While discussing the newest issue of Wired, I began talking with my coworkers about a new phenomenon one of them read about: that of online gamers paying eachother in real money to acquire game based weapons. Essentially game addict #1 pledges to give $10 in real money to gamer #2 who has, let's say the magical sword of geekdom. I flew into a rage at this concept. Everyone else thought it was weird, but in a passing sort of way.
But I think it violates the essential nature of a game. Games are by their very nature attempts to define the boundaries of life. There are rules and the totality of available options are either ennumerated or bound by the prescriptions of the game. It is a tautology.
Games are the closest version of the social contract, Hobbes style. You agree to these mutually limiting rules in the effort to better mitigate the chaos that would ensue otherwise. But you do so willingly. When you go outside the rules, outside the imaginary universe created by the rules you are violating the social contract. It's not the same thing as up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right control....etc, that's using an ill hidden code to achieve something that was part of the game. But to go outside is just wrong.
Games assume by definition that victory is not predetermined before the start, adn that game play determines winners through either luck or skill. Games operate on the assumption that you are self interested and that you work towards your own victory. Any efforts beyond that are another violation of the social contract....unless you can mathematically demonstrate that no series of moves available to you can produce victory. At this point the social contract has failed you and you are free to go rogue and basically fuck shit up to the extent permitted by the rules.
So, anyways I basically spit all of this out stream of consciousness out of the blue, while discussing some small article in Wired. This is why people at work are already starting to wonder about the sanity of "the new guy."
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Monday, July 25, 2005
How Many Boyscouts in a Jamboree
The weekend began in earnest with a trip to RFK. After trying to cajole numerous friends into joining me for a Nationals game, I was briefly set up on a blind date. This marks the second time I’ve been set up on a blind date with the friend of a very new friend/glorified acquaintance. While in Oberlin I met the friend of a friend and was instructed that upon moving to DC I should go on a date/meeting with their friend. Friday’s momentary date scenario was also with a lawyer or at least law student. I’m not sure what it says about me that acquaintances and new friends want me to date their legal eagle friends. It’s like saying, you’re interesting…not to me, of course, but maybe to my friend. But I guess it’s flattering. Well, either way that set up failed to take root as other plans interceded. In the end my friend Amanda whom I’d had to stand up for lunch earlier in the day (work crisis) and I went to the game.
Game summary: The Nationals are bad. They seem to be playing as if they feel some overwhelming obligation to regress to the mean. Much like nature, I abhor a vacuum…and the Nationals have taken to sucking in such a fashion. I watched Roger Clemens dismantle the routinely feeble Nationals’ hitters. Final score 14-1. Still despite being hotter than blazes and watching the Nationals’ play poorly, it was a great time. Live baseball is just pleasant, and certainly well worth the 10 bucks for tickets.
Midway through the 6th inning I noticed a mass of brown and peach about ¾ of the way across the stadium. It took a while for an image to settle out of the chaos…it was an entire section filled with Boyscouts. Thousands of white 11 year olds wearing their “oh-to-be-a-UPS-man” scout uniforms, each earnestly hopping for a Norman Rockwell moment. It was impressive if nothing else. I believe I may have seen more boyscouts on Friday than I’d seen in all the years previously. Turns out the Boyscout Jamboree was in DC this weekend. I’m not exactly certain how many Boyscouts it takes to make a Jamboree. Presumably it’s somewhere between a minion, a quorum and the number required for electoral representation in Congress. Though, truth be told, I saw enough wholesome, acne ridden faces wearing badges and buttons to justify a Congress person. Maybe that could be the trade off, DC gets Congressional Representation but so does the Jamboree. They could pass knot tying legislation. I pledge to do my best to do my duty to reward the interests to whom I am beholden. They could get their backroom deal merit badge, maybe a killed in committee merit badge. Granted I imagine that a lot of constituent services would just be providing copies of Victoria Secret catalogues to one another, but you know you gotta give your voters what they want, what they need.
Navigating the Metro on the way home was made even more challenging with thousands of boyscouts and their diligent and humourless leaders trying to shoehorn them into subway cars. There is something truly odd about watching hundreds of boyscouts mill around aimlessly only to realize that they were struggling to read the Metro maps and were in point of fact: lost. I guess orienteering isn’t routinely conducted along the Orange line. I for one have nothing against the boyscouts, and should make that clear here. I don’t like a lot of the policies, but the idea of kids wanting to serve their community and learn to camp and take blocks of wood and fashion them into faulty cars—this doesn’t bother me in the least. In the interest of journalistic (when this became a concern, I don’t recall) objectivity, your author was for about 7 months a Cub Scout. I was abysmal. I quickly earned a couple of the sissy badges (the ones that other kids thought were for girls) I think I got a sewing badge, and a cooking badge. I never learned to tie a single knot, and my pine wood derby car made the designers of mid-80s Volvos feel pretty fucking smug. I believe after 10 hours of work with my father on the car it was somehow blockier in appearance than the original rectangle of wood from which it came, it was as if we’d found a truer core of aerodynamic opposition. Oh, and my car listed to the right aimlessly as it tried and failed to transverse the little course. I lost, and badly. It was soon there after that I bid my farewell to the regimented masculinity of the boyscouts. I never made it to the next stage of Scoutdom--Weblow. Yes, that's right it's a good thing to call awkward boys under the tutelage of some Mark Trail idolizing nut the Weblows. There's no way that'll warp your understanding of your role in the universe. Maybe I'm just bitter that I couldn't ever earn any cool badges. A final side note, there is a theory that every man looks good in a uniform. I'm here to tell you this doesn't extend to 8 year olds in Cub Scout outfits, I can assure you of this.
Game summary: The Nationals are bad. They seem to be playing as if they feel some overwhelming obligation to regress to the mean. Much like nature, I abhor a vacuum…and the Nationals have taken to sucking in such a fashion. I watched Roger Clemens dismantle the routinely feeble Nationals’ hitters. Final score 14-1. Still despite being hotter than blazes and watching the Nationals’ play poorly, it was a great time. Live baseball is just pleasant, and certainly well worth the 10 bucks for tickets.
Midway through the 6th inning I noticed a mass of brown and peach about ¾ of the way across the stadium. It took a while for an image to settle out of the chaos…it was an entire section filled with Boyscouts. Thousands of white 11 year olds wearing their “oh-to-be-a-UPS-man” scout uniforms, each earnestly hopping for a Norman Rockwell moment. It was impressive if nothing else. I believe I may have seen more boyscouts on Friday than I’d seen in all the years previously. Turns out the Boyscout Jamboree was in DC this weekend. I’m not exactly certain how many Boyscouts it takes to make a Jamboree. Presumably it’s somewhere between a minion, a quorum and the number required for electoral representation in Congress. Though, truth be told, I saw enough wholesome, acne ridden faces wearing badges and buttons to justify a Congress person. Maybe that could be the trade off, DC gets Congressional Representation but so does the Jamboree. They could pass knot tying legislation. I pledge to do my best to do my duty to reward the interests to whom I am beholden. They could get their backroom deal merit badge, maybe a killed in committee merit badge. Granted I imagine that a lot of constituent services would just be providing copies of Victoria Secret catalogues to one another, but you know you gotta give your voters what they want, what they need.
Navigating the Metro on the way home was made even more challenging with thousands of boyscouts and their diligent and humourless leaders trying to shoehorn them into subway cars. There is something truly odd about watching hundreds of boyscouts mill around aimlessly only to realize that they were struggling to read the Metro maps and were in point of fact: lost. I guess orienteering isn’t routinely conducted along the Orange line. I for one have nothing against the boyscouts, and should make that clear here. I don’t like a lot of the policies, but the idea of kids wanting to serve their community and learn to camp and take blocks of wood and fashion them into faulty cars—this doesn’t bother me in the least. In the interest of journalistic (when this became a concern, I don’t recall) objectivity, your author was for about 7 months a Cub Scout. I was abysmal. I quickly earned a couple of the sissy badges (the ones that other kids thought were for girls) I think I got a sewing badge, and a cooking badge. I never learned to tie a single knot, and my pine wood derby car made the designers of mid-80s Volvos feel pretty fucking smug. I believe after 10 hours of work with my father on the car it was somehow blockier in appearance than the original rectangle of wood from which it came, it was as if we’d found a truer core of aerodynamic opposition. Oh, and my car listed to the right aimlessly as it tried and failed to transverse the little course. I lost, and badly. It was soon there after that I bid my farewell to the regimented masculinity of the boyscouts. I never made it to the next stage of Scoutdom--Weblow. Yes, that's right it's a good thing to call awkward boys under the tutelage of some Mark Trail idolizing nut the Weblows. There's no way that'll warp your understanding of your role in the universe. Maybe I'm just bitter that I couldn't ever earn any cool badges. A final side note, there is a theory that every man looks good in a uniform. I'm here to tell you this doesn't extend to 8 year olds in Cub Scout outfits, I can assure you of this.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Resident, Alien
The great takeaway from today was a feeling of belonging. Being able to navigate in a city suggests a certain level of ownership. I went to frisbee, parties, stores and wandered aimlessly about the streets of my city.
I remember pretty soon after I moved to Seattle, I was pulled over for entering into an intersection and failing to leave a safe distance. The officer who pulled me over asked, among several questions, if I was a resident. I said, “well, I just moved here.” I wanted to say I wasn't a resident, but only because that's truly how I felt. I'm guessing that doesn't hold up in court. She then asked questions about how long ago I'd moved to my apartment. But that doesn’t really measure your residency. She should have asked me, can you navigate to Ballard? Do you know the hours at the Pike Place Market. Do you have a library card? What direction are you facing? What do you call where your parents live? To me no amount of time in a place can replace a the value of having a sense of the place, or feeling psychologically connected to your surroundings.
I think a big part of this is being able to navigate your city. Being able to give directions, to easily move from place to place. This has always been hard for me. My father can read a map and is at heart, I believe, a cartographer. My mother can, without looking at a map or any landmarks, instantly know what direction she is facing. Though to be fair she grew up in small town Kansas a land bereft of landmarks. However she cannot read a map, and my father couldn’t tell you he was facing west if you spotted him the W and the ST. And so, I am truly my parents’ son--an amalgam of each of their navigational weaknesses. Not great with maps, and I don't have innate directional skills.
That is until I moved here. Unlike my times in Minneapolis and Seattle I feel like a local here. I tend to know which direction is North, I have some vague sense of how to get places, though much of that is the work of the subway system. But it still leads me to wonder if some small portion of my earlier sense of transience came from never really fleeing like I was a resident of the places where I resided. I always felt alienated from the place by my inability to navigate, but I think it was more than that. I’m not sure what, just a sense I had of feeling apart from the ethos of the place. I realize I’m in a city based in no small part on my career aspirations. It’s a company town, and while I don’t work for the company, I’m certainly in the business. So that helps as well.
It’s odd. Before, when I would visit my parents I’d use the term home to refer to Minneapolis and while in MN home indicated Westerville. Home was a place that was definitionally separate from my current location. But not any more. Oh, I'm sure I'd be a lousy driver here, and I still can't give directions. but I have control over my transit. I can get here and there, and no how to move about in my city . This is, for now at least, my home. I’m a resident.
I remember pretty soon after I moved to Seattle, I was pulled over for entering into an intersection and failing to leave a safe distance. The officer who pulled me over asked, among several questions, if I was a resident. I said, “well, I just moved here.” I wanted to say I wasn't a resident, but only because that's truly how I felt. I'm guessing that doesn't hold up in court. She then asked questions about how long ago I'd moved to my apartment. But that doesn’t really measure your residency. She should have asked me, can you navigate to Ballard? Do you know the hours at the Pike Place Market. Do you have a library card? What direction are you facing? What do you call where your parents live? To me no amount of time in a place can replace a the value of having a sense of the place, or feeling psychologically connected to your surroundings.
I think a big part of this is being able to navigate your city. Being able to give directions, to easily move from place to place. This has always been hard for me. My father can read a map and is at heart, I believe, a cartographer. My mother can, without looking at a map or any landmarks, instantly know what direction she is facing. Though to be fair she grew up in small town Kansas a land bereft of landmarks. However she cannot read a map, and my father couldn’t tell you he was facing west if you spotted him the W and the ST. And so, I am truly my parents’ son--an amalgam of each of their navigational weaknesses. Not great with maps, and I don't have innate directional skills.
That is until I moved here. Unlike my times in Minneapolis and Seattle I feel like a local here. I tend to know which direction is North, I have some vague sense of how to get places, though much of that is the work of the subway system. But it still leads me to wonder if some small portion of my earlier sense of transience came from never really fleeing like I was a resident of the places where I resided. I always felt alienated from the place by my inability to navigate, but I think it was more than that. I’m not sure what, just a sense I had of feeling apart from the ethos of the place. I realize I’m in a city based in no small part on my career aspirations. It’s a company town, and while I don’t work for the company, I’m certainly in the business. So that helps as well.
It’s odd. Before, when I would visit my parents I’d use the term home to refer to Minneapolis and while in MN home indicated Westerville. Home was a place that was definitionally separate from my current location. But not any more. Oh, I'm sure I'd be a lousy driver here, and I still can't give directions. but I have control over my transit. I can get here and there, and no how to move about in my city . This is, for now at least, my home. I’m a resident.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Happy Birthday Paul.
Today would have been Paul Wellstone's 61st Birthday. Find something of meaning to do for someone else today or tomorrow. Thank a person working on the Hill. Sign the next petition and smile at the organizer. There are still good people doing good work...and maybe they're not famous and maybe they'll never be a senator, but then no one thought Paul would be.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Terra 911
While walking from work to the bus stop I glanced down and say the license plate of a particularly nice Virginia Nissan: Terra 911. I've spent the past few hours trying to figure out what on earth it means. Are they mocking the president for his pronunciation of terror? Are they standing steadfast in support of the rescue workers? Because it's from VA you have to assume that it has something to do with the Pentagon and less so with the Twin Towers. I'm just baffled.
For years the Republicans have been saying: everything changed on 9/11, and we'll never forget 9/11.
Wouldn't that suggest that you don't need a license plate to remind you and others about the tragedy. For instance if it were that life changing wouldn't that suggest that reminding yourself would just be silly. Like IMMARIED...you don't need that. There are other symbols that remind you of things like that. And if it were something pleasant it'd be one thing. But it's the idea of terror and 9/11. Not the heroes, not the sacrifice, just the complete notion of unadulterated fear and unceasing worry...that terror conjures. Why would you make that your license plate.
I like to believe it's Tom Ridge's wife. She wanted to commemorate how she and her husband could afford this nice new car, and why it's registered in Virginia and not Wisconsin.
For years the Republicans have been saying: everything changed on 9/11, and we'll never forget 9/11.
Wouldn't that suggest that you don't need a license plate to remind you and others about the tragedy. For instance if it were that life changing wouldn't that suggest that reminding yourself would just be silly. Like IMMARIED...you don't need that. There are other symbols that remind you of things like that. And if it were something pleasant it'd be one thing. But it's the idea of terror and 9/11. Not the heroes, not the sacrifice, just the complete notion of unadulterated fear and unceasing worry...that terror conjures. Why would you make that your license plate.
I like to believe it's Tom Ridge's wife. She wanted to commemorate how she and her husband could afford this nice new car, and why it's registered in Virginia and not Wisconsin.
Monday, July 18, 2005
One Down
It's been nearly 4 years since I took a job without knowing in some concrete fashion that it would end and that it would end relatively soon. Now, some ended in ways I couldn't have ever imagined, but that they ended was never a surprise. Now I find myself starting a new job, that doesn't have to end. I could, conceivably, work for BRS for 2 years, for 6 years for the rest of my life. It's like I've gone from being Sam Malone to married. It's a little daunting. It's always been one down, X to go, or "it's only 15 days and a wake up." Now it's an indeterminate length of time. It's at once reassuring and a little strange.
As for the work itself it was pleasant. I found my office mates to be kind and welcoming. Today's tasks were well within my limited range of skills...transcription and fiddling around with a graph in Word. While not life changing, they are tasks that I can easily and competently perform. I'm sure that tasks will improve and that I'll begin to really learn a lot soon.
In other news and better updates: I played with DC Nasty (www.dcnasty.org)yesterday. We played in the midst of a heat advisory. It was sweltering and 70%+ humidity. It's always a bad sign when your Dri-Fit wicking fabric is unable to move the moisture because the air is already too saturated to accept any evaporate. I played relatively well. I had one layout that won me the affection of my teamates for the next few weeks. People were shocked and stunned...I covered a lot of ground and laid out (parallel to the ground) at a height of about 3 1/2 feet. I only wish I could have seen it myself. I then got up and threw for the score. Turns out I can play. And when I eat before I play I don't feel like I'm about ready to die, even when it's awful out. So I will take that as a key lesson.
My sister is coming the Sunday for a visit. She and a friend are driving out (not exactly sure about what they'll do with the car) and staying with me from Sunday night to Wednesday morning. I'll try to think of fun touristy things for them to do. I'll probably send them to the mall on Monday or Tuesday. And then on the other day maybe Georgetown. I welcome suggestions from those who know.
The past couple weeks have been strange. I've had a pretty much unbroken streak of good news (seeing friends, playing frisbee, getting a job) and yet I have trouble shaking this doubt, this sense that I'm failing or at least not doing as well as I should. It's frustrating. Because it's not like there is a single thing to which I can point and say, this is what's bothering me. I think part of it is that since the first few months of my relationship with Jen everything has seemed less thrilling. None of the recent good news feels as powerful as that. Which I guess is a testament to just how fortunate I was to feel those feelings, but I wish I had other things that were as exciting. Those first few months were like skydiving compared to the teacups rides of the months that folowed. I have to recalibrate what it means to be happy, to something less heroic and more sustainable. I'm planning on not worrying about things too much this week, and not focusing on the doubt or depression, or frustration, or whatever this feeling is. I feel like having a job, a routine, maybe even a few dates will help me to start to feel more like a productive member of society. And finally, worrying about money (which is a hobby of mine) is something I'm just going to have to let go of. I cannot make things better by worrying about them. (Thus ends the most "journaly" entry I've written in a good long while).
As for the work itself it was pleasant. I found my office mates to be kind and welcoming. Today's tasks were well within my limited range of skills...transcription and fiddling around with a graph in Word. While not life changing, they are tasks that I can easily and competently perform. I'm sure that tasks will improve and that I'll begin to really learn a lot soon.
In other news and better updates: I played with DC Nasty (www.dcnasty.org)yesterday. We played in the midst of a heat advisory. It was sweltering and 70%+ humidity. It's always a bad sign when your Dri-Fit wicking fabric is unable to move the moisture because the air is already too saturated to accept any evaporate. I played relatively well. I had one layout that won me the affection of my teamates for the next few weeks. People were shocked and stunned...I covered a lot of ground and laid out (parallel to the ground) at a height of about 3 1/2 feet. I only wish I could have seen it myself. I then got up and threw for the score. Turns out I can play. And when I eat before I play I don't feel like I'm about ready to die, even when it's awful out. So I will take that as a key lesson.
My sister is coming the Sunday for a visit. She and a friend are driving out (not exactly sure about what they'll do with the car) and staying with me from Sunday night to Wednesday morning. I'll try to think of fun touristy things for them to do. I'll probably send them to the mall on Monday or Tuesday. And then on the other day maybe Georgetown. I welcome suggestions from those who know.
The past couple weeks have been strange. I've had a pretty much unbroken streak of good news (seeing friends, playing frisbee, getting a job) and yet I have trouble shaking this doubt, this sense that I'm failing or at least not doing as well as I should. It's frustrating. Because it's not like there is a single thing to which I can point and say, this is what's bothering me. I think part of it is that since the first few months of my relationship with Jen everything has seemed less thrilling. None of the recent good news feels as powerful as that. Which I guess is a testament to just how fortunate I was to feel those feelings, but I wish I had other things that were as exciting. Those first few months were like skydiving compared to the teacups rides of the months that folowed. I have to recalibrate what it means to be happy, to something less heroic and more sustainable. I'm planning on not worrying about things too much this week, and not focusing on the doubt or depression, or frustration, or whatever this feeling is. I feel like having a job, a routine, maybe even a few dates will help me to start to feel more like a productive member of society. And finally, worrying about money (which is a hobby of mine) is something I'm just going to have to let go of. I cannot make things better by worrying about them. (Thus ends the most "journaly" entry I've written in a good long while).
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Is this poetic or condescending
I'm reading a biography of Warren Magnuson (D-WA). He was an incredible force for positive social policy but I know very little about him. I struggled to find a biography of him, eventually I ordered a used book that from the packaging used to be in the Spokane Washington public library. It's the only bio I could find. I guess being a powerful Senator doesn't warrant nearly as many biographies as say being Martha Stewart or Tony Danza.
The bio starts with his legacy and then moves to his birthplace. Fairly standard stuff. In describing the place of his birth, Moorhead, MN the author talks about Moorhead as a classically American small town:
I'm quite seriously unsure what to make of this passage. Is it saying that the only value to small towns is that they are so limiting that they force their strongest minds and sharpest wits to leave for greener pastures. Is is saying that small town America is a place where great minds are nurtured and then unleashed on the rest of the world towards great ends.
What do you think it means? Am I just being daft here?
The bio starts with his legacy and then moves to his birthplace. Fairly standard stuff. In describing the place of his birth, Moorhead, MN the author talks about Moorhead as a classically American small town:
Fargo and Moorhead are the kind of church-going, tree-lined small places that made America great because they inspired their more gifted offspring to get out, go forth, and prosper."
I'm quite seriously unsure what to make of this passage. Is it saying that the only value to small towns is that they are so limiting that they force their strongest minds and sharpest wits to leave for greener pastures. Is is saying that small town America is a place where great minds are nurtured and then unleashed on the rest of the world towards great ends.
What do you think it means? Am I just being daft here?
Lanky Gourmet
Unemployment and easy access to the internet have prompted me to work on my culinary repetoire more than I have in a long time. It's a fairly limited set of things that I can make. I've started to enjoy the assembling part of cooking. Previously I'd really only enjoyed disassembling vegetables. Humility aside, I am a mighty fine chopper and dicer, and relished these tasks which helps to explain some of the menu items as prepared by the Lanky Gourmet. Stir fry, stuffed mushrooms, rice dishes, tuna steaks, salmon, tacos,omelets, bruschetta, guacamole, etc (working on Tom Yum soup).
Yesterday I decided to expand the menu and learn how to make crepes. Turns out they are preposterously easy. I'd always associated them with some mastery over the culinary arts. Nope, they're simple and really tasty. Sort of like a hybrid of pancakes and omelets, which as far as cuisine goes is right in my wheelhouse. I'm slowly acquiring the ability to host a very serviceable brunch. Megan suggested that I need to master cinnamon rolls. I figure that plus good mellon balling skills will elevate me into the brunch host category.
The recipe I'm using...should any of you want to make crepes at home:
1 egg
1/2 cup of flour
1/4 cup milk
1/4 cup water
some salt (you know...not too much, maybe 500 granules)
1/8 teaspoon melted butter (turns out using the microwave is the best for this).
Combine flour and egg in a bowl. Fold together. Add slowly water, stir further. Add milk, butter, and salt. Stir till mixture is smooth.
Pour maybe a 1/4 cup of the mixture into a teflon skillet heated over medium. Swirl mixture. Wait a minute then flip. Eat. So far I've mainly been buttering and sugaring then rolling the crepes. I've also tried sauteed mushrooms. I like the versatility of the crepe.
This ends the Lanky Gourmet post for today.
Yesterday I decided to expand the menu and learn how to make crepes. Turns out they are preposterously easy. I'd always associated them with some mastery over the culinary arts. Nope, they're simple and really tasty. Sort of like a hybrid of pancakes and omelets, which as far as cuisine goes is right in my wheelhouse. I'm slowly acquiring the ability to host a very serviceable brunch. Megan suggested that I need to master cinnamon rolls. I figure that plus good mellon balling skills will elevate me into the brunch host category.
The recipe I'm using...should any of you want to make crepes at home:
1 egg
1/2 cup of flour
1/4 cup milk
1/4 cup water
some salt (you know...not too much, maybe 500 granules)
1/8 teaspoon melted butter (turns out using the microwave is the best for this).
Combine flour and egg in a bowl. Fold together. Add slowly water, stir further. Add milk, butter, and salt. Stir till mixture is smooth.
Pour maybe a 1/4 cup of the mixture into a teflon skillet heated over medium. Swirl mixture. Wait a minute then flip. Eat. So far I've mainly been buttering and sugaring then rolling the crepes. I've also tried sauteed mushrooms. I like the versatility of the crepe.
This ends the Lanky Gourmet post for today.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
And I'll Proudly Stand Up*
A friend of mine suggested an idea for a party wherein the guests would all bring muscial selections that supported a theme. One theme suggested was Patriotic. As in what songs make you feel patriotic, even if protesting is the only thing that makes you feel patriotic these days.
Well this is two things I love, music and getting to define what I think it means to be an American--or at least conceptualizing what America stands for.
My immediate first thought was Fortunate Son (CCR). And that's not a bad selection. It's just I don't think it captures the optimism I feel about America. The tension between our ideals and our reality. I finally settled on three
1. The Power and the Glory--Phil Ochs
The song is beautiful and gentle. It rolls through a littany of states and articulates the manifest beauty of the country.
Here's a land full of power and glory/
beauty that words cannot recall/
oh her power shall rest on the strength of her freedom/
glory shall rest on us all.
Then the final stanza Ochs tackles the distance between our hopes and reality:
Yet she's only as rich as the poorest of the poor
only as free as a padlocked prison door
only as strong as our love for this land
only as tall as we stand.
2.Thank you (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin)--Sly and the Family
Stone
This song is less about the lyrics than Power and the Glory. The thing that gets me with this one, is it's a band full of crazed funk musicians some of whom are married and it's racially mixed. It's party music made for whites and blacks by whites and blacks. Given that a lot of American musical history has been attached to who should make music for whom and who should listen to what bands' music--Sly and the Family Stone is just about making fun music. Music for everyone. Everytime this song comes on the ipod, I begin to strut. I begin to sway and half-dance while walking, I cannot help it. It's an involuntary reaction. And the lyrics, do suggest something American---the idea of being allowed to be who and what you are. It's cheesy and Polly Annish, but I still cleave to that notion as descriptive of the US.
3. The Ghost of Tom Joad--Rage Against the Machine
I selected the Rage Against the Machine version of this Springsteen song on purpose. First I like it better, but second there is something powerful and I think suggestive of America in the idea of making and remaking. Sampling, stealing, reordering and reclaiming earlier truths for your life. The song is itself a reodering and copy of the great speech from Tom Joad in the Grapes of Wrath. It's a call to greater community involvement. An indictment of the role of authority in dealing with the suffering of the Great Depression. It's agrarian and transient, it's about the underdog, three pretty strong American ideals that are still symbolically relevant. The speech and the song talk of death. But it's not the end for Tom Joad, he's alive wherever someone is being hassled, hurt, or suffering. That America is often in the wrong is clear, that our great artists can freely critique our failings is pretty special. That our artists whether authors, NJ rockers or Hispanic rap-rockers can retell the stories of our failures without condemning the idea of America--that's pretty powerful stuff. It's because of the power of the ideals that harsh criticism is warranted. You don't berate a child's painting for falling short of the mark--it's not supposed to be great. But you can critique a great film maker's poor choices, they should know better, they should do better. And so should we. America deserves harsh critics because what it tries to be is so worthwhile, and when we fail it's so devastating.
*God help me if Lee Greenwood appears on anyone's list.
Well this is two things I love, music and getting to define what I think it means to be an American--or at least conceptualizing what America stands for.
My immediate first thought was Fortunate Son (CCR). And that's not a bad selection. It's just I don't think it captures the optimism I feel about America. The tension between our ideals and our reality. I finally settled on three
1. The Power and the Glory--Phil Ochs
The song is beautiful and gentle. It rolls through a littany of states and articulates the manifest beauty of the country.
Here's a land full of power and glory/
beauty that words cannot recall/
oh her power shall rest on the strength of her freedom/
glory shall rest on us all.
Then the final stanza Ochs tackles the distance between our hopes and reality:
Yet she's only as rich as the poorest of the poor
only as free as a padlocked prison door
only as strong as our love for this land
only as tall as we stand.
2.Thank you (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin)--Sly and the Family
Stone
This song is less about the lyrics than Power and the Glory. The thing that gets me with this one, is it's a band full of crazed funk musicians some of whom are married and it's racially mixed. It's party music made for whites and blacks by whites and blacks. Given that a lot of American musical history has been attached to who should make music for whom and who should listen to what bands' music--Sly and the Family Stone is just about making fun music. Music for everyone. Everytime this song comes on the ipod, I begin to strut. I begin to sway and half-dance while walking, I cannot help it. It's an involuntary reaction. And the lyrics, do suggest something American---the idea of being allowed to be who and what you are. It's cheesy and Polly Annish, but I still cleave to that notion as descriptive of the US.
3. The Ghost of Tom Joad--Rage Against the Machine
I selected the Rage Against the Machine version of this Springsteen song on purpose. First I like it better, but second there is something powerful and I think suggestive of America in the idea of making and remaking. Sampling, stealing, reordering and reclaiming earlier truths for your life. The song is itself a reodering and copy of the great speech from Tom Joad in the Grapes of Wrath. It's a call to greater community involvement. An indictment of the role of authority in dealing with the suffering of the Great Depression. It's agrarian and transient, it's about the underdog, three pretty strong American ideals that are still symbolically relevant. The speech and the song talk of death. But it's not the end for Tom Joad, he's alive wherever someone is being hassled, hurt, or suffering. That America is often in the wrong is clear, that our great artists can freely critique our failings is pretty special. That our artists whether authors, NJ rockers or Hispanic rap-rockers can retell the stories of our failures without condemning the idea of America--that's pretty powerful stuff. It's because of the power of the ideals that harsh criticism is warranted. You don't berate a child's painting for falling short of the mark--it's not supposed to be great. But you can critique a great film maker's poor choices, they should know better, they should do better. And so should we. America deserves harsh critics because what it tries to be is so worthwhile, and when we fail it's so devastating.
*God help me if Lee Greenwood appears on anyone's list.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Things I never knew about my hair
Today I took care of the second item on the list of "Important but Attainable Goals"--getting a haircut. It's been about 7 weeks since my last haircut. While playing frisbee yesterday I would occasionally catch a glimpse of shadow and I looked distasterous.
I usually get my haircut at some chain place in a strip mall. Places like Great Clips, Super cuts, etc. But I'm nowhere near a strip mall, so it's barbershop time. I know of two places in my neighborhood. The first is an "African Hair Style Shop." This shop is run by a Senegalese man (so says the placard out front) and he specializes in braids. My hair wasn't that long, so I passed on the braids. The other place is a Unisex barbershop, run by an older Hispanic man. Earlier I was joking with Jen that I might come back with a mohawk, since my Spanish is non-existent.
When I sat down I was asked a single question: Short? Medium? Usually when I get my hair cut I'm confronted by a series of questions to which I have no useful answer. I don't remember if I want it layered, or over the ear. I have no real concern if the hair toward my neck is squared off or rounded. That said, the question short or medium seemed a little too spare for my taste. I chose medium (looking at my hair now I shudder to think what passes for short). Immediately the man reached for clippers. It was then that I realized that I was a rarity among the people who sat in that chair. I didn't want my hair buzzed or clippered. After some discussion and persuasion I was able to get my hair cut with scissors. All in all it went well, though I was facing out towards the street so for the entire process I had no sense of what was happening to my hair. Not being able to see your hair cut is a little unnerving.
After the majority of the work was completed, he leaned into my field of vision and said, "Your hair is hard it's....." He began to search for a word and trail off. I helpfully suggested, "It's thick." Immediately after saying this I realized how absurd the notion was. I'm in a Hispanic barbershop and I was suggesting that he was having trouble because *my* hair was thick. Ignoring me, mercifully, he offered his own analysis of my hair: "It's spicy."
As should be clear from most of this experience, my knowledge of hair and haircutting is pretty limited. But I certainly never knew nor imagined that my hair was spicy. That's hot.
=====
UPDATE: Last night I had a dream wherein I was chased around a parking garage and when eventually caught my head was shaved into a fade. Though there was no mention of the spiciness of my hair.
I usually get my haircut at some chain place in a strip mall. Places like Great Clips, Super cuts, etc. But I'm nowhere near a strip mall, so it's barbershop time. I know of two places in my neighborhood. The first is an "African Hair Style Shop." This shop is run by a Senegalese man (so says the placard out front) and he specializes in braids. My hair wasn't that long, so I passed on the braids. The other place is a Unisex barbershop, run by an older Hispanic man. Earlier I was joking with Jen that I might come back with a mohawk, since my Spanish is non-existent.
When I sat down I was asked a single question: Short? Medium? Usually when I get my hair cut I'm confronted by a series of questions to which I have no useful answer. I don't remember if I want it layered, or over the ear. I have no real concern if the hair toward my neck is squared off or rounded. That said, the question short or medium seemed a little too spare for my taste. I chose medium (looking at my hair now I shudder to think what passes for short). Immediately the man reached for clippers. It was then that I realized that I was a rarity among the people who sat in that chair. I didn't want my hair buzzed or clippered. After some discussion and persuasion I was able to get my hair cut with scissors. All in all it went well, though I was facing out towards the street so for the entire process I had no sense of what was happening to my hair. Not being able to see your hair cut is a little unnerving.
After the majority of the work was completed, he leaned into my field of vision and said, "Your hair is hard it's....." He began to search for a word and trail off. I helpfully suggested, "It's thick." Immediately after saying this I realized how absurd the notion was. I'm in a Hispanic barbershop and I was suggesting that he was having trouble because *my* hair was thick. Ignoring me, mercifully, he offered his own analysis of my hair: "It's spicy."
As should be clear from most of this experience, my knowledge of hair and haircutting is pretty limited. But I certainly never knew nor imagined that my hair was spicy. That's hot.
=====
UPDATE: Last night I had a dream wherein I was chased around a parking garage and when eventually caught my head was shaved into a fade. Though there was no mention of the spiciness of my hair.
Don't Worry 'Bout Me.
While loading my cds into my laptop and itunes I came across "Neil Gray Summer 2000"
Would that I had the ability to load mp3s to this site, but alas you'll just have to imagine the joy of Neil Gray originals. The album features Neil's best orignal work: Up in a Tree. I'd forgotten how nice and melodic it is. It has some french horn, a la Neutral Milk Hotel. And I never remembered more than just a few lyrics. My current favorite lyric is:
The world is a bar
and you and me are
the ones who make sure
it's ladies night.
Sadly I cannot post the song, but seriously it's good stuff. And it's Neil. Hard to beat that.
Would that I had the ability to load mp3s to this site, but alas you'll just have to imagine the joy of Neil Gray originals. The album features Neil's best orignal work: Up in a Tree. I'd forgotten how nice and melodic it is. It has some french horn, a la Neutral Milk Hotel. And I never remembered more than just a few lyrics. My current favorite lyric is:
The world is a bar
and you and me are
the ones who make sure
it's ladies night.
Sadly I cannot post the song, but seriously it's good stuff. And it's Neil. Hard to beat that.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Important and Attainable Goals.
I've just returned from practice with Nasty. I have settled on them as the team that I'll play with this season. It's not too intense, I feel good about my skill set vis a vis the rest of the team.
It was a long practice, 3.5 hours and I'm absolutely beat. I'm tired in new and slightly frightening ways. For instance while biking from the fields to my bus stop (about 1 mile) I had to pull over and lay down in the grass, for fear of swerving too much while riding. You may well ask, Aaron, are the practices that intense? Turns out they're moderately intense, but I'm a pretty large schmuck. Again, I went out and played ultimate without first drinking a bunch of water or consuming a single calorie. That's right, today I drank no water nor ate no food. Not smart, not at all. So that leads me to this week's "Important but Attainable Goal" (a feature I imagine will make several appearances).
Goal The First: I will eat 21 meals this week. That's right. I will at least as smart as I was when I was a 3rd grader. If you see me around meal time feel free to remind my of my goal, odds are I'll have forgotten by then.
===============
Wholly random but funny moment: Every time I ride the bus back from practice I have to stiffle a laugh when we pass the Thai restaurant named: Thai Tanic. That's just funny. Every.Single.Time.
It was a long practice, 3.5 hours and I'm absolutely beat. I'm tired in new and slightly frightening ways. For instance while biking from the fields to my bus stop (about 1 mile) I had to pull over and lay down in the grass, for fear of swerving too much while riding. You may well ask, Aaron, are the practices that intense? Turns out they're moderately intense, but I'm a pretty large schmuck. Again, I went out and played ultimate without first drinking a bunch of water or consuming a single calorie. That's right, today I drank no water nor ate no food. Not smart, not at all. So that leads me to this week's "Important but Attainable Goal" (a feature I imagine will make several appearances).
Goal The First: I will eat 21 meals this week. That's right. I will at least as smart as I was when I was a 3rd grader. If you see me around meal time feel free to remind my of my goal, odds are I'll have forgotten by then.
===============
Wholly random but funny moment: Every time I ride the bus back from practice I have to stiffle a laugh when we pass the Thai restaurant named: Thai Tanic. That's just funny. Every.Single.Time.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
When Convenience Isn't
Upon moving to Mt Pleasant I chose to bank with Bank of America. While I'm sure there are many fine reasons for choosing one bank over another, things to do with interest rates, tax abatement, their level of patriotic fervor (they're named for America that's gotta be a lot of points) gross tonnage, and angle of incidence (again, banking, not something I understand) my rationale for picking this bank was much more simple. It was (still is) very close to my apartment, and I'd heard of it. I realize that FDIC means I don't have to worry about getting some pretend bank that will take all my money and go to Mexico, but still, I'd rather bank with a giant corportation. Corporations are required to care about money, right? That's that deal. They suck your will to live and ruin the environment, but they have lots of branches and know how to online bank.
I ended up banking with Bank of America primarily because it was the first bank I passed on my walk to the Metro. I selected an option whereby I am prevented from meeting with tellers except for a once a month visit. I believe it's called menstrual banking, but I could be wrong. Suffice to say I'm an ATM man. I don't have any great desire to talk to tellers or wait in lines. I like the simple ease of an ATM transaction.
There is no such thing at my bank. Using the ATM at my bank has more in common with scratch and win tickets than it does with informed choice. I take out money and it's like a lottery, some days I manage to trick the machine into giving me 20 of my dollars when I want more and others I'll get 40 when I want less. The touch screen is so bad and the buttons so close together that you are basically unable to pick a particular option. I've tried repeatedly to take out, say 80 dollars. I usually don't get that far. I usually end up sucking it up and taking the "Fast Cash $20." I press and tap and drag my finger over the ideal choice and nothing happens. Occasionally I'm permitted to make *a* choice, though it is anyone's guess if it's the choice I want. I've just decided that this is the price I pay. Today in a miracle that deserves consideration under my sainthood application, I was able to get 60 dollars from the machine. Now, in point of fact, I wanted to take out 40, but 60 is pretty close to 40 and it's not like precision is something you'd want from your bank.
I ended up banking with Bank of America primarily because it was the first bank I passed on my walk to the Metro. I selected an option whereby I am prevented from meeting with tellers except for a once a month visit. I believe it's called menstrual banking, but I could be wrong. Suffice to say I'm an ATM man. I don't have any great desire to talk to tellers or wait in lines. I like the simple ease of an ATM transaction.
There is no such thing at my bank. Using the ATM at my bank has more in common with scratch and win tickets than it does with informed choice. I take out money and it's like a lottery, some days I manage to trick the machine into giving me 20 of my dollars when I want more and others I'll get 40 when I want less. The touch screen is so bad and the buttons so close together that you are basically unable to pick a particular option. I've tried repeatedly to take out, say 80 dollars. I usually don't get that far. I usually end up sucking it up and taking the "Fast Cash $20." I press and tap and drag my finger over the ideal choice and nothing happens. Occasionally I'm permitted to make *a* choice, though it is anyone's guess if it's the choice I want. I've just decided that this is the price I pay. Today in a miracle that deserves consideration under my sainthood application, I was able to get 60 dollars from the machine. Now, in point of fact, I wanted to take out 40, but 60 is pretty close to 40 and it's not like precision is something you'd want from your bank.
Friday, July 08, 2005
As of three minutes ago...
I again became a gainfully employed member of American society. I will be working for Belden, Russonello and Stewart and will be a Research Assistant. I don't start until the 18th so I get to spend next week on vacation, which I can assure you is a feeling quite apart from unemployment.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Family of the Familiar
The Fourth of July is a holiday meant to be spent in small towns with little parades where the fire fighters get standing ovations and toss tootsie rolls to little children. But, I now live in DC, so my access to small quaint towns is vastly diminished. The two other major options available to the DC resident are 1) To join the rest of the pasty white plump tourists on the Mall for a giant celebration of the Nation’s traffic and listen to Souza standards while baking or 2) go to extended parties at friends’ houses. Of the options available I knew which was right for me. JKD has had for at least 3 years held a heroic party at his parents’ house in Cabin John (Bethesda). For the past three years I have wanted to attend this party, but my residence in Minnesota, Iowa and Colorado has made it impossible. This year was my first.
I’d heard that the party drew attendees from up and down the east coast, so I expected hundreds of guests. I attempted to add to the mayhem by bringing a friend, Amanda. Amanda worked on Paul’s last campaign with me and we’ve more or less stayed in touch since. I figured she’d enjoy meeting the Oberlin crowd, and they’d like her (she’s from Carleton, which is like a second cousin to Oberlin). We (Amanda and me) were picked up from the Bethesda metro and whisked away to the party.
Upon arrival there were closer to 15 people than the hundreds I’d both expected and feared. Small gatherings with more talking than shouting are much more my speed. This party was just that. A room full bright people sitting around drinking fairly substantial amounts of beer and eating sizeable portions of dead things, this is my kind of party. I should also explain that I love JKD’s parents and their house. Last year when I was out here interviewing I stayed with JKD and his parents. They were so warm and generous. Just wonderful people, and a great house.
The evening progressed, with old friends showing up to sit and chat. I met some new folks. Mainly the evening was just a blur of good spirits (both kinds), good conversation, and an easy pace. Amanda left as did several other friends, and the crew was largely reduced to the Oberlin kids. We imbibed a bit more and I found myself asleep on the hardwood floor—my previously reserved couch spot having been usurped midway through the evening (when I mistakenly chose to get up to use the bathroom).
Sunday dawned with people staggering about fighting off the various and varied effects of hangovers and the other repercussions of late nights and early mornings. We awoke to a giant bowl of pancake batter and blue berries as well as the Times and Post. In turn people would talk quietly, or read the paper, quoting hated sections of this article or that. It was perfectly delightful.
After breakfast and after watching Federer dismantle Roddick I retired to the sun room.. While taking a nap to remove some of the throbbing in my head from a night of sustained sociability and consumption, I awoke to the sound of a houseful of people swarming past me. Without opening my eyes to see who was there, I offered an aphoristic defense of my prone position: “Never trust a man who says he doesn’t nap.” I can’t be sure who heard my wisdom, or say with great certainty that it was said and not just thought, but it remains one of the enduring images of the weekend for me. My complete comfort in the space of JKD’s parent’s home and the easy banter that the place seems to support if not require, is unusual. I’ve slept in many of the rooms and know the weight of the front door as if it were my own. It’s one of the few places beyond my own home where I could easily nap without fear of judgment or scorn. It’s a place like home.
Upon waking it became time to leave for the 2nd party. JKD’s party still had a two days left, but my friend Dave’s fete was a one night only engagement. Dave’s party has long been the second fiddle of the DC Oberlin party scene. While both attract Obies the parties are pretty dissimilar. After another brief nap on the Metro, Dave picked Mooch and I up from the Shady Grove Metro. We pulled up to the house and for the next 2 hours we waited for guests to arrive. In those two hours there were never more than 10 people at the party.
As people began to show up a poker game was organized and our host was sucked into the world of taking his guests’ money. Dave is a strong poker player, and he plays a lot. It was fun to watch, but poker is at its best a tedious game and at its worst the chance to watch a lot of people win or lose 45 cents. Not content to sit and learn, I decided to begin heckling. For those of you not familiar with Frisbee culture, good natured heckling is considered essential. One time tested approach is to play fantasy ultimate. The basic premise is that you pick players whom you think will do well and then count the points that their performance earns you. But to spice it up you can also shout outlandish things to distract and detract from the performance of others, thus improving the chances that your fantasy player will score and not your friend’s. I decided that what this poker game need was some heckling. I began playing fantasy poker. I called Dave to win, and negative (meaning I’d get points if he failed) on some guy named Marty (who makes an appearance in another fantasy moment). Turns out I don’t know how to pick fantasy poker and no one else wanted to play. I was not in a room full of Obies. I was surrounded by swing dancers, talismanic poker players (each player had some ritual or item that he believed would bring success) and bickering environmentalists. Good people, all, but none with whom I share obvious or easy commonality.
As the evening progressed a Frisbee game broke out and Neil Gray showed up. Two very good omens for a party. Neil had been delayed because upon arriving at the rental desk for a car rental agency he’d been informed that they “didn’t have any cars.” They’re responsible for a single product. It’s not like they’re a grocery store and they ran out of lemons, it’s a fucking car rental place without cars. Eventually, hours later, Neil got himself the car he’d reserved and was on his way.
At what proved to the be midway point of the evening (12am) all decorum broke loose Inspired by an oboe playing swing dancer, the party took a decidedly adult turn. By adult I do not mean, responsible, mature or measured, rather I mean behavior that is usually reserved for adults. In point of fact, the party simply became a wild regression to my stereotype of a middle school party but with different choices and different boundaries. Whereas spin the bottle presumes some randomness in the pairing of forced lovers, this party accepted no such accident. This woman, Jewel, began determining who would drink and with whom they would makeout. Gleefully relinquishing their control over body and mind to an external authority the party picked up steam. Along with a few other Obies, and some other tired folks, I sat on the periphery and waited…hoping for a chance to get some sleep. Every so often, like the searchlight from a prison guard tower, Jewel’s gaze would catch mine and I’d expect to be forced into some tryst. Turns out I did a pretty solid job of indicating that I was in no mood for any of this. I have no problem with consenting adults doing nearly anything. The problem I have is when it becomes inappropriate to avoid participating. I didn’t want to be licked or kissed by anyone in that room, and it seems like that’s just as valid a personal preference as the opposite desire. As this giant multicelled organism called “Dave’s Party” began to absorb and writhe about, I found a likeminded soul and began commenting. It was not unlike watching infomercials when I was younger. There’s something refreshing about being able to think quickly and mock savagely. I often feel a bit like an outsider, and rarely more so than at this party. All in all I felt like a modern day Margaret Mead watching the mating ritual of people I only pretended to fully understand.
I began offering color commentary, noting which person was most likely to be groped next. Finally it hit me, this is the perfect situation for a new game, "fantasy-making-out". I began to bet on which persons would, after the forced kissing, make out with eachother. In the ultimate coup de grace of this newly formed sport, I correctly predicted a three-person-kissing-orgy (the aforementioned Marty doing his best to place himself directly in the line of desire between two women). This group of folks placed themselves under the dining room table. Later they moved, tastefully to the basement and the pool table. Events after this and the varying degrees to which people maintained possession of their clothes seem beyond dignity to mention. Suffice to say, this party was not my speed.
Finally at 4:30am I found both sufficient quiet and floorspace to go to bed. Sadly, as ever, I was unable to sleep in, so at 8:19am I was wide awake. I went for a morning run, which made me feel like the biggest badass ever. Here was this house of stumble down drunk folks sleeping off a night of debauchery and I was running. In retrospect, it was just a matter of choices, people got out of the party exactly what they needed. I needed to feel, arrogantly and probably defensively superior, and others needed to feel loved or at least attractive. Everyone won, no one lost. But, I was tired of their company (Dave and Neil notwithstanding) and commandeered a ride to the metro to rejoin JKD’s party.
Upon returning to JKD’s party for Monday’s festivities, I encountered seven remaining party goers, each looking as though the previous evening had exacted some gastro-intestinal revenge for unspoken but well understood transgressions. JKD explained that several party goers the night before had experienced “a Roman incident.” I laughed so hard at hearing this term that I myself nearly had “a Roman incident” or “a reversal of fortune” the other wonderful euphemism coined the night before. Here’s to unrelentingly witty people willing to tackle the most base of human moments with some wry humor. I guess in some ways that was the difference between the two parties. The one was filled with people acting out impulses with little regard for the appearance and seemingly no self awareness, while JKD’s party was unapologetically self critical and overtly self aware, even as the party goers drank to excess. The joy was at least in part in the analysis, in the recognition even as they experienced reversed fortunes. That awareness buys you a lot of points in my book. The rest of JKD’s party was calm. People sat around, barbeque was had, in general it was my ideal of relaxation.
I never really attended family reunions growing up. When I hang out with people from Oberlin (specifically friends of JKD and mine) I feel at ease. I miss that feeling from time to time, and am grateful that in DC I’ve found it can be reclaimed more often. It really feels like a reunion with people who while they aren’t family are certainly familiar.
I’d heard that the party drew attendees from up and down the east coast, so I expected hundreds of guests. I attempted to add to the mayhem by bringing a friend, Amanda. Amanda worked on Paul’s last campaign with me and we’ve more or less stayed in touch since. I figured she’d enjoy meeting the Oberlin crowd, and they’d like her (she’s from Carleton, which is like a second cousin to Oberlin). We (Amanda and me) were picked up from the Bethesda metro and whisked away to the party.
Upon arrival there were closer to 15 people than the hundreds I’d both expected and feared. Small gatherings with more talking than shouting are much more my speed. This party was just that. A room full bright people sitting around drinking fairly substantial amounts of beer and eating sizeable portions of dead things, this is my kind of party. I should also explain that I love JKD’s parents and their house. Last year when I was out here interviewing I stayed with JKD and his parents. They were so warm and generous. Just wonderful people, and a great house.
The evening progressed, with old friends showing up to sit and chat. I met some new folks. Mainly the evening was just a blur of good spirits (both kinds), good conversation, and an easy pace. Amanda left as did several other friends, and the crew was largely reduced to the Oberlin kids. We imbibed a bit more and I found myself asleep on the hardwood floor—my previously reserved couch spot having been usurped midway through the evening (when I mistakenly chose to get up to use the bathroom).
Sunday dawned with people staggering about fighting off the various and varied effects of hangovers and the other repercussions of late nights and early mornings. We awoke to a giant bowl of pancake batter and blue berries as well as the Times and Post. In turn people would talk quietly, or read the paper, quoting hated sections of this article or that. It was perfectly delightful.
After breakfast and after watching Federer dismantle Roddick I retired to the sun room.. While taking a nap to remove some of the throbbing in my head from a night of sustained sociability and consumption, I awoke to the sound of a houseful of people swarming past me. Without opening my eyes to see who was there, I offered an aphoristic defense of my prone position: “Never trust a man who says he doesn’t nap.” I can’t be sure who heard my wisdom, or say with great certainty that it was said and not just thought, but it remains one of the enduring images of the weekend for me. My complete comfort in the space of JKD’s parent’s home and the easy banter that the place seems to support if not require, is unusual. I’ve slept in many of the rooms and know the weight of the front door as if it were my own. It’s one of the few places beyond my own home where I could easily nap without fear of judgment or scorn. It’s a place like home.
Upon waking it became time to leave for the 2nd party. JKD’s party still had a two days left, but my friend Dave’s fete was a one night only engagement. Dave’s party has long been the second fiddle of the DC Oberlin party scene. While both attract Obies the parties are pretty dissimilar. After another brief nap on the Metro, Dave picked Mooch and I up from the Shady Grove Metro. We pulled up to the house and for the next 2 hours we waited for guests to arrive. In those two hours there were never more than 10 people at the party.
As people began to show up a poker game was organized and our host was sucked into the world of taking his guests’ money. Dave is a strong poker player, and he plays a lot. It was fun to watch, but poker is at its best a tedious game and at its worst the chance to watch a lot of people win or lose 45 cents. Not content to sit and learn, I decided to begin heckling. For those of you not familiar with Frisbee culture, good natured heckling is considered essential. One time tested approach is to play fantasy ultimate. The basic premise is that you pick players whom you think will do well and then count the points that their performance earns you. But to spice it up you can also shout outlandish things to distract and detract from the performance of others, thus improving the chances that your fantasy player will score and not your friend’s. I decided that what this poker game need was some heckling. I began playing fantasy poker. I called Dave to win, and negative (meaning I’d get points if he failed) on some guy named Marty (who makes an appearance in another fantasy moment). Turns out I don’t know how to pick fantasy poker and no one else wanted to play. I was not in a room full of Obies. I was surrounded by swing dancers, talismanic poker players (each player had some ritual or item that he believed would bring success) and bickering environmentalists. Good people, all, but none with whom I share obvious or easy commonality.
As the evening progressed a Frisbee game broke out and Neil Gray showed up. Two very good omens for a party. Neil had been delayed because upon arriving at the rental desk for a car rental agency he’d been informed that they “didn’t have any cars.” They’re responsible for a single product. It’s not like they’re a grocery store and they ran out of lemons, it’s a fucking car rental place without cars. Eventually, hours later, Neil got himself the car he’d reserved and was on his way.
At what proved to the be midway point of the evening (12am) all decorum broke loose Inspired by an oboe playing swing dancer, the party took a decidedly adult turn. By adult I do not mean, responsible, mature or measured, rather I mean behavior that is usually reserved for adults. In point of fact, the party simply became a wild regression to my stereotype of a middle school party but with different choices and different boundaries. Whereas spin the bottle presumes some randomness in the pairing of forced lovers, this party accepted no such accident. This woman, Jewel, began determining who would drink and with whom they would makeout. Gleefully relinquishing their control over body and mind to an external authority the party picked up steam. Along with a few other Obies, and some other tired folks, I sat on the periphery and waited…hoping for a chance to get some sleep. Every so often, like the searchlight from a prison guard tower, Jewel’s gaze would catch mine and I’d expect to be forced into some tryst. Turns out I did a pretty solid job of indicating that I was in no mood for any of this. I have no problem with consenting adults doing nearly anything. The problem I have is when it becomes inappropriate to avoid participating. I didn’t want to be licked or kissed by anyone in that room, and it seems like that’s just as valid a personal preference as the opposite desire. As this giant multicelled organism called “Dave’s Party” began to absorb and writhe about, I found a likeminded soul and began commenting. It was not unlike watching infomercials when I was younger. There’s something refreshing about being able to think quickly and mock savagely. I often feel a bit like an outsider, and rarely more so than at this party. All in all I felt like a modern day Margaret Mead watching the mating ritual of people I only pretended to fully understand.
I began offering color commentary, noting which person was most likely to be groped next. Finally it hit me, this is the perfect situation for a new game, "fantasy-making-out". I began to bet on which persons would, after the forced kissing, make out with eachother. In the ultimate coup de grace of this newly formed sport, I correctly predicted a three-person-kissing-orgy (the aforementioned Marty doing his best to place himself directly in the line of desire between two women). This group of folks placed themselves under the dining room table. Later they moved, tastefully to the basement and the pool table. Events after this and the varying degrees to which people maintained possession of their clothes seem beyond dignity to mention. Suffice to say, this party was not my speed.
Finally at 4:30am I found both sufficient quiet and floorspace to go to bed. Sadly, as ever, I was unable to sleep in, so at 8:19am I was wide awake. I went for a morning run, which made me feel like the biggest badass ever. Here was this house of stumble down drunk folks sleeping off a night of debauchery and I was running. In retrospect, it was just a matter of choices, people got out of the party exactly what they needed. I needed to feel, arrogantly and probably defensively superior, and others needed to feel loved or at least attractive. Everyone won, no one lost. But, I was tired of their company (Dave and Neil notwithstanding) and commandeered a ride to the metro to rejoin JKD’s party.
Upon returning to JKD’s party for Monday’s festivities, I encountered seven remaining party goers, each looking as though the previous evening had exacted some gastro-intestinal revenge for unspoken but well understood transgressions. JKD explained that several party goers the night before had experienced “a Roman incident.” I laughed so hard at hearing this term that I myself nearly had “a Roman incident” or “a reversal of fortune” the other wonderful euphemism coined the night before. Here’s to unrelentingly witty people willing to tackle the most base of human moments with some wry humor. I guess in some ways that was the difference between the two parties. The one was filled with people acting out impulses with little regard for the appearance and seemingly no self awareness, while JKD’s party was unapologetically self critical and overtly self aware, even as the party goers drank to excess. The joy was at least in part in the analysis, in the recognition even as they experienced reversed fortunes. That awareness buys you a lot of points in my book. The rest of JKD’s party was calm. People sat around, barbeque was had, in general it was my ideal of relaxation.
I never really attended family reunions growing up. When I hang out with people from Oberlin (specifically friends of JKD and mine) I feel at ease. I miss that feeling from time to time, and am grateful that in DC I’ve found it can be reclaimed more often. It really feels like a reunion with people who while they aren’t family are certainly familiar.
Friday, July 01, 2005
What am I missing here?
On my way home after purchasing new shoes (fancy white running shoes valued at 89.99) I stopped by the Mt. Pleasant 7-11 and bought a bottle of Sprite. While waiting in line I was josteled by a man who was staring at the items behind the counter. Nothing violent, just a slight bump. He reacted as if he'd headbutted Don Corleone, he was apologetic and concilliatory, moving away from me never making full eye contact. Immediately I knew why he was in the store.
He was buying condoms.
A second later my suspicion was confirmed. This is something I've never quite understood. I'm sometimes made uncomfortable by the frequency with which sex is considered a common topic. But as far as I can tell I'm in the minority here, for most men talking about, bragging about and intimating that they've recently had sex is the most prevalent topic of conversation. With all the annoying ego and bravado that comes with men and their talking about sex, why is buying condoms not some celebrated event. It's practically a declaration of impending sexual congress. Wouldn't you figure that that guy would be walking in like the (bad pun) cock of the walk? No, instead he's sheepishly there and barely able to utter his request within an audible decible level. Anyone have thoughts here?
He was buying condoms.
A second later my suspicion was confirmed. This is something I've never quite understood. I'm sometimes made uncomfortable by the frequency with which sex is considered a common topic. But as far as I can tell I'm in the minority here, for most men talking about, bragging about and intimating that they've recently had sex is the most prevalent topic of conversation. With all the annoying ego and bravado that comes with men and their talking about sex, why is buying condoms not some celebrated event. It's practically a declaration of impending sexual congress. Wouldn't you figure that that guy would be walking in like the (bad pun) cock of the walk? No, instead he's sheepishly there and barely able to utter his request within an audible decible level. Anyone have thoughts here?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)