other one to.
Carl was living in San Diego at the time, and what we didn’t know was that Carl’s mom had been regularly mailing him cookies. So when our box came in the mail, Carl’s roommate, seeing it was from Iowa, hungrily opened it up expecting fresh cookies. I forgot about the incident completely until years later, when I visited Carl and saw the hat hanging on his wall. I slyly asked, "Where did you get that hat?" Grinning immediately, he replied, "Did you send that?" and then relayed the story. I don’t know why, but it still makes me laugh.
Years ago, I stumbled on a very simple way to keep in touch with old friends that requires little thought or effort. I call it the White Snail gift. The premise can be compared to White Elephant parties, where everyone brings and exchanges gag gifts. The strategy of the White Snail is that, instead of exchanging gifts, you simply mail the gags through the post office (snail mail, get it?).
I believe the White Snail gift is best executed in the following manner: Whenever you come across or are given something that’s not quite trash but that you don’t have any use for, put it into an envelope or box and mail it off to someone you haven’t heard from in awhile. Don’t bother trying to write an explanation because then it’ll be like writing a letter and you’ll just put the whole thing off and the object will never get sent. I prefer to single one person out and just continuously send them crap for a year or so. I probably get something sent about every other month. It’s not really an idea worth wasting money on, so I try to stick to small, light objects. One great thing about the White Snail is you start looking for weird stuff to send.
The first thing you must realize about White Snail gifts is that you should never expect any reciprocation. In fact, you should never expect to find out whether or not they actually received the gift at all. At first I didn’t write my return address on the gifts, since I thought it was funny to have them speculate who it was from, assuming the post office stamp should be enough of a clue; but then I got curious about whether the gift had been received. Besides, putting my return address on the package lets the recipient know I’m thinking of them, and not what could simply be some random stalker. A gag gift exchange would be fun, but if your friends are like mine it would kill the idea in its tracks, since you’d send something off and never hear from them again.
I stumbled across this idea quite by accident. In the late 90’s I lived in a house that had been rented continuously for years by friends who would pass the place on to other friends when they moved out. Consequently, the place was full of junk and nobody knew who it belonged to. I don’t like clutter, so when I was living there I was constantly asking my roommates if stuff was theirs, and if it wasn’t, I usually threw it out.
Somewhere in that house hung two Tom Sawyer-style straw hats. One day, I got sick of them and asked my roommate Jake if they were his. He guessed they were probably some former tenant’s, but didn’t know who. I rolled my eyes and muttered, "I wish we could just send the old tenants all their crap that’s lying around all over the place." Excitedly, Jake replied, "We should!" Giggling gleefully, we threw one of the hats in a box Jake had, taped it shut and wrote Carl’s address on it, I guess since he was the only former tenant whose address we knew. I actually vaguely remember sending both hats, but I don’t know who we would have sent the other one to.
Carl was living in San Diego at the time, and what we didn’t know was that Carl’s mom had been regularly mailing him cookies. So when our box came in the mail, Carl’s roommate, seeing it was from Iowa, hungrily opened it up expecting fresh cookies. I forgot about the incident completely until years later, when I visited Carl and saw the hat hanging on his wall. I slyly asked, "Where did you get that hat?" Grinning immediately, he replied, "Did you send that?" and then relayed the story. I don’t know why, but it still makes me laugh.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Love
I’m a big believer in being able to form a definition for the words you use. Certainly one of my main objections in life is those who throw words around flippantly, and perhaps no other word is used as thoughtlessly as "love."
What is love? Love is an addiction to a specific other. I am not being metaphorical in any way. By addiction, I am referring to any activity that alters your brain chemistry to form a dependence upon that activity in order to maintain a sense of wholeness or normalcy. Because of this, addictions are habit forming, meaning that one is strongly inclined to repeat the activity. Addictions also elicit obsessive thoughts regarding the activity. In love, the activity is being with a specific other.
Love, in all its forms, entails caring for another’s well-being. A chief characteristic of love is missing someone when you’re not with them. Contrary to popular opinion, I don’t think either of these things can be deemed unselfish. In fact, wouldn’t it be kind of horrible if your thought process was, "I love you and enjoy spending time with you, but it is wholly for your benefit and I want nothing from it at all."? When you’re in love with another, the motivation for being with them is essentially a selfish desire to feed your addiction.
The physical and emotional responses associated with love are the same as with any other addiction, and like any other addiction, humans have a tendency to let their decisions be heavily influenced by their desire to feed it. As any Alcoholics Anonymous member will tell you, a good first step is to recognize your addiction for what it is. Once love addiction is recognized, one is be better able to keep it in perspective. Like other addictions, love provides a sense of euphoria at first, which, unless you continue to increase the dosage (which is measured in quality moreso than quantity,) wears off over time, leaving only a sense of withdrawal when deprived of it.
The easiest and most effective way of strengthening a habit is through variable interval positive reinforcement conditioning. This consists of rewarding an activity at unpredictable times. Gambling makes effective use of this conditioning. Because a gambler wins every so often, he is apt to continue gambling even despite long losing streaks. The relevance is that it is very easy to manipulate a person in love with you; you simply do something nice for the person in love with you every so often (but not consistently or predictably).
An addiction alone is never a sufficient or acceptable reason to feed that addiction. Neither is it always necessary or beneficial to ween yourself from an addiction. The addiction must be put into perspective of how it is influencing the rest of our life. In order to determine whether you should continue being with another, you should consider factors in the relationship more tangible and beneficial than love. In future posts, I intend to explore and opine on various factors which influence the health and prudence of a relationship….
What is love? Love is an addiction to a specific other. I am not being metaphorical in any way. By addiction, I am referring to any activity that alters your brain chemistry to form a dependence upon that activity in order to maintain a sense of wholeness or normalcy. Because of this, addictions are habit forming, meaning that one is strongly inclined to repeat the activity. Addictions also elicit obsessive thoughts regarding the activity. In love, the activity is being with a specific other.
Love, in all its forms, entails caring for another’s well-being. A chief characteristic of love is missing someone when you’re not with them. Contrary to popular opinion, I don’t think either of these things can be deemed unselfish. In fact, wouldn’t it be kind of horrible if your thought process was, "I love you and enjoy spending time with you, but it is wholly for your benefit and I want nothing from it at all."? When you’re in love with another, the motivation for being with them is essentially a selfish desire to feed your addiction.
The physical and emotional responses associated with love are the same as with any other addiction, and like any other addiction, humans have a tendency to let their decisions be heavily influenced by their desire to feed it. As any Alcoholics Anonymous member will tell you, a good first step is to recognize your addiction for what it is. Once love addiction is recognized, one is be better able to keep it in perspective. Like other addictions, love provides a sense of euphoria at first, which, unless you continue to increase the dosage (which is measured in quality moreso than quantity,) wears off over time, leaving only a sense of withdrawal when deprived of it.
The easiest and most effective way of strengthening a habit is through variable interval positive reinforcement conditioning. This consists of rewarding an activity at unpredictable times. Gambling makes effective use of this conditioning. Because a gambler wins every so often, he is apt to continue gambling even despite long losing streaks. The relevance is that it is very easy to manipulate a person in love with you; you simply do something nice for the person in love with you every so often (but not consistently or predictably).
An addiction alone is never a sufficient or acceptable reason to feed that addiction. Neither is it always necessary or beneficial to ween yourself from an addiction. The addiction must be put into perspective of how it is influencing the rest of our life. In order to determine whether you should continue being with another, you should consider factors in the relationship more tangible and beneficial than love. In future posts, I intend to explore and opine on various factors which influence the health and prudence of a relationship….
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Teachers
I am always befuddled when I hear others talk about some teacher they had growing up that was a huge influence on them. Besides my parents, I never really had any teachers I even particularly liked until I got into college. Perhaps that’s why I’m confused when others tell me I would make a good teacher. Does such a thing exist? What is all this hullabaloo about teachers?
In my experience, most teachers are basically a resource for book recommendations on a subject. In this role, teachers are about as useful as a library card catalog, and only the best are as useful as the bibliography of a book you enjoy. Teachers assign books to read, or worse read them to you, and then test you on your ability to comprehend or remember what you’ve read. These tests are always biased in favor of the teacher’s interests.
In college, I finally had some teachers who had formed personal opinions and insights on subjects which they had studied extensively, and they shared these opinions with us. In this role, teachers are as useful as reading a book. After all, most of them were published authors.
I’ve rarely received any hands-on (experiential) training from teachers, which interestingly is the only kind of learning you can’t get from a book. Growing up, teachers assigned these roles did nothing but hand me a pencil and say "draw something" or put a piece of music in front of me and say "play this." It was not until I experienced museums and live and recorded music that I had any inking what, how or why to draw or play.
Admittedly, teachers cannot wholly be blamed for the fact that in America the shrewd objective of the education system is primarily to train us to obey and conform. This is because we are intended to be well-behaved laborers dependent upon income for survival. A legitimate education system would teach us first-aid, gardening, construction, sewing, hunting, aesthetics, communications (speaking, writing), communications technology (computer building) and transportation technology (vehicle building); enabling us to live mostly independent of the capitalistic economic system which drives this society.
Finally, some teachers have the ability to inspire others to learn. In this role, they are like reading an exciting or intriguing book. This is probably the most useful type of teacher, but I’ve been inspired to learn from my parents, peers and environment far more than I ever have been from any assigned teacher.
As a child, my mom inspired me to read, and I did. I am a very fast reader and pretty good at retaining things I’ve read. I also seem better at reading between the lines (picking out the biases and underlying intentions of the author) than many others. One of the best things about a book is that if it’s not interesting or beneficial you can simply stop reading it, which is much easier than telling some idiot trying to teach you to shut the hell up.
My dad encouraged me to experience nature and, as an adolescent, my peers inspired me to experience most everything else, which I slowly and cautiously continue to do as time and money allows. Apparently this system considers experience much more dangerous than books because it is much more heavily discouraged and they make it much more difficult to do.
Nobody can teach anyone anything. People only learn what they choose to learn. In that regard, the term "teacher" is misleading. They would more aptly be called "sharers" or "inspirers." Unfortunately most so-called teachers are only distracters.
In my experience, most teachers are basically a resource for book recommendations on a subject. In this role, teachers are about as useful as a library card catalog, and only the best are as useful as the bibliography of a book you enjoy. Teachers assign books to read, or worse read them to you, and then test you on your ability to comprehend or remember what you’ve read. These tests are always biased in favor of the teacher’s interests.
In college, I finally had some teachers who had formed personal opinions and insights on subjects which they had studied extensively, and they shared these opinions with us. In this role, teachers are as useful as reading a book. After all, most of them were published authors.
I’ve rarely received any hands-on (experiential) training from teachers, which interestingly is the only kind of learning you can’t get from a book. Growing up, teachers assigned these roles did nothing but hand me a pencil and say "draw something" or put a piece of music in front of me and say "play this." It was not until I experienced museums and live and recorded music that I had any inking what, how or why to draw or play.
Admittedly, teachers cannot wholly be blamed for the fact that in America the shrewd objective of the education system is primarily to train us to obey and conform. This is because we are intended to be well-behaved laborers dependent upon income for survival. A legitimate education system would teach us first-aid, gardening, construction, sewing, hunting, aesthetics, communications (speaking, writing), communications technology (computer building) and transportation technology (vehicle building); enabling us to live mostly independent of the capitalistic economic system which drives this society.
Finally, some teachers have the ability to inspire others to learn. In this role, they are like reading an exciting or intriguing book. This is probably the most useful type of teacher, but I’ve been inspired to learn from my parents, peers and environment far more than I ever have been from any assigned teacher.
As a child, my mom inspired me to read, and I did. I am a very fast reader and pretty good at retaining things I’ve read. I also seem better at reading between the lines (picking out the biases and underlying intentions of the author) than many others. One of the best things about a book is that if it’s not interesting or beneficial you can simply stop reading it, which is much easier than telling some idiot trying to teach you to shut the hell up.
My dad encouraged me to experience nature and, as an adolescent, my peers inspired me to experience most everything else, which I slowly and cautiously continue to do as time and money allows. Apparently this system considers experience much more dangerous than books because it is much more heavily discouraged and they make it much more difficult to do.
Nobody can teach anyone anything. People only learn what they choose to learn. In that regard, the term "teacher" is misleading. They would more aptly be called "sharers" or "inspirers." Unfortunately most so-called teachers are only distracters.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Maker's Manhattan
Most cocktails require a perfect balance of all of the ingredients for them to taste right. (Traditionally, a cocktail was any beverage that included alcohol, sugar, water and bitters, with the latter being the most defining ingredient, but now it is used to refer to any mixed drink containing alcohol.) Recipes tend to give an approximation of the proportions to be used, but it seems to take quite a bit of fine tuning to get them just right. After much experimentation, I believe I have finally figured out how to make a good Maker’s Manhattan.
A Manhattan is a cocktail containing whiskey, sweet vermouth and bitters. While it was on sale last month, I worked extensively on honing in on making a Manhattan using Maker’s Mark bourbon as the whiskey. Maker’s Manhattans are a fairly popular drink these days, and I’ve had a few good ones and far too many bad ones. Actually, ordering two horrible ones (for me and my girlfriend) at a McMenamin’s (don’t get me started) bar called White Eagle and paying $17.50 for them became an inspiration for me to learn.
Originally the recipe called for rye whiskey, which is generally less sweet than bourbon. Unfortunately, a lot of bartenders haven’t figured this out and are ruining the drink by using bourbon and the same amount of sweet vermouth as they would with a rye whiskey. A little bit of vermouth goes along way, as anyone who’s ever gotten a vermouth-heavy martini can tell you. Interesting, although it has a relatively low alcohol content, because of its sharp flavor people who don’t know anything about liquor will mistakenly think the strong taste of their drink with too much vermouth is due to the alcohol.
The first thing you need for mixing drinks is a cocktail shaker. This is a genius little idea that enables you to fully mix the ingredients while using ice cubes to simultaneously cool it and add just the right amount of water (due to the alcohol melting the ice as you shake). I am a big fan of serving chilled drinks “up” and not “on the rocks,” because if it’s the latter, as you drink the beverage the ice melts and the drink gets more and more watered down until the taste is completely ruined. “Up,” or “straight up,” if you don’t know, refers to a drink chilled and diluted by shaking with ice but served in a glass with no ice. (“Neat,” I learned after much debate with my girlfriend, is an undiluted drink served room temperature. I think I still owe her $5.)
In my Maker’s Manhattan, I use 2.5 shots of Maker’s for every 1/2 shot of sweet vermouth. For the mathematically impaired, this is a ratio of 5 to 1. Almost all Manhattan recipes I’ve come across call for a ratio between 3:1 and 4:1. Again, this is due, in part, to the difference between rye whiskey and bourbon, but also, I suspect in part due to cheap-ass bartenders ripping off their customers (Maker’s is about $25 a bottle and 90 proof and Martini & Rossi sweet vermouth is about $6 and 32 proof). Unsurprisingly, 5:1 is the same ratio of gin to dry vermouth I use in making martinis, the Manhattan’s doppelganger. (Since I brought it up, all you do for a martini is shake those two ingredients vigorously with ice cubes and strain into a glass with an olive in it. If you're using cheap, flavorless olives, add two of them. Oh, and if there’s vodka in it, don’t call it a martini.)
Purists will note that another reason I use less sweet vermouth is because I cheat and pour in a little cherry juice straight from the jar of cherries. If unlike me you know how to make it, you can instead add a splash of simple syrup. If you would rather be proper about how you’re supposed to make a Manhattan, instead of adding the cherry juice I recommend adding two cherries to the drink instead of one. (To mirror the idea of a martini with olive juice added (not recommended) being called a “dirty martini,” probably a Manhattan with cherry juice added should be called a “dirty Manhattan.”)
Without further ado, here’s my (dirty) Maker’s Manhattan recipe: Pour 2.5 shots of Maker’s, ½ shot of sweet vermouth, a splash of cherry juice and one or two drops of Angostura bitters into a shaker filled with ice cubes. (Like vermouth, a little bit of bitters goes a long way, but if you don’t use too much it nicely balances the sweetness of the vermouth.) Shake the mixture vigorously at least 50 times and strain into a cocktail glass with a cherry in it.
Try it; you'll thank me later.
A Manhattan is a cocktail containing whiskey, sweet vermouth and bitters. While it was on sale last month, I worked extensively on honing in on making a Manhattan using Maker’s Mark bourbon as the whiskey. Maker’s Manhattans are a fairly popular drink these days, and I’ve had a few good ones and far too many bad ones. Actually, ordering two horrible ones (for me and my girlfriend) at a McMenamin’s (don’t get me started) bar called White Eagle and paying $17.50 for them became an inspiration for me to learn.
Originally the recipe called for rye whiskey, which is generally less sweet than bourbon. Unfortunately, a lot of bartenders haven’t figured this out and are ruining the drink by using bourbon and the same amount of sweet vermouth as they would with a rye whiskey. A little bit of vermouth goes along way, as anyone who’s ever gotten a vermouth-heavy martini can tell you. Interesting, although it has a relatively low alcohol content, because of its sharp flavor people who don’t know anything about liquor will mistakenly think the strong taste of their drink with too much vermouth is due to the alcohol.
The first thing you need for mixing drinks is a cocktail shaker. This is a genius little idea that enables you to fully mix the ingredients while using ice cubes to simultaneously cool it and add just the right amount of water (due to the alcohol melting the ice as you shake). I am a big fan of serving chilled drinks “up” and not “on the rocks,” because if it’s the latter, as you drink the beverage the ice melts and the drink gets more and more watered down until the taste is completely ruined. “Up,” or “straight up,” if you don’t know, refers to a drink chilled and diluted by shaking with ice but served in a glass with no ice. (“Neat,” I learned after much debate with my girlfriend, is an undiluted drink served room temperature. I think I still owe her $5.)
In my Maker’s Manhattan, I use 2.5 shots of Maker’s for every 1/2 shot of sweet vermouth. For the mathematically impaired, this is a ratio of 5 to 1. Almost all Manhattan recipes I’ve come across call for a ratio between 3:1 and 4:1. Again, this is due, in part, to the difference between rye whiskey and bourbon, but also, I suspect in part due to cheap-ass bartenders ripping off their customers (Maker’s is about $25 a bottle and 90 proof and Martini & Rossi sweet vermouth is about $6 and 32 proof). Unsurprisingly, 5:1 is the same ratio of gin to dry vermouth I use in making martinis, the Manhattan’s doppelganger. (Since I brought it up, all you do for a martini is shake those two ingredients vigorously with ice cubes and strain into a glass with an olive in it. If you're using cheap, flavorless olives, add two of them. Oh, and if there’s vodka in it, don’t call it a martini.)
Purists will note that another reason I use less sweet vermouth is because I cheat and pour in a little cherry juice straight from the jar of cherries. If unlike me you know how to make it, you can instead add a splash of simple syrup. If you would rather be proper about how you’re supposed to make a Manhattan, instead of adding the cherry juice I recommend adding two cherries to the drink instead of one. (To mirror the idea of a martini with olive juice added (not recommended) being called a “dirty martini,” probably a Manhattan with cherry juice added should be called a “dirty Manhattan.”)
Without further ado, here’s my (dirty) Maker’s Manhattan recipe: Pour 2.5 shots of Maker’s, ½ shot of sweet vermouth, a splash of cherry juice and one or two drops of Angostura bitters into a shaker filled with ice cubes. (Like vermouth, a little bit of bitters goes a long way, but if you don’t use too much it nicely balances the sweetness of the vermouth.) Shake the mixture vigorously at least 50 times and strain into a cocktail glass with a cherry in it.
Try it; you'll thank me later.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
4-way stops
Alright, kids, it’s time to learn how to navigate an intersection with a 4-way stop. I know, I know, it’s totally easy and YOU know how to do it. Then why is that almost every time I come to a 4-way stop, it consists of a bunch of idiots staring at each other, hoping some other car knows what to do? Two phrases I say to make myself laugh instead of pulling out a gat and going apeshit (not really) are “Is someone waiting for a sign from god?” and “What is this, a MENSA convention?” Yeah, I know, I’m pretty witty.
First things first: a 4-way stop is an intersection where traffic from all four directions has a stop sign or blinking red light. You should have the alertness to determine the nature of an intersection before you get to it. You do this by looking and planning ahead. In Portland, where whoever designed the intersections had a death wish for motor vehicle drivers (they think “bike safe” is the same as “car unsafe” here), the 4-way intersection stop signs don’t generally say “All Ways” under them like they do in the other states I’ve lived in.
At a 4-way intersection, the largest number of cars you should ever have to wait for before it’s your turn to go is THREE, and it will usually be less. I have watched cars (in my rear-view mirror) let 8-10 cars pass through the intersection before they go. There is no reason or excuse for this whatsoever.
One major misconception at a 4-way stop is that you always have to yield for cars that came to a stop before you. This is incorrect! You only need to yield for cars that stopped before you if your route and their route will cross in the intersection. The only time you’ll ever have to yield for a car across from you is if one of you is going straight and the other is turning left. (Not to muddy the waters, but if you are in this situation at an intersection where neither of you has a stop sign, the car turning left must yield to the car going straight even if that car got there first.) You only have to yield to the car on your left if it is going straight or if it is turning left and you aren’t turning right. You have to yield to a car on your right if you aren’t turning right unless it is turning right and you are turning left. In all other cases, you can just fucking go!
Next, let me explain to you the elusive notion of “right of way.” All this means is that, if you stopped at the same time as a car whose path you will cross in the intersection, the car on your right gets to go first, or if the car is across from you, the car going straight (i.e. not the car turning left). Also, in Oregon pedestrians always have the right of way. (Personally, I think pedestrians should be wary enough of cars to at least look both ways before crossing the street and hurrying the fuck up while doing so.)
You should never yield for anybody who stopped at the intersection after you. Don’t try to be polite and wave someone through out of turn. You are fucking up the whole process and making all traffic slow down unnecessarily. Just follow the goddamn rules.
Finally (although frankly I’m not sure about the law’s opinion on this), it is perfectly safe and encouraged by me to utilize the “screen.” Any of you who have ever played organized basketball should understand this concept. If the progression of traffic makes it impossible for a car you would otherwise have to yield to to move, you can go ahead and go out of turn if it is still possible for you to do so. For example, if a car across from you is going straight and preventing the car on your left from proceeding, you can go ahead and go straight utilizing the screen of the other vehicle even if the car on your left stopped before you. Take the quality and timing of the screen into consideration. A semi will provide a very good screen but a mini-cooper probably won’t provide one at all. If the timing of the screen doesn’t allow for you to come to a full stop and then accelerate across the intersection before it is over then don’t bother. If you missed your chance, don’t try to force the issue by pulling out in front of the car that used to be screened.
Once you’ve committed to crossing the intersection, proceed in a timely fashion. I can’t believe how frequently a car will pull out in front of me and then stop in my way to find out whether I’m going to collide with them or not. Don’t tempt me.
Shockingly, considering how much trouble others seem to have figuring it out, that's all there is to it. One thing that is really helpful at an intersection is USING YOUR TURN SIGNAL! You do this by turning it on before you get to the intersection. Portlanders have an annoying habit of turning on their signal while they turn. Whenever possible, I keep a close watch on the drivers of the other vehicles in order to determine which ones aren't paying any attention whatsoever, don't have a clue what they're doing or are just going to do it wrong. If the other cars are just going to sit there scratching their heads, I will just go ahead and go even if it's their turn. Of course, I am forced to yield to those that just go through the intersection without even looking.
First things first: a 4-way stop is an intersection where traffic from all four directions has a stop sign or blinking red light. You should have the alertness to determine the nature of an intersection before you get to it. You do this by looking and planning ahead. In Portland, where whoever designed the intersections had a death wish for motor vehicle drivers (they think “bike safe” is the same as “car unsafe” here), the 4-way intersection stop signs don’t generally say “All Ways” under them like they do in the other states I’ve lived in.
At a 4-way intersection, the largest number of cars you should ever have to wait for before it’s your turn to go is THREE, and it will usually be less. I have watched cars (in my rear-view mirror) let 8-10 cars pass through the intersection before they go. There is no reason or excuse for this whatsoever.
One major misconception at a 4-way stop is that you always have to yield for cars that came to a stop before you. This is incorrect! You only need to yield for cars that stopped before you if your route and their route will cross in the intersection. The only time you’ll ever have to yield for a car across from you is if one of you is going straight and the other is turning left. (Not to muddy the waters, but if you are in this situation at an intersection where neither of you has a stop sign, the car turning left must yield to the car going straight even if that car got there first.) You only have to yield to the car on your left if it is going straight or if it is turning left and you aren’t turning right. You have to yield to a car on your right if you aren’t turning right unless it is turning right and you are turning left. In all other cases, you can just fucking go!
Next, let me explain to you the elusive notion of “right of way.” All this means is that, if you stopped at the same time as a car whose path you will cross in the intersection, the car on your right gets to go first, or if the car is across from you, the car going straight (i.e. not the car turning left). Also, in Oregon pedestrians always have the right of way. (Personally, I think pedestrians should be wary enough of cars to at least look both ways before crossing the street and hurrying the fuck up while doing so.)
You should never yield for anybody who stopped at the intersection after you. Don’t try to be polite and wave someone through out of turn. You are fucking up the whole process and making all traffic slow down unnecessarily. Just follow the goddamn rules.
Finally (although frankly I’m not sure about the law’s opinion on this), it is perfectly safe and encouraged by me to utilize the “screen.” Any of you who have ever played organized basketball should understand this concept. If the progression of traffic makes it impossible for a car you would otherwise have to yield to to move, you can go ahead and go out of turn if it is still possible for you to do so. For example, if a car across from you is going straight and preventing the car on your left from proceeding, you can go ahead and go straight utilizing the screen of the other vehicle even if the car on your left stopped before you. Take the quality and timing of the screen into consideration. A semi will provide a very good screen but a mini-cooper probably won’t provide one at all. If the timing of the screen doesn’t allow for you to come to a full stop and then accelerate across the intersection before it is over then don’t bother. If you missed your chance, don’t try to force the issue by pulling out in front of the car that used to be screened.
Once you’ve committed to crossing the intersection, proceed in a timely fashion. I can’t believe how frequently a car will pull out in front of me and then stop in my way to find out whether I’m going to collide with them or not. Don’t tempt me.
Shockingly, considering how much trouble others seem to have figuring it out, that's all there is to it. One thing that is really helpful at an intersection is USING YOUR TURN SIGNAL! You do this by turning it on before you get to the intersection. Portlanders have an annoying habit of turning on their signal while they turn. Whenever possible, I keep a close watch on the drivers of the other vehicles in order to determine which ones aren't paying any attention whatsoever, don't have a clue what they're doing or are just going to do it wrong. If the other cars are just going to sit there scratching their heads, I will just go ahead and go even if it's their turn. Of course, I am forced to yield to those that just go through the intersection without even looking.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Star Trek: The Next Generation
I don’t know if I could be considered a Trekker or a Trekkie or neither, but I watch a lot of Star Trek. I just completed my collection, and now own all seven seasons of Star Trek: The Next Generation on DVD. I’ve spent many nights in the last couple years watching the series, just as I did when I was in high school.
For those of you unfamiliar with Star Trek: The Next Generation, or ST:TNG, it first aired in 1987 and was the first spin-off of the original Star Trek, a science fiction series created by Gene Roddenberry and first introduced on television in the sixties. Although the premise and universe are the same, all the characters are new and the events supposedly take place eighty years after the original Star Trek. The cast includes some great actors, especially Patrick Stewart and Brent Spiner; two of the best things about the show. Although there are some great episodes, there are also some absolutely horrible and incredibly ludicrous ones.
For anyone interested in watching the ST:TNG series but not as willing to waste as many hours as I did sitting through the bad episodes to get to the good ones, I have compiled a list of the episodes I recommend. In doing so, I have noticed some of my biases which affect my choices. For example, I really get annoyed by the episodes which use the "molecular pattern stored in the transporter buffer" to bring somebody back to life or make them younger or older or turned back into a human, etc. I mean, c’mon; if "Our mortality is what defines us," as Picard claims in the movie Generations, then why are they cheating death all the time by creating what are essentially clones of themselves? Another thing that drives me crazy is the pitiful ship security, which consists of Worf (and Yar in season one) and two extras who are probably going to get wounded or killed. (I’ll admit that I love it that whenever you see an extra on an away mission, you know they won’t make it back.)
Season One
Early on, the cast, writers and directors were feeling their way through, trying to figure out everyone’s roles and personalities. Only the special effects and make-up teams seem to have it together from the beginning. Season one should be watched with the realization that it gets better.
(1)“Encounter at Farpoint” The pilot is probably one of the all-time best episodes, and a perfect introduction to much of what is great about ST:TNG, including Q and the ethos of the program.
(2)“Where No One Has Gone Before”
(3)“The Battle”
(4)“Hide and Q” I wish someone would give me near omnipotence!
(5)“The Big Good-Bye”
(6)“Datalore” First of many great episodes where Brent Spiner plays multiple roles.
(7)“Coming of Age” This episode sets up a very unsatisfying episode called “Conspiracy.”
(8)“The Arsenal of Freedom”
(9) “We’ll Always Have Paris”
Honorable Mentions:
“Haven” Lwaxana Troi is refreshingly quirky.
“Home Soil”
Probably Not Worth Mentioning:
Yar gets killed in “Skin of Evil.”
The Romulans are sort-of introduced in “The Neutral Zone,” the season finale.
Season Two
The characters and their roles are much more developed this season. The ship is given a social center, Ten-Forward, run by Guinan, played marvelously by Whoopie Goldberg. LaForge is given the job of Chief Engineer. Riker grows his beard. The Second Season is unique in that the doctor is not the lame Beverly Crusher but the edgy and opinionated Katherine Pulanski. I am possibly the only ST:TNG fan that prefers Pulanski to Crusher, a fact that I attribute to her being distrustful and even demeaning to Data at the beginning of the series, an infraction which no ST:TNG fan can bear.
(1)“The Silence Has Lease”
(2)“Elementary, My Dear Data” I’m a huge Sherlock Holmes fan.
(3)“A Matter of Honor” I love the Klingons. This is the first time you get to see them in their natural habitat.
(4)“The Measure of a Man” A great episode.
(5)“Time Squared” Get used to the fact that if a temporal distortion is involved, the Enterprise is gonna blow up.
(6)“The Icarus Factor”
(7)“Q Who” Resistance is futile…. A must-see.
(8)“The Emissary”
(9) “Peak Performance” Forget that it’s logically impossible to beam anti-matter.
Honorable Mentions:
“Loud As a Whisper” I really like this episode but probably it’s over-the-top cheesy.
“The Dauphin” This one is definitely way cheesy, but it has a great premise, is well-written and you get to see Worf try to fight some weird moster-thing.
Probably Not Worth Mentioning:
Data kicks ass at craps in “The Royale.”
Season Three
A very inconsistent season, with some great and some horrible episodes.
(1)“Evolution”
(2)“Ensigns of Command”
(3)“Booby Trap”
(4)“The Defector” I love the ending.
(5)“Deja Q”
(6)“Yesterday’s Enterprise” Not only is this one of the best ST:TNG episodes, it also sets up an entire plotline in later seasons.
(7)“Sins of the Father” This episode also sets up a key storyline.
(8)“Allegiance”
(9)“The Most Toys”
(10)“Sarek” Spock’s father.
(11)“Menage a Troi” Can’t pass up a title like that, can you?
(12)“Best of Both Worlds, Part I” THE episode. Not only is it an awesome episode that finally had everybody talking about ST:TNG, it set the stage for the two great seasons that follow.
Honorable Mentions:
“The Survivors” I want to like this episode, but it is predictable and the main character’s abilities are inconsistent.
“Deja Q”
“Captain’s Holiday”
Probably Not Worth Mentioning:
Data creates a short-lived and creepy daughter in “The Offspring.”
Barclay (played by Dwight Shultz, best known for his role of Murdock on The A-Team) is introduced and creates some funny holodeck characters in “Hollow Pursuits.”
Season Four
This is a great and consistent season. Almost every episode (except “The Loss”) is good.
(1)“Best of Both Worlds, Part II” A great conclusion to a brilliant set-up.
(2)“Family” An episode that doesn’t take place in space, and the logical follow-up to “Best of Both Worlds.”
(3)“Brothers”
(4)“Suddenly Human” An intense and even controversial ending.
(5)“Remember Me”
(6)“Reunion” Continuation of two episodes, “The Emissary” and “Sins of the Father.”
(7)“Future Imperfect”
(8)“Data’s Day”
(9) “The Wounded”
(10)“Clues”
(11)“The Drumhead”
(12)“In Theory”
(13)“Redemption” The season finale, continuing the plotline from “Reunion.”
Honorable Mentions:
“Remember Me”
“The Mind’s Eye”
Probably Not Worth Mentioning:
Wesley has one last dramatic assignment before leaving for Starfleet Academy in “Final Mission.”
Season Five
This season is almost as good as season four.
(1)“Redemption II” A brilliant episode that ties together several previous episodes and demonstrates a vivid understanding of Worf’s psychology, even drawing parallels/contrasts between he and Data.
(2)“Darmok” So species can supposedly talk to each other via an invention called a Universal Translator, one of those things they had to come up with to make the television show possible. This episode acknowledges the impossibility of such an invention.
(3)“Ensign Ro”
(4)“Disaster”
(5)“Unification I” Welcome back, Spock.
(6)“ Unification II”
(7)“Cause and Effect” Fun one.
(8)“I Borg” Great premise that is explored thoroughly in Star Trek: Voyager. Stupid idea that you could destroy the Borg by introducing them to a paradox. C’mon!
(9)“The Inner Light” Patrick Stewart showing what he can do.
Honorable Mentions:
“Conundrum” When Troi beats Data at Chess at the beginning, you know it’s going to be an unbelievable premise, but there’s something intriguing about it. Also, I like Ro way better than Troi, and wish they had pursued this plotline (in regard to Riker) further.
“The First Duty” gives us a look at Starfleet Academy and takes an interesting look at loyalty.
Probably Not Worth Mentioning:
The Crystal Entity from “Datalore” is destroyed in “Silicon Avatar”
Alexander returns in “New Ground”
We find out how Guinan met the crew in “Time’s Arrow,” the season finale.
Season Six
For some reason the show takes a drastic downward turn. Possibly they were too busy with Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, a spin-off which started the same year. Transporter Chief O’Brien becomes a major character on Deep Space Nine, and it’s weird that it isn’t addressed in ST:TNG.
(1)“A Fistful of Datas” Hilariously dumb.
(2)“Chain of Command, Part 1” Thankfully, Troi is made to wear a normal outfit, and continues to do so for most of the rest of the series.
(3)“Chain of Command, Part 2” 1984….
(4)“Ship In A Bottle” The conclusion of “Elementary, My Dear Data”
(5)“Tapestry” This follows a plotline from a frustrating episode called “Samaritan Snare” from season two.
(6)“Birthright, Part 1”
(7)“Frame of Mind”
Honorable Mentions:
“Rascals” is pretty stupid but entertaining nonetheless.
“Birthright, Part 2” I guess you’ll want to see how Worf’s plotline from Part 1 turns out. (Data’s plotline continues in “Phantasm,” a bizarre but non-sensical episode in season seven.)
Probably Not Worth Mentioning:
Scotty from the original Star Trek shows up in “Relics”
“The Chase” tries to explain why most of the aliens the Enterprise encounters look like us. I think it’s really because they use human actors to play the aliens.
A clone of Riker, who plays a role in Deep Space Nine, is discovered in the disturbing episode “Second Chances.”
In the season finale, “Descent,” we find out what has happened to Data’s brother Lore, last seen in “Brothers,” and Hugh from “I Borg.”
Season Seven
The downward spiral continues….
(1)“Gambit, Part 1”
(2)“Gambit, Part 2”
(3)“Attached” The truth between Picard and Crusher comes out.
(4)“The Pegasus”
(5)“Homeward”
(6)“Journey’s End” Wesley’s life takes an unexpected turn. The episode explains the catalyst for the formation of the Maquis, which will be the main storyline at the beginning of Star Trek: Voyager.
(7)“All Good Things…” An appropriate series finale.
Honorable Mentions:
“Parallels” A clever episode that sets up a short-lived (and I think ill-conceived) relationship between Worf and Troi.
“Lower Decks” It’s nice to see the ensigns treated as almost human for a change. Of course they’re still cannon fodder….
“Preemptive Strike” introduces the Maquis. I always like Ro.
Probably Not Worth Mentioning:
“Descent (Part 2)”, brings the final demise of Lore, and Data gets back the emotion chip that Lore stole in “Brothers” that Data will install in the first ST:TNG movie, Generations.
We find out warp drives damage space in “Force of Nature.”
Data's "mother," who predictably turns out to be another android invented by Noonien Soong, is found in “Inheritance.”
For those of you unfamiliar with Star Trek: The Next Generation, or ST:TNG, it first aired in 1987 and was the first spin-off of the original Star Trek, a science fiction series created by Gene Roddenberry and first introduced on television in the sixties. Although the premise and universe are the same, all the characters are new and the events supposedly take place eighty years after the original Star Trek. The cast includes some great actors, especially Patrick Stewart and Brent Spiner; two of the best things about the show. Although there are some great episodes, there are also some absolutely horrible and incredibly ludicrous ones.
For anyone interested in watching the ST:TNG series but not as willing to waste as many hours as I did sitting through the bad episodes to get to the good ones, I have compiled a list of the episodes I recommend. In doing so, I have noticed some of my biases which affect my choices. For example, I really get annoyed by the episodes which use the "molecular pattern stored in the transporter buffer" to bring somebody back to life or make them younger or older or turned back into a human, etc. I mean, c’mon; if "Our mortality is what defines us," as Picard claims in the movie Generations, then why are they cheating death all the time by creating what are essentially clones of themselves? Another thing that drives me crazy is the pitiful ship security, which consists of Worf (and Yar in season one) and two extras who are probably going to get wounded or killed. (I’ll admit that I love it that whenever you see an extra on an away mission, you know they won’t make it back.)
Season One
Early on, the cast, writers and directors were feeling their way through, trying to figure out everyone’s roles and personalities. Only the special effects and make-up teams seem to have it together from the beginning. Season one should be watched with the realization that it gets better.
(1)“Encounter at Farpoint” The pilot is probably one of the all-time best episodes, and a perfect introduction to much of what is great about ST:TNG, including Q and the ethos of the program.
(2)“Where No One Has Gone Before”
(3)“The Battle”
(4)“Hide and Q” I wish someone would give me near omnipotence!
(5)“The Big Good-Bye”
(6)“Datalore” First of many great episodes where Brent Spiner plays multiple roles.
(7)“Coming of Age” This episode sets up a very unsatisfying episode called “Conspiracy.”
(8)“The Arsenal of Freedom”
(9) “We’ll Always Have Paris”
Honorable Mentions:
“Haven” Lwaxana Troi is refreshingly quirky.
“Home Soil”
Probably Not Worth Mentioning:
Yar gets killed in “Skin of Evil.”
The Romulans are sort-of introduced in “The Neutral Zone,” the season finale.
Season Two
The characters and their roles are much more developed this season. The ship is given a social center, Ten-Forward, run by Guinan, played marvelously by Whoopie Goldberg. LaForge is given the job of Chief Engineer. Riker grows his beard. The Second Season is unique in that the doctor is not the lame Beverly Crusher but the edgy and opinionated Katherine Pulanski. I am possibly the only ST:TNG fan that prefers Pulanski to Crusher, a fact that I attribute to her being distrustful and even demeaning to Data at the beginning of the series, an infraction which no ST:TNG fan can bear.
(1)“The Silence Has Lease”
(2)“Elementary, My Dear Data” I’m a huge Sherlock Holmes fan.
(3)“A Matter of Honor” I love the Klingons. This is the first time you get to see them in their natural habitat.
(4)“The Measure of a Man” A great episode.
(5)“Time Squared” Get used to the fact that if a temporal distortion is involved, the Enterprise is gonna blow up.
(6)“The Icarus Factor”
(7)“Q Who” Resistance is futile…. A must-see.
(8)“The Emissary”
(9) “Peak Performance” Forget that it’s logically impossible to beam anti-matter.
Honorable Mentions:
“Loud As a Whisper” I really like this episode but probably it’s over-the-top cheesy.
“The Dauphin” This one is definitely way cheesy, but it has a great premise, is well-written and you get to see Worf try to fight some weird moster-thing.
Probably Not Worth Mentioning:
Data kicks ass at craps in “The Royale.”
Season Three
A very inconsistent season, with some great and some horrible episodes.
(1)“Evolution”
(2)“Ensigns of Command”
(3)“Booby Trap”
(4)“The Defector” I love the ending.
(5)“Deja Q”
(6)“Yesterday’s Enterprise” Not only is this one of the best ST:TNG episodes, it also sets up an entire plotline in later seasons.
(7)“Sins of the Father” This episode also sets up a key storyline.
(8)“Allegiance”
(9)“The Most Toys”
(10)“Sarek” Spock’s father.
(11)“Menage a Troi” Can’t pass up a title like that, can you?
(12)“Best of Both Worlds, Part I” THE episode. Not only is it an awesome episode that finally had everybody talking about ST:TNG, it set the stage for the two great seasons that follow.
Honorable Mentions:
“The Survivors” I want to like this episode, but it is predictable and the main character’s abilities are inconsistent.
“Deja Q”
“Captain’s Holiday”
Probably Not Worth Mentioning:
Data creates a short-lived and creepy daughter in “The Offspring.”
Barclay (played by Dwight Shultz, best known for his role of Murdock on The A-Team) is introduced and creates some funny holodeck characters in “Hollow Pursuits.”
Season Four
This is a great and consistent season. Almost every episode (except “The Loss”) is good.
(1)“Best of Both Worlds, Part II” A great conclusion to a brilliant set-up.
(2)“Family” An episode that doesn’t take place in space, and the logical follow-up to “Best of Both Worlds.”
(3)“Brothers”
(4)“Suddenly Human” An intense and even controversial ending.
(5)“Remember Me”
(6)“Reunion” Continuation of two episodes, “The Emissary” and “Sins of the Father.”
(7)“Future Imperfect”
(8)“Data’s Day”
(9) “The Wounded”
(10)“Clues”
(11)“The Drumhead”
(12)“In Theory”
(13)“Redemption” The season finale, continuing the plotline from “Reunion.”
Honorable Mentions:
“Remember Me”
“The Mind’s Eye”
Probably Not Worth Mentioning:
Wesley has one last dramatic assignment before leaving for Starfleet Academy in “Final Mission.”
Season Five
This season is almost as good as season four.
(1)“Redemption II” A brilliant episode that ties together several previous episodes and demonstrates a vivid understanding of Worf’s psychology, even drawing parallels/contrasts between he and Data.
(2)“Darmok” So species can supposedly talk to each other via an invention called a Universal Translator, one of those things they had to come up with to make the television show possible. This episode acknowledges the impossibility of such an invention.
(3)“Ensign Ro”
(4)“Disaster”
(5)“Unification I” Welcome back, Spock.
(6)“ Unification II”
(7)“Cause and Effect” Fun one.
(8)“I Borg” Great premise that is explored thoroughly in Star Trek: Voyager. Stupid idea that you could destroy the Borg by introducing them to a paradox. C’mon!
(9)“The Inner Light” Patrick Stewart showing what he can do.
Honorable Mentions:
“Conundrum” When Troi beats Data at Chess at the beginning, you know it’s going to be an unbelievable premise, but there’s something intriguing about it. Also, I like Ro way better than Troi, and wish they had pursued this plotline (in regard to Riker) further.
“The First Duty” gives us a look at Starfleet Academy and takes an interesting look at loyalty.
Probably Not Worth Mentioning:
The Crystal Entity from “Datalore” is destroyed in “Silicon Avatar”
Alexander returns in “New Ground”
We find out how Guinan met the crew in “Time’s Arrow,” the season finale.
Season Six
For some reason the show takes a drastic downward turn. Possibly they were too busy with Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, a spin-off which started the same year. Transporter Chief O’Brien becomes a major character on Deep Space Nine, and it’s weird that it isn’t addressed in ST:TNG.
(1)“A Fistful of Datas” Hilariously dumb.
(2)“Chain of Command, Part 1” Thankfully, Troi is made to wear a normal outfit, and continues to do so for most of the rest of the series.
(3)“Chain of Command, Part 2” 1984….
(4)“Ship In A Bottle” The conclusion of “Elementary, My Dear Data”
(5)“Tapestry” This follows a plotline from a frustrating episode called “Samaritan Snare” from season two.
(6)“Birthright, Part 1”
(7)“Frame of Mind”
Honorable Mentions:
“Rascals” is pretty stupid but entertaining nonetheless.
“Birthright, Part 2” I guess you’ll want to see how Worf’s plotline from Part 1 turns out. (Data’s plotline continues in “Phantasm,” a bizarre but non-sensical episode in season seven.)
Probably Not Worth Mentioning:
Scotty from the original Star Trek shows up in “Relics”
“The Chase” tries to explain why most of the aliens the Enterprise encounters look like us. I think it’s really because they use human actors to play the aliens.
A clone of Riker, who plays a role in Deep Space Nine, is discovered in the disturbing episode “Second Chances.”
In the season finale, “Descent,” we find out what has happened to Data’s brother Lore, last seen in “Brothers,” and Hugh from “I Borg.”
Season Seven
The downward spiral continues….
(1)“Gambit, Part 1”
(2)“Gambit, Part 2”
(3)“Attached” The truth between Picard and Crusher comes out.
(4)“The Pegasus”
(5)“Homeward”
(6)“Journey’s End” Wesley’s life takes an unexpected turn. The episode explains the catalyst for the formation of the Maquis, which will be the main storyline at the beginning of Star Trek: Voyager.
(7)“All Good Things…” An appropriate series finale.
Honorable Mentions:
“Parallels” A clever episode that sets up a short-lived (and I think ill-conceived) relationship between Worf and Troi.
“Lower Decks” It’s nice to see the ensigns treated as almost human for a change. Of course they’re still cannon fodder….
“Preemptive Strike” introduces the Maquis. I always like Ro.
Probably Not Worth Mentioning:
“Descent (Part 2)”, brings the final demise of Lore, and Data gets back the emotion chip that Lore stole in “Brothers” that Data will install in the first ST:TNG movie, Generations.
We find out warp drives damage space in “Force of Nature.”
Data's "mother," who predictably turns out to be another android invented by Noonien Soong, is found in “Inheritance.”
Eric
I met Eric because he was in a band with two guys I had met in the university marching band. The first thing that struck me about him was that he was a good songwriter. In that role, he would agonize endlessly over the lyrics; judging the importance, relevance and precision of what he wanted to say in each word of every phrase in every line of every song. Even then, Eric was obsessed with rhetoric, semantics and meaning.
In January 1996, Brad, Eric and I began having nightly philosophical discussions. In the beginning, I perceived him as being legitimately curious but undeniably confused. He was unable to focus his questioning thoughts into coherency. He staunchly, perhaps valiantly, struggled to find definitions and explanations for his perceptions, experiences and assumptions.
Things at the time were simpler for me. I thought I knew exactly what I thought, and expressed myself boldly, blind to my own hypocrisy and ignorance. Whereas Eric sought meaning in every experience and a means to express it, I assumed experience irrelevant to my pursuit of objective truth. I didn’t care a bit that I had little experience of experience.
Eric explored his own perceptions, curious about how his senses interacted with their environment. In that pursuit, he experimented with marijuana and hallucinogens, and became narcissistically focused on attempting to make sense of and understand his chemical-induced experiences and realities, eventually confusing all realities, inducing paranoia and a schizoid state. The two of us spent some long, excruciating hours locked in his dorm room until he had more-or-less one reality left to deal with.
We spent many late nights for the next eight months or so soberly exploring philosophical and religious ideas. He made me keenly aware of the prominence of top-down processing and self-delusion, which are far from confined to a drug-induced state, and the limits of abstract objectivism. We scrutinized the natures of reality and probability. He challenged me to be logically consistent. He made me realize that knowledge can never be trusted because there is no such thing as a trustworthy source, and the only way to pursue knowledge was through legitimate communication and genuine dialogue, and neither in a vacuum nor solely in another. He introduced me to John Frusciante’s first solo album "Niandra Ladies and Maybe Just a T-Shirt," My Dinner With Andre and Aleister Crowley’s Diary of a Drug Fiend.
Life is short and ever-changing. I regret we didn’t have more time to spend together. We went our separate ways, but he will always be a large part of me. Perhaps the physical distance I have spent from all of my friends at one point in my life has taught me more than anything the importance of companionship and the value and enjoyment found in experiencing life with others you love.
In January 1996, Brad, Eric and I began having nightly philosophical discussions. In the beginning, I perceived him as being legitimately curious but undeniably confused. He was unable to focus his questioning thoughts into coherency. He staunchly, perhaps valiantly, struggled to find definitions and explanations for his perceptions, experiences and assumptions.
Things at the time were simpler for me. I thought I knew exactly what I thought, and expressed myself boldly, blind to my own hypocrisy and ignorance. Whereas Eric sought meaning in every experience and a means to express it, I assumed experience irrelevant to my pursuit of objective truth. I didn’t care a bit that I had little experience of experience.
Eric explored his own perceptions, curious about how his senses interacted with their environment. In that pursuit, he experimented with marijuana and hallucinogens, and became narcissistically focused on attempting to make sense of and understand his chemical-induced experiences and realities, eventually confusing all realities, inducing paranoia and a schizoid state. The two of us spent some long, excruciating hours locked in his dorm room until he had more-or-less one reality left to deal with.
We spent many late nights for the next eight months or so soberly exploring philosophical and religious ideas. He made me keenly aware of the prominence of top-down processing and self-delusion, which are far from confined to a drug-induced state, and the limits of abstract objectivism. We scrutinized the natures of reality and probability. He challenged me to be logically consistent. He made me realize that knowledge can never be trusted because there is no such thing as a trustworthy source, and the only way to pursue knowledge was through legitimate communication and genuine dialogue, and neither in a vacuum nor solely in another. He introduced me to John Frusciante’s first solo album "Niandra Ladies and Maybe Just a T-Shirt," My Dinner With Andre and Aleister Crowley’s Diary of a Drug Fiend.
Life is short and ever-changing. I regret we didn’t have more time to spend together. We went our separate ways, but he will always be a large part of me. Perhaps the physical distance I have spent from all of my friends at one point in my life has taught me more than anything the importance of companionship and the value and enjoyment found in experiencing life with others you love.
Friday, March 7, 2008
8 1/2
Watching Federico Fellini’s 8½ (1963) is like reading a well-articulated diary. Through a diary, all of a person’s innermost secrets, fantasies, lies, desires, ambitions, fears and insecurities come flooding at you in a disarming manner, and it’s never quite what you expect. (I remember starting The Diary of Anne Frank when I was a kid but not being able to finish it because it was so graphically personal. Of course, my sister also kept a diary….) 8½, so-named because Fellini had made 8 films himself and had one collaboration before this one, is overtly intended to be viewed as autobiographical. Fellini holds nothing back, and in doing so, creates a masterpiece in which he not only blurs the line between fantasy and reality, he obliterates it entirely.
One scene early on which demonstrates Fellini’s intent is during a dinner party when a psychic and her assistant attempt to entertain the crowd by reading their thoughts. The diners are startled by her accuracy, and eventually only Guido, the movie director in the movie, will agree to have his mind read. Simultaneously in this one scene, Fellini makes us aware of several things: that this movie is about his innermost sacred thoughts, memories and emotions; that letting your thoughts be made public is a very daring deed; that a movie director is omniscient and omnipotent in regard to his creation but not his real life; that movies steal from reality (we immediately find out the psychic has been based on Guido’s sister) and that in a movie you can do things that cannot be done in real life.
Similarly to David Lynch’s Inland Empire, but in a much less aggressive way, 8½ is a multi-layered movie-within-a-movie. You might find yourself asking “Is this the movie or the movie in the movie?” In 8½, the answer is always “Yes” (whereas in Inland Empire the answer is always “No”). These two movies also fluidly intermix dream, hallucinatory and believable sequences.
Fellini humorously includes several scenes wherein a part of the movie is being discussed (usually criticized) and then shows us that part of the movie later on. 8½ looks at its characters under a microscope and finds them all simultaneously complexly multi-dimensional and predictably one-dimensional. We are shocked when we finally meet Guido’s wife and find her charming and attractive, only to be shocked again when she suddenly turns cold and distant. One could say that there is really no action in the movie, and yet Fellini is somehow always able to keep us on our toes and guessing.
Some might be inclined to compare this movie with Truffaut’s entrancing Day For Night (1973), but while both are fantastic movies, they are actually much easier to contrast. Truffaut focuses more on the lives of the actors in the movie, whereas Fellini focuses on the director. Truffaut’s director is the stable anchor who remains focused, confident and in control despite the chaos around him (he’s literally and figuratively deaf to it); nothing like Fellini’s angst-ridden director. The death of the lead prematurely ends Truffaut’s film, while Fellini’s director never even chooses one. While Truffaut seems to suggest that life is stranger than fiction, Fellini seems to suggest life is fiction, fiction is fiction, fiction is life, and life is life- and it’s all pretty strange. The fascinating opening sequence of Day For Night establishes that that movie is what we now call a mockumentary. The terrifying opening sequence of 8½ establishes that that movie is a publication of the nightmares that the movie director calls his life.
Fellini wrote his screenplays after he filmed and edited the movies. Therefore, all the lines are overdubbed and none of them match the lips of the actors, who Fellini had speak jibberish while filming. (There’s a reference to this in Day For Night, by the way.) This is a bit disconcerting, but since I don’t know Italian and have to read the subtitles anyway, I don’t notice it as much as I should.
It seems Fellini had reached a mid-life crisis and used this movie to explore the question nagging within him, “What the fuck have I been doing with my life?” If you haven’t seen 8½, I would be apt to ask the same question of you.
One scene early on which demonstrates Fellini’s intent is during a dinner party when a psychic and her assistant attempt to entertain the crowd by reading their thoughts. The diners are startled by her accuracy, and eventually only Guido, the movie director in the movie, will agree to have his mind read. Simultaneously in this one scene, Fellini makes us aware of several things: that this movie is about his innermost sacred thoughts, memories and emotions; that letting your thoughts be made public is a very daring deed; that a movie director is omniscient and omnipotent in regard to his creation but not his real life; that movies steal from reality (we immediately find out the psychic has been based on Guido’s sister) and that in a movie you can do things that cannot be done in real life.
Similarly to David Lynch’s Inland Empire, but in a much less aggressive way, 8½ is a multi-layered movie-within-a-movie. You might find yourself asking “Is this the movie or the movie in the movie?” In 8½, the answer is always “Yes” (whereas in Inland Empire the answer is always “No”). These two movies also fluidly intermix dream, hallucinatory and believable sequences.
Fellini humorously includes several scenes wherein a part of the movie is being discussed (usually criticized) and then shows us that part of the movie later on. 8½ looks at its characters under a microscope and finds them all simultaneously complexly multi-dimensional and predictably one-dimensional. We are shocked when we finally meet Guido’s wife and find her charming and attractive, only to be shocked again when she suddenly turns cold and distant. One could say that there is really no action in the movie, and yet Fellini is somehow always able to keep us on our toes and guessing.
Some might be inclined to compare this movie with Truffaut’s entrancing Day For Night (1973), but while both are fantastic movies, they are actually much easier to contrast. Truffaut focuses more on the lives of the actors in the movie, whereas Fellini focuses on the director. Truffaut’s director is the stable anchor who remains focused, confident and in control despite the chaos around him (he’s literally and figuratively deaf to it); nothing like Fellini’s angst-ridden director. The death of the lead prematurely ends Truffaut’s film, while Fellini’s director never even chooses one. While Truffaut seems to suggest that life is stranger than fiction, Fellini seems to suggest life is fiction, fiction is fiction, fiction is life, and life is life- and it’s all pretty strange. The fascinating opening sequence of Day For Night establishes that that movie is what we now call a mockumentary. The terrifying opening sequence of 8½ establishes that that movie is a publication of the nightmares that the movie director calls his life.
Fellini wrote his screenplays after he filmed and edited the movies. Therefore, all the lines are overdubbed and none of them match the lips of the actors, who Fellini had speak jibberish while filming. (There’s a reference to this in Day For Night, by the way.) This is a bit disconcerting, but since I don’t know Italian and have to read the subtitles anyway, I don’t notice it as much as I should.
It seems Fellini had reached a mid-life crisis and used this movie to explore the question nagging within him, “What the fuck have I been doing with my life?” If you haven’t seen 8½, I would be apt to ask the same question of you.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Erin
Erin and I are both gossips. When we lived together, we were always discussing and speculating about everyone else’s lives. She was a nervous talker who disdained silence, so I always had the inside scoop on whatever was going on with the old college dorm crew through which we had met, even though I had sort of drifted from them by then. I guess gossiping was what we shared most in common, but at the time it seemed very beside the point.
For no identifiable reason, I began to intensely care about Erin’s well-being even before we lived together. I used to have recurring nightmares about her death and would worry about her incessantly when I hadn't seen her in a couple days. My catharsis for this was to rearrange my creepy ventriloquist doll into Chuckie-like poses and leave him for her to find when she got home after I had left for work.
Being anything other than just friends would have been silly and was never a temptation, but I do remember nights while sharing a bedroom that I contemplated crawling into her bed just so we could snuggle. I decided that would be crossing the line even though we had a habit of kissing good-night.
Erin had no identifiable interests or goals. This was very unlike me, and I pondered it often. She seemed perfectly content living on fried fishsticks, McDonald’s hamburgers plain with ketchup, Marlboro Lights, cheap beer and weed. I guess we played a lot of hacky sack and she got pretty into the psilocybins for awhile, but Erin was a simple, predictable sort.
Erin had a string of boyfriends; all super nice guys. Well, there was that first odd one whose catchphrase was “Talladega,” and once, out of the blue in a conversational lull, uttered matter-of-factly “I like the smell of gasoline.” But mostly she was just one of the guys. I spent a lot of the first spring/summer we lived together hanging out with Erin, Matt and Andy. She was dating Matt, but it was obvious to me that Andy was painfully in love with her. I wondered to what an extent a There’s Something about Mary effect was going on with all the guys she was hanging out with. She also used to hang out with Bret a lot, but during those times I tended to hang out with Bret’s roommate Cullen.
We had always shared our two-bedroom apartment with other roommates, so when it was finally just the two of us in our own separate bedrooms, I thought it was great. That lasted about a month, and then she invited an old dorm acquaintance Ryan to move back from Colorado and live with us with without asking me first. (Years later, I would lose two friends by telling them one could not live with us after my roommates had said it was okay despite my objections.) Ryan was the Zen Master of Deadheads. I liked Ryan, but sharing a bedroom with him was too much. In May, I moved into the house with my bandmates and Erin, Bret, Ryan and Bret’s other roommate Lannie moved into a house just over the city line in Waterloo. Bret and Erin are now married.
For no identifiable reason, I began to intensely care about Erin’s well-being even before we lived together. I used to have recurring nightmares about her death and would worry about her incessantly when I hadn't seen her in a couple days. My catharsis for this was to rearrange my creepy ventriloquist doll into Chuckie-like poses and leave him for her to find when she got home after I had left for work.
Being anything other than just friends would have been silly and was never a temptation, but I do remember nights while sharing a bedroom that I contemplated crawling into her bed just so we could snuggle. I decided that would be crossing the line even though we had a habit of kissing good-night.
Erin had no identifiable interests or goals. This was very unlike me, and I pondered it often. She seemed perfectly content living on fried fishsticks, McDonald’s hamburgers plain with ketchup, Marlboro Lights, cheap beer and weed. I guess we played a lot of hacky sack and she got pretty into the psilocybins for awhile, but Erin was a simple, predictable sort.
Erin had a string of boyfriends; all super nice guys. Well, there was that first odd one whose catchphrase was “Talladega,” and once, out of the blue in a conversational lull, uttered matter-of-factly “I like the smell of gasoline.” But mostly she was just one of the guys. I spent a lot of the first spring/summer we lived together hanging out with Erin, Matt and Andy. She was dating Matt, but it was obvious to me that Andy was painfully in love with her. I wondered to what an extent a There’s Something about Mary effect was going on with all the guys she was hanging out with. She also used to hang out with Bret a lot, but during those times I tended to hang out with Bret’s roommate Cullen.
We had always shared our two-bedroom apartment with other roommates, so when it was finally just the two of us in our own separate bedrooms, I thought it was great. That lasted about a month, and then she invited an old dorm acquaintance Ryan to move back from Colorado and live with us with without asking me first. (Years later, I would lose two friends by telling them one could not live with us after my roommates had said it was okay despite my objections.) Ryan was the Zen Master of Deadheads. I liked Ryan, but sharing a bedroom with him was too much. In May, I moved into the house with my bandmates and Erin, Bret, Ryan and Bret’s other roommate Lannie moved into a house just over the city line in Waterloo. Bret and Erin are now married.
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