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.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
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.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Zombies
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.
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.
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.
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