Here's a short story (of around 133 words) about gift-giving:
My housemate/landlord/friend (not in that order) is, among other things, Jewish, and at the beginning of Hanukkah, announced that she got me a present. I protested. "Oh, you don't have to give me a present. First of all, I don't celebrate Hanukkah, and I didn't get you anything." But she insisted: "It's Hanukkah, and don't worry, I'm not giving you one every day. Just for the last day, and it's nothing big." I said a second or third time that it was unnecessary, and we laughed about it.
I believe Hanukkah ended a few days ago. I have not yet received any present. And now, although I didn't want one, and feel silly about it, part of me feels jobbed!
So, to everyone out there: you are not getting any gifts from me.
In a previous blog entry of mine, I hid a link to another audio embellishment. I didn't actually hide it, but I didn't make it very obvious. It was just a little blue asterisk. I'm sure that not a one of you clicked on it. [pout]
* *
Monday, December 17, 2007
Thursday, December 6, 2007
A stag party.
I was driving home tonight from band practice. A train was passing between Jean Road and the freeway, so I turned right instead of left and took the scenic route home. Listening to OPB, some good indie-pop, timing the lights just right, enjoying the change. The change? A stress-free practice, a worry-free evening. Not that things are different. What's different? Things, they aren't. There are fewer dollars in my bank account today than yesterday, fewer then than the day before that. I haven't been exercising enough to drop the pounds I hate, not eating enough vegetables. But I've been getting used to my life. I'm used to it. I'm almost used to it. My problems are pretty insignificant. People have worse problems. I can live with this. Where was I? Right, the right turn.
The train didn't look like it would end at all soon, so I turned right. I embraced the scenic route, embraced it. Zoomed along down the road, up a hill, down a hill. The music was relaxing, the moonlight was relaxing, the acceptance was very relaxing. There were taillights ahead, brakelights, so I slowed, but the brakelights disappeared and the car sped up. And behind the car an enormous deer, a buck, began to lumber across the road in front of me. I jammed down on the brake, pushed in the clutch, stopped the car. The buck hesitated, looked at me with one eye, and bolted across the rest of the road and into the woods. My god, that animal was big, I thought. I imagined my car cutting out his legs, his bulk crashing through my windshield. He was beautiful. It only lasted a few seconds, but it was fantastic.
Headlights were approaching in my rearview mirror, so I shoved it into first and rolled slowly on down the road. My heart was pounding and my hands were trembling. They trembled for a few more minutes, a few more miles, until I got off the interstate at Water St. I turned south to Clay and took a left, only to be stopped again. The crossing gate was down and the lights were flashing — there was a train passing. I waited it out.
What was the meaning of all this? Well, maybe God doesn't like us to get complacent. I don't believe in God; it's an expression.
The train didn't look like it would end at all soon, so I turned right. I embraced the scenic route, embraced it. Zoomed along down the road, up a hill, down a hill. The music was relaxing, the moonlight was relaxing, the acceptance was very relaxing. There were taillights ahead, brakelights, so I slowed, but the brakelights disappeared and the car sped up. And behind the car an enormous deer, a buck, began to lumber across the road in front of me. I jammed down on the brake, pushed in the clutch, stopped the car. The buck hesitated, looked at me with one eye, and bolted across the rest of the road and into the woods. My god, that animal was big, I thought. I imagined my car cutting out his legs, his bulk crashing through my windshield. He was beautiful. It only lasted a few seconds, but it was fantastic.
Headlights were approaching in my rearview mirror, so I shoved it into first and rolled slowly on down the road. My heart was pounding and my hands were trembling. They trembled for a few more minutes, a few more miles, until I got off the interstate at Water St. I turned south to Clay and took a left, only to be stopped again. The crossing gate was down and the lights were flashing — there was a train passing. I waited it out.
What was the meaning of all this? Well, maybe God doesn't like us to get complacent. I don't believe in God; it's an expression.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Chris Hubbard's Chris Hubbard Code.
1. The Chris Hubbard must never shoot first, hit a smaller man or take an unfair advantage. The Chris Hubbard would be so racked with guilt over even the opportunity to do such a thing that the smaller man would take advantage and shoot first, defeating the Chris Hubbard.
2. A Chris Hubbard must never go back on his word, or a trust confided in him. Conversely, a Chris Hubbard must never completely confide in a non-Chris Hubbard.
3. A Chris Hubbard must always tell the truth, or at least not tell a lie. It's a subtle difference that Chris Hubbard wishes he didn't understand.
4. A Chris Hubbard must be gentle with children, the elderly and small animals, especially when mixed all together. And he should relax around them — they are the ones that definitely won't think less of him.
5. A Chris Hubbard must not advocate or possess racially intolerant views and ideas, but it is fine for him to be intolerant of religious views and ideas that advocate violence or inequality.
6. A Chris Hubbard must help people in distress, unless someone else is closer, or unless he's not entirely positive that they are in distress. He might be misreading the situation.
7. A Chris Hubbard must be a good worker if, by his estimation, the work is worth doing, in the grand, Universal, scheme of things.
8. A Chris Hubbard must keep himself clean in thought, speech, action and personal habits when people are watching, unless it will make someone laugh or impress a girl.
9. A Chris Hubbard must respect women, parents, and his nation's views, if they are correct. If they are incorrect, but forgiveably so, he must still respect them, because of the precedent. But if they are WAY off, he may roll his eyes and call them ridiculous. I mean, come on!
10. A Chris Hubbard is so tired of the word "patriot" as it is so frequently tossed around these days, as if the existence of this country, or of any country, and its "values" were more important than true human rights, or moral and ethical actions. But a Chris Hubbard doesn't really do anything about it, does he?
2. A Chris Hubbard must never go back on his word, or a trust confided in him. Conversely, a Chris Hubbard must never completely confide in a non-Chris Hubbard.
3. A Chris Hubbard must always tell the truth, or at least not tell a lie. It's a subtle difference that Chris Hubbard wishes he didn't understand.
4. A Chris Hubbard must be gentle with children, the elderly and small animals, especially when mixed all together. And he should relax around them — they are the ones that definitely won't think less of him.
5. A Chris Hubbard must not advocate or possess racially intolerant views and ideas, but it is fine for him to be intolerant of religious views and ideas that advocate violence or inequality.
6. A Chris Hubbard must help people in distress, unless someone else is closer, or unless he's not entirely positive that they are in distress. He might be misreading the situation.
7. A Chris Hubbard must be a good worker if, by his estimation, the work is worth doing, in the grand, Universal, scheme of things.
8. A Chris Hubbard must keep himself clean in thought, speech, action and personal habits when people are watching, unless it will make someone laugh or impress a girl.
9. A Chris Hubbard must respect women, parents, and his nation's views, if they are correct. If they are incorrect, but forgiveably so, he must still respect them, because of the precedent. But if they are WAY off, he may roll his eyes and call them ridiculous. I mean, come on!
10. A Chris Hubbard is so tired of the word "patriot" as it is so frequently tossed around these days, as if the existence of this country, or of any country, and its "values" were more important than true human rights, or moral and ethical actions. But a Chris Hubbard doesn't really do anything about it, does he?
I should be a model.
Firstly, an apology: A blog about my life would be a lot more interesting if my life were interesting right now. But lately it's been pretty standard. Take my recent Thanksgiving vacation — it sounds textbook to me: going home; seeing my family; seeing my high school chums; sleeping in; taking a break from my regular life; planning to read books and write music free from the stresses of the aforementioned life; eating too much turkey and pie; playing a pickup tackle football game with some friends but mostly strangers bigger than me; freaking out about getting tackled or having to tackle someone — I've never ever played tackle football before!; getting over it; feeling like a tough guy in a way I rarely do; going to a party that night with the aforementioned chums; realizing that I'm still crushing on the same girls I crushed on in high school; realizing that I'm still the least traditionally desirable guy in the room (although the room has changed quite a bit); going home alone but totally okay with that; eating too much good food that I don't have in Portland; being scolded about my eating habits; feeling bad about my self and my body image; feeling ready to go back to Portland two days before my trip ends; not getting ANY reading or writing done; but unlocking the secret level in LEGO Star Wars; staying up all night before my morning plane flight (like always. I'm not afraid of the flying — it's the uprooting I hate); losing the rest of the day in Portland half asleep; awaking to the same fears and doubts I left a week ago; eating the leftovers Mom packed in my bag; Mmm, they were yummy.
Secondly, a confession: I took a little creative license in the preceding paragraph, for the sake of the story. In actuality, I did not bring any leftovers from home home to Portland. (Which home is "home?" That's another story. Another poorly written story.)
Thirdly, a second confession: It took me a few minutes to remember the word "confession." I was all set to use "admittance," as in, "something to admit." That's not what "admittance" means. Or is it??!
Fourthly, a recommendation: Yesterday saw the release (in New York and Los Angeles) of a film called The Diving Bell and The Butterfly, an adaptation of the book by the same name. You all know of it, so I'll summarize briefly. It is about a man who suffers a stroke and loses all ability to communicate, save for blinking his left eye. In this terribly limited capacity, he manages to write a book, blinking one letter at a time, about consciousness inside what he calls his "diving bell."
Now, I have not read this book, but I am definitely going to; I hope that it addresses an issue I've got with the universe (possibly my biggest issue), which is this: there is so much going on in the world (and in my room, and in my head), so many sensory inputs, that I cannot process them all, let alone communicate them to another person. The communication is the important thing to me - to be understood is to not be alone. And unless a person is in a constant state of description from the moment he is born, he will always be behind, trying futilely to catch up with his life that is moving forward at the speed of, well, life. That man can never be fully understood. And that is a terrifying prospect to me. I can type 100 wpm, and speak faster than my mother can understand, and I still can't keep up with life. Having all of my communication slowed to a crawl, to one letter every second or so? I can't imagine.
I'll report back after I finish the book. If you've read it, feel free to report to me your opinions on it.
Fifthly, which is also lastly, a third confession: Growing up, I never in a million years thought that I would become the type of person who does this:
Yet here I am.
Secondly, a confession: I took a little creative license in the preceding paragraph, for the sake of the story. In actuality, I did not bring any leftovers from home home to Portland. (Which home is "home?" That's another story. Another poorly written story.)
Thirdly, a second confession: It took me a few minutes to remember the word "confession." I was all set to use "admittance," as in, "something to admit." That's not what "admittance" means. Or is it??!
Fourthly, a recommendation: Yesterday saw the release (in New York and Los Angeles) of a film called The Diving Bell and The Butterfly, an adaptation of the book by the same name. You all know of it, so I'll summarize briefly. It is about a man who suffers a stroke and loses all ability to communicate, save for blinking his left eye. In this terribly limited capacity, he manages to write a book, blinking one letter at a time, about consciousness inside what he calls his "diving bell."
Now, I have not read this book, but I am definitely going to; I hope that it addresses an issue I've got with the universe (possibly my biggest issue), which is this: there is so much going on in the world (and in my room, and in my head), so many sensory inputs, that I cannot process them all, let alone communicate them to another person. The communication is the important thing to me - to be understood is to not be alone. And unless a person is in a constant state of description from the moment he is born, he will always be behind, trying futilely to catch up with his life that is moving forward at the speed of, well, life. That man can never be fully understood. And that is a terrifying prospect to me. I can type 100 wpm, and speak faster than my mother can understand, and I still can't keep up with life. Having all of my communication slowed to a crawl, to one letter every second or so? I can't imagine.
I'll report back after I finish the book. If you've read it, feel free to report to me your opinions on it.
Fifthly, which is also lastly, a third confession: Growing up, I never in a million years thought that I would become the type of person who does this:
Yet here I am.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Gene Autry's Cowboy Code.
1. The Cowboy must never shoot first, hit a smaller man or take an unfair advantage.
2. A Cowboy must never go back on his word, or a trust confided in him.
3. A Cowboy must always tell the truth.
4. A Cowboy must be gentle with children, the elderly and small animals.
5. A Cowboy must not advocate or possess racially or religiously intolerant views and ideas.
6. A Cowboy must help people in distress.
7. A Cowboy must be a good worker.
8. A Cowboy must keep himself clean in thought, speech, action and personal habits.
9. A Cowboy must respect women, parents and his nation's views.
10. A Cowboy is a patriot.
2. A Cowboy must never go back on his word, or a trust confided in him.
3. A Cowboy must always tell the truth.
4. A Cowboy must be gentle with children, the elderly and small animals.
5. A Cowboy must not advocate or possess racially or religiously intolerant views and ideas.
6. A Cowboy must help people in distress.
7. A Cowboy must be a good worker.
8. A Cowboy must keep himself clean in thought, speech, action and personal habits.
9. A Cowboy must respect women, parents and his nation's views.
10. A Cowboy is a patriot.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Overheard in a classroom at the Portland Waldorf School last week:
Mary, an eighth-grade student: "Mrs. Parecki, will this test be open-note?"
Mrs. Parecki: "Yes, this is an open-note test."
Mary: "Shoot... I wish I had taken notes."
I was subbing at PWS, and heard that exchange; for a few minutes it lifted my spirits. I had just finished the 8th grade choir, and was pretty exhausted. I do not know how teachers make it through the day. These kids were so friggin' disorderly. At the beginning of the class I tried to be Mr. Nice Fun Substitute, so I was pretty patient waiting for them to quiet down, and laughed at their jokes. A few of the boys were talking about videogames, and suggested that we sing videogame themes instead of the music in their binders, which they were tired of. I said "No; besides, I don't know any of the new tunes, only the old classics like Mario." Why oh why didn't I just say "No?" Of course the kids say "We like Mario. Can you play it?"
"Yes, I can play it."
"Will you play it?"
"No."
"Pleeeease?"
"No. It's time to sing. Open up your binders."
At this point, a troublemaking tenor on the end actually reached into his pocket and pulled out a dollar bill. He waived it at me. "I'll give you a dollar if you play it." Flying Spaghetti Monster help me: I can't believe it, but I was tempted. Especially when a few of his classmates joined him in the bribery. Three whole dollars just to play a little Mario--
"No, no, no. Open your binders." But I had lost them. For the rest of the class, they were terribly misbehaved. Finally, with about ten minutes left, at my wit's end, I told them, "If you quiet down and sing this song one last time, I will play the Mario theme for you and let you go." I felt like such a whore. But it worked. As they put their binders away, I strolled to the piano, and played it, in C major. They all gathered around me. I played for about a minute, and wrapped it up suddenly -- "Okay, that's it." And they all cheered. I felt, for a second, like a rock star.
I had a 45-minute break (during which I heard the above exchange about open-note tests) and headed back out to sub for the 6th grade choir. Somehow, they were ten times worse than the 8th graders. The 8th graders, I think, were just excitable and distractable, and I didn't take it personally. But there were some 6th graders who seemed to have it in for me. The way they looked at me like I was the evil bossman, the way they lied to my face about knowing what measure we were on, the way they thought I couldn't see them poking each other and joking around in my periphery... it was infuriating and heartbreaking. Seriously. I never yelled. But I was Mr. Angry Hardass Substitute. I felt awful for the half of the class that was perfectly behaved. To any of them who read this blog: I'm sorry.
Mrs. Parecki: "Yes, this is an open-note test."
Mary: "Shoot... I wish I had taken notes."
I was subbing at PWS, and heard that exchange; for a few minutes it lifted my spirits. I had just finished the 8th grade choir, and was pretty exhausted. I do not know how teachers make it through the day. These kids were so friggin' disorderly. At the beginning of the class I tried to be Mr. Nice Fun Substitute, so I was pretty patient waiting for them to quiet down, and laughed at their jokes. A few of the boys were talking about videogames, and suggested that we sing videogame themes instead of the music in their binders, which they were tired of. I said "No; besides, I don't know any of the new tunes, only the old classics like Mario." Why oh why didn't I just say "No?" Of course the kids say "We like Mario. Can you play it?"
"Yes, I can play it."
"Will you play it?"
"No."
"Pleeeease?"
"No. It's time to sing. Open up your binders."
At this point, a troublemaking tenor on the end actually reached into his pocket and pulled out a dollar bill. He waived it at me. "I'll give you a dollar if you play it." Flying Spaghetti Monster help me: I can't believe it, but I was tempted. Especially when a few of his classmates joined him in the bribery. Three whole dollars just to play a little Mario--
"No, no, no. Open your binders." But I had lost them. For the rest of the class, they were terribly misbehaved. Finally, with about ten minutes left, at my wit's end, I told them, "If you quiet down and sing this song one last time, I will play the Mario theme for you and let you go." I felt like such a whore. But it worked. As they put their binders away, I strolled to the piano, and played it, in C major. They all gathered around me. I played for about a minute, and wrapped it up suddenly -- "Okay, that's it." And they all cheered. I felt, for a second, like a rock star.
I had a 45-minute break (during which I heard the above exchange about open-note tests) and headed back out to sub for the 6th grade choir. Somehow, they were ten times worse than the 8th graders. The 8th graders, I think, were just excitable and distractable, and I didn't take it personally. But there were some 6th graders who seemed to have it in for me. The way they looked at me like I was the evil bossman, the way they lied to my face about knowing what measure we were on, the way they thought I couldn't see them poking each other and joking around in my periphery... it was infuriating and heartbreaking. Seriously. I never yelled. But I was Mr. Angry Hardass Substitute. I felt awful for the half of the class that was perfectly behaved. To any of them who read this blog: I'm sorry.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
A short story of around 1600 words.
Overtaken
Jim made sure to put his signal on a good eighth of a mile ahead of time, and coasted to a stop in front of his house. He got out of the car and took a step back to give it another look. She sure is a beaut, Jim told himself again. Yes indeed, I picked a good one. It hadn't been a long search at the dealership. Jim had stridden inside, his suit freshly starched and creased, his shoes squeaking across the linoleum, his brand new gold card practically glowing in his billfold. As soon as he saw it, he knew. "That one," he had declared, pointing to the blue convertible on the dais. "I'd like to buy that one." When he got in, the seat was already positioned perfectly.
"Honey!" Jim called. "I've got the car - shall we go for a drive?"
"What, now? But dear, I'm not properly dressed, and the Joneses are coming over for appetizers in an hour--"
"It'll only be a few minutes, Martha," Jim said, "just a spin around the block, to break her in. You and me, together, my love, in our brand new car." He jingled the keys.
"Well, I suppose it would be all right," she said. "Let me just powder my nose."
Out on the sidewalk, Martha swooned. "Oh, she's lovely! And my favorite color blue! Oh, she is beautiful!"
"A junker compared to you," Jim replied. Martha squealed in delight, flinging her arms around his neck and kissing him on the cheek. Turning again to the car, she asked, "What's her name?"
"What do you mean?" Jim asked.
"Well, cars have to have names, don't they? Certainly cars this lovely must have, deserve, a name!"
"I don't know," said Jim.
"Oh, can we call her Betsy? Betsy is just perfect, just perfect for her! Please, Jim, let it be Betsy!"
"All right," Jim smiled, "Betsy it is. Our car, Betsy."
"Betsy," Martha repeated softly. "Oh, Jim, can we get in now?" Jim opened the door for her, making sure her dress did not get caught in the door as he closed it, and sauntered around the hood to the driver's side. Martha was running her fingers over the smooth dashboard and instruments. "So perfect," she murmured. When Jim started the engine, a little gasp of delight escaped from her lips. He, too, was pleased to feel the car tremble in anticipation, and he trembled with it. Slowly he pulled away from the curb. The ride was smooth, almost effortless. They cruised around the block in silence, Betsy humming beneath them. As they arrived back at the space in front of their house, Martha spoke. "I don't suppose we could... well, the Joneses won't arrive for another 50 minutes, and I've already made the finger sandwiches, and it seems such a shame to turn Betsy off so soon after she's started up, and State Road 29 is so close. Couldn't we just... well..."
Jim was surprised, but, although it would have been uncouth to admit, he too was not yet ready to put the car down for the night. "Yes, dear, let's go," he said.
They turned onto the state road, behind a brown station wagon. For a minute they drove along, again in silence. Suddenly, Martha turned to Jim.
"Oh, overtake him, Jim," she cooed. "I want to feel what she can do." He raised his eyebrow to her, as if to say "Well, okay, you asked for it," checked his mirrors, engaged the left blinker, and slowly mashed the acceleration pedal against the floor. Betsy moved forward around the station wagon. Jim and Martha were pressed slightly back in their seats, and Martha let out an "oh" of wonder and thrill. Having pulled ahead of the station wagon, Jim flipped his blinker to the right and settled back into the right lane.
"Mmm, that was nice," Martha purred. "I like this car."
"Me, too, darling," Jim replied.
A minute later, Martha sat up in her seat and turned to Jim. "Let's put the roof down, dear!"
"Well now Martha, remember, we don't have our hats with us, and it's a tad chilly out right now. Why don't we wait until next Sunday. It's supposed to be 80 degrees then!"
Martha frowned. "Oh, Jim, don't be such a square! What's the point of having a retractable roof if you don't make use of it? Just for a little while... the sun will feel lovely, I just know it!" Her hands were on his arm, and she beamed with hope at her husband. Jim softened. "Okay, all right. But just for a few minutes."
"Yay!" She let out a little cheer. She cheered as Jim slowed the car and pulled far over onto the shoulder. She cheered as Jim unhooked the roof latches, cheered as he lifted the roof back and folded it into the car. Each cheer was quieter than the one before it; she was slowly shrinking into her seat, her hands clenched and near her face, her body slightly contorted in excitement. As Jim restarted the car, Martha giggled as she hadn't since middle school. Jim was a bit perturbed to see her so overcome, but he quickly forgot it on the road. The wind ruffled his hair, and the sun beat on his shoulders. Wouldn't you know it, Martha was right, Jim thought, and gosh if this isn't just wonderful. He could hear Martha moaning in delight beside him. She had sat up again, and her hair was whipping behind her.
They were cruising near forty miles per hour now, and quickly they came up behind a truck. Jim recognized it as one that had passed them while they were stopped. "Overtake him, darling!" Martha cried breathlessly, and Jim agreed. He thrust downward on the pedal, and Betsy leapt forward, growling. Jim could feel the truck's engine rumbling to the right; Martha squealed and waved to the truck driver as they passed. Jim eased up on the gas, pulled back to the right, and realized that his heart was racing. That was great, Jim old boy, he thought to himself, but let's not get carried away. There will be plenty of automobiles to pass in your lifetime.
"Again!" Martha cried.
"What?" said Jim.
"Again!" she repeated. "Let's go again! Up there, the Volkswagen — let's take it!"
"Darling," Jim began, "let's not get carried away. There will be plenty of --"
"HERE WE GO!!" Martha screamed, and before Jim could move or speak, she grabbed the top of the windscreen, pulled herself halfway up, and thrust her left leg around the gear shift and down onto Jim's right foot. Betsy hurtled forward.
"Martha, what are you doing!" Jim cried. He tugged at his foot and swatted at Martha with his right hand, but it did not perturb her. She was peering over the windscreen, hair streaming backward, pushing with all her might on the accelerator. Jim bellowed her name again, to no reply. He looked down at the pedals, and mashed his left foot against the brake. The engine whined, the brakes squealed, and the whole car began to shake violently. "What am I doing to you, Betsy?!" Jim shrieked, and let up.
They rushed onwards; the Volkswagen was mere seconds away. Martha was riding Betsy like a jockey. "WE'RE COMING FOR YOU!" she bellowed at the rapidly approaching taillights. Jim looked up — they were almost upon it. "Oh my goodness!" he yelped, and jerked the wheel to the left. "OVERTAKING!! Martha screamed at the terrified driver. In an instant they were past the van.
"Okay, Martha, we've done it! Let up, now, please!" But Martha stood still, wind tossing her hair, her eyes watering, transfixed by the oncoming horizon. "Martha, PLEASE!" Jim pleaded. She did not move.
"Clutch..." Jim heard a soft voice whisper to him. "Clutch..." The clutch! he thought, and jammed it down. The engine revved and whined, untethered, but the car began to slow. Jim swerved back into the right lane. Looking out, he saw a mile of straight empty road. I can turn off the car, Jim realized, and twisted the key out of the ignition - the steering wheel locked, but the wheels stayed straight. With the engine off, it was suddenly quiet. Jim pressed on the brake and slowly came to a stop. He flipped on his hazards, took a few deep breaths, and looked up at Martha, who had begun to stomp on the gas pedal in frustration. "Go, go, go!" she was panting.
"Martha."
"Go, go, go, go!"
"Martha!"
"Go, go, go, go, go, go!"
Jim got out of the car, reached over and grabbed Martha around the waist. He pulled her over the side and held her under his arm. Her left foot was still pumping. Half dragging her, he went to the back of the car, and with his other hand opened the trunk. He lifted her up, turned her sideways, and placed her inside. Then he took off his suit jacket and fit it beneath her head. She did not notice; her fists were clenched, her foot jerking. "Oh, Martha," Jim sighed, and shut the trunk.
As he wrestled with the roof, pulling it back up, the Volkswagen sped past, horn blaring. "Sorry!" Jim called out futilely. He latched the roof and got in the car. He turned his hazard lights off, his left blinker on, performed what he hoped was not an illegal U-turn, and headed slowly back into town, his right foot just barely in contact with the gas pedal. "Oh, dear," Jim said aloud. "I knew this car wasn't quite right. I suppose I'll have to stop by the dealership on the way home and trade it in." He drove on, daydreaming about next Sunday's drive.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
I HATE MONEY!
I hate money. I HATE MONEY! Money hate I. I hate it so much. Hate hate hate money money money!!! I want to kill it. I want to kill money. I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY!
I hate money so much that now the word "money" looks stupid and meaningless. Ha! take that, "money!" You suck! Sorry, "hate," you are a casualty of war. *
I hate money so much that I didn't just copy and paste all that up there, I actually typed it all in.
I hate money so much that I want to burn all the bills in my wallet, except I know how much more despair I'll feel when I'm seven dollars poorer.
I hate money so much that I want to pick up all this change on my desk and throw it across the room, but I won't because I need this $1.37 in quarters, nickels, pennies, and dimes.
Dollars, pounds, euros, pesos, yen, yuan, loonies - you can all go fuck yourselves. That's right, loonies – you are now officially included in the hate fest; welcome to the big time!
Please do leave your comment about how money is important and necessary and all that — clearly, I need a little perspective.
I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I want to kill money. I want to kill it. Money money money hate hate hate!!! I hate it so much. Money hate I. I HATE MONEY! I hate money.
I hate money.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Slow Drags tour entry #4.
Tuesday, October 9th. 3:57pm. Portland, Oregon.
Saturday night was our last gig on the tour, and we knew it. We had reached the nadir the night before in Willits, when the whole bar cleared out at the beginning of our second set, and we played the rest of the night (an hour and a half) to the bartender and the doorman. Later we were told that we should come back in a month or so, since mid-October is harvest season, and everyone in town is working all day, harvesting. "What are they harvesting?" we asked. "Marijuana," they answered. "Everyone's up at six in the morning to pick, so it's not really a 'let's go out and party' time." Okay.
Ukiah is just a few miles from Willits, so when, at 11pm, we were left with only the employees of the Ukiah Brewing Company and one regular, we chalked it up to another long day in the pot fields. Even with an excuse, it was frustrating. After 3900 miles and 22 days, with nobody to play to, we did not play well, and I, for one, did not care.
The next day we drove 12 hours north. It was as far as we've driven in one day on this tour, but it didn't feel like it. We were mostly quiet, talked a little bit about baseball, not much about the tour or the band. Eugene, Salem, and Portland welcomed us home in succession with rain, as if to say, "Are you sure you want to be back here?" Yes, we do.
Today is gray and chilly, quiet outside. We left at the end of summer, and returned for fall.
Saturday night was our last gig on the tour, and we knew it. We had reached the nadir the night before in Willits, when the whole bar cleared out at the beginning of our second set, and we played the rest of the night (an hour and a half) to the bartender and the doorman. Later we were told that we should come back in a month or so, since mid-October is harvest season, and everyone in town is working all day, harvesting. "What are they harvesting?" we asked. "Marijuana," they answered. "Everyone's up at six in the morning to pick, so it's not really a 'let's go out and party' time." Okay.
Ukiah is just a few miles from Willits, so when, at 11pm, we were left with only the employees of the Ukiah Brewing Company and one regular, we chalked it up to another long day in the pot fields. Even with an excuse, it was frustrating. After 3900 miles and 22 days, with nobody to play to, we did not play well, and I, for one, did not care.
The next day we drove 12 hours north. It was as far as we've driven in one day on this tour, but it didn't feel like it. We were mostly quiet, talked a little bit about baseball, not much about the tour or the band. Eugene, Salem, and Portland welcomed us home in succession with rain, as if to say, "Are you sure you want to be back here?" Yes, we do.
Today is gray and chilly, quiet outside. We left at the end of summer, and returned for fall.
Friday, September 28, 2007
The soundtrack to the Graduate, and Freaks and Geeks - The Complete Series
25 years into it, David had a life crisis. He sent an email to absolutely everyone in his address book, including a supposed Nigerian oil baron and Amazon.com's support staff, detailing what was wrong in the world and that he didn't know how to fix it, and that he felt lost and alone, with nowhere to turn or anyone to turn to. The world was alternatively meaningless and overly meaningful, and no one seemed to realize this except for him.
He didn't receive many replies, though Amazon sent him a few items off his wish list.
He didn't receive many replies, though Amazon sent him a few items off his wish list.
The Subconscious and the Superconscious.
1. I was about set to read an article* on USAToday.com, the title of which was "Austrian judge: Chimps aren't people", when I decided to turn on some background music. I flipped to iTunes, glanced at my playlists and picked Jenny Lewis, because I thought that I was in a Jenny Lewis mood. I decided to go with Rilo Kiley's second to last album, More Adventurous, and double-clicked on the first song, "It's A Hit." As I turned back to the article, I heard the first words of the song: "Any chimp can play human for a day..." I did not know the song well enough to pick it based on lyrical content. Was this a magnificent coincidence? I can't believe that it was. I hold the subconscious in too high regard, and I feel just the opposite about chance.
2. A man sets out to meticulously document his daily routine. 6:45am: Eyes open. 6:51am: Get up from bed. ... 10:45am: read article online, listen to music. 10:50am: blog about coincidence. ... 2:45pm: think about the geography of North America. 2:47pm: think about thinking about the geography of North America. 2:48pm: think about thinking about oneself thinking about things. And does one write down every time one writes down an action? e.g. 2:49pm: wrote down "6:45am... writes down an action?" 2:49:35pm: wrote down "2:49pm: wrote down..." etc. What is an appropriate level of self-reflection? Is there one? Is there only one? Is it all or nothing? What does the graph of appropriateness look like? Is it like this?
Or like this?
Or perhaps it's something more complex, closer to one of these?
I really like the blue color I used for these graphs, especially in the wavy ones. Its RGB code-thingy is (0,181,241).
* The article can be found here. It is in a section of "Offbeat" news. I don't think that it is "offbeat." I think that it is an interesting and soon-to-be (sooner rather than later, geologically speaking) important issue. "Man gives birth to clock- radio," now, that's offbeat news. Though I suppose one could argue differently.
2. A man sets out to meticulously document his daily routine. 6:45am: Eyes open. 6:51am: Get up from bed. ... 10:45am: read article online, listen to music. 10:50am: blog about coincidence. ... 2:45pm: think about the geography of North America. 2:47pm: think about thinking about the geography of North America. 2:48pm: think about thinking about oneself thinking about things. And does one write down every time one writes down an action? e.g. 2:49pm: wrote down "6:45am... writes down an action?" 2:49:35pm: wrote down "2:49pm: wrote down..." etc. What is an appropriate level of self-reflection? Is there one? Is there only one? Is it all or nothing? What does the graph of appropriateness look like? Is it like this?
Or like this?
Or perhaps it's something more complex, closer to one of these?
I really like the blue color I used for these graphs, especially in the wavy ones. Its RGB code-thingy is (0,181,241).* The article can be found here. It is in a section of "Offbeat" news. I don't think that it is "offbeat." I think that it is an interesting and soon-to-be (sooner rather than later, geologically speaking) important issue. "Man gives birth to clock- radio," now, that's offbeat news. Though I suppose one could argue differently.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Slow Drags tour entry #3.
Wednesday, September 26th, 7:49pm. San Diego, CA.
For the past two days, Scot's mother has been spoiling us something awful, mostly gustatorily. She's cooking for us, buying us food, encouraging us to eat everything in her fridge, mostly comfort food like cookies and ice cream and cake and stuffing and mashed potatoes and etc. And as soon as we have finished what's on our plate, she takes it to the sink and cleans it. She has laid out towels for us, moved laundry from washer to dryer, and made our beds. She even tried to get us to take her bed, offering to sleep on the couch. All this in the face in our protests that we ought to be doing work for her. Those protests have grown quieter and more infrequent, as we realize that 1) she is not listening*, and 2) being spoiled rocks. I know that I should continue to offer to do my own dishes and get my own dessert, but what can I do? I am being given privilege, so I am taking it. I feel like one of the jailors from the Stanford Prison Experiment.
* Of course, she may not be hearing us - Scot says that without her hearing aids, she is deaf as jam.
For the past two days, Scot's mother has been spoiling us something awful, mostly gustatorily. She's cooking for us, buying us food, encouraging us to eat everything in her fridge, mostly comfort food like cookies and ice cream and cake and stuffing and mashed potatoes and etc. And as soon as we have finished what's on our plate, she takes it to the sink and cleans it. She has laid out towels for us, moved laundry from washer to dryer, and made our beds. She even tried to get us to take her bed, offering to sleep on the couch. All this in the face in our protests that we ought to be doing work for her. Those protests have grown quieter and more infrequent, as we realize that 1) she is not listening*, and 2) being spoiled rocks. I know that I should continue to offer to do my own dishes and get my own dessert, but what can I do? I am being given privilege, so I am taking it. I feel like one of the jailors from the Stanford Prison Experiment.
* Of course, she may not be hearing us - Scot says that without her hearing aids, she is deaf as jam.
A glimpse into my future.
You know how some people have certain turns of phrase, certain sayings, certain stories that they repeat again and again whenever you see them? I am trying desperately not to become one of those people, but it seems ever more likely that, in twenty or so years, whenever I stay for a few days at the house of a friend or family, I will say, "Thanks for putting me up -- and for putting up with me!" I think to say it pretty much every time now. It's bad.
Do you have any verbal quirks like this — things you wish you didn't say all the time? What else do I say all the time? Are you tired of it, or is it endearing?
Do you have any verbal quirks like this — things you wish you didn't say all the time? What else do I say all the time? Are you tired of it, or is it endearing?
The Dukes versus the Waves.
Just wanted to let you know about an incident we had on tour. Bryan bought a bandana to keep his dreds back, and went with the color green, but what he didn't know was that green and black are the colors of the Del Mar Dukes, which, according to Scot, are one of the oldest gangs in the area. (Of course he doesn't tell us this until afterwards.) So, anyway, we stop by the place we're playing on Friday to check it out, and Bryan says something about the place smelling like his grandpa, and some old dude wearing blue gets up from the bar with his friend and gets all up in our faces about how this is Oceanside Waves turf (again, according to Scot, the Dukes and the Waves are, like, legendary rivals) and it's been that way since we were in short pants, and Bryan says, like, "you mean since you were in short DEPENDS?!" and the guy just clocks him! Well, Bryan pulls his patented move and goes for the guy's legs (of course, he has to get past the dude's walker), and takes him down. Meantime, like, five other old dudes get up from the bar (either the bar stools creaked or they did) and come at the rest of us. Scot kicks one of them in the nuts, Zach starts running really fast around the outside of the fray to confuse 'em, I poke one in the eye, Pat's all like "I'm not in this band yet, I'm not getting involved in this", and then Nick yells "Bombs away, dudes!" and cuts a huge one. In the ensuing chaos, we escaped.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
My newest crush.
My newest crush is a woman named Naomi Wolf. I don't know much about her except that she is an author who appeared on The Colbert Report a few days ago to talk about her book, The End of America: A Letter of Warning to a Young Patriot. She seems cute and smart and unflappable, and has a charmingly Jewish name. Anyway, you can read an article by her, which appears to be a digest of her book, published online by the Guardian: "Fascist America, in Ten Easy Steps." You can watch her appearance on The Colbert Report here.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Slow Drags tour entry #2.
Sunday, September 16th, 10:48am. Boise, ID.
The second gig was good. Set up was easy, and we started playing pretty solidly, although we were having trouble with the vocals in the monitors. The place was medium full, and got fuller as people arrived from the Boise State game. It wasn't packed by any estimation, and like we're used to, we got the old spiel from the bartenderess or doorman: "Sorry, guys, we're not usually this slow." In this case, apparently, it was due to the street fair across town and the punk music fest out in the desert. Still, Zach's friends all came out, and by the end of the set, there were enough clappers and dancers to get our energy up nice and high; I'm not ashamed to say that we really rocked it. There were a few downers: 1) we didn't get paid very much, because the headliners had a huge guarantee which wasn't met — the bar manager gave us $100 as a thank you because, as she told me, they really like us a lot and want us back on a night when there's not another headliner to take all the cash; and 2) the aforementioned headliners were rather dickish. The bass player was really impatient to get us off the stage, though we were hustling our asses off - he even started pushing our stuff out of the way while we were packing up. They didn't acknowledge us on stage, which is just impolite. I went up to the drummer afterwards, and I don't think he even knew I had played before him; Scot got the same feeling from the lead singer. We have played with other "established" acts in the past, and have had similar experiences, and I hope we don't turn out like that. Nevertheless, it was a good night – we played well.
Upcoming: watch some football today, eat some food, practice a little, chill out. Rawlins, Wyoming, on Tuesday night.
The second gig was good. Set up was easy, and we started playing pretty solidly, although we were having trouble with the vocals in the monitors. The place was medium full, and got fuller as people arrived from the Boise State game. It wasn't packed by any estimation, and like we're used to, we got the old spiel from the bartenderess or doorman: "Sorry, guys, we're not usually this slow." In this case, apparently, it was due to the street fair across town and the punk music fest out in the desert. Still, Zach's friends all came out, and by the end of the set, there were enough clappers and dancers to get our energy up nice and high; I'm not ashamed to say that we really rocked it. There were a few downers: 1) we didn't get paid very much, because the headliners had a huge guarantee which wasn't met — the bar manager gave us $100 as a thank you because, as she told me, they really like us a lot and want us back on a night when there's not another headliner to take all the cash; and 2) the aforementioned headliners were rather dickish. The bass player was really impatient to get us off the stage, though we were hustling our asses off - he even started pushing our stuff out of the way while we were packing up. They didn't acknowledge us on stage, which is just impolite. I went up to the drummer afterwards, and I don't think he even knew I had played before him; Scot got the same feeling from the lead singer. We have played with other "established" acts in the past, and have had similar experiences, and I hope we don't turn out like that. Nevertheless, it was a good night – we played well.
Upcoming: watch some football today, eat some food, practice a little, chill out. Rawlins, Wyoming, on Tuesday night.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Slow Drags tour entry #1.
Saturday, September 15th, 2007. 2:54am. Boise, Idaho.
We have landed and are decompressing at Lynn's house - she is a friend of Zach's. This day started 20 hours ago in Portland, but I don't think any of us are exhausted, as we all slept for large portions of the drive(s). Well, maybe Zach, who drove 90% of the way. Still, as I type, he is sitting on the floor playing with Lynn's cat Domino.
"Hey Zach, are you tired?" I ask. "Getting there," he replies. "Tomorrow will be nice," he says, as he waves a sock in front of Domino. "Yes, it will," I sigh. The positive trade-off from driving 13 hours today is that we don't have to drive at all tomorrow, except for the 30 minutes or so to the gig. Nor do we have anywhere to drive on Sunday or Monday. It's like a false start to the tour, which begins in earnest on Tuesday, as we'll play six consecutive nights, driving all the way from Boise, through Rawlins (WY), Gunniston (CO), Denver, Durango and Phoenix to arrive in Pioneer City, CA on Sunday. Apparently the second-to-last leg is going to be the doozy. We might try to do it overnight to avoid the heat; the van was pretty darn warm just today, and my shirt was damp with sweat halfway through.
It took us 10 hours to get from Portland to McCall, Idaho, and we were actually late for our gig at Crusty's Pizza. Well, we arrived just barely on time, a little before 7pm MDT, but set-up takes a while, and we didn't play our first note until half past-ish. We didn't sound that great. But, as always, the crowd was appreciative and complimentary. As much as we can ask for, I guess. We got fed and watered and paid, and now we have the first gig of tour under our belt. It will get better from here, I think. I hope.
We have landed and are decompressing at Lynn's house - she is a friend of Zach's. This day started 20 hours ago in Portland, but I don't think any of us are exhausted, as we all slept for large portions of the drive(s). Well, maybe Zach, who drove 90% of the way. Still, as I type, he is sitting on the floor playing with Lynn's cat Domino.
"Hey Zach, are you tired?" I ask. "Getting there," he replies. "Tomorrow will be nice," he says, as he waves a sock in front of Domino. "Yes, it will," I sigh. The positive trade-off from driving 13 hours today is that we don't have to drive at all tomorrow, except for the 30 minutes or so to the gig. Nor do we have anywhere to drive on Sunday or Monday. It's like a false start to the tour, which begins in earnest on Tuesday, as we'll play six consecutive nights, driving all the way from Boise, through Rawlins (WY), Gunniston (CO), Denver, Durango and Phoenix to arrive in Pioneer City, CA on Sunday. Apparently the second-to-last leg is going to be the doozy. We might try to do it overnight to avoid the heat; the van was pretty darn warm just today, and my shirt was damp with sweat halfway through.
It took us 10 hours to get from Portland to McCall, Idaho, and we were actually late for our gig at Crusty's Pizza. Well, we arrived just barely on time, a little before 7pm MDT, but set-up takes a while, and we didn't play our first note until half past-ish. We didn't sound that great. But, as always, the crowd was appreciative and complimentary. As much as we can ask for, I guess. We got fed and watered and paid, and now we have the first gig of tour under our belt. It will get better from here, I think. I hope.
Monday, September 10, 2007
DISASTER STRIKES OUR BESPECTACLED HERO!!
(Chris writes, on the 10th of September, as if it is the 11th of August.)
I had a great night tonight. I played a gig with Scott Fisher and 1 a.m. Approach at the Bite of Oregon. The Bite, for those of you not in the know, is a large festival in Portland, held in Waterfront Park. The festival is for food and music. We played it last year on the larger stage, set up by the Morrison Bridge, a day before Los Lobos. That was cool. This year we were on the smaller stage, but it was still cool. It was a beautiful day. My gear was already in the van, so I got to ride my bike to a gig! That was super cool – riding across the Hawthorne Bridge, which is a beautiful bridge, over the Willamette, into Waterfront Park, with my nice clothes in my backpack, to go play some music outside (and get paid for it!). My life can be cool sometimes.
When I got there I saw an old roommate who was the first real professional musician I knew in Portland (I lived in a house with him for a few months back in the fall of 2004). Back then I was intimidated by him, and it was a good feeling to be playing the same festival as him, with a later slot.
We played our set at around 8. I was set up on stage left, facing the rest of the band, and gosh darn it if I couldn't see Mount Hood right in front of me. It was pretty cool, though a little distracting. It is a good looking mountain.
After the gig I got introduced to the new Music Director of KINK radio (a local kind-of indie station – they've played Slow Drags music on their "Local Artist Spotlight") and his wife. I kinda like schmoozing.
One thing I don't really like is the evolution, seemingly over only the last two or three decades, of the handshake. How am I supposed to know what style of shake/fist bump you're going to give me?! How do people know? Seriously, I feel like I'm way behind everyone, and I feel like a fool trying to guess whether or not you want a fist bop or a wrist grab or whatever the heck the kids are doing these days.
Also after the gig, we got a couple free drinks (as musicians are generally afforded), and I got an "Indian taco" from a stand – a local Native American tribe's food stand. A guy I know who is less tactful that I am would say "Feather, not Dot", or he would say "Casino, not Slurpee." But I wouldn't say that sort of thing. That sort of thing is offensive, right? I think it's kind of offensive. The Indian taco was taco-ish fillings on a big puffy bread-like thing, like a thick naan. It was okay.
At the end of the night, there were fireworks. Fireworks are always cool. However, I don't really like watching fireworks alone. Fireworks, as well as lunar eclipses, seem like the kind of thing a person should enjoy in immediate proximity with someone they care about. I was strolling alone (amidst thousands) in the park, and the experience was bittersweet.
The night was ending, so we loaded up our gear, and I hopped on my bike (biking home from a gig! so cool!) and headed home. At Hawthorne and MLK, what the fuck?! I accidentally rode over a large curb and broke a spoke. First broken spoke for me, ever. I bent it and snapped it off so that it wouldn't catch on the fork, and kept going. Should I have walked my bike the rest of the way? I didn't know. It was still 30 blocks, and uphill, and I decided to ride. Fifteen blocks later, a second spoke went. This time it grabbed my derailer and twisted it up. You have to see it to understand exactly how violently it did this.
This is the most mangled I've seen a bike in person. (Later, when I took it in to the shop around the corner, the repairman winced like Nicholas Cage watching the Con Air dailies.) I tugged at it the best I could to bend it back, but it would not be moved. Obviously I couldn't ride it the remaining 15 blocks home. The problem was that I couldn't wheel it either! The back wheel was completely locked up, so it would not roll. I had to carry my bike from Hawthorne and 20th, over the hill, and down to the house I live in, on 32nd Place off Hawthorne a block and change. I felt kind of like a bad ass, carrying an unwieldly object a long distance, and kind of like a jack ass, carrying a bicycle a long distance. Also, because I had taken off my jacket but was still wearing my white shirt and tie, I looked like a Mormon missionary who lost his partner and crippled his bike in some mysterious mishap. I even had a pen in my front shirt pocket. Yes, I definitely looked dorky.
I found the best placement for the bicycle against my hip and under my arm, and made it home sweaty and tired. A block from home, there was a house party; some young hipsters had spilled out onto the porch. A boy and a girl were standing in my way, making out. I walked up to them at 1 in the morning, carrying my bike and sweating like a field worker. "Excuse me," I muttered politely. They looked over, slightly startled and confused, and made room for me to pass. "Wow, there's a loser," they thought. Man, did I wish I could be doing what they were doing instead of what I was doing. To whomever's in charge: that was a completely unnecessary punch in the face. Thanks a lot.
At home, with the bike left dead in the basement, I scrubbed my hands to get the grease off before bed. I looked at them long and hard. These hands did two very different tasks tonight.
Postscript: I said at the beginning of this post that "I had a great night tonight." There was something supremely satisfying about carrying my bicycle that distance. Compared to most people, I guess that's nothing, but I don't have to overcome things every day. So when I do, it does feel good. Sorry to those of you who have real problems. Really, I am.
I had a great night tonight. I played a gig with Scott Fisher and 1 a.m. Approach at the Bite of Oregon. The Bite, for those of you not in the know, is a large festival in Portland, held in Waterfront Park. The festival is for food and music. We played it last year on the larger stage, set up by the Morrison Bridge, a day before Los Lobos. That was cool. This year we were on the smaller stage, but it was still cool. It was a beautiful day. My gear was already in the van, so I got to ride my bike to a gig! That was super cool – riding across the Hawthorne Bridge, which is a beautiful bridge, over the Willamette, into Waterfront Park, with my nice clothes in my backpack, to go play some music outside (and get paid for it!). My life can be cool sometimes.
When I got there I saw an old roommate who was the first real professional musician I knew in Portland (I lived in a house with him for a few months back in the fall of 2004). Back then I was intimidated by him, and it was a good feeling to be playing the same festival as him, with a later slot.
We played our set at around 8. I was set up on stage left, facing the rest of the band, and gosh darn it if I couldn't see Mount Hood right in front of me. It was pretty cool, though a little distracting. It is a good looking mountain.
After the gig I got introduced to the new Music Director of KINK radio (a local kind-of indie station – they've played Slow Drags music on their "Local Artist Spotlight") and his wife. I kinda like schmoozing.
One thing I don't really like is the evolution, seemingly over only the last two or three decades, of the handshake. How am I supposed to know what style of shake/fist bump you're going to give me?! How do people know? Seriously, I feel like I'm way behind everyone, and I feel like a fool trying to guess whether or not you want a fist bop or a wrist grab or whatever the heck the kids are doing these days.
Also after the gig, we got a couple free drinks (as musicians are generally afforded), and I got an "Indian taco" from a stand – a local Native American tribe's food stand. A guy I know who is less tactful that I am would say "Feather, not Dot", or he would say "Casino, not Slurpee." But I wouldn't say that sort of thing. That sort of thing is offensive, right? I think it's kind of offensive. The Indian taco was taco-ish fillings on a big puffy bread-like thing, like a thick naan. It was okay.
At the end of the night, there were fireworks. Fireworks are always cool. However, I don't really like watching fireworks alone. Fireworks, as well as lunar eclipses, seem like the kind of thing a person should enjoy in immediate proximity with someone they care about. I was strolling alone (amidst thousands) in the park, and the experience was bittersweet.
The night was ending, so we loaded up our gear, and I hopped on my bike (biking home from a gig! so cool!) and headed home. At Hawthorne and MLK, what the fuck?! I accidentally rode over a large curb and broke a spoke. First broken spoke for me, ever. I bent it and snapped it off so that it wouldn't catch on the fork, and kept going. Should I have walked my bike the rest of the way? I didn't know. It was still 30 blocks, and uphill, and I decided to ride. Fifteen blocks later, a second spoke went. This time it grabbed my derailer and twisted it up. You have to see it to understand exactly how violently it did this.
This is the most mangled I've seen a bike in person. (Later, when I took it in to the shop around the corner, the repairman winced like Nicholas Cage watching the Con Air dailies.) I tugged at it the best I could to bend it back, but it would not be moved. Obviously I couldn't ride it the remaining 15 blocks home. The problem was that I couldn't wheel it either! The back wheel was completely locked up, so it would not roll. I had to carry my bike from Hawthorne and 20th, over the hill, and down to the house I live in, on 32nd Place off Hawthorne a block and change. I felt kind of like a bad ass, carrying an unwieldly object a long distance, and kind of like a jack ass, carrying a bicycle a long distance. Also, because I had taken off my jacket but was still wearing my white shirt and tie, I looked like a Mormon missionary who lost his partner and crippled his bike in some mysterious mishap. I even had a pen in my front shirt pocket. Yes, I definitely looked dorky.
I found the best placement for the bicycle against my hip and under my arm, and made it home sweaty and tired. A block from home, there was a house party; some young hipsters had spilled out onto the porch. A boy and a girl were standing in my way, making out. I walked up to them at 1 in the morning, carrying my bike and sweating like a field worker. "Excuse me," I muttered politely. They looked over, slightly startled and confused, and made room for me to pass. "Wow, there's a loser," they thought. Man, did I wish I could be doing what they were doing instead of what I was doing. To whomever's in charge: that was a completely unnecessary punch in the face. Thanks a lot.
At home, with the bike left dead in the basement, I scrubbed my hands to get the grease off before bed. I looked at them long and hard. These hands did two very different tasks tonight.
Postscript: I said at the beginning of this post that "I had a great night tonight." There was something supremely satisfying about carrying my bicycle that distance. Compared to most people, I guess that's nothing, but I don't have to overcome things every day. So when I do, it does feel good. Sorry to those of you who have real problems. Really, I am.
About two habits I don't have.
A friend of mine cracks her knuckles. She knows it's bad for her, and that eventually she'll get arthritis because of it, and that it is disruptive to her friends, but she still does it because it is habitual and it feels good. Part of me envies her, as I have never been able to crack my knuckles except by pulling on them, and even then only some of the time.
A few nights ago as I was in bed trying to fall asleep, I had the strangest desire to suck my thumb. I was never EVER a thumb-sucker (possibly the reason why my teeth never needed straightening). But at that moment I thought suddenly to do it, that it would feel good and comforting. I didn't do it. Because then I would have been a 26-year-old guy who sucks his thumb. Wait a minute — I'm only 25. That's the second time tonight I thought I was 26. What's going on? Hmm, anyway... So I didn't end up sucking my thumb, but I did push my body and face further into the corner my bed makes with the wall, and pulled extra sheets over me. I fell asleep eventually.
A few nights ago as I was in bed trying to fall asleep, I had the strangest desire to suck my thumb. I was never EVER a thumb-sucker (possibly the reason why my teeth never needed straightening). But at that moment I thought suddenly to do it, that it would feel good and comforting. I didn't do it. Because then I would have been a 26-year-old guy who sucks his thumb. Wait a minute — I'm only 25. That's the second time tonight I thought I was 26. What's going on? Hmm, anyway... So I didn't end up sucking my thumb, but I did push my body and face further into the corner my bed makes with the wall, and pulled extra sheets over me. I fell asleep eventually.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Owen's interview with the preeminent artist of the time.
Questioner: "Let's discuss inspiration. What inspires you to create your art?"
Artist: "Well, Owen, I think that art should elucidate life – that is its primary function. And so I try to create pieces that invoke in the viewer an understanding of their own life, that they might not achieve otherwise."
Q: "How do you do this? Many of your works are not depictions of quote, unquote real life, are they?"
A: "No, but they don't have to be. Take, for instance, The Cultivation of Connectivity, one of the pieces in my exhibition. There is a man in a suit, looking forlorn, playing the banjo with a sunflower growing out of his shoulder. Now, that was inspired by a real man who was forlorn, but he wasn't actually playing the banjo. Perhaps instead he was playing the tuba, but a tuba would conceal his forlorn face, so I changed it to the banjo. Or, perhaps, in real life it was a happy man playing the banjo, but that can't teach us anything. And maybe the sunflower, in actuality, was behind the man – or woman, it could be a woman – in a field, but has been moved to the shoulder to better represent his or her loss. You see, not all of the elements are pulled directly from the real world, but together they do a better job of opening our eyes to that world. The world of losing things."
Q: "Do you like to jump?"
A: "I adore jumping."
Q: "Well, thank you very much for joining us."
A: "Thanks for having me, Owen."
Artist: "Well, Owen, I think that art should elucidate life – that is its primary function. And so I try to create pieces that invoke in the viewer an understanding of their own life, that they might not achieve otherwise."
Q: "How do you do this? Many of your works are not depictions of quote, unquote real life, are they?"
A: "No, but they don't have to be. Take, for instance, The Cultivation of Connectivity, one of the pieces in my exhibition. There is a man in a suit, looking forlorn, playing the banjo with a sunflower growing out of his shoulder. Now, that was inspired by a real man who was forlorn, but he wasn't actually playing the banjo. Perhaps instead he was playing the tuba, but a tuba would conceal his forlorn face, so I changed it to the banjo. Or, perhaps, in real life it was a happy man playing the banjo, but that can't teach us anything. And maybe the sunflower, in actuality, was behind the man – or woman, it could be a woman – in a field, but has been moved to the shoulder to better represent his or her loss. You see, not all of the elements are pulled directly from the real world, but together they do a better job of opening our eyes to that world. The world of losing things."
Q: "Do you like to jump?"
A: "I adore jumping."
Q: "Well, thank you very much for joining us."
A: "Thanks for having me, Owen."
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Kaiser
"Okay... so that's a $25 co-pay... and I just need to see your I.D."
"Sure, no problem. Though I can't think why a person would want to impersonate me to pay twenty-five dollars and get their asshole poked at."
I had my first adult-type doctor's appointment today. Hoo. ray. It was a bit weird — I hope I didn't break his finger when I clenched (involuntarily, of course).
The weirdest thing, though, was that I felt almost an identical nervousness today before my appointment as yesterday before my date. Two very different experiences, though. I'd say completely different, I would.
"Sure, no problem. Though I can't think why a person would want to impersonate me to pay twenty-five dollars and get their asshole poked at."
I had my first adult-type doctor's appointment today. Hoo. ray. It was a bit weird — I hope I didn't break his finger when I clenched (involuntarily, of course).
The weirdest thing, though, was that I felt almost an identical nervousness today before my appointment as yesterday before my date. Two very different experiences, though. I'd say completely different, I would.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
"Think Too Much (b)"
When a baby is born, it cries and cries. It cries when it is hungry or tired or in pain, or when it is alone or scared. Is the baby overreacting? Does it not understand how trifling these problems are? Or have we just become acclimated to the amount of pain and sadness that is life? Are we numb to it?
"Hey, I read your blog the other day. Were you quoting Kundera? I think that was from The Unbearable Lightness of Being or something."
"Was it? I don't know. I actually never finished that book. Really, it was just a passing thought – forget it."
Seriously, I had those thoughts the other day when I was hanging out with Kaz. And yes, they seemed a bit overdramatic, but I thought at first that they were original. Now I feel fairly sure that I read it somewhere. You people out there who know better than I: what is it from? Who wrote these depressing ideas before I wrote them? Is it pretentious to put it in my blog? Should I at least use the whole word "weblog?"
"Hey, I read your blog the other day. Were you quoting Kundera? I think that was from The Unbearable Lightness of Being or something."
"Was it? I don't know. I actually never finished that book. Really, it was just a passing thought – forget it."
Seriously, I had those thoughts the other day when I was hanging out with Kaz. And yes, they seemed a bit overdramatic, but I thought at first that they were original. Now I feel fairly sure that I read it somewhere. You people out there who know better than I: what is it from? Who wrote these depressing ideas before I wrote them? Is it pretentious to put it in my blog? Should I at least use the whole word "weblog?"
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Live and Learn.
I consider myself to be a pretty smart guy, with 25+ years of life under my belt, good SAT scores, a degree from a respected small liberal-arts school, and a vast array of knowledge, both trivial and supertrivial. I can multiply and divide medium-sized numbers in my head, I can catch a ball thrown towards my vicinity, I can draw a map of the United States of America and get each state in the right spot, and I can get back into a sea kayak after falling out as many as 10 times in 20 minutes. True, it did take me seven years to achieve degreedom, and my trivia knowledge can fail me at the most crucial of moments, and I can fall out of a sea kayak after getting back in as many as 9 times in 20 minutes, and once I included a 51st state, "Alabippi." Still, I really think I ought to have known better than to eat THAT WHOLE FUCKING CHOCOLATE MILKSHAKE AS WELL AS THE REST OF KIM'S, RIGHT AFTER THAT BIGASS CHICKEN SANDWICH AND ALL THOSE DELICIOUS FRIES. ohhhhhh my tummy....
Sunday, July 8, 2007
I am sitting in a Midas Repair Shop Lobby.
I am listening to music on headphones, effectively drowning out the worst muzak I have ever heard. The muzak and the impending $240 bill have been making this a crummy afternoon.
Yesterday I drove the 600 miles from Portland to Davis. It was a smooth and easy trip, as smooth and easy as I can remember — definitely smoother and easier than my trip up to Portland two weeks ago. That one was split into two legs: the first was Davis to Lava Beds National Monument, where my friend Katie Eskra was working her last days as a Park Ranger. One drives north on I-5 like normal until Weed, and then shoots off to the Northeast on 97, all the way to the border between Oregon and California. The town at the border is called Dorris, and, according to the plaque in Dorris, it is home to the TALLEST FLAGPOLE WEST OF THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER. I had no way to independently verify this fact, but it was pretty tall, tall enough that it had to be wider at the base than at the top. So the Dorrisites just may be telling the truth.
Once through Dorris, you turn east and drive along a road that is called "Stateline Highway." This road is pretty darn straight, but not as straight as I thought it should be given its name. At Tule Lake (a lake), you turn south and drive 30 miles into the monument. I had previously considered monuments to be man-made and smaller than one square mile, but this monument is neither. And so it is super cool. I won't go into detail about everything that makes this place interesting, but in short: 1) the lava tube caves, which can be explored, and 2) the history – in 1873 there was a battle between the U.S. Army and a band of Modoc Indians, who where encamped in a natural lava fortress; in the 1910's and 20's the Government drained Tule Lake (it is now about a third of its original size) to created farmland; and during the Second World War one of the largest internment camps was maintained in the nearby town of Newell. Besides the area being interesting, it is also beautiful – lots of amazing vistas, interesting formations, and varied wildlife. I highly recommend a visit, especially if you have someone to see there, as I did.
I arrived in the late evening. Katie and her fellow rangers were having a barbecue, playing volleyball or horseshoes; it seemed like a very chill environment. Chilly, too — the elevation is about a mile, and with the sun going down, I had to put on a sweater. Later, five of us skinny-dipped in a hot tub. I did not know that park rangers had hot tubs. It was pleasant-pleasant.
On Saturday morning, after Katie went to her last day of work, I went to Skull Cave, so named because there were skulls found at the bottom. I can't remember whether they were human or animal skulls. Despite the name, Skull Cave was supposed to be the least scary of all the caves, because it is the largest, and hence the least claustrophobic. Last time I visited, I tried one of the smaller caves by myself, and got too scared; I couldn't go in past where one can still see the entrance. This time, I decided to make it easier on myself and pick the big cave with a high ceiling and hopefully a lot of light. It didn't really work. I was just as creeped out. However, I made it to the end of the cave, which was, of course, completely dark. I had two large flashlights, but the bulbs were kind of weak, and they did not chase away my irrational fears. At the end/bottom of the cave is an ice floor which extends back underneath the main tube; it is fenced off. That was okay — I never would have been able to make it, anyway. On the way back up, I really started freaking out, and starting running as fast as I could (safely) in the dark and over a bumpy path. My heart was still racing hours later. I was pretty disappointed that I freaked out a second time, but now I know, and I don't think there will be a third. Maybe if I have a hand to hold.
By the time I had returned the flashlights to the Visitor Center, it was almost eleven, and I lost another hour when I had to turn around after 30 minutes because I had left my toiletries behind. I was still quite tense from my spelunking, and the day did not get any better. In order: Taco Bell got my gross fast-food order mixed up with something grosser, I had severe lower back pain that could not be relieved by any amount of twisting in my seat or padding with shirts, and, oh yeah, the car died 60 miles from Portland. It was a slow death, quite exciting actually, as things turned off one by one while I was driving: the radio, the air conditioner, the speedometer dial, the RPM dial, the antilock brakes, and the power steering. Finally, the engine clunked to a halt just as I was able to pull into a Chevron station. Turns out the alternator had crapped out. Also turns out that alternators are expensive to replace, and have to be ordered. Which means that when your car dies on Saturday evening in Government Camp, you have to get it towed to Portland ($220 - thanks, AAA [sarcastic]) that night, towed again on Monday to the shop (free - thanks, AAA [sincere]), and not fixed until Tuesday late afternoon ($430). That was draining, mostly on the bank account.
The rest of the Portland trip, luckily, turned out just fine. I got some much needed exercise with squash and tennis (and even a short run in my new running shoes!), played a gig with the Slow Drags, saw the new Transformers movie, went to an awesome concert, and got some great tracks down for the new Slow Drags EP (no link for this – you've got to wait until the EP is released in September). And the drive back was, like I wrote earlier, quite easy. The car did fine – no battery troubles, no oil troubles, no nothing.
And yet, I'm back in an auto repair shop. Different car, my friends. I drove my parents' BMW up to Portland – she is the one that died on me. Now the Camry is getting her brakes and lights inspected, so that she may once again be registered in the State of California. Tomorrow comes the smog check, and then Monday it's back to the DMV to finish the process. Oh, I'm so glad I get to do all of my favorite things while I'm home in Davis.
Yesterday I drove the 600 miles from Portland to Davis. It was a smooth and easy trip, as smooth and easy as I can remember — definitely smoother and easier than my trip up to Portland two weeks ago. That one was split into two legs: the first was Davis to Lava Beds National Monument, where my friend Katie Eskra was working her last days as a Park Ranger. One drives north on I-5 like normal until Weed, and then shoots off to the Northeast on 97, all the way to the border between Oregon and California. The town at the border is called Dorris, and, according to the plaque in Dorris, it is home to the TALLEST FLAGPOLE WEST OF THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER. I had no way to independently verify this fact, but it was pretty tall, tall enough that it had to be wider at the base than at the top. So the Dorrisites just may be telling the truth.
Once through Dorris, you turn east and drive along a road that is called "Stateline Highway." This road is pretty darn straight, but not as straight as I thought it should be given its name. At Tule Lake (a lake), you turn south and drive 30 miles into the monument. I had previously considered monuments to be man-made and smaller than one square mile, but this monument is neither. And so it is super cool. I won't go into detail about everything that makes this place interesting, but in short: 1) the lava tube caves, which can be explored, and 2) the history – in 1873 there was a battle between the U.S. Army and a band of Modoc Indians, who where encamped in a natural lava fortress; in the 1910's and 20's the Government drained Tule Lake (it is now about a third of its original size) to created farmland; and during the Second World War one of the largest internment camps was maintained in the nearby town of Newell. Besides the area being interesting, it is also beautiful – lots of amazing vistas, interesting formations, and varied wildlife. I highly recommend a visit, especially if you have someone to see there, as I did.
I arrived in the late evening. Katie and her fellow rangers were having a barbecue, playing volleyball or horseshoes; it seemed like a very chill environment. Chilly, too — the elevation is about a mile, and with the sun going down, I had to put on a sweater. Later, five of us skinny-dipped in a hot tub. I did not know that park rangers had hot tubs. It was pleasant-pleasant.
On Saturday morning, after Katie went to her last day of work, I went to Skull Cave, so named because there were skulls found at the bottom. I can't remember whether they were human or animal skulls. Despite the name, Skull Cave was supposed to be the least scary of all the caves, because it is the largest, and hence the least claustrophobic. Last time I visited, I tried one of the smaller caves by myself, and got too scared; I couldn't go in past where one can still see the entrance. This time, I decided to make it easier on myself and pick the big cave with a high ceiling and hopefully a lot of light. It didn't really work. I was just as creeped out. However, I made it to the end of the cave, which was, of course, completely dark. I had two large flashlights, but the bulbs were kind of weak, and they did not chase away my irrational fears. At the end/bottom of the cave is an ice floor which extends back underneath the main tube; it is fenced off. That was okay — I never would have been able to make it, anyway. On the way back up, I really started freaking out, and starting running as fast as I could (safely) in the dark and over a bumpy path. My heart was still racing hours later. I was pretty disappointed that I freaked out a second time, but now I know, and I don't think there will be a third. Maybe if I have a hand to hold.
By the time I had returned the flashlights to the Visitor Center, it was almost eleven, and I lost another hour when I had to turn around after 30 minutes because I had left my toiletries behind. I was still quite tense from my spelunking, and the day did not get any better. In order: Taco Bell got my gross fast-food order mixed up with something grosser, I had severe lower back pain that could not be relieved by any amount of twisting in my seat or padding with shirts, and, oh yeah, the car died 60 miles from Portland. It was a slow death, quite exciting actually, as things turned off one by one while I was driving: the radio, the air conditioner, the speedometer dial, the RPM dial, the antilock brakes, and the power steering. Finally, the engine clunked to a halt just as I was able to pull into a Chevron station. Turns out the alternator had crapped out. Also turns out that alternators are expensive to replace, and have to be ordered. Which means that when your car dies on Saturday evening in Government Camp, you have to get it towed to Portland ($220 - thanks, AAA [sarcastic]) that night, towed again on Monday to the shop (free - thanks, AAA [sincere]), and not fixed until Tuesday late afternoon ($430). That was draining, mostly on the bank account.
The rest of the Portland trip, luckily, turned out just fine. I got some much needed exercise with squash and tennis (and even a short run in my new running shoes!), played a gig with the Slow Drags, saw the new Transformers movie, went to an awesome concert, and got some great tracks down for the new Slow Drags EP (no link for this – you've got to wait until the EP is released in September). And the drive back was, like I wrote earlier, quite easy. The car did fine – no battery troubles, no oil troubles, no nothing.
And yet, I'm back in an auto repair shop. Different car, my friends. I drove my parents' BMW up to Portland – she is the one that died on me. Now the Camry is getting her brakes and lights inspected, so that she may once again be registered in the State of California. Tomorrow comes the smog check, and then Monday it's back to the DMV to finish the process. Oh, I'm so glad I get to do all of my favorite things while I'm home in Davis.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
J'ai quitté la France il y a quatre semaines.
I left France four weeks ago.
It has become apparent to me that it has not been apparent to you that I am no longer in France. I didn't blog about leaving, I suppose because it was not an exciting or interesting event. But I did indeed leave, on Wednesday May 23rd, flying from Paris (Charles deGaulle) through Washington D.C. (Dulles) to Sacramento (ScoobyDoo). Since then, I have been in Davis, California, at my parents' home, the home I grew up in, sleeping mostly in the bed I slept in from 1989 through 1999. And, of course, days spent at your childhood home are not supposed to be as eventful as days spent in a foreign land. I didn't expect them to be, and they haven't been. I thought, therefore, that I would have ample time to catch you all up on what I did in Europe. However, it turns out that when I am very un-busy, it is more difficult for me to do anything. When I am super busy, I can get right on a task and bust it out in no time. Nothing to do today besides write 200-500 words about Florence? Next to impossible! Luckily, I took notes on my trip, so I am not in danger of forgetting much; it will just take some time for the notes to get translated into Bloggish.
As always, I have a much easier time writing 200 words about how hard it is to write 200 words about something. That is pathetically ridiculous. Or is it ridiculously pathetic? Or are those two things the same?
Finally, a picture that my sister took on our flight back from Seattle 10 days ago:
The Earth sure is something, isn't it?
It has become apparent to me that it has not been apparent to you that I am no longer in France. I didn't blog about leaving, I suppose because it was not an exciting or interesting event. But I did indeed leave, on Wednesday May 23rd, flying from Paris (Charles deGaulle) through Washington D.C. (Dulles) to Sacramento (ScoobyDoo). Since then, I have been in Davis, California, at my parents' home, the home I grew up in, sleeping mostly in the bed I slept in from 1989 through 1999. And, of course, days spent at your childhood home are not supposed to be as eventful as days spent in a foreign land. I didn't expect them to be, and they haven't been. I thought, therefore, that I would have ample time to catch you all up on what I did in Europe. However, it turns out that when I am very un-busy, it is more difficult for me to do anything. When I am super busy, I can get right on a task and bust it out in no time. Nothing to do today besides write 200-500 words about Florence? Next to impossible! Luckily, I took notes on my trip, so I am not in danger of forgetting much; it will just take some time for the notes to get translated into Bloggish.
As always, I have a much easier time writing 200 words about how hard it is to write 200 words about something. That is pathetically ridiculous. Or is it ridiculously pathetic? Or are those two things the same?
Finally, a picture that my sister took on our flight back from Seattle 10 days ago:
The Earth sure is something, isn't it?
Monday, June 18, 2007
Children of a Lesser God.
Last night I saw the film Children of a Lesser God* for the first time. I was in a play once that referenced it, but I didn't know anything about it other than it was about deaf people. Turns out it kinda isn't. William Hurt's character teaches lip-reading at a school for the deaf (he can hear), where he meets Marlee Matlin, a deaf woman who refuses to be taught; they fall in love quite rapidly. Their relationship is tempestuous and passionate. The film seems to be about his desire to help her, and her absolute unwillingness to be "helped" – such a simple, human story. The dialogue was very naturalistic (in the best sense), especially for an adaptation of a play. The film was quite beautifully shot, and both Hurt and Matlin are wonderful. In short, I really liked it. In fact, it touched me more than any film in recent memory. I'll admit that I teared up more than once.(Then again, earlier in the day I cried during A League of Their Own**, when one of the players gets a telegram informing her that her husband has been killed overseas. It was really, really sad!)
* The movie was shown on Turner Classic Movies, late at night; it was shown in its entirety, uncensored, with no commercials, and in letterbox format. How refreshing!
** Two movies in one day? Well, dammit, I'm on vacation!
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Secede! Succeed! Secede!
Do you have conversation nuggets? You know, little tidbits of information that you think are freakin' fascinating which you can insert into conversations when they are dying or when you want to really impress a girl? Well, I've moved on from "Gravity Train" (what's a gravity train, you ask?! It's fascinating...) to "Vermont Secession."
"Vermont Secession?" you say.
"Yes," I say. "There are folks in Vermont who want to secede."
"How many people, about?"
"Oh, at least thirty, I think."
The whole thing is interesting because 1) Vermont was actually an independent country for 14 years, until it joined the United States in 1791; 2) secession might actually be legal, according to the Constitution (or, more specifically, according to what the Constitution leaves out). The realists point out that it'll never work (for a number of reasons), but it sure is interesting to think about. Salon published a good article about it here. Anyhoo, if I see you anytime soon, and the conversation hits a lull, don't be surprised if I whip this nugget out.
--------------------------
One of the reasons Vermont probably can't secede, people say, is economic. Some states, like the awesome California — actually, probably only the awesome California — could manage quite easily on its own, money-wise, but Vermont is itty-bitty! Well, there are plenty of countries much smaller than Vermont. Vermont, in fact, should it secede tomorrow, would have the 81st largest GDP in the world. Not huge, but I think it's quite respectable.
I got that number from this sweet-ass map of the United States, which replaces each state name with that of a country with a similar GDP, and which was posted on this sweet-ass blog website, http://strangemaps.wordpress.com. Chiggity-check it out, motherhumpers!
--------------------------
Postscript: I believe that this is my first blog post without a title in French. That's because this post is the first to have nothing to do with my trip to Paris last month. Don't worry, I've still got Europe tales to tell, and I will be publishing them here soon, but I also want to transition this space into a regular, boring, day-to-day blog. I'll probably keep the blog title, "Je m'amuse," because it is accurate and it is appropriately pretentious.
--------------------------
P-p-p-postscript number two: This blog post needs some color. Shazam!
This kid is my nephew, Kaz Despres (by Eli Despres, out of Kim Roberts). As you can see, he is fairly adorable, and he is growing up fast. I don't get to see him as much as my parents or my sister, and he is much more comfortable around them. It is really frustrating. 
He's got a nickname for my sister Elizabeth — he calls her "Eeebee" — and last weekend (at our family reunion up in Anacortes, WA), he just kept asking "Where's Eeebee? Where's Eeebee?" He knows I'm "Uncle Chris", but he doesn't like me. Kim swears that's not true, and I know she's right, but it's tough. So, anyways, I was joking around and being self-deprecating, and called myself "Uncle Jerk" in front of Kaz. Well, one thing that this kid is really good at right now is repeating things. So he starts calling me "Uncle Jerk." We'll see if it sticks. I can't decide whether or not I want a nickname enough to be happy about that. What do you think? Is it an endearing nickname?
"Vermont Secession?" you say.
"Yes," I say. "There are folks in Vermont who want to secede."
"How many people, about?"
"Oh, at least thirty, I think."
The whole thing is interesting because 1) Vermont was actually an independent country for 14 years, until it joined the United States in 1791; 2) secession might actually be legal, according to the Constitution (or, more specifically, according to what the Constitution leaves out). The realists point out that it'll never work (for a number of reasons), but it sure is interesting to think about. Salon published a good article about it here. Anyhoo, if I see you anytime soon, and the conversation hits a lull, don't be surprised if I whip this nugget out.
--------------------------
One of the reasons Vermont probably can't secede, people say, is economic. Some states, like the awesome California — actually, probably only the awesome California — could manage quite easily on its own, money-wise, but Vermont is itty-bitty! Well, there are plenty of countries much smaller than Vermont. Vermont, in fact, should it secede tomorrow, would have the 81st largest GDP in the world. Not huge, but I think it's quite respectable.
I got that number from this sweet-ass map of the United States, which replaces each state name with that of a country with a similar GDP, and which was posted on this sweet-ass blog website, http://strangemaps.wordpress.com. Chiggity-check it out, motherhumpers!
--------------------------
Postscript: I believe that this is my first blog post without a title in French. That's because this post is the first to have nothing to do with my trip to Paris last month. Don't worry, I've still got Europe tales to tell, and I will be publishing them here soon, but I also want to transition this space into a regular, boring, day-to-day blog. I'll probably keep the blog title, "Je m'amuse," because it is accurate and it is appropriately pretentious.
--------------------------
P-p-p-postscript number two: This blog post needs some color. Shazam!
This kid is my nephew, Kaz Despres (by Eli Despres, out of Kim Roberts). As you can see, he is fairly adorable, and he is growing up fast. I don't get to see him as much as my parents or my sister, and he is much more comfortable around them. It is really frustrating. He's got a nickname for my sister Elizabeth — he calls her "Eeebee" — and last weekend (at our family reunion up in Anacortes, WA), he just kept asking "Where's Eeebee? Where's Eeebee?" He knows I'm "Uncle Chris", but he doesn't like me. Kim swears that's not true, and I know she's right, but it's tough. So, anyways, I was joking around and being self-deprecating, and called myself "Uncle Jerk" in front of Kaz. Well, one thing that this kid is really good at right now is repeating things. So he starts calling me "Uncle Jerk." We'll see if it sticks. I can't decide whether or not I want a nickname enough to be happy about that. What do you think? Is it an endearing nickname?
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Les gens prenant des photos.
People taking pictures.
The mythical "they" say that Paris is a people-watching town, and they are right. I think that is partly due to the fact that there are lots of people to watch, and also because the rest of the people have nothing better to do; I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing. A lot of the cafés have all of their chairs set up facing the street — to sit across the table from someone takes some doing. And people spend hours at the café, so they see a lot of people go by. Another place to watch people is at parks, museums, and Eiffel Towers. I went to the Eiffel Tower one evening, intending to go up it, but the lines were far too long and I ended up sitting at the base for thirty minutes or so until I had to leave to meet Justin and company for dinner. The Eiffel Tower is pretty fucking impressive, but there is only so much staring to be done at the thing, and there are only so many pictures to be taken. (Also, it's so damn big that it doesn't fit in my camera's field of view from fewer than a few blocks away.) So I spent most of my time watching other people stare at it and take pictures. A surprising percentage of people lie down on the ground, their girlfriend/wife standing above them, to try to fit everything in to one frame.
Later in the trip I stopped by the Arc de Triomphe, at Charles de Gaulle Étoile. The Arc is lined up perfectly with the Champs Élysée, which runs straight from la Place de la Concorde. The best view of it, thus, is from the middle of the road. Which is where people take pictures from. They wait for a red light, and then walk just halfway across the crosswalk. There they direct their friends to bunch just right (they've got to set up the tripod first) and take twenty pictures, because some won't come out. In the meantime, French drivers are whizzing past them in both directions. It's cute.
Also, can you tell that I'm a shitty photographer? I like it, actually — it's artsy blurriness, right? Yeah, no, I know.
The mythical "they" say that Paris is a people-watching town, and they are right. I think that is partly due to the fact that there are lots of people to watch, and also because the rest of the people have nothing better to do; I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing. A lot of the cafés have all of their chairs set up facing the street — to sit across the table from someone takes some doing. And people spend hours at the café, so they see a lot of people go by. Another place to watch people is at parks, museums, and Eiffel Towers. I went to the Eiffel Tower one evening, intending to go up it, but the lines were far too long and I ended up sitting at the base for thirty minutes or so until I had to leave to meet Justin and company for dinner. The Eiffel Tower is pretty fucking impressive, but there is only so much staring to be done at the thing, and there are only so many pictures to be taken. (Also, it's so damn big that it doesn't fit in my camera's field of view from fewer than a few blocks away.) So I spent most of my time watching other people stare at it and take pictures. A surprising percentage of people lie down on the ground, their girlfriend/wife standing above them, to try to fit everything in to one frame.
Later in the trip I stopped by the Arc de Triomphe, at Charles de Gaulle Étoile. The Arc is lined up perfectly with the Champs Élysée, which runs straight from la Place de la Concorde. The best view of it, thus, is from the middle of the road. Which is where people take pictures from. They wait for a red light, and then walk just halfway across the crosswalk. There they direct their friends to bunch just right (they've got to set up the tripod first) and take twenty pictures, because some won't come out. In the meantime, French drivers are whizzing past them in both directions. It's cute.
Also, can you tell that I'm a shitty photographer? I like it, actually — it's artsy blurriness, right? Yeah, no, I know.
Monday, June 4, 2007
La politique Française déja me manque!
I already miss French politics.In the French presidential debate last month (I blogged about it here), the two debaters were seated, facing each other across an enormous X-box. It was a deliciously confrontational setup, much better than two podiums at an angle, and way better than stools-in-the-round (although this last arrangement is the best possible for de-evolving into fisticuffs!). The two moderators, as I recall, could barely get a word in edgewise, as Sarko and Ségo went at each other like bulldogs. If you'll notice, there are two enormous clocks on the unoccupied side of the table, keeping close track of how long each spoke. (If there were a third clock for the moderators, it might read 00:35 or something.) By the end of the two-hour debate, the clocks were each close to 56 minutes, I think, and not more than 60 seconds apart. I remember being impressed with the parity of the debate, and the restraint of the moderators.
I mention all of this because last night CNN aired a debate last night between all eight Democratic Presidential candidates. And though CNN didn't keep a running ticker of each candidate's time, the Chris Dodd campaign did, and released the following handy bar chart:
Predictably, Obama and Hillary lead the way in allotted time, with JohnJohn Edwards holding down third. I know a bunch of people who will be stoked that "Lucky Charms" Kucinich got more time than Biden, Dodd, and Senator "Who? Mike Gravel? Wait, who?". But cast your eyes to the rightmost bar, which illustrates exactly how succinct moderator Wolf Blitzer was. Almost 14% of the debate's jibberjabbering came out of his mouth, more than all but two people actually running for President, and as much as the bottom two (Biden and Gravel) combined. I'm sorry, but that is too much. As I said at the dinner table tonight, I have come to hate the section of the Venn diagram where American politics and American media overlap, except for the little portion of Daily Show goodness.
P.S. Yes, we all knew that Kucinich finally got married a couple of years ago, but did you know that he married a babe? Both figuratively and literally, I mean, in that she is 30 years younger than him, and also a super good looking redheaded tall (6') woman. From the very cursory internet search I just did, it appears she is sort of hippy-dippy and slightly airheaded. Oh, I wish he had a chance.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Lost opportunities...
I had a weird experience tonight. For the first time, I found out that a girl I once had a crush on is now married. (Granted, I haven't kept in touch with many of my crushes. I suppose that Felicity Woods, for instance, could have gotten married in the last 20 years.) I have to admit that it made me kinda sad. Is that because finally there is no remaining possibility? What the hell is wrong with me?!!
Friday, May 18, 2007
Les vacances de mes vacances?
A vacation from my vacation?
Justin and I leave this afternoon for a three day weekend at an American friend's house in Burgundy, where we'll be relaxing with three or four other expats. This seems a little bit superfluous for me. But what can I do?
Justin and I leave this afternoon for a three day weekend at an American friend's house in Burgundy, where we'll be relaxing with three or four other expats. This seems a little bit superfluous for me. But what can I do?
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
La musique mysterieuse, et un manifestation décevant.
Mysterious music, and a disappointing protest.
This morning I am slow to get up. I lie with my face buried in my pillow, the sun trying to pry its way in. As I slowly regain consciousness, I hear a strange sound rising from the street below Justin's apartment. It is not the jackhammer or the backhoe that have been tearing up the concrete for a few days now. What is it? It is music, definitely live music, shrill and reedy. Could it be the band from the school across the street? My mind begins to click back into shape, and I dismiss that possibility — the parts are perfectly in time, and no middle school music group could manage that. What could possibly be outside the window? My desire to solve this mystery overpowers my bed addiction (I think that my five strongest feelings are curiosity, love, horniness, sleepiness, and hunger, perhaps in that order), and, pulling on my pants, I hop to the window. There is no crowd, just the regular pedestrians and construction workers. The music is loud, piercing, and it seems so close that I can't perceive a direction. AH! There he is. It's an organ grinder! I have never seen an organ grinder before, but I recognize him to be one, even without the monkey. He is just standing by the construction, behind a box almost as large as he, stationary except for his winding forearm. It appears that his performance is old hat to everyone else on the street. I only get to watch for a second before he stops. I've got to document this! This may be the coolest thing I've seen yet on my trip, so I dash for my camera. Alas! I get back to the window in time to see him disappear around the corner. It is as if he existed solely to get me out of bed this morning. I wish, oh I dearly wish for an organ grinder alarm clock. That would be utterly fantastic.
Here is a picture of the construction, then, sans organ grinder. He would have been over past the right side of the picture. In the picture with the workers are some suits, who arrived today to inspect the progress. Although I could not hear anything of what they discussed, it looked from above to be ridiculously bureaucratic of them. Justin said that this was very French, both in the excess of bureaucracy, and
also in the distinct outfits — he says that French people "treat their job as a costume", in that they keep a greater separation between their personal and professional life.
In the States, workers worry more about getting along with eachother, being friendly and whatnot, while the French worker's main concern is either being competent or at least projecting an air of competence. Apparently the tradeoff here is in customer service. According to Justin, America:"The Customer Is Always Right"::France:"What Customer?"
Here is a funny story that a cute Australian girl named Jessie related to me on the plane back to Paris from Pisa: An American woman visiting France walks into a cafe (or a patisserie, or a charcuterie, it doesn't really matter) and says to the man behind the counter, "Hello, can I have a slice of cake and a coffee, please?" The man looks apologetic and replies, "Pardon, madame, mais je ne parle pas anglais. Pouvez-vous parler en français, s'il vous plait?" The woman furrows her brow, and speaks a little slower: "I would like some cake... and some coffee, sil voo play?" "Je suis très désolée, Madame, mais je ne peux rien comprendre, parce que je ne sais aucun du mot en anglais. Vous devez parler en français pour moi." The American frowns, huffs in frustration, and pulls out a dictionary from her purse. "Je voodray doo gatoh ay un cafay oh lay, sil voo play?" The man behind the counter smiles slightly and says, "Zere, zat was not so deefeecult, was zat?"
Around noon, Justin and I walked a few blocks, just past Place de la Nation, to a large market. The market consists of just one aisle, with stalls on either side, but the aisle is about a mile long, it seems. I would call it a farmer's market, except that in addition to all of the produce, there were appliances for sale, as well as clothing and various tchotchkes (e.g. Alphabet train sets – each car was a letter. The vendors had, naturally, spelled out a few names as examples. The one in front? "Norbert". I can't wait to see their list of available novelty miniature license plates). We didn't walk very far down the market, only about twenty stall lengths, not nearly far enough to see the end, but Justin said that it just repeats a bunch of times.
There are statues all over this city, and Place de la Nation is no exception. I don't know what is depicted by the statue in the middle of the circle, but it seems nice and dynamic. On the east side of La Place are two Lord-Of-The-Rings-esque columns with statues facing east. At one time, this was an entrance to the city. Justin says that back in the day, they used to have executions right here, and there is a graveyard a few blocks away where they would bury the unfortunates.
In news completely unrelated to me:
• Humpback whales have been spotted in the Sacramento River, just downstream from Sacramento. Growing up in Davis (maybe in all of Northern California), you learn the story of Humphrey the Humpback Whale, who swam upstream all the way from San Francisco Bay in 1985 and delighted the residents of Sacramento for a a few weeks before he was escorted back to his home. As long as they make it okay, I think that today's news item is pretty cool.
• Not so cool is the media's obsession with all things Anna Nicole. Apparently her diaries were published online today, and apparently that is front page news for CNN.com. AND OF COURSE I CLICKED ON THE LINK. I am ashamed of that. But had I not, I could not have given you this gift, a hilariously eloquent/ridiculous sentence from the article about her diary entries/life: "She was careless with spelling, punctuation, and, too often, with her own well-being." That just completely cracks me up. Completely.
This morning I am slow to get up. I lie with my face buried in my pillow, the sun trying to pry its way in. As I slowly regain consciousness, I hear a strange sound rising from the street below Justin's apartment. It is not the jackhammer or the backhoe that have been tearing up the concrete for a few days now. What is it? It is music, definitely live music, shrill and reedy. Could it be the band from the school across the street? My mind begins to click back into shape, and I dismiss that possibility — the parts are perfectly in time, and no middle school music group could manage that. What could possibly be outside the window? My desire to solve this mystery overpowers my bed addiction (I think that my five strongest feelings are curiosity, love, horniness, sleepiness, and hunger, perhaps in that order), and, pulling on my pants, I hop to the window. There is no crowd, just the regular pedestrians and construction workers. The music is loud, piercing, and it seems so close that I can't perceive a direction. AH! There he is. It's an organ grinder! I have never seen an organ grinder before, but I recognize him to be one, even without the monkey. He is just standing by the construction, behind a box almost as large as he, stationary except for his winding forearm. It appears that his performance is old hat to everyone else on the street. I only get to watch for a second before he stops. I've got to document this! This may be the coolest thing I've seen yet on my trip, so I dash for my camera. Alas! I get back to the window in time to see him disappear around the corner. It is as if he existed solely to get me out of bed this morning. I wish, oh I dearly wish for an organ grinder alarm clock. That would be utterly fantastic.
Here is a picture of the construction, then, sans organ grinder. He would have been over past the right side of the picture. In the picture with the workers are some suits, who arrived today to inspect the progress. Although I could not hear anything of what they discussed, it looked from above to be ridiculously bureaucratic of them. Justin said that this was very French, both in the excess of bureaucracy, andalso in the distinct outfits — he says that French people "treat their job as a costume", in that they keep a greater separation between their personal and professional life.
In the States, workers worry more about getting along with eachother, being friendly and whatnot, while the French worker's main concern is either being competent or at least projecting an air of competence. Apparently the tradeoff here is in customer service. According to Justin, America:"The Customer Is Always Right"::France:"What Customer?"
Here is a funny story that a cute Australian girl named Jessie related to me on the plane back to Paris from Pisa: An American woman visiting France walks into a cafe (or a patisserie, or a charcuterie, it doesn't really matter) and says to the man behind the counter, "Hello, can I have a slice of cake and a coffee, please?" The man looks apologetic and replies, "Pardon, madame, mais je ne parle pas anglais. Pouvez-vous parler en français, s'il vous plait?" The woman furrows her brow, and speaks a little slower: "I would like some cake... and some coffee, sil voo play?" "Je suis très désolée, Madame, mais je ne peux rien comprendre, parce que je ne sais aucun du mot en anglais. Vous devez parler en français pour moi." The American frowns, huffs in frustration, and pulls out a dictionary from her purse. "Je voodray doo gatoh ay un cafay oh lay, sil voo play?" The man behind the counter smiles slightly and says, "Zere, zat was not so deefeecult, was zat?"
Around noon, Justin and I walked a few blocks, just past Place de la Nation, to a large market. The market consists of just one aisle, with stalls on either side, but the aisle is about a mile long, it seems. I would call it a farmer's market, except that in addition to all of the produce, there were appliances for sale, as well as clothing and various tchotchkes (e.g. Alphabet train sets – each car was a letter. The vendors had, naturally, spelled out a few names as examples. The one in front? "Norbert". I can't wait to see their list of available novelty miniature license plates). We didn't walk very far down the market, only about twenty stall lengths, not nearly far enough to see the end, but Justin said that it just repeats a bunch of times.
There are statues all over this city, and Place de la Nation is no exception. I don't know what is depicted by the statue in the middle of the circle, but it seems nice and dynamic. On the east side of La Place are two Lord-Of-The-Rings-esque columns with statues facing east. At one time, this was an entrance to the city. Justin says that back in the day, they used to have executions right here, and there is a graveyard a few blocks away where they would bury the unfortunates.
Justin and I are sitting at the table around 3pm (15h, en Français), type-type-typing away at our respective computers, when sirens break the silence. Down the street zoom first a few police motorcycles, then a few police cars roll by, then a convoy of police vans amble past, then a flotilla of riot cop RV's rumbles through. Some stop at the intersection below Justin's apartment, some continue on towards Nation, and some turn down various side streets. What the hell is going on? Aha! 
Today Nicolas Sarkozy gets sworn in as President of France — there must be a protest going down at la Place de la Nation. And it promises to be a doozy, given the intimidating show of force by the police. 
Fifteen minutes later, we hear chanting and, a block away, see hordes of people streaming towards Nation. Exciting, exciting! I grab my camera and get ready to be the next guy-who-took-this.
What a disappointment it turned out to be. Hordes, apparently, look larger from a block or two away, 
when you can only see thirty feet of them at a time. There were maybe a thousand of them, 99% my age or younger, milling about, smoking, with the requisite dreadlocked drum circle, a kid with a black anarchy flag, some jokers sitting in the gutter launching into a chant that 
would last a few seconds before it petered out. A few people stood on the back of a flatbed and spoke for a couple minutes into a microphone, but it seemed very disorganized. The gendarmes (riot police), laying in wait a block or two away, must have been more 
disappointed than me: "Well, boys, it looks like we're not going to get to rough up any hippies today." Justin said later he saw someone get arrested (by six gendarmes) for walking down the street, so I guess they were bored.
Tonight I had my second rehearsal with the theatre troupe. It went fine, except that four (of nine) actors did not show up. But the music went okay – not really much more difficult than dealing with unmusical American actors. The biggest hurdle today was putting stresses on the correct syllables. We Americans tend to consolidate the accent onto one syllable, and the French spread it out a little. It makes for slightly peculiar (to me) text-setting. But as long as they're cool with singing it, I'm okay teaching it.
Still, the rehearsal was draining, so I was very happy to go get a burger and a beer down the street. The burger was served on an English muffin! An interesting novelty, but I do prefer a fluffier bun. It was kind of small, too. And it cost 13 euros. France, America's got you beat on this one.
In news completely unrelated to me:
• Humpback whales have been spotted in the Sacramento River, just downstream from Sacramento. Growing up in Davis (maybe in all of Northern California), you learn the story of Humphrey the Humpback Whale, who swam upstream all the way from San Francisco Bay in 1985 and delighted the residents of Sacramento for a a few weeks before he was escorted back to his home. As long as they make it okay, I think that today's news item is pretty cool.
• Not so cool is the media's obsession with all things Anna Nicole. Apparently her diaries were published online today, and apparently that is front page news for CNN.com. AND OF COURSE I CLICKED ON THE LINK. I am ashamed of that. But had I not, I could not have given you this gift, a hilariously eloquent/ridiculous sentence from the article about her diary entries/life: "She was careless with spelling, punctuation, and, too often, with her own well-being." That just completely cracks me up. Completely.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Le Pompidou.
The Pompidou.
One thing that Paris has is museums. I am not terribly interested in them, but Monday the 30th I decided to go the Centre George Pompidou, which is the main modern art museum. I left a little disappointed — having been to the New York MOMA over Christmas, I didn't see many different things in their permanent collection. Still, it was all "great" art, which is more than I could say for the special exhibitions. One of them was about Samuel Beckett, and it seemed fairly interesting, but I felt like I should have known more about Beckett to really appreciate it. The other special exhibition, "Air de Paris", was all art by Parisiens, I believe, and it mostly sucked. There was, however, one piece that got me so much that I broke their rule prohibiting taking pictures (I hereby apologize to the staff of the museum and to the city of Paris). It is by Philippe Rahm, and the sign said this:
Luckily for me, there is no such prohibition for the permanent collection. I took too many to upload here, so may I direct you to my Flickr set of Pompidou pictures?
http://flickr.com/photos/montchristopherhubbard/sets/72157600192964767/
The other cool thing about the Pompidou is the view of Paris from the top floor. You can see Notre Dame to the south, la Tour Eiffel to the southeast, and Sacre Coeur and Montmartre to the north.
In the plaza in front of the museum, artisans sell trinkets (is it weird for me to call them "artisans", yet use the low word "trinket"?), folk musicians play, and street performers entertain. Two young people were walking across the square, holding a sign: "Free hugs." I didn't need one, but still I hustled over to catch them, and got two good hugs. And they each got one good hug, I hope. The Free Hug movement is one of my favorite things about the world today. I am proud of my generation for it.
One thing that Paris has is museums. I am not terribly interested in them, but Monday the 30th I decided to go the Centre George Pompidou, which is the main modern art museum. I left a little disappointed — having been to the New York MOMA over Christmas, I didn't see many different things in their permanent collection. Still, it was all "great" art, which is more than I could say for the special exhibitions. One of them was about Samuel Beckett, and it seemed fairly interesting, but I felt like I should have known more about Beckett to really appreciate it. The other special exhibition, "Air de Paris", was all art by Parisiens, I believe, and it mostly sucked. There was, however, one piece that got me so much that I broke their rule prohibiting taking pictures (I hereby apologize to the staff of the museum and to the city of Paris). It is by Philippe Rahm, and the sign said this:"Despite appearances, the environment recreates an actual night time scene as the orangey-yello [sic] stimulates the production of melatonin, a sleep hormone. The speakers broadcast eighteen Diurnes, which are inversions of the eighteen Nocturnes for piano by Irish composer John Field (1782-1837)."Here are the illicit still images and video of this piece, Diurnisme:
Luckily for me, there is no such prohibition for the permanent collection. I took too many to upload here, so may I direct you to my Flickr set of Pompidou pictures?
http://flickr.com/photos/montchristopherhubbard/sets/72157600192964767/
The other cool thing about the Pompidou is the view of Paris from the top floor. You can see Notre Dame to the south, la Tour Eiffel to the southeast, and Sacre Coeur and Montmartre to the north.In the plaza in front of the museum, artisans sell trinkets (is it weird for me to call them "artisans", yet use the low word "trinket"?), folk musicians play, and street performers entertain. Two young people were walking across the square, holding a sign: "Free hugs." I didn't need one, but still I hustled over to catch them, and got two good hugs. And they each got one good hug, I hope. The Free Hug movement is one of my favorite things about the world today. I am proud of my generation for it.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)