Duplicate digit days always remind me of Risa, because she was born on one of them and I called to wish her a happy birthday on the wrong one once.
For over a decade, Risa has been compiling and distributing sundry articles amongst a select group of members in a top-secret organization loosely connected to Cedar Falls, Iowa. A mailer arrived the other day, and upon skimming the contents, I came upon the transcriptions of a Camping Journal- a term coined by Risa- giving a distorted play-by-play of Brett and Andrea’s wedding reunion campout. “Oh, that’s strange,” I commented aloud, “I thought I had written a lot of that.” I then read the explanatory opening paragraph with near disbelief: I had written the bulk of that night’s Camping Journal.
My handwriting is completely illegible, and it does not improve with drinking. One morning in Maupin, Oregon, while struggling to read an entire page of my own Camping Journal scribbles from the epic night before in Dick’s backyard, I showed it to Sandy. She just laughed and shook her head. “My students have better handwriting than that.” I have been typing everything intended for others to read since my parents bought an Apple 2e clone when I was in seventh grade. Risa, however, was somehow only stumped by six words, which she scanned and included in their original form. The first four are: gun, woman, misbehavin’ and paddling; I have no clue myself what the last two are.
It suddenly occurred to me that Risa and I have remained in fairly consistent contact since we first met in Brad’s dorm room on April 27th, 1996, which is longer than anybody else I know. Therefore, it is highly probable that Risa knows me better than anybody else. This is likely how she was able to kick my ass at Risk last month, despite my having taught her everything (worthwhile anyway) she knows about the game. (Anyone who’s played a board game with my dad or I will get this joke.)
Risa’s married to this guy Chant. Chant and I met while “working” at a gas station conveniently located a couple blocks from “The Blue House,” where Risa lived at the time. Upon meeting Chant, I thought to myself, this guy is either as smart as I am or as full of shit. He dons a jaunty grin, keen eyes, stilt-like legs and flaxen hair. Perhaps he’s just a little too adorable for my tastes. He brews some fine beer, though. (I’m genuinely tempted to add LOLZ.)
One day while working together, Chant called me out for staring at a cute customer. Two years later, that cute customer and I would move to the San Francisco Bay Area together, not long after Chant and Risa had moved to Eugene, Oregon.
About a year ago, Chant and Risa asked if I’d seen some movie I’d never heard of. Chant promptly burned me a copy and, instead of writing the name of the movie, drew a picture of some devious-looking guy on it. Most people shy away from recommending movies to me, as I’m generally not shy about giving my opinion on it. If I don’t like a movie, I tend to amuse myself by talking through it ala MST3K. Anyway, I finally got around to watching the movie last night. It’s tragically titled The Lathe of Heaven (1980), so now I get why Chant opted to omit it. It is my kind of movie in so many ways- a sort of Twilight Zone meets Philip K. Dick in Portland, Oregon with a PBS budget (literally). It seems an essential link between cinematic science fiction prior to Star Wars (1977) and those that weren’t trying to be another Return of the Jedi (1983).
Chant also burned me the first season of The Wire. I plan on starting to watch that next week.
Risa has always had a crush on Arlo Guthrie. She even made me re-watch Alice’s Restaurant (1969) during our college years, and it turned out to be much better than I remembered it. I’m sure their newborn son, Escher Arlo, will be seeing it soon.
There’s a tête-à-tête in the entertainingly quotable movie Tombstone (1993) where, after the tuberculosis addled Doc Holliday, delightfully portrayed by Val Kilmer, coughs up blood and falls off his horse, Turkey Creek Jack Johnson asks, “Why are you doin’ this, Doc?” Holliday slurs, “Because Wyatt Earp is my friend.” Johnson scoffs, “Friend? Hell, I got lots of friends.” Holliday replies, “I don’t.”
Friday, November 11, 2011
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Hypocritical Oath
There’s not much subtle about me. Last week, a co-worker exclaimed, “I don’t understand you- you’re so blunt!”
“How can it be difficult to understand me telling you exactly what I mean?” I asked.
“I’m not used to it.”
Fair enough. In part because I disdain condescension, I find it difficult to be patronizing towards others. Similarly, because I’m an unimpressive mind-reader, I tend to speak rather directly. Unfortunately, most people are jelly-spined crybabies who would rather hear how awesome they are than the truth. I crave frankness, but it is exceedingly rare. People aren’t generally comfortable giving their genuine opinions unless it’s done anonymously or from a safe distance. I suspect this is oftentimes due to their own tacit acceptance that they don’t know what they’re talking about, which would be immediately revealed in their inability to rationally defend their stance. Of course, it could also be due to the likelihood of me disagreeing with anything and everything anybody says. Maybe others, like myself, don’t like to argue. Maybe others aren’t as confident in their ability to bullshit as I am. I am incredulous to a fault. There is a minority who know more than I initially give them credit for, but I’m not willing to assume their competence until I deem it sufficiently demonstrated.
Conversely, I often fail to understand why anybody would take anything I say to heart. Who really cares about the opinions of others? Others, apparently. I’m not suggesting I’m immune to being offended- that’d be naïve. (My mind travels to an anomalous social interaction with three musical associates during my tenure as a drummer. While playing some game with obscure words that you had to invent and guess definitions for that was far less enjoyable than reading the dictionary, the host casually commented while gesturing toward the other participants, “I think it would be awesome to start a trio with you on piano, you on drums and me on electronics. No offense, Andrew.”)
Not all that long ago, someone I didn’t immediately recognize sent me a friend request on Facebook. I eventually determined it to be a girl I knew only because we ate lunch at the same time in high school. She’d sit across the table from me and bitch incessantly about whatever we had been served. As this was the only contact I ever had with her, I found her extremely annoying. I ignored the request. Now, after realizing my hypocrisy, I feel a bit bad about that.
I’m tangentially reminded of an occurrence in high school when my bipolar girlfriend quixotically declared, “I don’t think there’s anything you could do that would make me mad.”
“That’s absurd,” I retorted. “I could piss you off right now in fifty different ways.”
“I bet you can’t.”
“How much?”
“Five bucks.”
“You know how I’ve been staying after school to work on a computer project? Really, I’ve just been staying after to hang out with Beth.”
“WHAT? IS THAT TRUE?”
“No, of course not- you owe me five bucks.” Suffice it to say she didn’t talk to me for the next two days, and I never got my five dollars.
One of the things I love most about the human experience is how we find unique ways of interacting with individuals as we become acquainted. For instance, whenever Rachel or I would go off on a tangent, the other would loudly interrupt with, “IN CONCLUSION,” which would effectively dissolve the monologue into fits of giggles.
IN CONCLUSION, I yearn to hear the frank opinions of others, although I don’t usually care what their opinion is.
“How can it be difficult to understand me telling you exactly what I mean?” I asked.
“I’m not used to it.”
Fair enough. In part because I disdain condescension, I find it difficult to be patronizing towards others. Similarly, because I’m an unimpressive mind-reader, I tend to speak rather directly. Unfortunately, most people are jelly-spined crybabies who would rather hear how awesome they are than the truth. I crave frankness, but it is exceedingly rare. People aren’t generally comfortable giving their genuine opinions unless it’s done anonymously or from a safe distance. I suspect this is oftentimes due to their own tacit acceptance that they don’t know what they’re talking about, which would be immediately revealed in their inability to rationally defend their stance. Of course, it could also be due to the likelihood of me disagreeing with anything and everything anybody says. Maybe others, like myself, don’t like to argue. Maybe others aren’t as confident in their ability to bullshit as I am. I am incredulous to a fault. There is a minority who know more than I initially give them credit for, but I’m not willing to assume their competence until I deem it sufficiently demonstrated.
Conversely, I often fail to understand why anybody would take anything I say to heart. Who really cares about the opinions of others? Others, apparently. I’m not suggesting I’m immune to being offended- that’d be naïve. (My mind travels to an anomalous social interaction with three musical associates during my tenure as a drummer. While playing some game with obscure words that you had to invent and guess definitions for that was far less enjoyable than reading the dictionary, the host casually commented while gesturing toward the other participants, “I think it would be awesome to start a trio with you on piano, you on drums and me on electronics. No offense, Andrew.”)
Not all that long ago, someone I didn’t immediately recognize sent me a friend request on Facebook. I eventually determined it to be a girl I knew only because we ate lunch at the same time in high school. She’d sit across the table from me and bitch incessantly about whatever we had been served. As this was the only contact I ever had with her, I found her extremely annoying. I ignored the request. Now, after realizing my hypocrisy, I feel a bit bad about that.
I’m tangentially reminded of an occurrence in high school when my bipolar girlfriend quixotically declared, “I don’t think there’s anything you could do that would make me mad.”
“That’s absurd,” I retorted. “I could piss you off right now in fifty different ways.”
“I bet you can’t.”
“How much?”
“Five bucks.”
“You know how I’ve been staying after school to work on a computer project? Really, I’ve just been staying after to hang out with Beth.”
“WHAT? IS THAT TRUE?”
“No, of course not- you owe me five bucks.” Suffice it to say she didn’t talk to me for the next two days, and I never got my five dollars.
One of the things I love most about the human experience is how we find unique ways of interacting with individuals as we become acquainted. For instance, whenever Rachel or I would go off on a tangent, the other would loudly interrupt with, “IN CONCLUSION,” which would effectively dissolve the monologue into fits of giggles.
IN CONCLUSION, I yearn to hear the frank opinions of others, although I don’t usually care what their opinion is.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Sermon
Sometime while I was in high school, during which I frequented not only church but all manner of Pentecostal gatherings aimed at keeping teens sober, celibate and, most importantly, charitable, a story began circulating. I heard it three times: Not long ago, there was a science teacher at a high school who got into a debate about evolution with a Christian student… Were this story factual, not only would it have been a simple task to name the school where this occurred, but they certainly would have done so. Instead, we are led to unquestioningly believe that teachers everywhere are trying to lead Christians away from “The Truth” by not only forcing evolution upon them, but actively attacking Christianity. Reducing the debate to the historical accuracy of the Book of Genesis versus Darwinian evolution and calling it Creationism versus evolution is already a win for Christians, as doing so slyly and unjustifiably eliminates any exploration into the validity of the thousands of other creation stories found in every culture throughout history. It’s the same technique used to argue the existence of an eternal, omnipotent creator while immediately disregarding the possibility of the existence of any god or gods other than the one they envision, ironically ignorant that their description is not even found in the Bible, but is an ultimate Idyllic being proposed by the Neo-Platonists in the 3rd century AD.
The teacher insisted that the Laws of Physics will always win out over supernatural forces. To prove this point, he held up an egg… Where the hell did the science teacher suddenly get an egg? What kind of egg? These nagging questions were never addressed. However, this story always made sure to stress the dangers of knowledge. Christians despise education; it is counter to their agenda. Secular teachers are all only trying to deceive, confuse and discourage you. It is preferable to blindly assume you are right and everybody else is wrong. Research for Christians seems to consist of finding others who agree with what they already believe or, more accurately, want to believe.
”If I drop this egg,” the teacher declared, “it will fall to the ground and break every time.” “Not if God wills otherwise,” the student countered…” Anyone like myself who had grown up in the Church already anticipated one thing about the outcome of this story- the teacher wasn’t going to drop the egg. If there was one thing Jesus was an exemplar of, it was weaseling out of debates. A popular dodge in Christianity is a Scripture verse Jesus used to ignore the taunts of a demonic spirit he saw after fasting in the desert for 40 days: Thou shalt not tempt (always misconstrued as, or to mean, “test”- one of those times when people who can’t even tell you what language the statement was originally written in suddenly become experts in translation) the Lord thy God. This kind of thing makes it hard to believe that people at the time compared Jesus to Elijah, who incessantly mocked the followers of Baal while publically pitting their god to a test against his (before having them killed).
Parables are stories used to explain beliefs but disguised to make it sound like they prove them. This subterfuge was, according to The Gospels, Jesus’ favorite tactic. Seemingly every opinion can be reduced to a comparison with a wheat farmer or fisherman. It shouldn’t be all that difficult to work out that how many seeds a Roman farmer plants has nothing to do with the price of beans in China, so to speak. I suspect Jesus’ tendency to avoid answers with unnecessary explanative examples is why Christians often confuse disagreement with misunderstanding. In a supreme illustration of egocentricity, they will assume that any failure to agree with their point of view is due solely to a misunderstanding of what their point of view is. Further, they seem to insist, although not in these exact words, that, “My ignorance (somehow) acts to demonstrate God’s infinite wisdom; therefore my words will always be wanting enough that you will likely never understand that I am right and you are wrong. (Of course, if you don’t believe me, you will burn forever in hell.)” They spend a lot of time making up excuses for retaining coherency in their beliefs, and no time verifying any of them. They are not even interested enough in Jesus to peruse any of the plethora of stories about him and quotes accredited to him other than the four included in the modern Bible, and they don’t research the provenance of those, either.
”Feel free to drop the egg and see what happens,” the student challenges, “but allow me to pray first.” The teacher laughed and acquiesced… See how persecuted we poor Christians are, having to beg permission to pray in school? It is a God-given right that we should be allowed to pray (as long as these prayers are to the God of Christianity). Don’t try and confuse us by pointing out that this is circular logic. Also, don't point out that this particular debate regards compulsory faculty or peer-led religious liturgy in public schools and not the right of an individual to pray in school. We are so easily confused! ”Dear Jesus,” the child prayed, “if it be your will, let the egg not break when it is dropped. And, at the same time, let the teacher be instantly struck down dead for his disbelief…” Okay, whoa there, kid. Either he’s bluffing or he is psychotic. Either way, he should definitely be expelled for publicly announcing his wish that a teacher be killed. Presumably, if we are to adhere to the lesson of this story, even overt threats are okay as long as they’re in the name of the Christian God.
Rattled and shaking, the teacher carefully placed the egg on his desk and stutteringly began a lesson on another topic…. Christians are in deep denial regarding those that believe differently than them; assuming they must be unhappy, desperate immoral villains living in fear. Most non-Christians would unflinchingly splatter the egg.
The punctum saliens of this quaint little tale, according to everybody I heard tell it, is that people’s belief in God is actually stronger than their disbelief. Why then didn’t the kid just simply agree to have the teacher drop the egg? The teller of this transparently fictional story could have easily wrapped it up by claiming the egg bounced around the room like silly putty. Problematically, most would be hard-pressed to believe that ending. Ironic.
Nobody really follows Jesus’ teachings. His solution for how to pay taxes, for example, was to catch a fish and pull a gold coin out of its mouth. If you truly believe in the Christian God, you should try that and let me know how it goes. If you don’t try it or it doesn’t work, then you don’t believe in the divinity of Jesus- and that’s according to the canonized teachings of Jesus. But I’m sure you’re too busy smugly reading about Elijah and how he mocked the impotence of Baal….
The teacher insisted that the Laws of Physics will always win out over supernatural forces. To prove this point, he held up an egg… Where the hell did the science teacher suddenly get an egg? What kind of egg? These nagging questions were never addressed. However, this story always made sure to stress the dangers of knowledge. Christians despise education; it is counter to their agenda. Secular teachers are all only trying to deceive, confuse and discourage you. It is preferable to blindly assume you are right and everybody else is wrong. Research for Christians seems to consist of finding others who agree with what they already believe or, more accurately, want to believe.
”If I drop this egg,” the teacher declared, “it will fall to the ground and break every time.” “Not if God wills otherwise,” the student countered…” Anyone like myself who had grown up in the Church already anticipated one thing about the outcome of this story- the teacher wasn’t going to drop the egg. If there was one thing Jesus was an exemplar of, it was weaseling out of debates. A popular dodge in Christianity is a Scripture verse Jesus used to ignore the taunts of a demonic spirit he saw after fasting in the desert for 40 days: Thou shalt not tempt (always misconstrued as, or to mean, “test”- one of those times when people who can’t even tell you what language the statement was originally written in suddenly become experts in translation) the Lord thy God. This kind of thing makes it hard to believe that people at the time compared Jesus to Elijah, who incessantly mocked the followers of Baal while publically pitting their god to a test against his (before having them killed).
Parables are stories used to explain beliefs but disguised to make it sound like they prove them. This subterfuge was, according to The Gospels, Jesus’ favorite tactic. Seemingly every opinion can be reduced to a comparison with a wheat farmer or fisherman. It shouldn’t be all that difficult to work out that how many seeds a Roman farmer plants has nothing to do with the price of beans in China, so to speak. I suspect Jesus’ tendency to avoid answers with unnecessary explanative examples is why Christians often confuse disagreement with misunderstanding. In a supreme illustration of egocentricity, they will assume that any failure to agree with their point of view is due solely to a misunderstanding of what their point of view is. Further, they seem to insist, although not in these exact words, that, “My ignorance (somehow) acts to demonstrate God’s infinite wisdom; therefore my words will always be wanting enough that you will likely never understand that I am right and you are wrong. (Of course, if you don’t believe me, you will burn forever in hell.)” They spend a lot of time making up excuses for retaining coherency in their beliefs, and no time verifying any of them. They are not even interested enough in Jesus to peruse any of the plethora of stories about him and quotes accredited to him other than the four included in the modern Bible, and they don’t research the provenance of those, either.
”Feel free to drop the egg and see what happens,” the student challenges, “but allow me to pray first.” The teacher laughed and acquiesced… See how persecuted we poor Christians are, having to beg permission to pray in school? It is a God-given right that we should be allowed to pray (as long as these prayers are to the God of Christianity). Don’t try and confuse us by pointing out that this is circular logic. Also, don't point out that this particular debate regards compulsory faculty or peer-led religious liturgy in public schools and not the right of an individual to pray in school. We are so easily confused! ”Dear Jesus,” the child prayed, “if it be your will, let the egg not break when it is dropped. And, at the same time, let the teacher be instantly struck down dead for his disbelief…” Okay, whoa there, kid. Either he’s bluffing or he is psychotic. Either way, he should definitely be expelled for publicly announcing his wish that a teacher be killed. Presumably, if we are to adhere to the lesson of this story, even overt threats are okay as long as they’re in the name of the Christian God.
Rattled and shaking, the teacher carefully placed the egg on his desk and stutteringly began a lesson on another topic…. Christians are in deep denial regarding those that believe differently than them; assuming they must be unhappy, desperate immoral villains living in fear. Most non-Christians would unflinchingly splatter the egg.
The punctum saliens of this quaint little tale, according to everybody I heard tell it, is that people’s belief in God is actually stronger than their disbelief. Why then didn’t the kid just simply agree to have the teacher drop the egg? The teller of this transparently fictional story could have easily wrapped it up by claiming the egg bounced around the room like silly putty. Problematically, most would be hard-pressed to believe that ending. Ironic.
Nobody really follows Jesus’ teachings. His solution for how to pay taxes, for example, was to catch a fish and pull a gold coin out of its mouth. If you truly believe in the Christian God, you should try that and let me know how it goes. If you don’t try it or it doesn’t work, then you don’t believe in the divinity of Jesus- and that’s according to the canonized teachings of Jesus. But I’m sure you’re too busy smugly reading about Elijah and how he mocked the impotence of Baal….
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
My Favorite Things
I’ve had a line from a song stuck in my head for about a week now: “If you like piña coladas….” That’s the only line I know, and since I don’t at all enjoy cloying cocktails, I have no idea why I keep singing this line. The song is a trite one about someone finding his soul mate in the classifieds by listing various they like to do, which made me start thinking about the Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II song, My Favorite Things. I don’t really know the words to that one either. In fact, the songs I know the lyrics to are limited to a few nursery rhymes and 80’s cartoon theme songs.
Relying solely on memory, my guess was that Rodgers was employing in this song an old trick of the trade that in medieval times was used as proof that the devil is always lurking in the shadows. In any major key, if you play the same notes beginning on the sixth note in that scale, you will be playing a minor key. Musicians call this the relative minor. I imagined the song skipped along in a major tonality until the B section ("When the dog bites…"), where he deftly switched to the relative minor.
The first thing I noticed upon hearing the actual tune was that the Julie Andrews version is atrocious. Singing is eschewed in favor of acting cutesy. Thankfully, the original Mary Martin version is listenable. And, as it turns out, I was totally incorrect in my imagined assessment. The song is played in E minor, which, in part because it only has one accidental (F#), is, for lack of a better description, gentle on the ears. (I remember as a kid asking a music teacher what minor keys were and being told it was a scale of notes that sounded spooky. This is an egregiously inadequate explanation.)
The song begins only with a B and the whole first phrase uses only two other notes, E and F#. It then gradually harmonically expands these notes in a manner reminiscent of Beethoven (for example), unraveling the notes cautiously and politely in a lilting, un-syncopated waltz. Then, the contrast in the B section is done simply by imposing a slur leading into a rest on the downbeat of every other measure. Simple. He is, after all, writing a children’s song.
Less than a year after the song debuted on Broadway in The Sound of Music and long before the movie adaptation, John Coltrane used My Favorite Things as a vehicle tune to reintroduce the soprano saxophone, an instrument that had been played by Sidney Bechet, a major figure in the development of jazz at the turn of the century, but had been virtually completely neglected since. Coltrane plays the melody in an elastic 6/8 time- common in African music but almost never heard in classical Western music- over a steadily repeating piano vamp (courtesy of McCoy Tyner) channeling an Afro-Cuban tumbao part. Adding syncopation immediately renders Rodger’s B section gimmick useless, and, in fact, Coltrane never plays the B section at all. Instead, Coltrane tacks a two measure turnaround onto the A section. A “turnaround” is a device frequently employed in jazz as a means to fluidly get from the end of a melody line back to the beginning. Once in place, the turnaround enables Coltrane to loop the A section ad nauseum. Indeed, Coltrane explores the A section in depth, but when he finally breaks free from it, he performs a parallel or, more generally, a modal transformation of the song, turning it from E minor to E major!
Whereas switching from a minor key to the relative major (for example, from E minor to G major) uses the same notes starting in two different places along the scale, a parallel change from E minor to E major involve different scale notes but start in the same place. The final movements of several late Romantic era Russian compositions, such as Rachmaninoff’s Symphony #2, also explore this move from E minor to E major. Coltrane, like every innovator, had been diligently doing his homework in researching the innovators that came before.
This may all be a bit tedious to you, and if so, you will be relieved that I removed an entire section elaborating on tonal modality, but are really going to want to kick my ass when I reveal my point in mentioning all this: the manipulation of frequencies, dynamics and tempos in sounds are among my favorite things. Another of my favorite things is researching innovators.
I am often criticized for being too picky. Call me what you will, but sometimes I feel like the complaint is really that I’m too curious. We humans are wired to enjoy all things magical. Where magic doesn’t exist, we maintain it with willful ignorance. Humans become conservative in order to avoid having to come to terms with the possibility that their knowledge, experiences or beliefs are sub-par. Anthropologically, the best explanation I can guess for this condition is that a sober assessment of reality would cause suicide rates to skyrocket and procreation rates to plummet. (Perhaps that’s just a pithy circular argument, i.e. we enjoy the magical because reality sucks.) Sometimes, finding out too much about something does destroy the allure. (One example that comes to mind is meeting George Clinton.) Other times, however, as is the case with John Coltrane’s musical endeavors, further discovery can increase the appeal to the point of obsession. For me, these are the truly wonderful things in life, which is why everybody’s constant yammering about how much they like something that they know little to nothing about will continue to peeve me to no end. But, to honor the example of Coltrane’s interpretation of My Favorite Things, I am going to attempt to avoid negativity and focus on things that make me happy.
Here are a few more of my favorite things: watching baseball (biased toward San Francisco Giants), watching soccer (biased toward FC Barcelona), playing disc golf, eating Thai food, eating seafood, drinking single malt Scotch whisky, making cocktails, laughing with friends, being able to say offensive things without anyone taking offense, watching Japanese movies, tinkering with non-digital gadgets, studying military history, debunking myths, giving massages, wielding knives, getting tattooed, female orgasms, listening to cicadas and thunderstorms, campfires, playing Risk, keeping abreast of advances in physics, science fiction in general, gaining independence in skill and thought, perusing thrift stores and estate sales, Glencairn whisky glasses, being in the presence of the ocean, exercising conscious awareness of sensory information, analyzing everything and hot showers.
Relying solely on memory, my guess was that Rodgers was employing in this song an old trick of the trade that in medieval times was used as proof that the devil is always lurking in the shadows. In any major key, if you play the same notes beginning on the sixth note in that scale, you will be playing a minor key. Musicians call this the relative minor. I imagined the song skipped along in a major tonality until the B section ("When the dog bites…"), where he deftly switched to the relative minor.
The first thing I noticed upon hearing the actual tune was that the Julie Andrews version is atrocious. Singing is eschewed in favor of acting cutesy. Thankfully, the original Mary Martin version is listenable. And, as it turns out, I was totally incorrect in my imagined assessment. The song is played in E minor, which, in part because it only has one accidental (F#), is, for lack of a better description, gentle on the ears. (I remember as a kid asking a music teacher what minor keys were and being told it was a scale of notes that sounded spooky. This is an egregiously inadequate explanation.)
The song begins only with a B and the whole first phrase uses only two other notes, E and F#. It then gradually harmonically expands these notes in a manner reminiscent of Beethoven (for example), unraveling the notes cautiously and politely in a lilting, un-syncopated waltz. Then, the contrast in the B section is done simply by imposing a slur leading into a rest on the downbeat of every other measure. Simple. He is, after all, writing a children’s song.
Less than a year after the song debuted on Broadway in The Sound of Music and long before the movie adaptation, John Coltrane used My Favorite Things as a vehicle tune to reintroduce the soprano saxophone, an instrument that had been played by Sidney Bechet, a major figure in the development of jazz at the turn of the century, but had been virtually completely neglected since. Coltrane plays the melody in an elastic 6/8 time- common in African music but almost never heard in classical Western music- over a steadily repeating piano vamp (courtesy of McCoy Tyner) channeling an Afro-Cuban tumbao part. Adding syncopation immediately renders Rodger’s B section gimmick useless, and, in fact, Coltrane never plays the B section at all. Instead, Coltrane tacks a two measure turnaround onto the A section. A “turnaround” is a device frequently employed in jazz as a means to fluidly get from the end of a melody line back to the beginning. Once in place, the turnaround enables Coltrane to loop the A section ad nauseum. Indeed, Coltrane explores the A section in depth, but when he finally breaks free from it, he performs a parallel or, more generally, a modal transformation of the song, turning it from E minor to E major!
Whereas switching from a minor key to the relative major (for example, from E minor to G major) uses the same notes starting in two different places along the scale, a parallel change from E minor to E major involve different scale notes but start in the same place. The final movements of several late Romantic era Russian compositions, such as Rachmaninoff’s Symphony #2, also explore this move from E minor to E major. Coltrane, like every innovator, had been diligently doing his homework in researching the innovators that came before.
This may all be a bit tedious to you, and if so, you will be relieved that I removed an entire section elaborating on tonal modality, but are really going to want to kick my ass when I reveal my point in mentioning all this: the manipulation of frequencies, dynamics and tempos in sounds are among my favorite things. Another of my favorite things is researching innovators.
I am often criticized for being too picky. Call me what you will, but sometimes I feel like the complaint is really that I’m too curious. We humans are wired to enjoy all things magical. Where magic doesn’t exist, we maintain it with willful ignorance. Humans become conservative in order to avoid having to come to terms with the possibility that their knowledge, experiences or beliefs are sub-par. Anthropologically, the best explanation I can guess for this condition is that a sober assessment of reality would cause suicide rates to skyrocket and procreation rates to plummet. (Perhaps that’s just a pithy circular argument, i.e. we enjoy the magical because reality sucks.) Sometimes, finding out too much about something does destroy the allure. (One example that comes to mind is meeting George Clinton.) Other times, however, as is the case with John Coltrane’s musical endeavors, further discovery can increase the appeal to the point of obsession. For me, these are the truly wonderful things in life, which is why everybody’s constant yammering about how much they like something that they know little to nothing about will continue to peeve me to no end. But, to honor the example of Coltrane’s interpretation of My Favorite Things, I am going to attempt to avoid negativity and focus on things that make me happy.
Here are a few more of my favorite things: watching baseball (biased toward San Francisco Giants), watching soccer (biased toward FC Barcelona), playing disc golf, eating Thai food, eating seafood, drinking single malt Scotch whisky, making cocktails, laughing with friends, being able to say offensive things without anyone taking offense, watching Japanese movies, tinkering with non-digital gadgets, studying military history, debunking myths, giving massages, wielding knives, getting tattooed, female orgasms, listening to cicadas and thunderstorms, campfires, playing Risk, keeping abreast of advances in physics, science fiction in general, gaining independence in skill and thought, perusing thrift stores and estate sales, Glencairn whisky glasses, being in the presence of the ocean, exercising conscious awareness of sensory information, analyzing everything and hot showers.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Midwest Vegetarian Living
I became a vegetarian in January of 1995, shortly after reading an essay as part of a college ethics course that supposed if aliens came to earth who could live on human blood and/or orange juice, we would prefer for them to only drink orange juice. This is one of those Red Herring non-arguments that has nothing to do with the so-called omnivore’s dilemma (no, I haven’t read it), because were it to compare apples to apples, the aliens would have a choice of eating cow’s meat and/or drinking orange juice. No human omnivore I know condones anyone, including aliens, drinking human blood. Regardless, that essay encouraged me to start reading up on the meat industry, and I stopped eating meat while educating myself.
As it turns out, the American mass meat industry is vile.
More interesting though, is the consistent responses you get from culturally ignorant meat eaters (Iowans) upon hearing of your vegetarianism. The most frequent first question is, “Where do you get your protein?” For starters, even that stupid food pyramid these people learned growing up recommends almost the same amount of meat as candy be consumed on a daily basis. How much protein do they think one needs? More offensive, they are actually implying their diet, which likely consists largely of fried food and hamburgers, is more nutritious than mine. I frankly don’t even know where to begin to respond to that amount of ignorance. Where do they get their vitamins and minerals? They seem completely oblivious to the fact that the typical American Bible-thumper diet is the most unhealthy one on the planet while other countries or religions with a largely meat-free diet are the healthiest. Finally, as it turns out, virtually everything contains some protein. I can immediately list all kinds of places I regularly get high doses of protein: pinto (often refried) beans, black-eyed peas, chick peas (hummus), lentils (Oh, the days when I could get good Ethiopian food!), almonds, cashews, peanuts (peanut butter), spinach, wheat flour, rice, eggs, edamame… speaking of which, I think it’s pretty awesome not only that people in Iowa don’t know what edamame is, but that you can’t find it in the grocery stores here. They’re immature soybeans, dipshits. Yeah, that stuff that’s growing acre upon acre all around you. Which leads to the second most common first response in understanding vegetarians: “What do you eat, then- tofu?”
Trust me, these people have no clue what tofu is. (It’s soybeans that have been mashed, strained and curdled.) Yes, I do eat tofu. But I think it’s hilarious that the only alternative they can conceive to eating meat is eating a meat substitute. Try looking for food in places other than the meat aisle; I think you’ll see a few options. One of the most bizarre questions I get seasonally is, “What are you going to eat for Thanksgiving?” Um, everything except the turkey, the stuffing that you shoved up the turkey’s ass and the gravy made from mystery turkey liquids and parts- and everything you assholes insisted upon unnecessarily throwing bacon into. Of all the places to worry about finding something to eat, the Thanksgiving table lands near the bottom. No, I am not eating a Tofurkey- they are fucking disgusting.
For some reason, many people assume vegetarians do not care about the taste of food. Somehow, they are under the impression that all foods other than meat are bland and/or gross. I suppose you would get that idea if you surrounded your meat with white bread, American processed “cheese-like” food and iceburg lettuce- all of which are among the blandest foods on the planet- and drowned it in ketchup and yellow mustard, which are absolutely horrid. Good job on having four different preparations of potatoes as your side dish options: baked, mashed, fried or cut super thin then fried. Bland, bland, salt and salt. (Potatoes and potato products are alright; I’m demonstrating the mundanity in typical Midwestern diets while using a little hyperbole.) I am fond of dozens of herbs and seasonings in addition to salt. I love what Iowans would call spicy food. I call it flavorful. I tend to keep several varieties of chili peppers on hand. Also, what is all this dried, canned or frozen shit that everybody is buying? Most of that crap has had the flavor sucked and zapped out of it. Those frozen TV dinner things that they don’t call TV dinners anymore are appalling. Meanwhile, there are farmer’s markets all over the place in Iowa all summer long full of locally grown, seasonal and fresh produce and herbs. Texture-wise, Portobello mushrooms and well-prepared eggplant are not only extraordinarily delicious, but what you’d call meaty.
The one meat substitute on the market I do very much enjoy is called Soyrizo. It works great in red pasta sauces and tacos. I was very excited and relieved to find Soyrizo in Iowa (after having no luck procuring it in Alabama), but recently the chain nearest me began stocking a competitor’s brand of a similar looking product instead. I tried it and it is not nearly as good, so I complained. The guy said they were trying that brand to see how it would sell. “Well, why couldn’t you keep both brands in stock?” I asked. He looked at me like I was crazy. Why the hell would vegetarians need options, he seemed to be thinking. Meanwhile, that store has 20 brands of the same flavor of soda to choose from. Okay, excuse me- it’s called “pop” here.
The third comment I get is, “Ooh, you have to be careful- I knew this so-and-so who tried being a vegetarian and got really sick.” I don’t know- maybe you only know idiots. Birds of a feather…. I have now been a vegetarian for over 15 years, and can tell you truthfully I am the healthiest person I have ever met. Other’s “concerns” are generally thinly disguised scare-tactics and excuses. I listen to my body, and sometimes I will find myself craving peanut butter or something like that. Really, my biggest concern is to not get dehydrated, but I don’t know if that has anything to do with being a vegetarian. I drink a lot of liquids. I don’t really care for most sweets, desserts or other sugary foods that are rampant in American cuisine (what is the deal with sugar-laced cereals for breakfast?!), but have concluded that sugar cravings are a sign of dehydration. I have found myself a bit anemic at times, which is no different from when I did eat meat. Kidney and pinto beans, beets, curry (which is perhaps my favorite thing), spinach, collards, sauerkraut, molasses, walnuts, almonds, asparagus and I think broccoli (which I’m not particularly a huge fan of) are great sources of iron. The best meat sources of iron are oysters, clams and beef liver, and all of those can be highly toxic. One thing I do is maintain a high intake of vitamin C, which aids the body in absorbing many minerals, including iron, and builds the immune system. I consume vast amounts of citrus juices, occasionally with alcohol which, incidentally, also helps the body absorb iron. I don’t take any vitamin or mineral supplements, and sort of think they are bullshit, but did used to take vitamin C supplements to prevent nosebleeds (which I frequently got in high school while a meat eater) and still do if I’m feeling the signs of oncoming illness, which for me is almost always a sore throat. (Excess vitamin C gets peed out anyway, so there’s no reason to be choking down 500 ml a day.) While it is commonly claimed that vegans are at risk of vitamin B12 deficiency, this does not apply to me as I consume eggs on a regular basis. This is a heavily exaggerated risk even for vegans, as humans only need trace amounts of vitamin B12 and it is stored in the body for long periods of time. (In contrast to vegetarians, I have met a few unhealthy, not to mention neurotic, vegans.)
Dairy products are the most obvious source of calcium, but it is also abundant in most foods also rich in iron as well as oranges, and is otherwise not that good for you. Contrary to popular belief, vitamin D is not found naturally occurring in dairy; it comes from egg yolks and the sun. (The United States dairy lobby is HUGE.) Many children and some adults are allergic to the proteins or lactose in grazing mammals’ milk. I think cow’s milk is ghastly to drink straight out of the carton, and only use it for some cooking recipes, especially soups. I prefer almond quote-unquote milk. Actually, I tend to use heavy cream instead of milk for cooking, because then I can also use it to make Ramos Fizzes (another topic…). I also don’t personally like the taste of most of those milk derivative dairy products, such as yogurt, cottage cheese, sour cream, etc. Yuck. I am a big fan of butter, and I love cheese! Soft cheeses like brie and feta, stinky cheeses like camembert and stilton, semi-hard cheeses like cheddar and swiss, chevre aka goat cheeses and hard cheeses like asiago are all a fairly regular part of my diet. These are not nutritious, however, and I have to be careful not too consume too much cheese.
I do infrequently eat meat, especially raw seafood and fish aka sashimi (not so much an issue in Iowa, where, in case you hadn't noticed, there is no fresh seafood), perhaps twice a year, which brings up two concerns others are quick to emote. First, I have never gotten sick from eating meat after having been a vegetarian. I hear this a lot, especially from vegetarians who refuse to ever eat meat because they insist it makes them violently sick. If it does, it’s most likely either a paranoia induced self-fulfilling prophecy or they decided to eat meat after drinking a case of beer and it’s an obvious misdiagnosis. Also, vegetarianism does not need to be treated like some damned religion. Once, while eating out with someone I’d been with for nearly a year, I accidentally ordered a dish at a restaurant with scallops, not knowing what they were, and, instead of unnecessarily and embarrassingly freaking out at the waiter like the immature brat next to me, I simply ate it. Even though this was the first meat I’d eaten in some years, my date, a regular meat eater, immediately declared, “You’re not a vegetarian.” Whatever; my lifestyle is not the source of our planet’s environmental concerns. (My two fish a year are not endangering the ocean’s food supply.) When I am a guest at someone’s house and they serve me meat, I will often try some. It’s preferable to show respect and demonstrate humble gratitude instead of being one of those pompous, judgmental asshole vegetarians shoving their dogmas down other’s throats.
Another comment that is either too clever or too idiotic for most Iowans, but I have gotten from some new age neo-hippies goes, “You have to kill root vegetables before eating them, too. How’s that more acceptable than killing an animal?” Actually, this is sort of a take on that ethics class example. The best response to this would be to hand that person a live chicken and a potted beet and ask them to demonstrate their belief that killing a chicken is the same as killing a beet. If they bow out with, “I wouldn’t kill either one,” announce, “Okay, let me demonstrate,” and see which one they protect first. It irritates me how few meat eaters have ever killed the animals they’ve eaten, or would actually kill what they eat. It strikes me as hypocritical and cowardice; like hiring a hit man.
I have no problem with people raising and eating animals in a self-sustaining, environmentally aware and humane way. However, killing for sport is about as fucked up as you can get. It should be obvious that it’s a bad idea to encourage or exercise the idea that killing is fun. People that are willing to kill animals creep me out, but, especially since we’ve killed off most natural predators other than ourselves, I understand they do play a necessary role in our world. As do terrorists.
As it turns out, the American mass meat industry is vile.
More interesting though, is the consistent responses you get from culturally ignorant meat eaters (Iowans) upon hearing of your vegetarianism. The most frequent first question is, “Where do you get your protein?” For starters, even that stupid food pyramid these people learned growing up recommends almost the same amount of meat as candy be consumed on a daily basis. How much protein do they think one needs? More offensive, they are actually implying their diet, which likely consists largely of fried food and hamburgers, is more nutritious than mine. I frankly don’t even know where to begin to respond to that amount of ignorance. Where do they get their vitamins and minerals? They seem completely oblivious to the fact that the typical American Bible-thumper diet is the most unhealthy one on the planet while other countries or religions with a largely meat-free diet are the healthiest. Finally, as it turns out, virtually everything contains some protein. I can immediately list all kinds of places I regularly get high doses of protein: pinto (often refried) beans, black-eyed peas, chick peas (hummus), lentils (Oh, the days when I could get good Ethiopian food!), almonds, cashews, peanuts (peanut butter), spinach, wheat flour, rice, eggs, edamame… speaking of which, I think it’s pretty awesome not only that people in Iowa don’t know what edamame is, but that you can’t find it in the grocery stores here. They’re immature soybeans, dipshits. Yeah, that stuff that’s growing acre upon acre all around you. Which leads to the second most common first response in understanding vegetarians: “What do you eat, then- tofu?”
Trust me, these people have no clue what tofu is. (It’s soybeans that have been mashed, strained and curdled.) Yes, I do eat tofu. But I think it’s hilarious that the only alternative they can conceive to eating meat is eating a meat substitute. Try looking for food in places other than the meat aisle; I think you’ll see a few options. One of the most bizarre questions I get seasonally is, “What are you going to eat for Thanksgiving?” Um, everything except the turkey, the stuffing that you shoved up the turkey’s ass and the gravy made from mystery turkey liquids and parts- and everything you assholes insisted upon unnecessarily throwing bacon into. Of all the places to worry about finding something to eat, the Thanksgiving table lands near the bottom. No, I am not eating a Tofurkey- they are fucking disgusting.
For some reason, many people assume vegetarians do not care about the taste of food. Somehow, they are under the impression that all foods other than meat are bland and/or gross. I suppose you would get that idea if you surrounded your meat with white bread, American processed “cheese-like” food and iceburg lettuce- all of which are among the blandest foods on the planet- and drowned it in ketchup and yellow mustard, which are absolutely horrid. Good job on having four different preparations of potatoes as your side dish options: baked, mashed, fried or cut super thin then fried. Bland, bland, salt and salt. (Potatoes and potato products are alright; I’m demonstrating the mundanity in typical Midwestern diets while using a little hyperbole.) I am fond of dozens of herbs and seasonings in addition to salt. I love what Iowans would call spicy food. I call it flavorful. I tend to keep several varieties of chili peppers on hand. Also, what is all this dried, canned or frozen shit that everybody is buying? Most of that crap has had the flavor sucked and zapped out of it. Those frozen TV dinner things that they don’t call TV dinners anymore are appalling. Meanwhile, there are farmer’s markets all over the place in Iowa all summer long full of locally grown, seasonal and fresh produce and herbs. Texture-wise, Portobello mushrooms and well-prepared eggplant are not only extraordinarily delicious, but what you’d call meaty.
The one meat substitute on the market I do very much enjoy is called Soyrizo. It works great in red pasta sauces and tacos. I was very excited and relieved to find Soyrizo in Iowa (after having no luck procuring it in Alabama), but recently the chain nearest me began stocking a competitor’s brand of a similar looking product instead. I tried it and it is not nearly as good, so I complained. The guy said they were trying that brand to see how it would sell. “Well, why couldn’t you keep both brands in stock?” I asked. He looked at me like I was crazy. Why the hell would vegetarians need options, he seemed to be thinking. Meanwhile, that store has 20 brands of the same flavor of soda to choose from. Okay, excuse me- it’s called “pop” here.
The third comment I get is, “Ooh, you have to be careful- I knew this so-and-so who tried being a vegetarian and got really sick.” I don’t know- maybe you only know idiots. Birds of a feather…. I have now been a vegetarian for over 15 years, and can tell you truthfully I am the healthiest person I have ever met. Other’s “concerns” are generally thinly disguised scare-tactics and excuses. I listen to my body, and sometimes I will find myself craving peanut butter or something like that. Really, my biggest concern is to not get dehydrated, but I don’t know if that has anything to do with being a vegetarian. I drink a lot of liquids. I don’t really care for most sweets, desserts or other sugary foods that are rampant in American cuisine (what is the deal with sugar-laced cereals for breakfast?!), but have concluded that sugar cravings are a sign of dehydration. I have found myself a bit anemic at times, which is no different from when I did eat meat. Kidney and pinto beans, beets, curry (which is perhaps my favorite thing), spinach, collards, sauerkraut, molasses, walnuts, almonds, asparagus and I think broccoli (which I’m not particularly a huge fan of) are great sources of iron. The best meat sources of iron are oysters, clams and beef liver, and all of those can be highly toxic. One thing I do is maintain a high intake of vitamin C, which aids the body in absorbing many minerals, including iron, and builds the immune system. I consume vast amounts of citrus juices, occasionally with alcohol which, incidentally, also helps the body absorb iron. I don’t take any vitamin or mineral supplements, and sort of think they are bullshit, but did used to take vitamin C supplements to prevent nosebleeds (which I frequently got in high school while a meat eater) and still do if I’m feeling the signs of oncoming illness, which for me is almost always a sore throat. (Excess vitamin C gets peed out anyway, so there’s no reason to be choking down 500 ml a day.) While it is commonly claimed that vegans are at risk of vitamin B12 deficiency, this does not apply to me as I consume eggs on a regular basis. This is a heavily exaggerated risk even for vegans, as humans only need trace amounts of vitamin B12 and it is stored in the body for long periods of time. (In contrast to vegetarians, I have met a few unhealthy, not to mention neurotic, vegans.)
Dairy products are the most obvious source of calcium, but it is also abundant in most foods also rich in iron as well as oranges, and is otherwise not that good for you. Contrary to popular belief, vitamin D is not found naturally occurring in dairy; it comes from egg yolks and the sun. (The United States dairy lobby is HUGE.) Many children and some adults are allergic to the proteins or lactose in grazing mammals’ milk. I think cow’s milk is ghastly to drink straight out of the carton, and only use it for some cooking recipes, especially soups. I prefer almond quote-unquote milk. Actually, I tend to use heavy cream instead of milk for cooking, because then I can also use it to make Ramos Fizzes (another topic…). I also don’t personally like the taste of most of those milk derivative dairy products, such as yogurt, cottage cheese, sour cream, etc. Yuck. I am a big fan of butter, and I love cheese! Soft cheeses like brie and feta, stinky cheeses like camembert and stilton, semi-hard cheeses like cheddar and swiss, chevre aka goat cheeses and hard cheeses like asiago are all a fairly regular part of my diet. These are not nutritious, however, and I have to be careful not too consume too much cheese.
I do infrequently eat meat, especially raw seafood and fish aka sashimi (not so much an issue in Iowa, where, in case you hadn't noticed, there is no fresh seafood), perhaps twice a year, which brings up two concerns others are quick to emote. First, I have never gotten sick from eating meat after having been a vegetarian. I hear this a lot, especially from vegetarians who refuse to ever eat meat because they insist it makes them violently sick. If it does, it’s most likely either a paranoia induced self-fulfilling prophecy or they decided to eat meat after drinking a case of beer and it’s an obvious misdiagnosis. Also, vegetarianism does not need to be treated like some damned religion. Once, while eating out with someone I’d been with for nearly a year, I accidentally ordered a dish at a restaurant with scallops, not knowing what they were, and, instead of unnecessarily and embarrassingly freaking out at the waiter like the immature brat next to me, I simply ate it. Even though this was the first meat I’d eaten in some years, my date, a regular meat eater, immediately declared, “You’re not a vegetarian.” Whatever; my lifestyle is not the source of our planet’s environmental concerns. (My two fish a year are not endangering the ocean’s food supply.) When I am a guest at someone’s house and they serve me meat, I will often try some. It’s preferable to show respect and demonstrate humble gratitude instead of being one of those pompous, judgmental asshole vegetarians shoving their dogmas down other’s throats.
Another comment that is either too clever or too idiotic for most Iowans, but I have gotten from some new age neo-hippies goes, “You have to kill root vegetables before eating them, too. How’s that more acceptable than killing an animal?” Actually, this is sort of a take on that ethics class example. The best response to this would be to hand that person a live chicken and a potted beet and ask them to demonstrate their belief that killing a chicken is the same as killing a beet. If they bow out with, “I wouldn’t kill either one,” announce, “Okay, let me demonstrate,” and see which one they protect first. It irritates me how few meat eaters have ever killed the animals they’ve eaten, or would actually kill what they eat. It strikes me as hypocritical and cowardice; like hiring a hit man.
I have no problem with people raising and eating animals in a self-sustaining, environmentally aware and humane way. However, killing for sport is about as fucked up as you can get. It should be obvious that it’s a bad idea to encourage or exercise the idea that killing is fun. People that are willing to kill animals creep me out, but, especially since we’ve killed off most natural predators other than ourselves, I understand they do play a necessary role in our world. As do terrorists.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Common Sense And Other Tales
During my first overnight camping trip, at the age of four, my dad taught me how to make an archery bow out of a green sapling and nylon string. At five, I could tie several knots and differentiate between tinder, kindling and fuel. Peter appeared when I was eight or so, and by then I could pitch a tent, wield an axe, lash a fence, rig a fishing pole, fire a black powder rifle and properly sharpen a knife.
“Peter just has no common sense,” my dad would say, shaking his head. Dad led our church’s all-male scouting group, which met every Wednesday evening. We drove 40 miles each way to these meetings for several years, as we did to two services every Sunday, during the time when Pastor Steve led the church in Webster City. For a period we picked up Peter along the way. This guy had a knack for breaking everything. To this day, you can’t go on a camping trip with my family and ask, “Who broke this?” without the inevitable reply- “Peter.”
As an example, while setting up tents at the beginning of one camping trip, Peter asked if he could help. “Sure,” my dad said, “Grab one of those tomahawks and hammer in those tent pegs.” Yes, we did have several tomahawks lying around. Oh, does that seem weird to you? Also, our tent pegs were railroad spikes. Anyway, Peter took a hack at driving in a railroad spike using the sharp end of the throwing hatchet instead of the butt-end, leaving a remarkable chip in the blade.
Peter was several years older than me; closer to my brother’s age. My brother knew algebra. Peter did not know left from right. I began to wonder what common sense was and why Peter didn’t have it. Dad began taking some extra time to thoroughly explain things to Peter. I asked why Peter’s own dad didn’t teach him these things, and my dad explained that some kids don’t have responsible or attentive dads and others didn’t have dads at all. It occurred to me that common sense was something akin to things your parents are supposed to teach you.
My first pocket knife had raccoons etched on the blade. When I showed it to Peter, he couldn’t figure out how to work the locking mechanism that keeps the blade from slipping shut. After demonstrating how it worked, he promptly closed it on himself and cut a finger. I quickly fetched a band-aid, hoping I wasn’t going to get in trouble for being in part responsible for the mishap, and watched wide-eyed as Peter futilely tried to figure out how to apply the bandage. I eventually had to adhere it myself. Peter had no common sense.
Dad had given me this knife during a strange fishing trip a few years prior. We attended a much closer church in Fort Dodge then, and it was evenly divided into the older teenage kids- Sean, Jay, Troy and my brother, and the younger grade school kids- Stevie, Trent, Jeremy and myself. Honestly, the other kids were a bunch of hoodlums. Fort Dodge was a poor and rough-and-tumble town. My dad was in charge of the older kids and Jeremy’s dad was in charge of the younger kids. Jeremy’s dad taught us the scouting group's Code and the definitions of some of the strange words it contained, including “loyal,” “courteous” and “obedient.” I specifically recall him defining loyal as, “You know, being loyal to someone or something,” which I realized was no explanation whatsoever. I wondered if he knew what it meant.
On the day I received the knife, we went fishing near a spillway in Fort Dodge, and were given strict instructions to be very careful around the dam- no getting near the water, no running and no climbing or crossing the protective barriers. Before long, us younger kids had gotten bored with fishing and were running, climbing and shoving each other on top of the spillway.
Suddenly, we noticed a commotion below where the big kids still were, and Jeremy’s dad seemed to be attending to my dad, who was holding his back. Without knowing what was going on, I decided I’d better start following instructions and stopped horsing around with the other kids. Shortly thereafter, one of them slid down the spillway and probably would have drowned if my dad hadn’t gone in after him and fetched him out of the water. (I honestly don’t remember which kid it was, but for easier readability later on, I’m going to suppose it was Trent.) After that, it was time to leave, and as we packed things up dad gave me the raccoon-laden pocket knife with strict instructions as to its proper usage, and I considered this my reward for being relatively obedient.
The scouting group meetings generally consisted of a morality lesson and a fun activity. One activity was ring-toss, which consisted of attempting to throw wooden shower curtain rings around the neck of one of a cluster of soda bottles. The reward for accomplishing this feat was the bottle itself, but since I didn’t particularly care for soda, I found the game a bit tedious. One day while this activity was taking place, Peter revealed a box, and inside was a set of handcuffs replete with key. These things were pretty much the coolest thing I had ever seen.
Peter said they belonged to his dad, who was a cop. By this time I had determined that Peter didn’t have a father, because of the common sense thing, so this bombshell surprised me. However, Stevie’s dad at that other church was a cop, too, and Stevie was the worst behaving kid of the bunch. So it seemed even police officers could be bad fathers. After that, I’d continually ask Peter to bring the handcuffs again, but he never did. Also, his stories pertaining to his father’s occupation and whereabouts was in constant flux, so I began to suspect he was inventing him like Dill in To Kill a Mockingbird.
On one camping trip, while a few of us were milling around in our tent, separate from the adults, the taboo topic of girls came up. “What would you do if a girl drove into the campgrounds right now?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, uninterested. It seemed a stupid premise. Girls weren’t allowed on these camping trips. Anyway, I had a sister who wasn’t particularly mysterious, so I was simply glad for the respite from one being around.
Peter, however, went into a monologue: “First, I’d bring her back into this tent and close the flap. And zip up all the windows. Then, I’d slowly unbutton her blouse, starting at the top and working my way down…”
“Why would you want to do that?” I interrupted. Peter gave me an indecipherable look. I didn’t know whether it meant my question was stupid or that he didn’t actually know the answer, either. I never got the chance to find out, as Little Steve, the pastor’s kid, quickly put an abrupt end to the conversation.
After pondering this awkward moment, I concluded that this was another example of Peter’s lack of parental guidance. Otherwise he would have known better than to have inappropriate fantasies about girls.
On another occasion, my dad returned home late, and mentioned it was because he had been visiting a kid in prison. It was a kid from the Fort Dodge church’s scouting group way back when who I didn’t immediately remember, but eventually recognized as the infrequent member who had once shown me how to construct an effective paper airplane. How could someone smart enough to know that be in jail? “I think his dad had a drinking problem and might have been abusive,” my dad explained. “Do you remember- we visited his house once to try and help and I even reported his situation to social services, but they didn’t do anything.” I vaguely remembered. “He was the one who threw the knife at me.”
“What?!” This was certainly news to me.
“It was on that same fishing trip when Trent fell in the spillway. At the previous meeting we had done an activity and as a prize I had given him a pocket knife with raccoons on the blade- I think you have it now. Anyway, I think his dad must have found him with it and he’d gotten in trouble for it, because the next week during that fishing trip he drove up, got out of the car and threw the knife at me while I was sitting at a picnic table and it hit me square in the back. Luckily, it had rotated so the point of the handle hit me even though the blade was out but he still threw it hard enough that it really hurt. At first, I thought I’d been shot.”
“That’s not why he’s in jail, is it?”
“Oh no, I figured he had enough problems. I guess I was right.”
Why would my dad now be going out of his way to visit an incarcerated person who had once tried to kill him? It defied common sense, unless I was to stick with my original interpretation of the term.
I find an exploration of the term “common sense” yields more questions than answers. I assume the idea is a derivative of the Jungian concept of the collective unconscious, which I, as a subjective individual, can only see as a load of hooey. I don’t believe I can remember things that didn’t happen to me. Will a bird raised in isolation still fly south for the winter without being introduced to a migrating flock? Hell if I know; nor do I consider the question germane. Instincts are distinctly separate to memory, as the former are things done without a previous sensory influence.
I have no idea how accurate or precise my memories are, nor am I able to perceive to what degree they have been altered, influenced or changed over time. Are my remembrances more or less influential than the actual experiences I’ve had, many of which are totally irretrievable to my consciousness? I don’t know the answer to that question, either.
My friend Eric is fond of postulating, “Can you think it if you can’t say it?” It is a clever question in part because the quest for the answer requires both intense examination and detailed articulation. In the end, I’m of the opinion that the impression that it often takes years to properly explain things that have been known all along point toward the reality that we can’t say much of what we think. An example is the person who can provide the answer to a math problem but is incapable of “showing his work,” or demonstrating the method used to come to that solution. However, even if it is in fact correct, one cannot trust the conclusion without demonstrating a fully coherent process of obtaining it. It would be unjustifiable to place any validity in unexplainable beliefs.
Does an unsolved mathematical equation have a solution? The best answer we can give is simply to try and solve it. Yet, I firmly believe that questions without answers exist in abundance. One seemingly useless thing to do is simply assume an answer and then assume that answer is the correct answer.
At least one impossible question is immediately posited here: If the blade of that knife had found its mark, who would have saved Trent from drowning?” There are no answers to purely hypothetical questions with no applicable predetermined rules. There is no point it wondering, “What if….” Life is what it is, which is to some degree separate from how we remember it to be, unless we are to argue life doesn’t exist at all, but is a figment of our own imaginations. That assumption must be rejected on the grounds that it forces us into an egocentric existence where nobody else matters. Because it cannot be demonstrated otherwise, we must assume the consciousness of the other is as relevant as our own. (I am making an argument that can align itself with Pascal’s wager here: it would be a lesser transgression to assume equality and be wrong than it would to assume inequality and be wrong.)
I often find my mind returning to moments in life that found me bewildered. Many of these seem to pertain to juxtapositions between the world those who raised us intended us to see, and the world as it reveals itself despite them. I am reminded of another scene from To Kill A Mockingbird, when Atticus says, “There's a lot of ugly things in this world, son. I wish I could keep 'em all away from you. That's never possible.” As illustrated in Plato’s allegory of the cave, refusing to question the validity of how we immediately see things is detrimental to our growth.
In the years since Peter, I’ve come to the conclusion that when people say, “It’s common sense,” what they mean is they are incapable of effectively explaining their reasoning, likely because the logic is dubious, so they will instead refuse to answer on the unfounded grounds that the question is stupid. I see no evidence that common sense exists at all, but that some of us are better inclined towards finding reasonable and effective solutions than others.
“Peter just has no common sense,” my dad would say, shaking his head. Dad led our church’s all-male scouting group, which met every Wednesday evening. We drove 40 miles each way to these meetings for several years, as we did to two services every Sunday, during the time when Pastor Steve led the church in Webster City. For a period we picked up Peter along the way. This guy had a knack for breaking everything. To this day, you can’t go on a camping trip with my family and ask, “Who broke this?” without the inevitable reply- “Peter.”
As an example, while setting up tents at the beginning of one camping trip, Peter asked if he could help. “Sure,” my dad said, “Grab one of those tomahawks and hammer in those tent pegs.” Yes, we did have several tomahawks lying around. Oh, does that seem weird to you? Also, our tent pegs were railroad spikes. Anyway, Peter took a hack at driving in a railroad spike using the sharp end of the throwing hatchet instead of the butt-end, leaving a remarkable chip in the blade.
Peter was several years older than me; closer to my brother’s age. My brother knew algebra. Peter did not know left from right. I began to wonder what common sense was and why Peter didn’t have it. Dad began taking some extra time to thoroughly explain things to Peter. I asked why Peter’s own dad didn’t teach him these things, and my dad explained that some kids don’t have responsible or attentive dads and others didn’t have dads at all. It occurred to me that common sense was something akin to things your parents are supposed to teach you.
My first pocket knife had raccoons etched on the blade. When I showed it to Peter, he couldn’t figure out how to work the locking mechanism that keeps the blade from slipping shut. After demonstrating how it worked, he promptly closed it on himself and cut a finger. I quickly fetched a band-aid, hoping I wasn’t going to get in trouble for being in part responsible for the mishap, and watched wide-eyed as Peter futilely tried to figure out how to apply the bandage. I eventually had to adhere it myself. Peter had no common sense.
Dad had given me this knife during a strange fishing trip a few years prior. We attended a much closer church in Fort Dodge then, and it was evenly divided into the older teenage kids- Sean, Jay, Troy and my brother, and the younger grade school kids- Stevie, Trent, Jeremy and myself. Honestly, the other kids were a bunch of hoodlums. Fort Dodge was a poor and rough-and-tumble town. My dad was in charge of the older kids and Jeremy’s dad was in charge of the younger kids. Jeremy’s dad taught us the scouting group's Code and the definitions of some of the strange words it contained, including “loyal,” “courteous” and “obedient.” I specifically recall him defining loyal as, “You know, being loyal to someone or something,” which I realized was no explanation whatsoever. I wondered if he knew what it meant.
On the day I received the knife, we went fishing near a spillway in Fort Dodge, and were given strict instructions to be very careful around the dam- no getting near the water, no running and no climbing or crossing the protective barriers. Before long, us younger kids had gotten bored with fishing and were running, climbing and shoving each other on top of the spillway.
Suddenly, we noticed a commotion below where the big kids still were, and Jeremy’s dad seemed to be attending to my dad, who was holding his back. Without knowing what was going on, I decided I’d better start following instructions and stopped horsing around with the other kids. Shortly thereafter, one of them slid down the spillway and probably would have drowned if my dad hadn’t gone in after him and fetched him out of the water. (I honestly don’t remember which kid it was, but for easier readability later on, I’m going to suppose it was Trent.) After that, it was time to leave, and as we packed things up dad gave me the raccoon-laden pocket knife with strict instructions as to its proper usage, and I considered this my reward for being relatively obedient.
The scouting group meetings generally consisted of a morality lesson and a fun activity. One activity was ring-toss, which consisted of attempting to throw wooden shower curtain rings around the neck of one of a cluster of soda bottles. The reward for accomplishing this feat was the bottle itself, but since I didn’t particularly care for soda, I found the game a bit tedious. One day while this activity was taking place, Peter revealed a box, and inside was a set of handcuffs replete with key. These things were pretty much the coolest thing I had ever seen.
Peter said they belonged to his dad, who was a cop. By this time I had determined that Peter didn’t have a father, because of the common sense thing, so this bombshell surprised me. However, Stevie’s dad at that other church was a cop, too, and Stevie was the worst behaving kid of the bunch. So it seemed even police officers could be bad fathers. After that, I’d continually ask Peter to bring the handcuffs again, but he never did. Also, his stories pertaining to his father’s occupation and whereabouts was in constant flux, so I began to suspect he was inventing him like Dill in To Kill a Mockingbird.
On one camping trip, while a few of us were milling around in our tent, separate from the adults, the taboo topic of girls came up. “What would you do if a girl drove into the campgrounds right now?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, uninterested. It seemed a stupid premise. Girls weren’t allowed on these camping trips. Anyway, I had a sister who wasn’t particularly mysterious, so I was simply glad for the respite from one being around.
Peter, however, went into a monologue: “First, I’d bring her back into this tent and close the flap. And zip up all the windows. Then, I’d slowly unbutton her blouse, starting at the top and working my way down…”
“Why would you want to do that?” I interrupted. Peter gave me an indecipherable look. I didn’t know whether it meant my question was stupid or that he didn’t actually know the answer, either. I never got the chance to find out, as Little Steve, the pastor’s kid, quickly put an abrupt end to the conversation.
After pondering this awkward moment, I concluded that this was another example of Peter’s lack of parental guidance. Otherwise he would have known better than to have inappropriate fantasies about girls.
On another occasion, my dad returned home late, and mentioned it was because he had been visiting a kid in prison. It was a kid from the Fort Dodge church’s scouting group way back when who I didn’t immediately remember, but eventually recognized as the infrequent member who had once shown me how to construct an effective paper airplane. How could someone smart enough to know that be in jail? “I think his dad had a drinking problem and might have been abusive,” my dad explained. “Do you remember- we visited his house once to try and help and I even reported his situation to social services, but they didn’t do anything.” I vaguely remembered. “He was the one who threw the knife at me.”
“What?!” This was certainly news to me.
“It was on that same fishing trip when Trent fell in the spillway. At the previous meeting we had done an activity and as a prize I had given him a pocket knife with raccoons on the blade- I think you have it now. Anyway, I think his dad must have found him with it and he’d gotten in trouble for it, because the next week during that fishing trip he drove up, got out of the car and threw the knife at me while I was sitting at a picnic table and it hit me square in the back. Luckily, it had rotated so the point of the handle hit me even though the blade was out but he still threw it hard enough that it really hurt. At first, I thought I’d been shot.”
“That’s not why he’s in jail, is it?”
“Oh no, I figured he had enough problems. I guess I was right.”
Why would my dad now be going out of his way to visit an incarcerated person who had once tried to kill him? It defied common sense, unless I was to stick with my original interpretation of the term.
I find an exploration of the term “common sense” yields more questions than answers. I assume the idea is a derivative of the Jungian concept of the collective unconscious, which I, as a subjective individual, can only see as a load of hooey. I don’t believe I can remember things that didn’t happen to me. Will a bird raised in isolation still fly south for the winter without being introduced to a migrating flock? Hell if I know; nor do I consider the question germane. Instincts are distinctly separate to memory, as the former are things done without a previous sensory influence.
I have no idea how accurate or precise my memories are, nor am I able to perceive to what degree they have been altered, influenced or changed over time. Are my remembrances more or less influential than the actual experiences I’ve had, many of which are totally irretrievable to my consciousness? I don’t know the answer to that question, either.
My friend Eric is fond of postulating, “Can you think it if you can’t say it?” It is a clever question in part because the quest for the answer requires both intense examination and detailed articulation. In the end, I’m of the opinion that the impression that it often takes years to properly explain things that have been known all along point toward the reality that we can’t say much of what we think. An example is the person who can provide the answer to a math problem but is incapable of “showing his work,” or demonstrating the method used to come to that solution. However, even if it is in fact correct, one cannot trust the conclusion without demonstrating a fully coherent process of obtaining it. It would be unjustifiable to place any validity in unexplainable beliefs.
Does an unsolved mathematical equation have a solution? The best answer we can give is simply to try and solve it. Yet, I firmly believe that questions without answers exist in abundance. One seemingly useless thing to do is simply assume an answer and then assume that answer is the correct answer.
At least one impossible question is immediately posited here: If the blade of that knife had found its mark, who would have saved Trent from drowning?” There are no answers to purely hypothetical questions with no applicable predetermined rules. There is no point it wondering, “What if….” Life is what it is, which is to some degree separate from how we remember it to be, unless we are to argue life doesn’t exist at all, but is a figment of our own imaginations. That assumption must be rejected on the grounds that it forces us into an egocentric existence where nobody else matters. Because it cannot be demonstrated otherwise, we must assume the consciousness of the other is as relevant as our own. (I am making an argument that can align itself with Pascal’s wager here: it would be a lesser transgression to assume equality and be wrong than it would to assume inequality and be wrong.)
I often find my mind returning to moments in life that found me bewildered. Many of these seem to pertain to juxtapositions between the world those who raised us intended us to see, and the world as it reveals itself despite them. I am reminded of another scene from To Kill A Mockingbird, when Atticus says, “There's a lot of ugly things in this world, son. I wish I could keep 'em all away from you. That's never possible.” As illustrated in Plato’s allegory of the cave, refusing to question the validity of how we immediately see things is detrimental to our growth.
In the years since Peter, I’ve come to the conclusion that when people say, “It’s common sense,” what they mean is they are incapable of effectively explaining their reasoning, likely because the logic is dubious, so they will instead refuse to answer on the unfounded grounds that the question is stupid. I see no evidence that common sense exists at all, but that some of us are better inclined towards finding reasonable and effective solutions than others.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
How To Fall In Love Without Really Trying
Part One
When I arrived in Iowa, I had gone almost a decade without watching television. Overwhelmed by the hundreds of programs offered on my brother’s gigantic flatscreen, I spent the first several weeks catching myself up to date while looking for work. As nearly everything on television is constantly being rerun, this wasn’t particularly difficult. One day, while flipping through channels, I paused at some program about guys who have romantic relationships with life-sized dolls. At first I thought it was a documentary Janine had recommended, but then I became curious whether the people on it resembled the character played by the satisfyingly ceaselessly creepy Dennis Hopper in the cult classic movie River’s Edge (1986), starring Crispin Glover (in a hilariously quotable performance), Keanu Reeves and Ione Skye. I really, really enjoy this movie, despite the fact the director seems to have had little clue as to what to do with what he potentially had.
One interviewee in this television program explained that he dates dolls because he doesn’t know how to meet real women. Maybe your conversation ice-breaker needs work, I snickered to myself.
One trait I possess but have never been able to fully explain is that, as an anonymous person in a group of people, I am completely uninteresting. I was always the last kid picked for the elementary recess football team, despite the fact that I wasn’t really too bad. Whenever I go to any gathering with a group of male friends, I watch in the background while girls swoon over everyone in my group except me.
However, and this is a big but, if I am able to finagle myself into a one-on-one conversation in a setting relatively free of distractions, I become a bit of a babe magnet, as long as the girl can get (past) my rather tasteless and often punny sense of humor. Other prerequisites include the avoidance of small-talk, which I can never pull off, and someone who finds cockiness and clumsiness attractive when paired.
Perhaps the lynchpin to this contrast in dating success lies in my rather entrancing baby blue eyes, which I can use to full effect only when I capture someone long enough to lock gazes. I tend to not make eye contact with people I have no interest in; it can cause unwanted attention/confusion. (I fully realize these are ridiculous statements to be making of oneself, but my friends with vouch for me that it’s true: my eyes are magic.)
I had pondered the doll fetish guy’s concern long enough that the next time someone whined, “I don’t know how to meet women,” I’d prepared a rather brilliant (I say so myself) response: “I’ll tell you how to meet them if you tell me how to avoid them.”
My eyes get me in trouble sometimes. One nuisance is I have a rather strong weakness for pretty girls. On another television show, one that I actually enjoy, called Iron Chef America, there’s often a curmudgeonly judge named Jeffrey Steingarten, and in one episode he rudely says to the lubricious Jeri Ryan aka Seven of Nine, “It’s no accident that beautiful women have bad personalities- they think they can get away with anything.” It’s a fact, Jack.
Right after my last relationship ended in misery, females were invisible. I had no interest and no sex drive for perhaps the first time since puberty. This was a very nice state to be in, actually, as it greatly tapered distractions. Then one morning about five months after the fiasco, a woman got onto the bus, and as she turned and bent slightly to put her ticket into the machine, I found myself thinking, holy crap that is a fine ass. Uh, oh. Fortunately, she didn’t sit close enough to make eye contact.
I determined that my next tattoo would be an anatomical heart inside of a birdcage on my ribcage, the most painful area I’ve had inked, to remind myself not to let another girl run recklessly off with my easily-seduced and gullible self. It would also bring to mind Molly, who hearts hearts and is my closest female friend with whom I remained prudently platonic.
Part Two
A few months more solidly on my feet, a co-worker asked whether Carolyn and I had met. “I’ve seen her around,” I deadpanned. Carolyn laughed. I instantly wanted to make her laugh more. Too bad she’s so cute, otherwise she might be fun to converse with, I thought. With the exception of her finely contoured backside, I hadn’t looked at her yet.
When we did get around to striking up a conversation, my tat plans somehow came up. The next time I saw her, she stated, “I’ve been thinking about your tattoo idea- the imagery seems pretty intense.” I heard, “I’ve been thinking about you….”
I decided to find out what this chick was about, which I was obliged to wait a week to do as we work together only on Sundays. In the meantime, that other co-worker mentioned Carolyn was my age. (I can’t discern ages at all.) Noon on Sunday arrived. Carolyn mentioned robots. I heart robots. I mentioned Fast, Cheap and Out of Control. She admitted, “I started watching that but fell asleep. I’ve just been watching a lot of fluff lately, like Dr. Who.”
This is somewhat akin to mentioning to an 80’s era Bulls fan that you’re closely related to Michael Jordan. We’re talking Times Square ball-drop. In fact, I once jokingly declared I model my life after The Doctor to an ex who’d never heard of the show, but months later read aloud a sentence from a book which described it as a “children’s television program,” to which I responded, “That’s harsh.”
It goes without saying that I went into a diatribe about the second (and best!) Doctor (played by Patrick Troughton) and attempted to score some easy bonus points by explaining how the female sidekicks were much stronger characters before Tom Baker, the fourth Doctor, started complaining of being upstaged.
We moved onto hobbies. “Lately, I’ve been trying to learn to skateboard.” Okay, timeout. Molly and I once had a stalemate discussion about which was hotter, girls who skateboard or girls who play bass guitar.
Carolyn and I share an affinity for direct communication, juvenile humor, the absurd and macabre. We both read obituaries, appreciate wandering aimlessly through cemeteries, shop almost exclusively at Goodwill, enjoy science fiction and find children unnerving. We like chess and can’t stand Scrabble. We are bi-centennial babies (and therefore Dragons), which comes in handy when swapping memories as we experienced each year at the same time. When I casually mentioned I would love to study Kendo, she exclaimed, “Swordfighting? Me, too!”
“Too bad our interactions are limited to Sundays during work. We should meet up in another setting sometime. Like dinner, or something?”
“That would be great,” she responded, “but I have dietary restrictions in that I’m a vegetarian.”
“So am I.” I tried not to sound shocked. This is happening in the middle of nowhere, Iowa.
Leaning into the counter which separated our areas of work, my oceanic orbs drank deeply into a pair of bottled whisky worlds. It occurred to me that we were the same height. “Let me get your number and we’ll figure out a time to do something,” I suggested.
“Do you have severed heads in your freezer?” she replied.
“I shrink them so they can be displayed chronologically on my mantle.” My attempt at humor fell flat.
“There’s an Indian restaurant in Hiawatha.” It gets better. “Do you like the X-Men?” It gets better.
After the dinner and movie, my brother asked how it went. I shrugged, “First dates are easy; it’s two years from now that’s the tricky part.” I then instantly bombarded her email box with a series of mistakes and personality traits from previous experiences I intended to avoid henceforth. I realized this might be received as absurd after one date, but my fears were assuaged when she replied not only with answers but a longer list of her concerns. Our sense of ethics, desires and expectations were not just compatible; they were virtually identical.
For our second outing, we played a leisurely game of disc golf on an overcrowded course in Coralville. When Carolyn headed toward the wrong tee early on, I intoned, “Don’t go that way! Never go that way!” in my poor impersonation of a blue-haired worm with a British accent. Our conversation quickly and excitedly turned to all manner of things pertaining to The Labyrinth (1986), but mostly David Bowie and Terry Jones.
By the fifth hole, where the basket lies directly beyond a steep slope, play had bottlenecked. When our turn came, a small crowd had gathered on a little ridge behind us. As I approached the concrete platform, I was remembering that last time I played this course, during which this drive had flown directly into a tree on the right and rolled down the hill before resting under a log just in front of where people were now watching expectantly. (The difficulty in this particular throw lies in that, if you don’t throw the disc steep enough, it won’t clear the incline, but if you throw it too steep, it will tend to fall short and also curve too far to the left. My previous mistake was most likely a result of anticipating I’d error by throwing too steep and attempting to compensate by throwing the disc too far to the right.)
As I positioned my feet for the throw, a voice behind me demanded, “Andrew- don’t fuck it up.”
I glanced back to spy her mischievous grin and responded, “With a crowd, too. Under pressure!” I thought of something and smiled back. “I won’t,” I added, then broke into the Bowie/Queen collaborative bass line famously copped by Vanilla Ice. My drive neatly cleared the incline and landed a few feet in front of the hole.
Based on my dating track record, it would be fair to be skeptical that this relationship will fair better, but after all the dealings with women I’ve had over the past 15+ years, I consider myself something of an expert in the process. Being with Carolyn is both comfortable and engaging, and she has demonstrated herself to be reliable and trustworthy. I already look forward to the tricky part….
When I arrived in Iowa, I had gone almost a decade without watching television. Overwhelmed by the hundreds of programs offered on my brother’s gigantic flatscreen, I spent the first several weeks catching myself up to date while looking for work. As nearly everything on television is constantly being rerun, this wasn’t particularly difficult. One day, while flipping through channels, I paused at some program about guys who have romantic relationships with life-sized dolls. At first I thought it was a documentary Janine had recommended, but then I became curious whether the people on it resembled the character played by the satisfyingly ceaselessly creepy Dennis Hopper in the cult classic movie River’s Edge (1986), starring Crispin Glover (in a hilariously quotable performance), Keanu Reeves and Ione Skye. I really, really enjoy this movie, despite the fact the director seems to have had little clue as to what to do with what he potentially had.
One interviewee in this television program explained that he dates dolls because he doesn’t know how to meet real women. Maybe your conversation ice-breaker needs work, I snickered to myself.
One trait I possess but have never been able to fully explain is that, as an anonymous person in a group of people, I am completely uninteresting. I was always the last kid picked for the elementary recess football team, despite the fact that I wasn’t really too bad. Whenever I go to any gathering with a group of male friends, I watch in the background while girls swoon over everyone in my group except me.
However, and this is a big but, if I am able to finagle myself into a one-on-one conversation in a setting relatively free of distractions, I become a bit of a babe magnet, as long as the girl can get (past) my rather tasteless and often punny sense of humor. Other prerequisites include the avoidance of small-talk, which I can never pull off, and someone who finds cockiness and clumsiness attractive when paired.
Perhaps the lynchpin to this contrast in dating success lies in my rather entrancing baby blue eyes, which I can use to full effect only when I capture someone long enough to lock gazes. I tend to not make eye contact with people I have no interest in; it can cause unwanted attention/confusion. (I fully realize these are ridiculous statements to be making of oneself, but my friends with vouch for me that it’s true: my eyes are magic.)
I had pondered the doll fetish guy’s concern long enough that the next time someone whined, “I don’t know how to meet women,” I’d prepared a rather brilliant (I say so myself) response: “I’ll tell you how to meet them if you tell me how to avoid them.”
My eyes get me in trouble sometimes. One nuisance is I have a rather strong weakness for pretty girls. On another television show, one that I actually enjoy, called Iron Chef America, there’s often a curmudgeonly judge named Jeffrey Steingarten, and in one episode he rudely says to the lubricious Jeri Ryan aka Seven of Nine, “It’s no accident that beautiful women have bad personalities- they think they can get away with anything.” It’s a fact, Jack.
Right after my last relationship ended in misery, females were invisible. I had no interest and no sex drive for perhaps the first time since puberty. This was a very nice state to be in, actually, as it greatly tapered distractions. Then one morning about five months after the fiasco, a woman got onto the bus, and as she turned and bent slightly to put her ticket into the machine, I found myself thinking, holy crap that is a fine ass. Uh, oh. Fortunately, she didn’t sit close enough to make eye contact.
I determined that my next tattoo would be an anatomical heart inside of a birdcage on my ribcage, the most painful area I’ve had inked, to remind myself not to let another girl run recklessly off with my easily-seduced and gullible self. It would also bring to mind Molly, who hearts hearts and is my closest female friend with whom I remained prudently platonic.
Part Two
A few months more solidly on my feet, a co-worker asked whether Carolyn and I had met. “I’ve seen her around,” I deadpanned. Carolyn laughed. I instantly wanted to make her laugh more. Too bad she’s so cute, otherwise she might be fun to converse with, I thought. With the exception of her finely contoured backside, I hadn’t looked at her yet.
When we did get around to striking up a conversation, my tat plans somehow came up. The next time I saw her, she stated, “I’ve been thinking about your tattoo idea- the imagery seems pretty intense.” I heard, “I’ve been thinking about you….”
I decided to find out what this chick was about, which I was obliged to wait a week to do as we work together only on Sundays. In the meantime, that other co-worker mentioned Carolyn was my age. (I can’t discern ages at all.) Noon on Sunday arrived. Carolyn mentioned robots. I heart robots. I mentioned Fast, Cheap and Out of Control. She admitted, “I started watching that but fell asleep. I’ve just been watching a lot of fluff lately, like Dr. Who.”
This is somewhat akin to mentioning to an 80’s era Bulls fan that you’re closely related to Michael Jordan. We’re talking Times Square ball-drop. In fact, I once jokingly declared I model my life after The Doctor to an ex who’d never heard of the show, but months later read aloud a sentence from a book which described it as a “children’s television program,” to which I responded, “That’s harsh.”
It goes without saying that I went into a diatribe about the second (and best!) Doctor (played by Patrick Troughton) and attempted to score some easy bonus points by explaining how the female sidekicks were much stronger characters before Tom Baker, the fourth Doctor, started complaining of being upstaged.
We moved onto hobbies. “Lately, I’ve been trying to learn to skateboard.” Okay, timeout. Molly and I once had a stalemate discussion about which was hotter, girls who skateboard or girls who play bass guitar.
Carolyn and I share an affinity for direct communication, juvenile humor, the absurd and macabre. We both read obituaries, appreciate wandering aimlessly through cemeteries, shop almost exclusively at Goodwill, enjoy science fiction and find children unnerving. We like chess and can’t stand Scrabble. We are bi-centennial babies (and therefore Dragons), which comes in handy when swapping memories as we experienced each year at the same time. When I casually mentioned I would love to study Kendo, she exclaimed, “Swordfighting? Me, too!”
“Too bad our interactions are limited to Sundays during work. We should meet up in another setting sometime. Like dinner, or something?”
“That would be great,” she responded, “but I have dietary restrictions in that I’m a vegetarian.”
“So am I.” I tried not to sound shocked. This is happening in the middle of nowhere, Iowa.
Leaning into the counter which separated our areas of work, my oceanic orbs drank deeply into a pair of bottled whisky worlds. It occurred to me that we were the same height. “Let me get your number and we’ll figure out a time to do something,” I suggested.
“Do you have severed heads in your freezer?” she replied.
“I shrink them so they can be displayed chronologically on my mantle.” My attempt at humor fell flat.
“There’s an Indian restaurant in Hiawatha.” It gets better. “Do you like the X-Men?” It gets better.
After the dinner and movie, my brother asked how it went. I shrugged, “First dates are easy; it’s two years from now that’s the tricky part.” I then instantly bombarded her email box with a series of mistakes and personality traits from previous experiences I intended to avoid henceforth. I realized this might be received as absurd after one date, but my fears were assuaged when she replied not only with answers but a longer list of her concerns. Our sense of ethics, desires and expectations were not just compatible; they were virtually identical.
For our second outing, we played a leisurely game of disc golf on an overcrowded course in Coralville. When Carolyn headed toward the wrong tee early on, I intoned, “Don’t go that way! Never go that way!” in my poor impersonation of a blue-haired worm with a British accent. Our conversation quickly and excitedly turned to all manner of things pertaining to The Labyrinth (1986), but mostly David Bowie and Terry Jones.
By the fifth hole, where the basket lies directly beyond a steep slope, play had bottlenecked. When our turn came, a small crowd had gathered on a little ridge behind us. As I approached the concrete platform, I was remembering that last time I played this course, during which this drive had flown directly into a tree on the right and rolled down the hill before resting under a log just in front of where people were now watching expectantly. (The difficulty in this particular throw lies in that, if you don’t throw the disc steep enough, it won’t clear the incline, but if you throw it too steep, it will tend to fall short and also curve too far to the left. My previous mistake was most likely a result of anticipating I’d error by throwing too steep and attempting to compensate by throwing the disc too far to the right.)
As I positioned my feet for the throw, a voice behind me demanded, “Andrew- don’t fuck it up.”
I glanced back to spy her mischievous grin and responded, “With a crowd, too. Under pressure!” I thought of something and smiled back. “I won’t,” I added, then broke into the Bowie/Queen collaborative bass line famously copped by Vanilla Ice. My drive neatly cleared the incline and landed a few feet in front of the hole.
Based on my dating track record, it would be fair to be skeptical that this relationship will fair better, but after all the dealings with women I’ve had over the past 15+ years, I consider myself something of an expert in the process. Being with Carolyn is both comfortable and engaging, and she has demonstrated herself to be reliable and trustworthy. I already look forward to the tricky part….
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