I moved in with Damon and Jake in May of 1998. Although I had been in a band with them for a few months, I can’t say I particularly knew Damon that well. He struck me as an emotionally guarded individual who preferred indirect communication, which explained his passion for poetry. In our band, Rinse, he exhibited moments of intensity coupled with insecurity, such as the rehearsal when he threw a tantrum and unplugged his microphone when it was suggested his vocals were turned up too loud.
At first I thought his hobbies consisted only of writing, singing and especially drinking, but I soon learned he hid away in his bedroom when he thought nobody was listening and played guitar. I was intrigued by the interesting rhythms he used, especially since Carl, the guitarist for Rinse, often relied on a couple predictable (but effective) rhythm guitar patterns. When I asked him about it, Damon explained that his guitar playing was indiscernible, at least according to the prior drummer in Rinse. Incredulous, I offered to attempt to play with him. The result would eventually become the band known as JimRobbie; after Rinse imploded from the competitiveness of all of its members but Aaron, the perpetually stoned bassist who somehow stoically held our musical masturbations together.
When we weren’t practicing, Damon wasn’t home much at first. He had this girlfriend whom I found to be a manipulative, deceitful, petty, self-absorbed wench who lived two doors down from Poor Richard’s, a bar that was also conveniently located across the street from the sub shop where he worked. If I needed to find him, I called Poor Dick’s (as we called it). I bet if you had looked closely at the ground in 1997, you could have seen a 200’ path where he had worn out the pavement between those three places.
Despite his predilection for predictable patterns (Stan Lee’s unavoidable influence on my writing is becoming more obvious), Damon was an extremist; oscillating between vivid cynicism and delusional optimism. He viewed his posse as neo-beats, and aspired to become the next Jim Morrison. I surmise that, like me, he spent a lot of time trying to prove himself to himself in those days, but he was willing to test his own limits much further than I.
Sometimes he and his girlfriend would break up, and then he spent much of his spare time on our magnificently dilapidated front porch drinking 40’s of Mickey’s and listening to a tight rotation of Grateful Dead, Blind Melon, Bob Dylan’s “Bringing It All Back Home,” a crappy Tom Waits album and Blind Lemon Jefferson, an influential delta blues guitarist from whom he conjectured Blind Melon had derived their name. His favorite hobby while drinking on the porch besides playing his guitar in the nude was mocking the judge across the street who was constantly maintaining his perfectly manicured lawn.
In an unanticipated twist, Jake and I both got girlfriends around the same time Damon finally permanently dumped his. I also received a promotion which meant I had to be at work every weekday at 5 o’clock am. Jake virtually disappeared, and my girlfriend moved in with us. Introducing an opinionated female to a stereotypical college bachelor pad was bound to shake things up, and I don’t think Damon and Amy got along very well. Damon began hosting nightly all-night parties at our place, which did not fit well with my work-imposed sleeping habits. We immaturely relegated ourselves to passive CD player volume wars.
In May of 2000, Jake and his girlfriend moved to Colorado, Amy and I moved to California and Damon moved to either Arizona or Texas. The only time I’ve seen him since was when I was a groomsman at his wedding in Tucson a few years back. We had a wonderful time hiking on Mt. Lemon (just before it burned), which for all I know was also named after Blind Lemon Jefferson.
I cannot help but laugh at this rather dry and somewhat snide depiction of a complex poet. Fittingly, he recently insinuated that my blog was generally uninteresting, an impression with which I don’t disagree. Despite my persistent usage of past tense, he’s not actually dead. I miss him more than I ever could have anticipated when we apathetically parted ways, a fact that has been influential on my perception of love. He and his wife still live in Tucson and now have a kid, and he recently had a poetry book published which can be found here, although he’s said he’d rather have them bought from him personally. He generously sent me a copy and of course I enjoyed it, but frankly I am too close to the subject matter to be an effective judge, although I did particularly appreciate Empty Vessel. I was tempted to reprint it here, but I don’t want to get sued.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Absinthe
Beginning with my Sherlock Holmes obsession that began in sixth grade, I am somewhat of a sucker for late 19th/early 20th century mystery novels. You don’t need to be an avid reader of this genre to run across a reference to a mysterious potion called “absinthe.” Presumably while reading the complete works of Edgar A. Poe my senior year of high school, I finally did some encyclopedic research to find out exactly what the stuff was. From that research, I was led to believe absinthe was a glowing, green, foul-tasting liquid probably drunken from a vial that was highly addictive and made you go crazy. It seemed pretty similar to Mercury infused with nuclear radiation. No wonder they made it illegal.
I’m convinced the biggest disservice the anti-drug establishment has done itself is that it relies so much on exaggerated propaganda that it doesn’t take much more than seeing your friend light up a joint and not either immediately dying or taking of their clothes and singing incoherently to realize the information you have been fed about drugs is a lie. I remember vividly when college basketball star Len Bias died of a cocaine overdose the day after being drafted by the Celtics hearing that he had died after only having one snort because he was allergic to it or some crap like that. C’mon, the dude signed a multi-million dollar contract and probably inhaled half an eight-ball partying it up with friends. Surely we would all be better served if we were simply given honest information from which we could make informed choices. There are enough reasons to not do drugs that there is really no need to lie about their dangers and effects. I honestly think every kid should have a sit-down talk with the heroin, crack/cocaine and meth addicts sleeping on the streets of every city in America.
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Absinthe is a drink made from soaking wormwood and other herbs in high-proof alcohol and then distilling it and diluting it slightly so that the result is a drink usually around 136 proof. The other herbs vary, but the principal one is usually anise. Other commonly used herbs include fennel, hyssop, mint and coriander, and for some reason there are almost always 11 total herbs. The result is a clear liquid that is now referred to as blanche absinthe. This original absinthe was named from the French for wormwood, d’absinthe (I find it very interesting that vermouth takes its name from the German word for wormwood, wermut). Absinthe was invented in the late 1700’s as one of those elixir cure-alls popular in the 18th and 19th century, possibly by a Frenchman living in Couvet Switzerland named Dr. Pierre Ordinaire. Dr. Ordinaire made a successful living traveling around peddling absinthe. He possibly passed the recipe onto or maybe stole the recipe from the Swiss Henriod sisters. Regardless, a certain Major Dubied bought the recipe from either Dr. Ordinaire or the Henriod sisters and opened the first absinthe distillery in Couvet with his son and son-in-law Henri-Louis Pernod in 1797.
In 1805, this family built another distillery just over the border in Pontarlier, France, run by Henri-Louis and called Maison Pernod Fils. Here, the makers stumbled across the idea of adding a second step of herb maceration after the initial distillation, turning the liquid green. This is now classified as verte absinthe. This drink became extremely popular, moreso even than champagne, and soon over 50 French distilleries were exporting absinthe throughout the world. By 1910 the French were drinking more absinthe than wine, and it was cheap enough that it was enjoyed by people from all socio-economic classes.
Enter Dr. Valentin Magnan, a French psychiatrist who became prominent in the late 1900’s. He was a prohibitionist who, apparently not much of a historian, felt alcohol consumption was destroying French society. In a much publicized experiment, Magnan demonstrated that you could induce a guinea pig to have epileptic seizures by having it ingest large quantities of wormwood extract. Actually, the fact that extremely high doses of wormwood extract, and its active ingredient thujone (closely related to menthol), was potentially poisonous was not new news. Dr. Magnan did not choose to report that wormwood extract in low doses had been used medicinally as far back as the ancient Egyptians and Greeks (and is still used today in products like Vic’s Vap-o-rub). He did not choose to experiment on his guinea pigs using the drink absinthe, or even distilled wormwood. He didn’t reveal that you can induce a guinea pig to have a seizure by exposing one to high concentrations of seemingly everything, including caffeine, anise, hyssop and fennel. He did conclude and loudly declare that this was proof that absinthe made people crazy.
In an atypical alliance, the prohibitionists and the wine industry made it a priority to get rid of absinthe. They contrived a campaign which highlighted incidences of perceived crazy people who drank absinthe, which wasn’t very hard since everybody was drinking the stuff. Savvy advertisers will attest that such a con can be extremely successful, and is the reverse of the typical strategy of having people with desirable qualities promote a product. Citing the dangers of its thujone content, absinthe was eventually made illegal in many countries, including Switzerland in 1907 (the last straw there being a guy who killed his family after spending the entire day consuming all kinds of alcohol, which included two glasses of absinthe), The United States in 1912 and France in 1915.
Some Swiss distilleries secretly continued making the blanche version of absinthe, since the green color would have been a dead give-away, and slyly called it la bleue. Yes, it means blue even though it is clear; the reason for the name was so only people “in the know,” aka not the police, could acquire it. Possibly realizing the true reason for all the fuss, these Swiss distilleries lowered the alcohol content of la bleue to 110 proof. Illegally made absinthe is properly called clandestine absinthe, except for in Germany where it is called HG. Absinthe was never banned in Spain, and the Pernod company moved there and continued making an absinthe until closing in the late 50’s because of lack of sales. The French Pernod Ricard company continues to make a pastis called Pernod that is advertised as an absinthe substitute. Many have been led to believe it is essentially absinthe without the wormwood, but it is actually artificially-flavored and colored crap that bears little resemblance to the real stuff.
The fact is there is not very much thujone in absinthe, and you would die of alcohol poisoning long before it had any affect on you whatsoever. When it was banned, technology provided no accurate method of actually measuring the amount of thujone in absinthe. Interestingly, it has only been recently been realized that the US law only prohibits alcoholic beverages with a thujone content over 10 mg/l, which means many if not most absinthes are legal and were never actually even made illegal. The US feds publicly admitted this technicality in 2007.
Contrary to other popular myths, absinthe does NOT make you hallucinate or have an affect similar to marijuana, although vivid dreams after drinking it have been widely reported. Absinthe DOES have a high alcohol content, but you don’t drink absinthe without diluting it first. To properly enjoy Absinthe, first you put about a half-shot of it in a wine glass. Then you put a sugar cube on an absinthe spoon (or drink strainer) and balance it on the glass. Gently pour a little chilled water from a carafe (or water bottle with a sport-top lid) to moisten the cube for around 1 minute. Then pour 3-5 parts chilled water through the cube and into the absinthe. The cube will dissolve, although with some absinthes a full cube will be too much and in that case you’ll want to remove it once it’s sufficiently dissolved. The water will cause the absinthe to louche, or become cloudy. Absinthe connoisseurs usually prefer absinthes that louche slowly as you pour. This process of diluting absinthe is known as the absinthe ritual. Once diluted, 136 proof absinthe becomes a drink with 11-17% alcohol, which is comparable to wine.
In the 1990’s, someone figured out that it isn’t illegal to import or export absinthe in the UK, and an absinthe revival began. In 2005, Switzerland removed its ban on absinthe, which has allowed many clandestine distilleries to make their la bleue commercially available. Because of the misinformation surrounding it, the current absinthe market is dubious. The first absinthe distributed from the UK was La Fee, and it is thin and uninteresting except for the frightening chartreuse color. Some companies have begun selling absinthe do-it-yourself home-kits, which don’t utilize distillation but do create a horrible tasting beverage that should truly not be consumed. Other companies sell “Bohemian absinthe,” often labeled “absinth,” a beverage that originated in the Czech Republic that, although I haven't tried it, seems more similar to Pernod with wormwood added and licorice subtracted than real absinthe. In France, it’s now only illegal to call beverages containing thujone absinthe, which is surely as absurd a law as any, so instead they call it liqueur à base de plantes d’absinthe or liqueur aux extraits d’absinthe. There is also a trend toward advertising absinthe as having a high thujone content, which isn’t desireable unless you want your absinthe to taste bitter and soapy.
Good absinthe tastes like naturally-flavored candy. The dominant flavor is usually anise, which Americans always compare with black licorice. I find that a poor comparison because absinthe should not taste artificial like black licorice. I prefer absinthes that provide a full palate of well-balanced herbal flavors. Absinthe is a great after-dinner digestif.
Currently, reputable absinthe makers include Jade Liquers (whose absinthe maker is T.A. Breaux), Emile Pernot, Clandestine (from where you can get a la bleue that has been in production since the thirties), Matter-Luginbuhl (which makes Duplais) and Paul Devoille. Of the absinthes I’ve tried, which includes three from the above list, my favorites are Paul Devoille’s Blanche de Fougerolles for its intriguing subtelty and Jade’s complex, refreshing and beautiful PF 1901. Many who have tried it say PF 1901 tastes very much like pre-ban absinthe.
I’m convinced the biggest disservice the anti-drug establishment has done itself is that it relies so much on exaggerated propaganda that it doesn’t take much more than seeing your friend light up a joint and not either immediately dying or taking of their clothes and singing incoherently to realize the information you have been fed about drugs is a lie. I remember vividly when college basketball star Len Bias died of a cocaine overdose the day after being drafted by the Celtics hearing that he had died after only having one snort because he was allergic to it or some crap like that. C’mon, the dude signed a multi-million dollar contract and probably inhaled half an eight-ball partying it up with friends. Surely we would all be better served if we were simply given honest information from which we could make informed choices. There are enough reasons to not do drugs that there is really no need to lie about their dangers and effects. I honestly think every kid should have a sit-down talk with the heroin, crack/cocaine and meth addicts sleeping on the streets of every city in America.
---
Absinthe is a drink made from soaking wormwood and other herbs in high-proof alcohol and then distilling it and diluting it slightly so that the result is a drink usually around 136 proof. The other herbs vary, but the principal one is usually anise. Other commonly used herbs include fennel, hyssop, mint and coriander, and for some reason there are almost always 11 total herbs. The result is a clear liquid that is now referred to as blanche absinthe. This original absinthe was named from the French for wormwood, d’absinthe (I find it very interesting that vermouth takes its name from the German word for wormwood, wermut). Absinthe was invented in the late 1700’s as one of those elixir cure-alls popular in the 18th and 19th century, possibly by a Frenchman living in Couvet Switzerland named Dr. Pierre Ordinaire. Dr. Ordinaire made a successful living traveling around peddling absinthe. He possibly passed the recipe onto or maybe stole the recipe from the Swiss Henriod sisters. Regardless, a certain Major Dubied bought the recipe from either Dr. Ordinaire or the Henriod sisters and opened the first absinthe distillery in Couvet with his son and son-in-law Henri-Louis Pernod in 1797.
In 1805, this family built another distillery just over the border in Pontarlier, France, run by Henri-Louis and called Maison Pernod Fils. Here, the makers stumbled across the idea of adding a second step of herb maceration after the initial distillation, turning the liquid green. This is now classified as verte absinthe. This drink became extremely popular, moreso even than champagne, and soon over 50 French distilleries were exporting absinthe throughout the world. By 1910 the French were drinking more absinthe than wine, and it was cheap enough that it was enjoyed by people from all socio-economic classes.
Enter Dr. Valentin Magnan, a French psychiatrist who became prominent in the late 1900’s. He was a prohibitionist who, apparently not much of a historian, felt alcohol consumption was destroying French society. In a much publicized experiment, Magnan demonstrated that you could induce a guinea pig to have epileptic seizures by having it ingest large quantities of wormwood extract. Actually, the fact that extremely high doses of wormwood extract, and its active ingredient thujone (closely related to menthol), was potentially poisonous was not new news. Dr. Magnan did not choose to report that wormwood extract in low doses had been used medicinally as far back as the ancient Egyptians and Greeks (and is still used today in products like Vic’s Vap-o-rub). He did not choose to experiment on his guinea pigs using the drink absinthe, or even distilled wormwood. He didn’t reveal that you can induce a guinea pig to have a seizure by exposing one to high concentrations of seemingly everything, including caffeine, anise, hyssop and fennel. He did conclude and loudly declare that this was proof that absinthe made people crazy.
In an atypical alliance, the prohibitionists and the wine industry made it a priority to get rid of absinthe. They contrived a campaign which highlighted incidences of perceived crazy people who drank absinthe, which wasn’t very hard since everybody was drinking the stuff. Savvy advertisers will attest that such a con can be extremely successful, and is the reverse of the typical strategy of having people with desirable qualities promote a product. Citing the dangers of its thujone content, absinthe was eventually made illegal in many countries, including Switzerland in 1907 (the last straw there being a guy who killed his family after spending the entire day consuming all kinds of alcohol, which included two glasses of absinthe), The United States in 1912 and France in 1915.
Some Swiss distilleries secretly continued making the blanche version of absinthe, since the green color would have been a dead give-away, and slyly called it la bleue. Yes, it means blue even though it is clear; the reason for the name was so only people “in the know,” aka not the police, could acquire it. Possibly realizing the true reason for all the fuss, these Swiss distilleries lowered the alcohol content of la bleue to 110 proof. Illegally made absinthe is properly called clandestine absinthe, except for in Germany where it is called HG. Absinthe was never banned in Spain, and the Pernod company moved there and continued making an absinthe until closing in the late 50’s because of lack of sales. The French Pernod Ricard company continues to make a pastis called Pernod that is advertised as an absinthe substitute. Many have been led to believe it is essentially absinthe without the wormwood, but it is actually artificially-flavored and colored crap that bears little resemblance to the real stuff.
The fact is there is not very much thujone in absinthe, and you would die of alcohol poisoning long before it had any affect on you whatsoever. When it was banned, technology provided no accurate method of actually measuring the amount of thujone in absinthe. Interestingly, it has only been recently been realized that the US law only prohibits alcoholic beverages with a thujone content over 10 mg/l, which means many if not most absinthes are legal and were never actually even made illegal. The US feds publicly admitted this technicality in 2007.
Contrary to other popular myths, absinthe does NOT make you hallucinate or have an affect similar to marijuana, although vivid dreams after drinking it have been widely reported. Absinthe DOES have a high alcohol content, but you don’t drink absinthe without diluting it first. To properly enjoy Absinthe, first you put about a half-shot of it in a wine glass. Then you put a sugar cube on an absinthe spoon (or drink strainer) and balance it on the glass. Gently pour a little chilled water from a carafe (or water bottle with a sport-top lid) to moisten the cube for around 1 minute. Then pour 3-5 parts chilled water through the cube and into the absinthe. The cube will dissolve, although with some absinthes a full cube will be too much and in that case you’ll want to remove it once it’s sufficiently dissolved. The water will cause the absinthe to louche, or become cloudy. Absinthe connoisseurs usually prefer absinthes that louche slowly as you pour. This process of diluting absinthe is known as the absinthe ritual. Once diluted, 136 proof absinthe becomes a drink with 11-17% alcohol, which is comparable to wine.
In the 1990’s, someone figured out that it isn’t illegal to import or export absinthe in the UK, and an absinthe revival began. In 2005, Switzerland removed its ban on absinthe, which has allowed many clandestine distilleries to make their la bleue commercially available. Because of the misinformation surrounding it, the current absinthe market is dubious. The first absinthe distributed from the UK was La Fee, and it is thin and uninteresting except for the frightening chartreuse color. Some companies have begun selling absinthe do-it-yourself home-kits, which don’t utilize distillation but do create a horrible tasting beverage that should truly not be consumed. Other companies sell “Bohemian absinthe,” often labeled “absinth,” a beverage that originated in the Czech Republic that, although I haven't tried it, seems more similar to Pernod with wormwood added and licorice subtracted than real absinthe. In France, it’s now only illegal to call beverages containing thujone absinthe, which is surely as absurd a law as any, so instead they call it liqueur à base de plantes d’absinthe or liqueur aux extraits d’absinthe. There is also a trend toward advertising absinthe as having a high thujone content, which isn’t desireable unless you want your absinthe to taste bitter and soapy.
Good absinthe tastes like naturally-flavored candy. The dominant flavor is usually anise, which Americans always compare with black licorice. I find that a poor comparison because absinthe should not taste artificial like black licorice. I prefer absinthes that provide a full palate of well-balanced herbal flavors. Absinthe is a great after-dinner digestif.
Currently, reputable absinthe makers include Jade Liquers (whose absinthe maker is T.A. Breaux), Emile Pernot, Clandestine (from where you can get a la bleue that has been in production since the thirties), Matter-Luginbuhl (which makes Duplais) and Paul Devoille. Of the absinthes I’ve tried, which includes three from the above list, my favorites are Paul Devoille’s Blanche de Fougerolles for its intriguing subtelty and Jade’s complex, refreshing and beautiful PF 1901. Many who have tried it say PF 1901 tastes very much like pre-ban absinthe.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Arguing
I love to debate; I can’t stand arguing. Debate is when people attempt to reach a common point of view. Arguing is when people antagonize each other in a general attempt to out-humiliate each other. This is most effectively done by needling them in areas where they harbor fears, insecurities or dogmatic beliefs and are therefore especially sensitive. The main motivation is a futile attempt at protecting one’s own sensitivities and an excuse to express suppressed hostility, guilt and resentment. Even if it’s not intentional, a debate can quickly become an argument if someone feels an area of sensitivity is under attack.
We all have fears, insecurities and dogmatic beliefs. We also all have suppressed hostility, guilt and resentment. I generally disagree with the common psychological ideology that we need to try to completely cure ourselves of these facts by conjecturing what their origins might be or whatnot. Thinking of our areas of sensitivity and suppression as being things we can or should completely rid ourselves of encourages us to try to be in denial about ourselves. It is more beneficial to admit and accept areas where we are sensitive and suppressive and confront the things we do not like about ourselves head on.
People can change themselves if they genuinely want to. People can’t change others however, and people generally will not change simply to appease another, especially if they do not truly sympathize with the other’s reasoning for the change. To change an area of sensitivity requires a dedicated adoption of an alternative point of view, even if that entails admitting, “I don’t know,” “I don’t care” or “I can’t.” Areas of suppression demand to be expressed, and this is most successfully done (note my dogmatism, and if you know me, my resentment) by creating art and, to a slightly lesser degree, engaging in sport. Entertainment can also briefly distract us from our sensitivities and suppression, but the longer suppressed issues are put off, the more volatile they become.
The most effective way to deal with our own fears, insecurities and dogmatism is to recognize when one or more of our buttons have been pushed and have the lucidity, confidence and self-control to admit and constructively laugh at our self-perceived weaknesses or so-called knowledge instead of attacking another in an attempt to defend them or parlay the blame for them. The easiest way of dealing with our suppressed hostility, guilt and resentment is to either de-prioritize them or express them artistically or athletically. If lieu of those options, the next best thing is often to apologetically get them out in the open by being blunt. Once each other’s concrete priorities and uncompromising areas have been delineated and there are no more changes that either party is willing to make, we must continue on with our lives, either accepting each other’s faults or moving on from that relationship.
It is interesting that many of us seem to have as hard or harder a time accepting other’s perceived shortcomings as we do our own. That is probably why so many of us go to such lengths to try to convince others we don’t have any, but it’s also much easier to see where others are sensitive more acutely than we are able to determine regarding ourselves, and vice versa. This is in part because we are unable to watch our own behaviors or view ourselves from a less subjective distance. Everybody’s “hot button” issues are different, so it doesn’t work to treat another as if they have or should have the same issues as you.
It can be constructive to listen to the criticisms of others and accept them without construing them as an attack on our entire being. It can also be helpful to take other’s opinions with a grain of salt, realizing others tend to project their sensitivities and suppressions onto us. There are few more useful skills than having the ability to turn a potential argument into a reason to laugh. Life becomes much less stressful when you choose not to take the opinions of others or yourself too seriously or too lightly. The difficulty lies in finding that balance.
We all have fears, insecurities and dogmatic beliefs. We also all have suppressed hostility, guilt and resentment. I generally disagree with the common psychological ideology that we need to try to completely cure ourselves of these facts by conjecturing what their origins might be or whatnot. Thinking of our areas of sensitivity and suppression as being things we can or should completely rid ourselves of encourages us to try to be in denial about ourselves. It is more beneficial to admit and accept areas where we are sensitive and suppressive and confront the things we do not like about ourselves head on.
People can change themselves if they genuinely want to. People can’t change others however, and people generally will not change simply to appease another, especially if they do not truly sympathize with the other’s reasoning for the change. To change an area of sensitivity requires a dedicated adoption of an alternative point of view, even if that entails admitting, “I don’t know,” “I don’t care” or “I can’t.” Areas of suppression demand to be expressed, and this is most successfully done (note my dogmatism, and if you know me, my resentment) by creating art and, to a slightly lesser degree, engaging in sport. Entertainment can also briefly distract us from our sensitivities and suppression, but the longer suppressed issues are put off, the more volatile they become.
The most effective way to deal with our own fears, insecurities and dogmatism is to recognize when one or more of our buttons have been pushed and have the lucidity, confidence and self-control to admit and constructively laugh at our self-perceived weaknesses or so-called knowledge instead of attacking another in an attempt to defend them or parlay the blame for them. The easiest way of dealing with our suppressed hostility, guilt and resentment is to either de-prioritize them or express them artistically or athletically. If lieu of those options, the next best thing is often to apologetically get them out in the open by being blunt. Once each other’s concrete priorities and uncompromising areas have been delineated and there are no more changes that either party is willing to make, we must continue on with our lives, either accepting each other’s faults or moving on from that relationship.
It is interesting that many of us seem to have as hard or harder a time accepting other’s perceived shortcomings as we do our own. That is probably why so many of us go to such lengths to try to convince others we don’t have any, but it’s also much easier to see where others are sensitive more acutely than we are able to determine regarding ourselves, and vice versa. This is in part because we are unable to watch our own behaviors or view ourselves from a less subjective distance. Everybody’s “hot button” issues are different, so it doesn’t work to treat another as if they have or should have the same issues as you.
It can be constructive to listen to the criticisms of others and accept them without construing them as an attack on our entire being. It can also be helpful to take other’s opinions with a grain of salt, realizing others tend to project their sensitivities and suppressions onto us. There are few more useful skills than having the ability to turn a potential argument into a reason to laugh. Life becomes much less stressful when you choose not to take the opinions of others or yourself too seriously or too lightly. The difficulty lies in finding that balance.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Clay
Clay was a generous, candid kid with a boisterous laugh. In high school, however, most viewed him simply as a chubby, acne-faced kid with a bad haircut. He lived in the poor part of north Des Moines, but for some reason he and his siblings transferred to my school my sophomore or junior year. Clay and I were the only males in our grade in band; he played trombone. I guess that’s how we met and why we hung out.
Clay had a brother a year or two younger and another half-brother and half-sister who were very young; around Kindergarten and first grade age. They all lived in a little shack with only their mother, and it was obvious Clay was very active in helping raise the youngsters. He got them dressed, packed their bags and drove them to school each morning in a beat-up old station wagon. Despite the obvious stressors in his life, Clay was a jovial, easy-going guy with a wry sense of humor. I was impressed with his astute understanding that nothing in high school was important enough to worry about.
Clay would often spend the weekends when the kids were with their father at my place, which made him my only friend that ever stayed over at that time in my life. He always brought with him videos that we watched marathon-style. As an enthusiast of campy b-movies and anime, Clay single-handedly introduced me to the anime, Godzilla, vampire and kung fu genres. I cannot begin to extol my gratitude for this gift from Clay. He made me aware of whole worlds of cinema that had a humor and honesty that I could appreciate and relate to, and instigated my hunger for perspectives through films beyond Hollywood.
I never kept in touch with Clay. Hope he’s doing well.
Clay had a brother a year or two younger and another half-brother and half-sister who were very young; around Kindergarten and first grade age. They all lived in a little shack with only their mother, and it was obvious Clay was very active in helping raise the youngsters. He got them dressed, packed their bags and drove them to school each morning in a beat-up old station wagon. Despite the obvious stressors in his life, Clay was a jovial, easy-going guy with a wry sense of humor. I was impressed with his astute understanding that nothing in high school was important enough to worry about.
Clay would often spend the weekends when the kids were with their father at my place, which made him my only friend that ever stayed over at that time in my life. He always brought with him videos that we watched marathon-style. As an enthusiast of campy b-movies and anime, Clay single-handedly introduced me to the anime, Godzilla, vampire and kung fu genres. I cannot begin to extol my gratitude for this gift from Clay. He made me aware of whole worlds of cinema that had a humor and honesty that I could appreciate and relate to, and instigated my hunger for perspectives through films beyond Hollywood.
I never kept in touch with Clay. Hope he’s doing well.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Revisionist creationism
Since the beginning of time the immortal angels had flown freely throughout the universe. The angels had never had any needs or known any wants. Then, inexplicably, one of them became vain. He wanted to be noticed by the other angels. Because they had no needs or wants, the angels had never had any reason to notice him or be noticed.
This vain angel decided he would make himself noticed. He contemplated for many millennia upon what to do, until finally he realized the most obvious way of making others notice him would be for him to communicate with them. Because they had no needs or wants, the angels had never had any reason to communicate.
The vain angel opened his mouth- a mouth that no angel had ever been used before- and spoke. He said, “I.” The word filled the entire universe. Suddenly, all of the angels took notice. They gathered together and, for the first time, communicated. They talked amongst themselves for many millennia, until the vain angel concluded they had forgotten about him and the gift he had bestowed.
The vain angel decided he would find another way of making himself noticed. He contemplated for many millennia upon what to do, until finally he decided he would show off his strength. Because they had no needs or wants, the angels had never had any reason to use their strength.
The vain angel reached out his arms- arms that no angel had ever used before- and tore the universe in half. He called one half Heaven, meaning “above,” and the other half Earth, meaning “below.” Again, all the angels took notice. Some of them flew away into Heaven and some of them flew away into Earth. The vain angel, left alone between the two, concluded they had forgotten about him and the gift he bestowed.
The vain angel decided he would find yet another way of making himself noticed. He contemplated for many millennia upon what to do, until finally he decided he would demonstrate his cunning. Because they had no needs or wants, the angels had never had any reason to be cunning.
The vain angel thought with his mind- a mind no angel had ever used before- and invented light. He separated Earth into light and dark. The angels took notice. Some of them flew away into the light and some of them into the dark.
Realizing that he would soon be left alone and forgotten as before, the vain angel grew impatient. Because they had no needs or wants, no angel had ever been impatient. Without thinking at all, he decided to make a judgment. Because they had no needs or wants, the angels had never had any reason to judge.
The vain angel declared the light better than the dark, saying “The light is good.” Blindly believing this decree, the angels began flying into the light. But now that a judgment had been made, another angel realized he could also make a judgment. It occurred to him the vain angel’s judgment had been arbitrary, and he challenged it.
The two angels began arguing, and it soon accelerated into a fight. Because they had no needs or wants, the angels had never argued or fought. The vain angel molded the light he had invented into a ball of fire and hurled it at the challenging angel. The fireball burnt the challenging angel’s entire body so that it turned black and scaly, but not before the he crafted a round, reflective shield which reflected some of the fire back and burnt off the vain angel’s wings.
Some of the other angels began taking sides. After many millennia of fighting, a truce was declared. The vain angel and his followers would inhabit the area of light on Earth, henceforth lit by the fireball called the sun. The other angel and his followers would inhabit the area of darkness on Earth, forever protected by the shield called the moon. The angels who had remained neutral would inhabit Heaven.
Mockingly, the vain angel called the challenging angel Lucifer, meaning “angel of light.” The vain angel thought there could be no greater insult than to name the angel after what he seemed to so vehemently dislike. In retaliation, Lucifer called the vain angel Jehovah, meaning “he who is nobody.” Lucifer realized there was no greater insult than to name the vain angel after what he so profoundly feared. Jehovah was angry. Because they had no needs or wants, no angel had ever been angry. In his anger, he tore the Earth into sky, land and sea.
Jehovah vainly feared the only thing the other angels would notice about him was that he could no longer fly. Because they had no needs or wants, no angel had ever been afraid. Jehovah realized what he wanted was not to be noticed, but to be respected. Because they had no needs or wants, the angels had never had any reason to show respect or be respected. He contemplated for many millennia upon what to do, until finally he determined that if he wanted others to respect him, he would have to create others which were lesser beings than him. He would make them needy and wanting, which meant in part that they would have to be mortal. Reconsidering his most recent decision which had caused a war and cost him his wings, he would also make them unable to make judgments.
Jehovah invented all kinds of living plants, but they did not notice or respect Jehovah. Jehovah invented all kinds of living animals, and they noticed but did not respect Jehovah. Finally, Jehovah invented man, making man to look just like himself. Man noticed and respected Jehovah.
In order to make him feel inferior to Jehovah and therefore respect him, Jehovah called the man Adam, which means “piece of dirt.” Because he could not make judgments, Adam did whatever Jehovah asked of him. Jehovah rewarded and impressed him by creating someone that Adam could rule; a woman. In order to make her feel indebted to Jehovah and Adam and therefore respect them, Adam called the woman “Eve,” which means “lucky to be alive.”
Because they could not make judgments, Adam and Eve did whatever Jehovah asked, so Jehovah made them his slaves. They worked hard and grew a magnificent garden for Jehovah. Never realizing they could take care of themselves, Adam and Eve remained completely dependent upon Jehovah for him to meet their every need.
Jehovah got bored. Because they had no needs or wants, no angel had ever been bored. He realized that since they could not make judgments, Adam and Eve could have no opinion of him. Jehovah realized what he wanted was not to be noticed or respected, but to be loved. Because they had no needs or wants, the angels had never had any reason to love or be loved. Although he contemplated about it for many millennia, Jehovah didn’t know what to do to be loved.
In order to amuse himself, Jehovah smugly created a tree that would enable Adam and Eve to be immortal and another tree that would enable them to make judgments for themselves. Then he lied to Adam and Eve to confuse them, and told them if they ate from the tree that would enable them to make judgments they would die. Because they had no needs or wants, no angel had ever lied. He slyly did not mention to them the tree that would make them immortal.
Jehovah was curious to find out whether Adam and Eve respected him enough to believe his lie. Jehovah hoped that even if they ate from the tree and became able to judge, they would be overwhelmed with guilt and feel obliged to love him. Jehovah needed an accomplice in order to put Adam and Eve to the test. With nowhere else to turn, Jehovah desperately contacted his enemy Lucifer. Pretending to make amends but hoping to avenge himself, Lucifer agreed to help Jehovah toy with Adam and Eve.
Lucifer entered the light and approached Adam and Eve. As a result of being burned by Jehovah, Lucifer looked like a dragon. He told them the truth; that that tree would not kill them but enable them to make judgments. Because they could not make judgments, Adam and Eve did not know what to do or who to believe. Finally, Adam told Eve to try some fruit from the tree, not really caring what happened to her one way or the other. As always, she did what he asked.
Eve didn’t die, but she did gain the ability to judge. She realized that Jehovah had lied and Lucifer had told the truth. She also realized Jehovah had been taking advantage of them. She told Adam to eat from the fruit so he could judge these things for himself, and he did. Jehovah had been gleefully watching these events while hiding in a nearby marijuana field. Now he revealed himself and demanded, “What have you done?”
Adam and Eve determined that, although Jehovah had used and disrespected him, they did owe him their lives. They humbly asked him how they could make recompense. Suddenly, Jehovah pounced on Lucifer and ripped off his legs. Knowing it was wrong but not caring, Adam and Eve joined in to help. They ripped off Lucifer’s wings and arms. But Lucifer managed to bite Jehovah’s face with his sharp teeth, puncturing both of his eyes. Then with a fling of his long neck he tossed Jehovah into Heaven.
From that day until now, Jehovah has been trapped in Heaven, flightless and blind; unable to help or harm the descendants of Adam and Eve. He remains surrounded by neutral angels who don’t notice, respect or love him at all. The angels in the light and the angels in the dark do as they please with no needs or wants, but nobody knows what has become of Lucifer, who surely looks like a snake. The descendents of Adam and Eve have, for the most part, forgotten about the two trees in the garden, that even according to the Bible Jehovah lied and that humans have the ability to judge for themselves.
This vain angel decided he would make himself noticed. He contemplated for many millennia upon what to do, until finally he realized the most obvious way of making others notice him would be for him to communicate with them. Because they had no needs or wants, the angels had never had any reason to communicate.
The vain angel opened his mouth- a mouth that no angel had ever been used before- and spoke. He said, “I.” The word filled the entire universe. Suddenly, all of the angels took notice. They gathered together and, for the first time, communicated. They talked amongst themselves for many millennia, until the vain angel concluded they had forgotten about him and the gift he had bestowed.
The vain angel decided he would find another way of making himself noticed. He contemplated for many millennia upon what to do, until finally he decided he would show off his strength. Because they had no needs or wants, the angels had never had any reason to use their strength.
The vain angel reached out his arms- arms that no angel had ever used before- and tore the universe in half. He called one half Heaven, meaning “above,” and the other half Earth, meaning “below.” Again, all the angels took notice. Some of them flew away into Heaven and some of them flew away into Earth. The vain angel, left alone between the two, concluded they had forgotten about him and the gift he bestowed.
The vain angel decided he would find yet another way of making himself noticed. He contemplated for many millennia upon what to do, until finally he decided he would demonstrate his cunning. Because they had no needs or wants, the angels had never had any reason to be cunning.
The vain angel thought with his mind- a mind no angel had ever used before- and invented light. He separated Earth into light and dark. The angels took notice. Some of them flew away into the light and some of them into the dark.
Realizing that he would soon be left alone and forgotten as before, the vain angel grew impatient. Because they had no needs or wants, no angel had ever been impatient. Without thinking at all, he decided to make a judgment. Because they had no needs or wants, the angels had never had any reason to judge.
The vain angel declared the light better than the dark, saying “The light is good.” Blindly believing this decree, the angels began flying into the light. But now that a judgment had been made, another angel realized he could also make a judgment. It occurred to him the vain angel’s judgment had been arbitrary, and he challenged it.
The two angels began arguing, and it soon accelerated into a fight. Because they had no needs or wants, the angels had never argued or fought. The vain angel molded the light he had invented into a ball of fire and hurled it at the challenging angel. The fireball burnt the challenging angel’s entire body so that it turned black and scaly, but not before the he crafted a round, reflective shield which reflected some of the fire back and burnt off the vain angel’s wings.
Some of the other angels began taking sides. After many millennia of fighting, a truce was declared. The vain angel and his followers would inhabit the area of light on Earth, henceforth lit by the fireball called the sun. The other angel and his followers would inhabit the area of darkness on Earth, forever protected by the shield called the moon. The angels who had remained neutral would inhabit Heaven.
Mockingly, the vain angel called the challenging angel Lucifer, meaning “angel of light.” The vain angel thought there could be no greater insult than to name the angel after what he seemed to so vehemently dislike. In retaliation, Lucifer called the vain angel Jehovah, meaning “he who is nobody.” Lucifer realized there was no greater insult than to name the vain angel after what he so profoundly feared. Jehovah was angry. Because they had no needs or wants, no angel had ever been angry. In his anger, he tore the Earth into sky, land and sea.
Jehovah vainly feared the only thing the other angels would notice about him was that he could no longer fly. Because they had no needs or wants, no angel had ever been afraid. Jehovah realized what he wanted was not to be noticed, but to be respected. Because they had no needs or wants, the angels had never had any reason to show respect or be respected. He contemplated for many millennia upon what to do, until finally he determined that if he wanted others to respect him, he would have to create others which were lesser beings than him. He would make them needy and wanting, which meant in part that they would have to be mortal. Reconsidering his most recent decision which had caused a war and cost him his wings, he would also make them unable to make judgments.
Jehovah invented all kinds of living plants, but they did not notice or respect Jehovah. Jehovah invented all kinds of living animals, and they noticed but did not respect Jehovah. Finally, Jehovah invented man, making man to look just like himself. Man noticed and respected Jehovah.
In order to make him feel inferior to Jehovah and therefore respect him, Jehovah called the man Adam, which means “piece of dirt.” Because he could not make judgments, Adam did whatever Jehovah asked of him. Jehovah rewarded and impressed him by creating someone that Adam could rule; a woman. In order to make her feel indebted to Jehovah and Adam and therefore respect them, Adam called the woman “Eve,” which means “lucky to be alive.”
Because they could not make judgments, Adam and Eve did whatever Jehovah asked, so Jehovah made them his slaves. They worked hard and grew a magnificent garden for Jehovah. Never realizing they could take care of themselves, Adam and Eve remained completely dependent upon Jehovah for him to meet their every need.
Jehovah got bored. Because they had no needs or wants, no angel had ever been bored. He realized that since they could not make judgments, Adam and Eve could have no opinion of him. Jehovah realized what he wanted was not to be noticed or respected, but to be loved. Because they had no needs or wants, the angels had never had any reason to love or be loved. Although he contemplated about it for many millennia, Jehovah didn’t know what to do to be loved.
In order to amuse himself, Jehovah smugly created a tree that would enable Adam and Eve to be immortal and another tree that would enable them to make judgments for themselves. Then he lied to Adam and Eve to confuse them, and told them if they ate from the tree that would enable them to make judgments they would die. Because they had no needs or wants, no angel had ever lied. He slyly did not mention to them the tree that would make them immortal.
Jehovah was curious to find out whether Adam and Eve respected him enough to believe his lie. Jehovah hoped that even if they ate from the tree and became able to judge, they would be overwhelmed with guilt and feel obliged to love him. Jehovah needed an accomplice in order to put Adam and Eve to the test. With nowhere else to turn, Jehovah desperately contacted his enemy Lucifer. Pretending to make amends but hoping to avenge himself, Lucifer agreed to help Jehovah toy with Adam and Eve.
Lucifer entered the light and approached Adam and Eve. As a result of being burned by Jehovah, Lucifer looked like a dragon. He told them the truth; that that tree would not kill them but enable them to make judgments. Because they could not make judgments, Adam and Eve did not know what to do or who to believe. Finally, Adam told Eve to try some fruit from the tree, not really caring what happened to her one way or the other. As always, she did what he asked.
Eve didn’t die, but she did gain the ability to judge. She realized that Jehovah had lied and Lucifer had told the truth. She also realized Jehovah had been taking advantage of them. She told Adam to eat from the fruit so he could judge these things for himself, and he did. Jehovah had been gleefully watching these events while hiding in a nearby marijuana field. Now he revealed himself and demanded, “What have you done?”
Adam and Eve determined that, although Jehovah had used and disrespected him, they did owe him their lives. They humbly asked him how they could make recompense. Suddenly, Jehovah pounced on Lucifer and ripped off his legs. Knowing it was wrong but not caring, Adam and Eve joined in to help. They ripped off Lucifer’s wings and arms. But Lucifer managed to bite Jehovah’s face with his sharp teeth, puncturing both of his eyes. Then with a fling of his long neck he tossed Jehovah into Heaven.
From that day until now, Jehovah has been trapped in Heaven, flightless and blind; unable to help or harm the descendants of Adam and Eve. He remains surrounded by neutral angels who don’t notice, respect or love him at all. The angels in the light and the angels in the dark do as they please with no needs or wants, but nobody knows what has become of Lucifer, who surely looks like a snake. The descendents of Adam and Eve have, for the most part, forgotten about the two trees in the garden, that even according to the Bible Jehovah lied and that humans have the ability to judge for themselves.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Combinations
Perhaps there’s no more intimate a gesture for an eighth grader than telling your friend your locker combination. Bryan’s locker was two down from mine, and between classes I got into the habit of opening his first. I was proud to know the three numbers needed to unclasp Bryan’s MasterLock. I also liked his three digits better than mine: my chunky 32-4-14 just wasn’t as fluid as his slick 28-18-12. One day, I decided to switch my lock with Bryan’s. To my chagrin, he didn’t find it funny, and categorically wanted his own lock back. I sheepishly acquiesced.
There’s something magical about a combination lock, and not only because of the mysterious mechanism itself. Through repetition, you become able to maneuver the dial counter-clockwise from the first number to the second and clockwise from the second to third so precisely that even while agilely spinning the dial as fast as possible you can stop on a dime at just the right place. The sound of the shackle being released after reaching the last number and pulling the case (or handle, if the lock is built-in) never ceases to be satisfying. I can only think to compare it to playing with a group of musicians with whom you really connect. You know that it works, but you don’t truly know why.
At my school, only the row of lockers reserved for the freshmen had built-in locks. Incidentally, the locker I had that year was next to the band room, and during my sophomore through senior years, I continued to unlock that locker almost as frequently as I entered that room. This wasn’t nearly as devious as the kids who would write anonymous love letters and drop them through the air slots of random lockers.
In eighth grade I actually had two lockers with locks, the other being in the p.e. locker room. These were reserved for those in sports, and I was imprudently in football and basketball that year. After basketball season ended, I kept my lock on my locker but never opened it again. I tried to open it, but somehow the correct numbers got squeezed out of my brain and I could not remember them.
My school had a very cunning policy: at the beginning of the year they would sell you your combination locks at $4 apiece, and at the end of the year they would buy them back for $2. This ploy worked only because at the beginning of the year, your parents paid the fee along with the others imposed by the “free” public school system, but at the end of the year the refund was given to us students when we gave them back with our books.
The last day of school, I convinced a janitor with a master key to unlock my p.e. lock for me. I also convinced Bryan to trade me locks, since he was just going to sell it back anyway. In order to be paid for the lock, you had to write the permutation on a piece of tape fastened on back. Realizing they didn’t actually check, I made up a number for the p.e. lock and got my $2. I kept Bryan’s lock and continued to use it for the next several years.
I don’t know what ever became of Bryan or his lock. I still have the last lock I used my senior year, but the number for it is 28-6-16. The first number’s the same, but some things are irreplaceable.
There’s something magical about a combination lock, and not only because of the mysterious mechanism itself. Through repetition, you become able to maneuver the dial counter-clockwise from the first number to the second and clockwise from the second to third so precisely that even while agilely spinning the dial as fast as possible you can stop on a dime at just the right place. The sound of the shackle being released after reaching the last number and pulling the case (or handle, if the lock is built-in) never ceases to be satisfying. I can only think to compare it to playing with a group of musicians with whom you really connect. You know that it works, but you don’t truly know why.
At my school, only the row of lockers reserved for the freshmen had built-in locks. Incidentally, the locker I had that year was next to the band room, and during my sophomore through senior years, I continued to unlock that locker almost as frequently as I entered that room. This wasn’t nearly as devious as the kids who would write anonymous love letters and drop them through the air slots of random lockers.
In eighth grade I actually had two lockers with locks, the other being in the p.e. locker room. These were reserved for those in sports, and I was imprudently in football and basketball that year. After basketball season ended, I kept my lock on my locker but never opened it again. I tried to open it, but somehow the correct numbers got squeezed out of my brain and I could not remember them.
My school had a very cunning policy: at the beginning of the year they would sell you your combination locks at $4 apiece, and at the end of the year they would buy them back for $2. This ploy worked only because at the beginning of the year, your parents paid the fee along with the others imposed by the “free” public school system, but at the end of the year the refund was given to us students when we gave them back with our books.
The last day of school, I convinced a janitor with a master key to unlock my p.e. lock for me. I also convinced Bryan to trade me locks, since he was just going to sell it back anyway. In order to be paid for the lock, you had to write the permutation on a piece of tape fastened on back. Realizing they didn’t actually check, I made up a number for the p.e. lock and got my $2. I kept Bryan’s lock and continued to use it for the next several years.
I don’t know what ever became of Bryan or his lock. I still have the last lock I used my senior year, but the number for it is 28-6-16. The first number’s the same, but some things are irreplaceable.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Risa
Risa is one of the few people I know who seems to genuinely recognize the importance of staying connected. It can not be overstated how much I appreciate this about her. Being in touch with old friends that you no longer live near can be difficult, but Risa is an expert in making it happen.
I met Risa on April 27th, 1996, a day that has proven to be a major turning point in my life (for many reasons, some of which I’ve written about in earlier blogs and have no bearing here). An all-day music festival was held on my university’s campus, and my friends’ band was one of the first groups performing. I went with the usual suspects and some of their friends who were visiting from Iowa City. After watching Soothing Syrup, I played hacky-sack all day while being introduced to other local groups such as Measure (sorta like Janis! These guys would become good friends) and House of Large Sizes (uh, does there have to be a contrived cesura in every song?). The headline band was Fishbone, and although I’d never heard of them, I decided to make the most of the experience and get right in with the moshing crowd. A particular group of girls in the crowd seemed really into the band, even knowing the lyrics well enough to crowd on stage and yell them into the singer’s microphone. Afterward, we went back to Brad’s dorm room, and somehow that group of girls appeared there. By the early hours of the morning, they had passed out or were giggling incoherently and Brad and I were hazily discussing where the hell these girls had come from and how we were going to get them off his bed. Risa was one of these girls.
We all separated to our hometowns for the summer, and when we returned the girls were back. They lived on the eighth floor and we were on the ninth. While I delved into an exploration of my own beliefs, the crew I had hung out with the semester before and these girls’ crews combined in an all-out exploration of chemical debauchery. (Ha! That’s probably the funniest two-word propaganda-laden rhetoric I’ve ever written, but that’s how I felt about it at the time. And it’s appropriately vague enough to avoid any implications of illegal activity.) Missing the late night verbal pinings we had engaged in that spring, I felt like these girls and their friends had infiltrated my crew (by which I really mean Brad’s crew) and taken away my friends. This analysis was not fair or accurate, and ironically Risa was a major participant in the poetry club I started solely to counter the perceived invasion.
I don’t know which Risa likes more: socializing with friends or recording the event for posterity. Countless gatherings consisted of watching the videos Risa had made of the gathering the night or two prior. Frankly, I found this ridiculous, as I was highly motivated to stay in and experience the moment (you know, Carpe diem) and have always been more interested in learning from the past than dwelling on or reliving it. Besides, I’ve never been comfortable in front of a camera. Now, however, I realize Risa was simply documenting that which is most important in life. While I sit here alone and write reminisces of times together, I can imagine Risa watching those times she preserved.
Soon, I was bored both with my own barren room and whichever smoke-filled room the gang was wasting away in. I found numerous places to be by myself but not really, including the puffy pink chair in the library and the Dancer Laundromat. Risa and her roommate Angie never locked their dormroom door. They were also rarely home. Without asking, I began sitting alone in their room for hours on end and listening through their CD collection, which was a combination of hippie bands and funk. My main motivation for this was the fact that the most impressive thing I found about Risa and Angie was that they knew the lyrics to all kinds of early hip-hop songs. Granted, the lyrics were over-the-top stupid, but I have never been able to remember song lyrics at all. I sat on their couch, cringed at the rainbow décor of the room, and alphabetized the pile of haphazard CDs while being educated by their unfamiliar content. Honestly, I didn’t like most of it, but I “borrowed” a few CDs so I could learn or transcribe a drum part or vamp.
Fast-forward a year, and Brad, Risa and a couple other “eighth floor girls” lived together in a house a couple blocks from where I worked. The door to this house was never locked either, and I occasionally stopped by, if only to sleep on their couch after working third shift. Fast-forward three more years, and Risa had moved to Eugene, Oregon to be with one of my former co-workers from that job a few months before I moved to the San Francisco Bay Area. Honestly, I never expected to see or hear from her again.
Fortunately, Risa did somehow get in touch, and we began organizing a yearly group campout of former Iowans at various west coast locales. Lacking a video camera in the woods, Risa invented the notorious “Camping Journal” to record these events. She also put into operation a newsletter that had been a whimsical idea by a somewhat ad-hoc group of Iowans as a means to keep in touch. I was invited to join the newsletter club and instantly began sabotaging it by writing the most ludicrously random and personal things I could think of. I found this to be a lot of fun, but the newsletter only happens about four times a year. Eager to write more, I started this blog.
I received the latest newsletter yesterday. Even though I wish Risa and Chant hadn’t moved back to Iowa, it seems to be working out. Who could’ve predicted they’d be such a great match? It didn’t even matter, and I almost didn’t notice, she neglected to include one of my submissions.
I met Risa on April 27th, 1996, a day that has proven to be a major turning point in my life (for many reasons, some of which I’ve written about in earlier blogs and have no bearing here). An all-day music festival was held on my university’s campus, and my friends’ band was one of the first groups performing. I went with the usual suspects and some of their friends who were visiting from Iowa City. After watching Soothing Syrup, I played hacky-sack all day while being introduced to other local groups such as Measure (sorta like Janis! These guys would become good friends) and House of Large Sizes (uh, does there have to be a contrived cesura in every song?). The headline band was Fishbone, and although I’d never heard of them, I decided to make the most of the experience and get right in with the moshing crowd. A particular group of girls in the crowd seemed really into the band, even knowing the lyrics well enough to crowd on stage and yell them into the singer’s microphone. Afterward, we went back to Brad’s dorm room, and somehow that group of girls appeared there. By the early hours of the morning, they had passed out or were giggling incoherently and Brad and I were hazily discussing where the hell these girls had come from and how we were going to get them off his bed. Risa was one of these girls.
We all separated to our hometowns for the summer, and when we returned the girls were back. They lived on the eighth floor and we were on the ninth. While I delved into an exploration of my own beliefs, the crew I had hung out with the semester before and these girls’ crews combined in an all-out exploration of chemical debauchery. (Ha! That’s probably the funniest two-word propaganda-laden rhetoric I’ve ever written, but that’s how I felt about it at the time. And it’s appropriately vague enough to avoid any implications of illegal activity.) Missing the late night verbal pinings we had engaged in that spring, I felt like these girls and their friends had infiltrated my crew (by which I really mean Brad’s crew) and taken away my friends. This analysis was not fair or accurate, and ironically Risa was a major participant in the poetry club I started solely to counter the perceived invasion.
I don’t know which Risa likes more: socializing with friends or recording the event for posterity. Countless gatherings consisted of watching the videos Risa had made of the gathering the night or two prior. Frankly, I found this ridiculous, as I was highly motivated to stay in and experience the moment (you know, Carpe diem) and have always been more interested in learning from the past than dwelling on or reliving it. Besides, I’ve never been comfortable in front of a camera. Now, however, I realize Risa was simply documenting that which is most important in life. While I sit here alone and write reminisces of times together, I can imagine Risa watching those times she preserved.
Soon, I was bored both with my own barren room and whichever smoke-filled room the gang was wasting away in. I found numerous places to be by myself but not really, including the puffy pink chair in the library and the Dancer Laundromat. Risa and her roommate Angie never locked their dormroom door. They were also rarely home. Without asking, I began sitting alone in their room for hours on end and listening through their CD collection, which was a combination of hippie bands and funk. My main motivation for this was the fact that the most impressive thing I found about Risa and Angie was that they knew the lyrics to all kinds of early hip-hop songs. Granted, the lyrics were over-the-top stupid, but I have never been able to remember song lyrics at all. I sat on their couch, cringed at the rainbow décor of the room, and alphabetized the pile of haphazard CDs while being educated by their unfamiliar content. Honestly, I didn’t like most of it, but I “borrowed” a few CDs so I could learn or transcribe a drum part or vamp.
Fast-forward a year, and Brad, Risa and a couple other “eighth floor girls” lived together in a house a couple blocks from where I worked. The door to this house was never locked either, and I occasionally stopped by, if only to sleep on their couch after working third shift. Fast-forward three more years, and Risa had moved to Eugene, Oregon to be with one of my former co-workers from that job a few months before I moved to the San Francisco Bay Area. Honestly, I never expected to see or hear from her again.
Fortunately, Risa did somehow get in touch, and we began organizing a yearly group campout of former Iowans at various west coast locales. Lacking a video camera in the woods, Risa invented the notorious “Camping Journal” to record these events. She also put into operation a newsletter that had been a whimsical idea by a somewhat ad-hoc group of Iowans as a means to keep in touch. I was invited to join the newsletter club and instantly began sabotaging it by writing the most ludicrously random and personal things I could think of. I found this to be a lot of fun, but the newsletter only happens about four times a year. Eager to write more, I started this blog.
I received the latest newsletter yesterday. Even though I wish Risa and Chant hadn’t moved back to Iowa, it seems to be working out. Who could’ve predicted they’d be such a great match? It didn’t even matter, and I almost didn’t notice, she neglected to include one of my submissions.
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