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?
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Something worth watching from the porch
I figure thunderstorms are the things I miss most about summer in the Midwest. There is this perverse secondary longing for the scent of deepwoods off (all DEET-y and acrid). But mainly it's thunderstorms. The Midwest is a place without the luxury of a lot of topographic variation. It's twiggy to the West's tyra banks. But we make do, and we get by and it's fine. But there is nothing to compare with a full on, come-to-Jesus Midwestern thunderstorm. These are phenomenal, catastrophic, mesmerizing events. We don't have mountains, but the rest of the country doesn't seem to get the kinds of clouds that deliver a good summer storm. I'm talking about lightning every few seconds, thunder that causes you to wonder about the status of your fillings. None of this pansy stuff, I'm talking epic,John Ford-esqu, Lawrence of Arabia, Great Wall of China storms, storms with clouds like Kim Jong-Il's bouffant and a similarly sized ego. Big, I say.
Now, in fairness to my newest home, last night, DC got a good storm. Nothing great. But very good. There was some drenching rain (as my nearly ruined sneakers, books, socks and phone can attest...all are recovering nicely this morning), some wind that seemed to come from directly above rather than in any cardinal direction. There was a particularly wonderful thunderclap and some good lightning. It was nice, it nearly satisfied my hunger for bigger storms. But man I do miss a great Ohio or Kansas storm. Now those are something worth watching from the porch.
Now, in fairness to my newest home, last night, DC got a good storm. Nothing great. But very good. There was some drenching rain (as my nearly ruined sneakers, books, socks and phone can attest...all are recovering nicely this morning), some wind that seemed to come from directly above rather than in any cardinal direction. There was a particularly wonderful thunderclap and some good lightning. It was nice, it nearly satisfied my hunger for bigger storms. But man I do miss a great Ohio or Kansas storm. Now those are something worth watching from the porch.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Beware all enterprises...
Thursday was my first foray into the world of temping. Since it’s one of, if not *the*, largest segments of the American workforce these days it seems only right that I come to learn what it’s all about. If today is any indication it’s about sterility and mind crushing boredom interspersed with moments of loathing for your “coworkers.” I’m not sure what sort of confidentiality agreement exists with temp workers so I’ll not mention the firm nor the specific task I was assigned. I arrived 15 minutes early at a large office building. The elevator doors opened a painfully stereotypically office. The firm does advertising, and seems to have come out of a box itself. It seems categorically impossible to “think out of the box” when your office seems composed of every element associated with a 90s startup. Exposed beams, frosted teal glass and brushed steel were in no short supply. Everything looked kind of like a SNL skit of what it actually was.
I, myself, looked quite a bit like a caricature of a 20 something go getter. Hair adorned with some product. I was decked out in the requisite French blue shirt and dark suit. I swear the city of DC must have some arrangement with all the local newscasters throughout the country to repurpose all their old French blue shirts. Truly DC, and more specifically NW and Capitol Hill are where French blue shirts are put out to stud. I have a number of these shirts, but I’m told the new shirt one must own is “Politico pink.” I can’t say I have one of these, and I’m therefore prompted to recall the Thoreau quotation: “Beware all enterprises that require new clothes.” But I digress.
I checked in with the firm’s receptionist, informing her I was there to see Ms. X. Ms. X was paged and was no where to be found. I was offered coffee and water and a seat. I declined all but the seat. The waiting room had several televisions bolted to the wall in something that resembled the entertainment center I’d imagine dominatrixes would favor. It was all clips and bolts and metal. What it lacked in elegance and line it more than made up for in raw assurance that “by God, these tvs will never move.”
Another receptionist arrived. The two women began an amiable chat (with eachother, I was largely, and thankfully ignored). I only overheard portions of the talk, but the key sentence was clearly: “Rue McClanahan seemed to expect more from our family reunion. Not more people—just more.” I must admit this was the first time I’d ever been forced to consider the numerous people to whom Blanche from the Golden Girls must be related. There’s something mesmerizing and wonderful about the idea of Rue McClanahan having this receptionist for a 3rd cousin. Minor celebrities are people too, but I wonder just how must disapproval people in the family are willing to take from the slutty Golden Girl. I guess no one retells the story about how their Aunt Mabel doesn’t really like the lemonade they serve at the reunion, but if Rue McClanahan doesn’t think the brats are quite as good as last years’ it’s story fodder. Though in fairness, I wouldn’t be writing this post if the 1st receptionist was talking about her Aunt Mabel.
When Miss X finally arrived I was led through fancy security doors, which I was assured would not allow me reentry if I left, so it was best to stay here. The hallway opened up into a large soul killing room filled with cubicles and side offices marked with signs for printer station “elephant” and the like. I asked about the day's task which I’d been led to believe would be retyping a training manual into Word. Turns out it wasn’t this task, though the sigh of relief I felt was short lived. I was to type meeting notes into Word. So instead of a finished and legible document I was retyping 86 pages of scribbles into various documents. And so I typed. And typed. Turns out spending seven straight hours typing is not only a horrible way to spend seven hours, but it’s awfully destructive to one’s will to live and shoulders. After my stint of typing I was informed that I could leave early, since I’d finished early. It was then that I realized, I was working by the hour, and that were I more cagey and wise I’d have taken my time. Instead, I was paid for one hour less than I was booked and left with a sense of perspective. I know I need to get a real job, for the prospect of another day in the glassed in hell of the temp world is demoralizing.
I, myself, looked quite a bit like a caricature of a 20 something go getter. Hair adorned with some product. I was decked out in the requisite French blue shirt and dark suit. I swear the city of DC must have some arrangement with all the local newscasters throughout the country to repurpose all their old French blue shirts. Truly DC, and more specifically NW and Capitol Hill are where French blue shirts are put out to stud. I have a number of these shirts, but I’m told the new shirt one must own is “Politico pink.” I can’t say I have one of these, and I’m therefore prompted to recall the Thoreau quotation: “Beware all enterprises that require new clothes.” But I digress.
I checked in with the firm’s receptionist, informing her I was there to see Ms. X. Ms. X was paged and was no where to be found. I was offered coffee and water and a seat. I declined all but the seat. The waiting room had several televisions bolted to the wall in something that resembled the entertainment center I’d imagine dominatrixes would favor. It was all clips and bolts and metal. What it lacked in elegance and line it more than made up for in raw assurance that “by God, these tvs will never move.”
Another receptionist arrived. The two women began an amiable chat (with eachother, I was largely, and thankfully ignored). I only overheard portions of the talk, but the key sentence was clearly: “Rue McClanahan seemed to expect more from our family reunion. Not more people—just more.” I must admit this was the first time I’d ever been forced to consider the numerous people to whom Blanche from the Golden Girls must be related. There’s something mesmerizing and wonderful about the idea of Rue McClanahan having this receptionist for a 3rd cousin. Minor celebrities are people too, but I wonder just how must disapproval people in the family are willing to take from the slutty Golden Girl. I guess no one retells the story about how their Aunt Mabel doesn’t really like the lemonade they serve at the reunion, but if Rue McClanahan doesn’t think the brats are quite as good as last years’ it’s story fodder. Though in fairness, I wouldn’t be writing this post if the 1st receptionist was talking about her Aunt Mabel.
When Miss X finally arrived I was led through fancy security doors, which I was assured would not allow me reentry if I left, so it was best to stay here. The hallway opened up into a large soul killing room filled with cubicles and side offices marked with signs for printer station “elephant” and the like. I asked about the day's task which I’d been led to believe would be retyping a training manual into Word. Turns out it wasn’t this task, though the sigh of relief I felt was short lived. I was to type meeting notes into Word. So instead of a finished and legible document I was retyping 86 pages of scribbles into various documents. And so I typed. And typed. Turns out spending seven straight hours typing is not only a horrible way to spend seven hours, but it’s awfully destructive to one’s will to live and shoulders. After my stint of typing I was informed that I could leave early, since I’d finished early. It was then that I realized, I was working by the hour, and that were I more cagey and wise I’d have taken my time. Instead, I was paid for one hour less than I was booked and left with a sense of perspective. I know I need to get a real job, for the prospect of another day in the glassed in hell of the temp world is demoralizing.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Hot town...
Saturday was warm. I'm told that it was a preview of months to come. I'm not quite sure how I grew up in weather like this. Ohio is stiflingly warm. I used to catch a full game in weather much warmer than this, and gleefully wish for more. Yesterday I found myself doubled over like the aging weekend warrior at the full court basketball game. I was winded and weakened.
I met Megan and a bunch of Yalies (eli's maybe) and affiliated friends for frisbee at the Mall. No more than 20 steps into the game I was doubled over. I am not now, nor have I ever accurately claimed to be, in elite physical condition. However, this was far beyond the pale. I was so tired/winded/sick that I was struggling to hold up the weight of my head. As a matter of course when you find your physical strength comparable to that of an infant you know something is wrong. While I'd lost my ability to easily hold my head's weight, I retained object permanence. So I was able to realize that people were running past me for scores. It was a wonderful confluence of events. Eventually we broke for water and I began to feel more restored. I'm not sure if I'm sick (seems most likely) or if I'm not getting enough iron or sugar or calories in general. Even though it was maliciously warm out, I've got to believe I'm in better shape than that.
As a safety measure I've taken to bringing water with me on my little trips around town. I figure no matter what's wrong with me, it cannot be from too much water. That's right I've adopted the approach of Oberlin's voice majors. Soon I'll wear a scarf and pretend not to recognize you.
In direct contrast to the "hotter than a match head" days, the last few evenings in Washington have been refreshingly cool. On Saturday I joined Dan and Emmet at Dan's apartment for some tasty and cost effective Chinese food. We originally intended to make our way over to the Nationals game but the heat and fatigue of frisbee (me) and soccer (Emmet) made movement unappealing and quite unlikely. Instead we watched a documentary about IRA prisoners and later a particularly boring 15 minute Buster Keaton piece. (I like Keaton, but this was abysmal). It was at this point that I found myself being introduced to Grand Theft Auto. It's a rare thing to find yourself so torn between repulsion and compulsion. There is something so appealing about transgression, something wonderful about complete and utter lawlessness. I found it particularly awkward when I'd unexpectedly shout support of Emmet's decision to run over a passerby with a car. It is a game that seems to be directed with a sniper's precision at the 20 something male id. I half expected to see S.Freud as the creative consultant, and while I can't say we managed to get to the part of the game wherein kill your father, I don't for a moment doubt there is such a part.
Following our crime spree against the pixelated peoples of the world, we left Eastern Market for a friend/acquaintance's party. It will come as no great surprise to those who know me that I was not in this case, "dressed to impress." In fact I'm not sure whether I am capable of dressing in a fashion where anyone other than those who know me would be impressed, years of low expectations make it easier to "impress." Not having heard in advance that we were going out to a party (I'd dressed to watch soccer and baseball) I was decked out in a small Dean shirt and cargo shorts. I was, in short, pretty unappealing at least to the other folks at that party. Turns out, they were relatively unappealing to me as well. At the party I found what I'd always imagined to be the scene in a Georgetown bar--muscled men, and busty women in clothes designed to emphasis these attributes whose prime concern was discussing the means by which they were successful members of DC society. I spoke briefly with a man who works on the Hill for a Republican, not because he shares his beliefs but because he wants to get a portfolio assembled. Previously he'd worked as a consultant for Pfizer. He's a nice enough guy, but we honestly had only about 5 minutes worth of conversational commonality. So that commonality exhausted I searched for other people with whom to talk.
Something about a party with lots of cool DC type people tends to set me back. I just don't know what I'm supposed to do here, it's the same thing in bars. I don't tend to find women all that attractive until I've been able to talk to them. Independent of conversation I'm just rarely that impressed, and certainly without conversation I am rarely impressive. I thrive in the quiet living room setting not the mosh pit setting. It's like birds. If you don't have the nicest plumage you better have a nice call. Conversation. In the pseudo evolutionary world of dating it's my comparative advantage.
After a bit of frustration with the party, and a need to just be alone for a while I walked home. I love this. I have come to adore the ability to walk home. I've recently, on several occasions, chosen to walk home over taking car rides, the metro and buses. I like the chance to think. No with whom to talk. Just the act of repeatedly moving myself one step closer to my bed. There is something reassuring about my own pace, my own thoughts, my own direction. I once worried that living in a city would be too hectic for me, that I'd be swallowed up by a wall of worries, neurosis and an inability to get any sort of distance from the enormity of place and population. I think in some ways I've found incredible solace by living in a city. I've found a way to carve out space for my thoughts without becoming a wholly owned subsidiary of the doubt and anxiety they usually produce.
I met Megan and a bunch of Yalies (eli's maybe) and affiliated friends for frisbee at the Mall. No more than 20 steps into the game I was doubled over. I am not now, nor have I ever accurately claimed to be, in elite physical condition. However, this was far beyond the pale. I was so tired/winded/sick that I was struggling to hold up the weight of my head. As a matter of course when you find your physical strength comparable to that of an infant you know something is wrong. While I'd lost my ability to easily hold my head's weight, I retained object permanence. So I was able to realize that people were running past me for scores. It was a wonderful confluence of events. Eventually we broke for water and I began to feel more restored. I'm not sure if I'm sick (seems most likely) or if I'm not getting enough iron or sugar or calories in general. Even though it was maliciously warm out, I've got to believe I'm in better shape than that.
As a safety measure I've taken to bringing water with me on my little trips around town. I figure no matter what's wrong with me, it cannot be from too much water. That's right I've adopted the approach of Oberlin's voice majors. Soon I'll wear a scarf and pretend not to recognize you.
In direct contrast to the "hotter than a match head" days, the last few evenings in Washington have been refreshingly cool. On Saturday I joined Dan and Emmet at Dan's apartment for some tasty and cost effective Chinese food. We originally intended to make our way over to the Nationals game but the heat and fatigue of frisbee (me) and soccer (Emmet) made movement unappealing and quite unlikely. Instead we watched a documentary about IRA prisoners and later a particularly boring 15 minute Buster Keaton piece. (I like Keaton, but this was abysmal). It was at this point that I found myself being introduced to Grand Theft Auto. It's a rare thing to find yourself so torn between repulsion and compulsion. There is something so appealing about transgression, something wonderful about complete and utter lawlessness. I found it particularly awkward when I'd unexpectedly shout support of Emmet's decision to run over a passerby with a car. It is a game that seems to be directed with a sniper's precision at the 20 something male id. I half expected to see S.Freud as the creative consultant, and while I can't say we managed to get to the part of the game wherein kill your father, I don't for a moment doubt there is such a part.
Following our crime spree against the pixelated peoples of the world, we left Eastern Market for a friend/acquaintance's party. It will come as no great surprise to those who know me that I was not in this case, "dressed to impress." In fact I'm not sure whether I am capable of dressing in a fashion where anyone other than those who know me would be impressed, years of low expectations make it easier to "impress." Not having heard in advance that we were going out to a party (I'd dressed to watch soccer and baseball) I was decked out in a small Dean shirt and cargo shorts. I was, in short, pretty unappealing at least to the other folks at that party. Turns out, they were relatively unappealing to me as well. At the party I found what I'd always imagined to be the scene in a Georgetown bar--muscled men, and busty women in clothes designed to emphasis these attributes whose prime concern was discussing the means by which they were successful members of DC society. I spoke briefly with a man who works on the Hill for a Republican, not because he shares his beliefs but because he wants to get a portfolio assembled. Previously he'd worked as a consultant for Pfizer. He's a nice enough guy, but we honestly had only about 5 minutes worth of conversational commonality. So that commonality exhausted I searched for other people with whom to talk.
Something about a party with lots of cool DC type people tends to set me back. I just don't know what I'm supposed to do here, it's the same thing in bars. I don't tend to find women all that attractive until I've been able to talk to them. Independent of conversation I'm just rarely that impressed, and certainly without conversation I am rarely impressive. I thrive in the quiet living room setting not the mosh pit setting. It's like birds. If you don't have the nicest plumage you better have a nice call. Conversation. In the pseudo evolutionary world of dating it's my comparative advantage.
After a bit of frustration with the party, and a need to just be alone for a while I walked home. I love this. I have come to adore the ability to walk home. I've recently, on several occasions, chosen to walk home over taking car rides, the metro and buses. I like the chance to think. No with whom to talk. Just the act of repeatedly moving myself one step closer to my bed. There is something reassuring about my own pace, my own thoughts, my own direction. I once worried that living in a city would be too hectic for me, that I'd be swallowed up by a wall of worries, neurosis and an inability to get any sort of distance from the enormity of place and population. I think in some ways I've found incredible solace by living in a city. I've found a way to carve out space for my thoughts without becoming a wholly owned subsidiary of the doubt and anxiety they usually produce.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
In Pursuit of the Trivial
You'd think that the promise of alchohol would be enough. But no, there are all kinds of gimic that bars use to gain patronage. I understand sports bars. Sports require little sobreity to follow, and judging by the manner in which they are cheered in Europe, it appears as though intoxication is the keystone to fandom. I'd venture to guess that soccer and rugby really benefit when viewed through a bit of beer haze.
By the same token I understand singles bars. In fact of all the bar gimics this makes the most sense. Accumulate drunken people interested in the meeting other drunken people--that's just giving the people what they want. Though, it feels just a step more romantic that when I'd watch my sister take her Barbie and Ken doll and smash them together and make kissing noises. Come to think of it, I guess that's sort of the ideal model for most of these bars.
But then there's trivia. Apparently not content to simply lure people with the promise of drunken sex or late inning home runs, some bars offer a chance to compete at trivia. There is something truly wonderous about the idea of drunken men falling from their bar stools to dicker over how many books of the Bible begin with the letter G. Now drinking has never made me more competitive--sleepy sure, but competitive, not so much.
A couple of Monday's ago I went with friends to Fado's pub quiz. Fado is a chain of "authentic Irish pubs" across the country. There was one in Seattle, and I'm sure there's one near you as well. Fado's is sort of like TGI Fridays but for the Irish fetishizing set. Instead of having sleds and alligators on the wall Fado's has artificially antiqued photos of old Irish men tending to sheep along rough hewn walls. I don't think Emmet recognized any of his relations, but, in all fairness, it was relatively dark.
Back to the actual trivia. Teams are asked to name themselves something topical and humorous. For instance "Medical Marijuana Ruled Illegal by *High* Court", "Maybe if she converts to Scientology he'll convert to heterosexuality", etc. Ours was "I've been touched by a smooth criminal". Eh. What we lacked in humour we hoped to make up for in breadth and depth of knowledge. There was Andrew (MIT grad, senate researcher), Janet (researcher for Dean), Emmet (foreign capitals, Irish things), Dan Craig (Harvard, space lasers, everything else) Erica (Emmet's friend, and a teammate on his soccer team with Will Singer) and Me. Erica is studying to become a vet so if we got a whole bunch of questions about horse tranquilizers or how come dogs pace before they sleep...we were set. Turns out those were not the categories. Erica seemed nice and after the quiz oddly enough asked me if I'd write a posting about it. (Someone had mentioned this blog). I'd never had a "request" before. Wasn't sure if she was mocking me or not. Either way, who am I to care. But it was sort of intimidating; it's one thing to assume people might read what I write, it's another all together to think that people want to read it. (though I'm not sure if she reads the blog or just was interested that it existed in the first place).
In general the questions at this quiz were fairly easy. There is something frustrating about a quiz where routinely getting 7 out of 10 puts you in 6th place.
This quiz was much easier than the one in Seattle where I routinely felt like a blithering idiot. Here, I was reminded of some of my success at In The Know. I can't recall if I've posted about ITK, but if not that may warrant a posting later. It's one of the strongest arguments for would be dates and friends to avoid me--for fear of the taint of complete and unrepenting nerd-itude.
Overall we did alright. We beat more teams than beat us. But there is something disappointing about finishing in the top third--you are easily able to count the questions which cost you victory.
There were a few interesting sections of the quiz. There was a match the painter to the name of his paintings (sadly all men). We were pretty good at this. But in these cases when you don't know the quality of logic goes something like this: "Doesn't XYZ seem sorta like something that Raphael would name a painting." One of the titles was The Kiss. Which was supposed to be matched with Munch, but it's really hard to avoid the impulse to put that with Klimt (though Gustav was not a choice). The other nice innovation was another visual identification section. It included things like the NATO flag, J Lo, and other famous things. I would like to say that for a straight male I was right in there with Erica and Janet discussing whether or not some generic looking blonde woman was Kimberly Stewart. I even made a few Nicole Ritchie jokes. So we'll count that as reason two why would-be friends might want to reconsider. That's right, I know about stupid pop culture. And until recently could name a good deal of the cast members to various seasons of the Real World (though I must confess to great ignorance over the names of Road Rulers). We came in search of trivial distractions and after a collective 18 Harps we were no more intelligent, slightly more drunk and no richer. Though I guess we got what we paid for....trivial things.
By the same token I understand singles bars. In fact of all the bar gimics this makes the most sense. Accumulate drunken people interested in the meeting other drunken people--that's just giving the people what they want. Though, it feels just a step more romantic that when I'd watch my sister take her Barbie and Ken doll and smash them together and make kissing noises. Come to think of it, I guess that's sort of the ideal model for most of these bars.
But then there's trivia. Apparently not content to simply lure people with the promise of drunken sex or late inning home runs, some bars offer a chance to compete at trivia. There is something truly wonderous about the idea of drunken men falling from their bar stools to dicker over how many books of the Bible begin with the letter G. Now drinking has never made me more competitive--sleepy sure, but competitive, not so much.
A couple of Monday's ago I went with friends to Fado's pub quiz. Fado is a chain of "authentic Irish pubs" across the country. There was one in Seattle, and I'm sure there's one near you as well. Fado's is sort of like TGI Fridays but for the Irish fetishizing set. Instead of having sleds and alligators on the wall Fado's has artificially antiqued photos of old Irish men tending to sheep along rough hewn walls. I don't think Emmet recognized any of his relations, but, in all fairness, it was relatively dark.
Back to the actual trivia. Teams are asked to name themselves something topical and humorous. For instance "Medical Marijuana Ruled Illegal by *High* Court", "Maybe if she converts to Scientology he'll convert to heterosexuality", etc. Ours was "I've been touched by a smooth criminal". Eh. What we lacked in humour we hoped to make up for in breadth and depth of knowledge. There was Andrew (MIT grad, senate researcher), Janet (researcher for Dean), Emmet (foreign capitals, Irish things), Dan Craig (Harvard, space lasers, everything else) Erica (Emmet's friend, and a teammate on his soccer team with Will Singer) and Me. Erica is studying to become a vet so if we got a whole bunch of questions about horse tranquilizers or how come dogs pace before they sleep...we were set. Turns out those were not the categories. Erica seemed nice and after the quiz oddly enough asked me if I'd write a posting about it. (Someone had mentioned this blog). I'd never had a "request" before. Wasn't sure if she was mocking me or not. Either way, who am I to care. But it was sort of intimidating; it's one thing to assume people might read what I write, it's another all together to think that people want to read it. (though I'm not sure if she reads the blog or just was interested that it existed in the first place).
In general the questions at this quiz were fairly easy. There is something frustrating about a quiz where routinely getting 7 out of 10 puts you in 6th place.
This quiz was much easier than the one in Seattle where I routinely felt like a blithering idiot. Here, I was reminded of some of my success at In The Know. I can't recall if I've posted about ITK, but if not that may warrant a posting later. It's one of the strongest arguments for would be dates and friends to avoid me--for fear of the taint of complete and unrepenting nerd-itude.
Overall we did alright. We beat more teams than beat us. But there is something disappointing about finishing in the top third--you are easily able to count the questions which cost you victory.
There were a few interesting sections of the quiz. There was a match the painter to the name of his paintings (sadly all men). We were pretty good at this. But in these cases when you don't know the quality of logic goes something like this: "Doesn't XYZ seem sorta like something that Raphael would name a painting." One of the titles was The Kiss. Which was supposed to be matched with Munch, but it's really hard to avoid the impulse to put that with Klimt (though Gustav was not a choice). The other nice innovation was another visual identification section. It included things like the NATO flag, J Lo, and other famous things. I would like to say that for a straight male I was right in there with Erica and Janet discussing whether or not some generic looking blonde woman was Kimberly Stewart. I even made a few Nicole Ritchie jokes. So we'll count that as reason two why would-be friends might want to reconsider. That's right, I know about stupid pop culture. And until recently could name a good deal of the cast members to various seasons of the Real World (though I must confess to great ignorance over the names of Road Rulers). We came in search of trivial distractions and after a collective 18 Harps we were no more intelligent, slightly more drunk and no richer. Though I guess we got what we paid for....trivial things.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Fun New Features
So while wandering down the backroads of the internet I came across some code that allows me to generate a random Silver Jew's lyric at the top of this page. How spiffy is that. I think I loaded about 25 lyrics into the code so you shouldn't see the same quote all the time. I'll add more as I fall in love with new lyrics.
Side note, Silver Jews will be releasing an album in July...for the 5 of you who also listen to SJ this is good news indeed. Though it's bad news for my little ipod which is already at max capacity. So some other songs are going to have to be relegated.
Further changes. I've started using flickr. That's the photo collage on the right side. If you click there you can see a bunch of photos I've put online. You can also search by tag. For instance you can search for all of my frisbee photos or all of my wyoming photos, stuff like that. I'm not sure when I'll upload more, hopefully soon.
If you have suggestions for better ways to format the page I'm all ears. I'm not the most tech savvy guy, but if it sounds like a good idea I'll take the time to learn the HTML.
Side note, Silver Jews will be releasing an album in July...for the 5 of you who also listen to SJ this is good news indeed. Though it's bad news for my little ipod which is already at max capacity. So some other songs are going to have to be relegated.
Further changes. I've started using flickr. That's the photo collage on the right side. If you click there you can see a bunch of photos I've put online. You can also search by tag. For instance you can search for all of my frisbee photos or all of my wyoming photos, stuff like that. I'm not sure when I'll upload more, hopefully soon.
If you have suggestions for better ways to format the page I'm all ears. I'm not the most tech savvy guy, but if it sounds like a good idea I'll take the time to learn the HTML.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
In Progress
While searching for new books to read, I remembered that my favorite lyricist David Berman* was a published author as well. I guess now that Silver Jews no longer really record he's more of an author than a musician, but I'll always love him for his first love.
He has a poem/essay/unsung lyrics? that's posted to The Baffler.com (a site about which I know nothing). Most of the lines are good, some are simply perfect. There is an incredibly economy of words and yet like his lyrics they haunt me and help me better make sense of my own thoughts.
"If the fable of "The grasshopper and the ants" was amended so that the world ended before the turn of winter, then the grasshopper would have been wiser and the moral would have vindicated him. In a story, the location of the ending is very deliberate."
I love this image. It has the pacing of a great stand up comedian, but it's this perfect pearl of wisdom. Where you put the end determines a lot about what's to be learned from an experience. It has a lot to do with where you put the period. And while I think I know what I am to have learned or gleaned from the past 10 months the truth is I am making the easy and arrogant mistake of thinking I know where the end is. The act of assuming finality to our stories and our experiences tends to make fools of us all.
The passage reminds me of one of my favorite exchanges in all of film. At his High School reunion John Cusak is talking with an old friend who has a child, and he's marvelling at her child and is generally absorbed with the notion of creation rather than destruction. The camera pans over to him as he stares at the child and she (off camera) asks: "So how are you? How's your life?" To which he memorably responds, "In progress."
*He of Silver Jews fame...or at least moderate recognition if not fame
He has a poem/essay/unsung lyrics? that's posted to The Baffler.com (a site about which I know nothing). Most of the lines are good, some are simply perfect. There is an incredibly economy of words and yet like his lyrics they haunt me and help me better make sense of my own thoughts.
"If the fable of "The grasshopper and the ants" was amended so that the world ended before the turn of winter, then the grasshopper would have been wiser and the moral would have vindicated him. In a story, the location of the ending is very deliberate."
I love this image. It has the pacing of a great stand up comedian, but it's this perfect pearl of wisdom. Where you put the end determines a lot about what's to be learned from an experience. It has a lot to do with where you put the period. And while I think I know what I am to have learned or gleaned from the past 10 months the truth is I am making the easy and arrogant mistake of thinking I know where the end is. The act of assuming finality to our stories and our experiences tends to make fools of us all.
The passage reminds me of one of my favorite exchanges in all of film. At his High School reunion John Cusak is talking with an old friend who has a child, and he's marvelling at her child and is generally absorbed with the notion of creation rather than destruction. The camera pans over to him as he stares at the child and she (off camera) asks: "So how are you? How's your life?" To which he memorably responds, "In progress."
*He of Silver Jews fame...or at least moderate recognition if not fame
Where are you now, Randy Cohen?
So yesterday at JKD and Will's Party (The Bad Decisions Party) we were sitting around and JKD and I started telling a story about a friend of ours (who later arrived at the party). It's not a damning story, sort of endearing, but frankly it should be his (the friend's) story to tell not ours. We told the shit out of that story, making it funnier and more dramatic than ever before. Really made the story work for us. But is that wrong. Is it wrong to basically take a story that's only partly yours and use it to entertain others? Shouldn't those laughs have waited for the true owner? Where are you now Randy Cohen
The best line of the night:
Will Singer answering the phone: "Bad Decisions Party, this is Will."
The best line of the night:
Will Singer answering the phone: "Bad Decisions Party, this is Will."
Friday, June 17, 2005
Instant Soundtrack
Yesterday while sitting in the sunlight field where I was to play frisbee I put in my ipod earbuds scrolled over to my 6-7-05 mix and instantly I felt like the character of film. Something about the songs on the mix always evoke this strange slightly removed feeling. Granted some of it comes from the fact that a few of the songs come from Garden State, which I maintain is the best use of music in a film since the Royal Tennenbaums. Garden State is some amazing combination of Grosse Pointe Blank and the Graduate. It's a perfect melding of ennui and music and filmic brilliance.
So what's on 6-7-2005 mix.
The District Sleeps Alone--Postal Service
New Slang--The Shins (the real clincher, turns any moment into something seemingly worth filming)
Like a Hurricane--Neil Young (You are like a Hurricane, there's calm in your eyes)
The Only Living Boy in New York--Simon and Garfunkle
Memory Lane--Elliot Smith
Such Great Heights--Postal Service (makes everything seem more magical, and epic)
Ain't Necessarily So--Willie Nelson (a new addition, but from here on out a must have)
Doin' The Cockroach--Modest Mouse (this is for the hard part of the movie, when life gets rough)
Let Go--Frou Frou (yeah, I guess there are a lot of songs from Garden State on this mix...hmm, not so original am I)
Car--Built to Spill (melodic perfection)
UPDATE (Sort of)
Turns out that my newest Ipod mix has the same effect as previous ones, which suggests that maybe listening to music while waiting for the metro is the real trigger.
Novacaine for the soul (eels), under pressure (David Bowie and Queen), Come and Find Me (Josh Ritter), Suite Judy Blue Eyes (CSNY), Simple Twist of Fate (Dylan), Running to Stand Still (U2), Center of the Universe (built to spill)
So what's on 6-7-2005 mix.
The District Sleeps Alone--Postal Service
New Slang--The Shins (the real clincher, turns any moment into something seemingly worth filming)
Like a Hurricane--Neil Young (You are like a Hurricane, there's calm in your eyes)
The Only Living Boy in New York--Simon and Garfunkle
Memory Lane--Elliot Smith
Such Great Heights--Postal Service (makes everything seem more magical, and epic)
Ain't Necessarily So--Willie Nelson (a new addition, but from here on out a must have)
Doin' The Cockroach--Modest Mouse (this is for the hard part of the movie, when life gets rough)
Let Go--Frou Frou (yeah, I guess there are a lot of songs from Garden State on this mix...hmm, not so original am I)
Car--Built to Spill (melodic perfection)
UPDATE (Sort of)
Turns out that my newest Ipod mix has the same effect as previous ones, which suggests that maybe listening to music while waiting for the metro is the real trigger.
Novacaine for the soul (eels), under pressure (David Bowie and Queen), Come and Find Me (Josh Ritter), Suite Judy Blue Eyes (CSNY), Simple Twist of Fate (Dylan), Running to Stand Still (U2), Center of the Universe (built to spill)
Nasty
I wanted desperately to come up with a funny title for this post. I toyed around with something to do with the lyrics from Janet Jackson's song Nasty (No, my first name ain't baby /It's Janet - Miss Jackson if you're nasty) but alas I couldn't make it funny. So if you have suggestions I'll gladly rename the post, or we can just pretend I was humourous here.
To the meat of the issue. Turns out playing with Nasty was loads of fun. It's another situation where I'm confident that I'm in the top third to quarter of the team...right now. So on the one hand this wouldn't be the best place to really push myself and get tons better. On the other hand, I like these people and for the most part (some frustration not getting thrown to, etc notwithstanding) I had a great time. So the question becomes: Should I try and play for a team that has some guys I don't like and where I'll be in the middle to bottom third talent wise, but I'll learn a bunch and get fitter, etc. Or should I revert to playing with fun people where I won't have to really push myself. Right now I'm leaning towards playing with Nasty. I love ultimate, it's one of the three things I'm most passionate about in the world, but I don't know that I want it to become job like. I don't know that I want to play it just to prove that I'm good. Finally there is the consideration of the durability of my body. This was a concern at Oberlin, and I imagine could well reappear. I'm just not built to play as hard as I do. I tend to pull and strain and tweak things. Maybe the right training would counteract this, but I'm not sure.
I have HOV practice on Saturday and I'll see how I feel about it. I think I could make the team. I'm not too shabby as a long, and I read the disc well. The question will be do I want to make the team. I'm reserving judgement until I've done a few practices and figured out more of what my life is going to look like.
====
In wholly unrelated news I've made two trips to temp agencies in the past two days. Each time I walked into a hyper corporate office (with paintings that could just as easily have been in a hotel) with well dressed, well tanned women who are cheerful to the point of terrorizing. I then am asked to fill out form after form. Then I'm interviewed. I, sadly, have to imagine that being a white, college educated, male, in a suit tends to make things go much easier than if any of those things were not true. Then I take a test on WORD and EXCEL. Having used both of these a lot, I do well. Then it's on to the typing test. I'm proud to report that I am, surprisingly enough, a good typist. I sorta figured I was mediocre, maybe just average.* I type 69 words per minute and had one error. According to the bubbly and copper colored women of City Staff that's very speedy. Incidently the woman who interviewed me asked about long term goals and I mentioned that I might want to be a professor. She said that she too wanted to teach. I asked, "what would you want to teach?" She said, "Well, I was a marketing major. So..... that. But really I've always wanted to teach about relations. Relations. Not like psychology or anything like that." "Sociology, maybe" I offered. "No not that formal, sort of like, well I have to deal with people all day here. Maybe like human relations. Like how people relate and communicate. Sort of how people relate one on one. Kind of like that." I'm not sure how seriously she wants to teach or if it's something she said to you know relate to me, but it was a strange moment to be certain. To bring this post full circle, while waiting for my scores to be recorded I leafed through a newsletter sitting out on the coffee table. Inside were listed temp employees who'd since transitioned to full employment with their respective companies. The final listing mentioned a Chris Neibling. Turns out the sketchy/nasty cage monster from Sophmore year 80s night is now the internal communications director for a firm in DC. Nasty indeed.
*(Side note, for some reason in the absence of independent confirmation, I often tend to assume I'm either bad or below average, then often enough find that that's not true, why is that? Why start with the assumption that you're below average. Fucked up, right?).
To the meat of the issue. Turns out playing with Nasty was loads of fun. It's another situation where I'm confident that I'm in the top third to quarter of the team...right now. So on the one hand this wouldn't be the best place to really push myself and get tons better. On the other hand, I like these people and for the most part (some frustration not getting thrown to, etc notwithstanding) I had a great time. So the question becomes: Should I try and play for a team that has some guys I don't like and where I'll be in the middle to bottom third talent wise, but I'll learn a bunch and get fitter, etc. Or should I revert to playing with fun people where I won't have to really push myself. Right now I'm leaning towards playing with Nasty. I love ultimate, it's one of the three things I'm most passionate about in the world, but I don't know that I want it to become job like. I don't know that I want to play it just to prove that I'm good. Finally there is the consideration of the durability of my body. This was a concern at Oberlin, and I imagine could well reappear. I'm just not built to play as hard as I do. I tend to pull and strain and tweak things. Maybe the right training would counteract this, but I'm not sure.
I have HOV practice on Saturday and I'll see how I feel about it. I think I could make the team. I'm not too shabby as a long, and I read the disc well. The question will be do I want to make the team. I'm reserving judgement until I've done a few practices and figured out more of what my life is going to look like.
====
In wholly unrelated news I've made two trips to temp agencies in the past two days. Each time I walked into a hyper corporate office (with paintings that could just as easily have been in a hotel) with well dressed, well tanned women who are cheerful to the point of terrorizing. I then am asked to fill out form after form. Then I'm interviewed. I, sadly, have to imagine that being a white, college educated, male, in a suit tends to make things go much easier than if any of those things were not true. Then I take a test on WORD and EXCEL. Having used both of these a lot, I do well. Then it's on to the typing test. I'm proud to report that I am, surprisingly enough, a good typist. I sorta figured I was mediocre, maybe just average.* I type 69 words per minute and had one error. According to the bubbly and copper colored women of City Staff that's very speedy. Incidently the woman who interviewed me asked about long term goals and I mentioned that I might want to be a professor. She said that she too wanted to teach. I asked, "what would you want to teach?" She said, "Well, I was a marketing major. So..... that. But really I've always wanted to teach about relations. Relations. Not like psychology or anything like that." "Sociology, maybe" I offered. "No not that formal, sort of like, well I have to deal with people all day here. Maybe like human relations. Like how people relate and communicate. Sort of how people relate one on one. Kind of like that." I'm not sure how seriously she wants to teach or if it's something she said to you know relate to me, but it was a strange moment to be certain. To bring this post full circle, while waiting for my scores to be recorded I leafed through a newsletter sitting out on the coffee table. Inside were listed temp employees who'd since transitioned to full employment with their respective companies. The final listing mentioned a Chris Neibling. Turns out the sketchy/nasty cage monster from Sophmore year 80s night is now the internal communications director for a firm in DC. Nasty indeed.
*(Side note, for some reason in the absence of independent confirmation, I often tend to assume I'm either bad or below average, then often enough find that that's not true, why is that? Why start with the assumption that you're below average. Fucked up, right?).
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
One Thing
One thing was made abundantly clear at HOV practive. The difference between the elite teams (a position to which HOV aspires) and middle level ultimate (the place I've resided for a few years) is all about fitness. The throws people exhibited were marginally better than those I've seen, and about equal to those I have (when I'm playing well, which sadly I was most certainly not). But the running is insane. I have been near the top in fitness (or at least able to cover shortcomings) on pretty much every team I've played for lately. I played a ton of points at Poultry Days. I played a ton at the alumni game. I played about 80-90% of tournament points with Moby Flick, etc.
I was winded well before we even got to the full field full length scrimmage. To say nothing of my condition during our full field sprint relay race (2 times up and back). Then to top it off we scrimmaged another team. All this after I went for a morning jog and had to bike down to the fields. I was just toast. I think some of it is diet (not eating well or regularly), but frankly most of it is just straight out physical training. These guys are in good shape. Which means I have no earthly conception of the conditioning for Sockeye or Jam.
I mainly played long. Or wing in the Horizontal offense. I scored a bit, skied some people. I got burned on defense some by people who were faster under the best of conditions. In the second scrimmage I played alright. I forgot until I started writing this that I scored one of our first goals on a great upline cut. What I remember and replay over and again are my two throw aways. I'm used to having permission to throw whatever I want on the teams that I play with. Here I need to reign it in. I don't have some of the stronger throws (they're good but there are many with better ones here) and I certainly didn't display very good judgement. It's a large transition to focus on one thing--cutting.
As for the guys themselves. Generally they were fine. A little hornier than I'd prefer (a bit too much talk of sex). A little less friendly than I'd like. With some being dickheads. But in general most guys were nice and made an effort to learn my name and were just what you'd expect from frisbee players--decent fellows whom you'd be happy to spend a weekend running around shouting No Break with.
Tomorrow is a chance to play with a mid level coed team. We'll see this may be more my speed. I'm trying to force myself to accept that in order to play at a higher level I'm going to have to go through some nasty learning moments. I won't get better just because I want to, I'll have to run till I feel like I'm going to vomit. I'm going to have to listen to people yell at me to cut here and don't throw that. I'm just hoping I can move my legs tomorrow, that'd be a great improvement over their present condition. Oh yeah, I biked a couple miles home after the final scrimmage...my legs and I are going through a rough patch not quite a break up, but quite close to a break down.
I was winded well before we even got to the full field full length scrimmage. To say nothing of my condition during our full field sprint relay race (2 times up and back). Then to top it off we scrimmaged another team. All this after I went for a morning jog and had to bike down to the fields. I was just toast. I think some of it is diet (not eating well or regularly), but frankly most of it is just straight out physical training. These guys are in good shape. Which means I have no earthly conception of the conditioning for Sockeye or Jam.
I mainly played long. Or wing in the Horizontal offense. I scored a bit, skied some people. I got burned on defense some by people who were faster under the best of conditions. In the second scrimmage I played alright. I forgot until I started writing this that I scored one of our first goals on a great upline cut. What I remember and replay over and again are my two throw aways. I'm used to having permission to throw whatever I want on the teams that I play with. Here I need to reign it in. I don't have some of the stronger throws (they're good but there are many with better ones here) and I certainly didn't display very good judgement. It's a large transition to focus on one thing--cutting.
As for the guys themselves. Generally they were fine. A little hornier than I'd prefer (a bit too much talk of sex). A little less friendly than I'd like. With some being dickheads. But in general most guys were nice and made an effort to learn my name and were just what you'd expect from frisbee players--decent fellows whom you'd be happy to spend a weekend running around shouting No Break with.
Tomorrow is a chance to play with a mid level coed team. We'll see this may be more my speed. I'm trying to force myself to accept that in order to play at a higher level I'm going to have to go through some nasty learning moments. I won't get better just because I want to, I'll have to run till I feel like I'm going to vomit. I'm going to have to listen to people yell at me to cut here and don't throw that. I'm just hoping I can move my legs tomorrow, that'd be a great improvement over their present condition. Oh yeah, I biked a couple miles home after the final scrimmage...my legs and I are going through a rough patch not quite a break up, but quite close to a break down.
Off to the 1st of Two Tryouts
I'm heading over to catch the bus down towards the Mall. From there I'll bike to the Polo Fields for HOV practice tonight. HOV is a team that routinely makes regionals and then finishes about 5th or 6th there. So it's not Sockeye or DoG, but still a fairly substantial step up in competition from Moby. The best part would be getting to play the Sockeyes, PIKEs, DoGs, etc of the world. The idea of lining up to guard Chase Sparling Beckley or Moses Rifkin is a bit intimidating, since up until this year I've been guarding generic hippy dad #3, or super fast but uncertain teen #2, people like that. This would be slightly different.
The other tryout is tomorrow. It's also at the Polo Fields. It's with a team called Nasty. They're coed and appear to be closer to the speed that I'm at least familiar with.
The strange part about all of this is that when I've played with and against stronger players I've played really well. Against Madison (Mad Ass Hen) at Poultry Days I skied several players from the 2003 National Champions and guarded (well) the captain of the 2003 team. Did I dominate or intimidate or even scare them, certainly not. I'm sure not a single person on Madison could pick me out of a lineup today. Point being, I played well, and feel confident that that kind of performance is something I can replicate. Tonight I start to find out how good I am, and maybe how good I can be.
The other tryout is tomorrow. It's also at the Polo Fields. It's with a team called Nasty. They're coed and appear to be closer to the speed that I'm at least familiar with.
The strange part about all of this is that when I've played with and against stronger players I've played really well. Against Madison (Mad Ass Hen) at Poultry Days I skied several players from the 2003 National Champions and guarded (well) the captain of the 2003 team. Did I dominate or intimidate or even scare them, certainly not. I'm sure not a single person on Madison could pick me out of a lineup today. Point being, I played well, and feel confident that that kind of performance is something I can replicate. Tonight I start to find out how good I am, and maybe how good I can be.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Old Photos
While searching for old writing samples I came across these photos. They were saved to some poorly labeled CD I thought I'd long ago lost. Seems like they should finally see the light of day.
I adore this photo. It's Neil (on the left) and I at the top of some mountain in the Smokies.
I adore this photo. It's Neil (on the left) and I at the top of some mountain in the Smokies.
A Poultry Days Reader In Serial Form
Friday dawned bright and muggy and I set out to Takoma Park with my frisbee duffel and my backpack. A couple of stops and starts later, I arrived in front of JKD's apartment and we were off to the bucolic splendor that is Versailles Ohio (again, Ver-Sayles, none of this fancy pants French pronunciation).
Along the way JKD and I rethought the dominant approach to unionizing (need to focus on contractors and temp agencies, maybe even taking the burden of training and background checks off the plates of the temp agencies in exchange for unionization), the various reasons why journalists have become foppish air heads instead of Studs Terkel-esque cigar-chomping working-class heroes, and other topics similarly grandiose and mundane. Turns out that air conditioning is pretty quickly longed for when you're sitting in a hot little car for hours on end in traffic...Interstate 70 around Washington PA moved with the rapidity of molasses traveling uphill in November. Thankfully during the long wait in lines of traffic, JKD's Sirius radio provided us with rather good music options, enough so that if I end up getting another car (mine's in Ohio these days) it'll have a magic music box like his.
Many hours and many liters of water later (I tend to drink a lot of water while traveling, read 5 liters in the 10 hours to get there) we arrived at our first destination: Dayton Ohio, or more specifically the airport. Looking at a map, as I'd done, it seemed clear that one could just take 70 to 75 and get off at the exit marked airport and that in so doing you'd place yourself in a position whereby you could gain access to the terminals. Well, my friends, you'd suffer a fate similar to ours if that was your thinking. Turns out the Dayton airport is, as JKD mentioned, something of a Kafkan nightmare. It's impossible to find any signage. There is no indication of how you get to the airport. We circled the entire airport with success coming after about 25 minutes of driving around. No signs. It's the worst place in Ohio. I've been to a lot of places, and I say this with some measure of confidence. Worst in the state.
After getting Dan Scott we hit a liquor store to purchase a handle of George Dickel and 3 12 packs of PBR. Finally after another hour or so of driving we hit Versailles. It's a small town, sleepy, and very reminiscent of many of the towns that made up the 63rd House District (where I worked my first campaign). After taking a relatively well marked turn (Frisbee Fieids -->, not sure what a fieid is) we navigated our way to frisbee nirvana. Heritage Park is glorious in ways that defy apt description. First off, it's gigantic. I've never seen a small town park like this. It's vast. The best part of this tournament to my way of thinking is the camping. Hundreds and hundreds of ultimate players camped out together in this incredible park. There were 65 teams and since each team averages around 15 players that's just under 1000 of the best people I know (or would come to know).
Upon arrival we stow our things on top of a large blue tarp (you know the kind). This tarp will serve as our bedroom, and will serve us well. I leave my wallet and keys in my bag, in the wide open. It's a park full of frisbee players they're (keys, etc) safer there than in my room in DC. We walked over to the pavilion for the egg eating contest.
The whole genesis of Poultry Days is the Versailles Poultry Days Festival a giant fair like celebration of chickens. The celebration mainly involves killing the aforementioned chickens and serving them as 1/2 chicken dinners. These dinners are transcendent. They are wonderful in ways that travel well beyond my limited vocabulary. Eating a 1/2 chicken, orange drink, and a biscuit after playing 4 games of ultimate is pretty close to my heaven. So as part of the celebration of the chicken, there is an egg eating contest for the frisbee players. No man can eat 50 eggs, but one guy did eat 26 in 15 minutes, and that's not nothing. Fairly impressive really.
...
When we last left our disc chasing heroes they were watching a man consume 26 eggs.
After the egg eating contest the assembled masses sort of retreated to their tents to begin what would later become a many hour baccanalia. Dan, JKD and I retreated to the tarp and found cold and refreshing PBR in great quantities. At this point I should explain the sort of trepidation that I'd normally be feeling in a situation like this. For whatever reason, I'm always nervous around people drinking. I always worry that I'm being judged, and worse that I'll find myself judging others. It's a fairly unpleasant feeling and one that I tend to avoid. Also when I get around frisbee players I'm instinctively sure that they are cooler than I am (by whatever neurotic definition) and that they're just sort of putting up with me. So that sense coupled with the drinking I knew would follow left me feeling nervous and worried. I'd be found out as both a buzzkill and a geek. Something like that.
Turns out it's all in my head. No one judged me and I was thrilled to share the company of nearly everyone there. I don't know why or how I've built this fear. It is one of the reasons I never really played at Oberlin. I was convinced that the "powers-that-be" never liked me. I was afraid that everyone was better friends with eachother than they could ever be with me. Something about this evening changed all that. I walked around, drank beer, chatted about frisbee, retold old stories, listened to frisbee lore, and generally realized that whatever it was that stopped me from playing at Oberlin was my problem. I'd spent a lot of energy in years past worrying about not being liked so much so that I'd started to dislike people who bore me no ill will. Again something clicked on the first night at Poultry Days and I just gave up that fear. I finally felt assured in my own abilities and personality. It's a pretty freeing sense, that.
The evening consisted of wandering around, drinking, chatting and beer fris. Beer fris, a game invented (I'm told) by obies is hard to explain. It consists of two empty cups placed on a sidewalk about 10 yards apart, two sets of two teammates, and two cups of beer. Without going into all the rules, you get a lot of drunken sprinting, drinking, tossing, trashtalking, and general mockery in a small space and short time. We played beer fris until 4 am. By 4am I was tired and the tarp began to call to me. I unpacked the sleeping bag and slept under the stars. A lot of useless worrying seemed to have melted off. I slept the sleep of kings.
That is until 6am when the sun rose, and so did I.
More on poultry days later...
Along the way JKD and I rethought the dominant approach to unionizing (need to focus on contractors and temp agencies, maybe even taking the burden of training and background checks off the plates of the temp agencies in exchange for unionization), the various reasons why journalists have become foppish air heads instead of Studs Terkel-esque cigar-chomping working-class heroes, and other topics similarly grandiose and mundane. Turns out that air conditioning is pretty quickly longed for when you're sitting in a hot little car for hours on end in traffic...Interstate 70 around Washington PA moved with the rapidity of molasses traveling uphill in November. Thankfully during the long wait in lines of traffic, JKD's Sirius radio provided us with rather good music options, enough so that if I end up getting another car (mine's in Ohio these days) it'll have a magic music box like his.
Many hours and many liters of water later (I tend to drink a lot of water while traveling, read 5 liters in the 10 hours to get there) we arrived at our first destination: Dayton Ohio, or more specifically the airport. Looking at a map, as I'd done, it seemed clear that one could just take 70 to 75 and get off at the exit marked airport and that in so doing you'd place yourself in a position whereby you could gain access to the terminals. Well, my friends, you'd suffer a fate similar to ours if that was your thinking. Turns out the Dayton airport is, as JKD mentioned, something of a Kafkan nightmare. It's impossible to find any signage. There is no indication of how you get to the airport. We circled the entire airport with success coming after about 25 minutes of driving around. No signs. It's the worst place in Ohio. I've been to a lot of places, and I say this with some measure of confidence. Worst in the state.
After getting Dan Scott we hit a liquor store to purchase a handle of George Dickel and 3 12 packs of PBR. Finally after another hour or so of driving we hit Versailles. It's a small town, sleepy, and very reminiscent of many of the towns that made up the 63rd House District (where I worked my first campaign). After taking a relatively well marked turn (Frisbee Fieids -->, not sure what a fieid is) we navigated our way to frisbee nirvana. Heritage Park is glorious in ways that defy apt description. First off, it's gigantic. I've never seen a small town park like this. It's vast. The best part of this tournament to my way of thinking is the camping. Hundreds and hundreds of ultimate players camped out together in this incredible park. There were 65 teams and since each team averages around 15 players that's just under 1000 of the best people I know (or would come to know).
Upon arrival we stow our things on top of a large blue tarp (you know the kind). This tarp will serve as our bedroom, and will serve us well. I leave my wallet and keys in my bag, in the wide open. It's a park full of frisbee players they're (keys, etc) safer there than in my room in DC. We walked over to the pavilion for the egg eating contest.
The whole genesis of Poultry Days is the Versailles Poultry Days Festival a giant fair like celebration of chickens. The celebration mainly involves killing the aforementioned chickens and serving them as 1/2 chicken dinners. These dinners are transcendent. They are wonderful in ways that travel well beyond my limited vocabulary. Eating a 1/2 chicken, orange drink, and a biscuit after playing 4 games of ultimate is pretty close to my heaven. So as part of the celebration of the chicken, there is an egg eating contest for the frisbee players. No man can eat 50 eggs, but one guy did eat 26 in 15 minutes, and that's not nothing. Fairly impressive really.
...
When we last left our disc chasing heroes they were watching a man consume 26 eggs.
After the egg eating contest the assembled masses sort of retreated to their tents to begin what would later become a many hour baccanalia. Dan, JKD and I retreated to the tarp and found cold and refreshing PBR in great quantities. At this point I should explain the sort of trepidation that I'd normally be feeling in a situation like this. For whatever reason, I'm always nervous around people drinking. I always worry that I'm being judged, and worse that I'll find myself judging others. It's a fairly unpleasant feeling and one that I tend to avoid. Also when I get around frisbee players I'm instinctively sure that they are cooler than I am (by whatever neurotic definition) and that they're just sort of putting up with me. So that sense coupled with the drinking I knew would follow left me feeling nervous and worried. I'd be found out as both a buzzkill and a geek. Something like that.
Turns out it's all in my head. No one judged me and I was thrilled to share the company of nearly everyone there. I don't know why or how I've built this fear. It is one of the reasons I never really played at Oberlin. I was convinced that the "powers-that-be" never liked me. I was afraid that everyone was better friends with eachother than they could ever be with me. Something about this evening changed all that. I walked around, drank beer, chatted about frisbee, retold old stories, listened to frisbee lore, and generally realized that whatever it was that stopped me from playing at Oberlin was my problem. I'd spent a lot of energy in years past worrying about not being liked so much so that I'd started to dislike people who bore me no ill will. Again something clicked on the first night at Poultry Days and I just gave up that fear. I finally felt assured in my own abilities and personality. It's a pretty freeing sense, that.
The evening consisted of wandering around, drinking, chatting and beer fris. Beer fris, a game invented (I'm told) by obies is hard to explain. It consists of two empty cups placed on a sidewalk about 10 yards apart, two sets of two teammates, and two cups of beer. Without going into all the rules, you get a lot of drunken sprinting, drinking, tossing, trashtalking, and general mockery in a small space and short time. We played beer fris until 4 am. By 4am I was tired and the tarp began to call to me. I unpacked the sleeping bag and slept under the stars. A lot of useless worrying seemed to have melted off. I slept the sleep of kings.
That is until 6am when the sun rose, and so did I.
More on poultry days later...
Monday, June 13, 2005
We Smile to Hide the Shame
The 2005 Preying Horsechickens and friends.
From L-R, second row: Ryan ("Pornstar"), Aaron, Biscuit, Nathan, Mateo (Te Te), Jeff, JKD, Nate (Little Sketch), Dan, seated: Matt (Sketch), Jane, Erika, Josie, Tom, Steve, not pictured Hawk.
*I'll probably post a write up about Poultry Days later in the day or week. For now just look at these incredibly good looking smiling people...and imagine how good we would have looked had we won a game.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Mt. Pleasant Indeed
I have of late found myself swooning. Singing the praises of my new love. Mt pleasant.
For years Mark and Brian have engaged in the city dweller game of geographic porn--the celebration and lusting after zip codes and addresses which both confer upon the possessor great cache and which satisfy a desire to live amongst a certain type of people or building, etc. Neighborhoods with impossibly nice apartments or implausibly large egos. The could rattle off neighborhoods and cross streets like the measurements of a Playmate. Both fully aware of the implications of each piece of information, able to paint with streets and sections a picture of perfect, idealized life. It never made sense to me, or at least I never had the ability to imagine that life. Maybe I'm starting to understand, maybe I'm entering the adolescence of my city dwelling life.
I liked living in the Wedge in Minneapolis, it was quirky and nice. Had some cache, some notoriety. But really I liked living in Minneapolis. I liked the city, full stop. After that it was living near Drake. I lived near a diner, but it was Des Moines. No one cared, and I abhorred it. Then on to Seattle. Lived on Capitol Hill (granted the East side). The coolest neighborhood is one of the coolest (by someone's standards) cities in America. I loved my area, but mainly because of the people. If I didn't swoon there, maybe I was swoon-proof.
Before I moved to DC I was hoping to live in Woodley Park or Adams Morgan or even, god willing, Dupont. They are wonderful areas. They represent the intersection of wealth, youth and beauty and the trappings of each of those traits are well marked in the stores, buildings and clubs that fill out and dominate the landscape. If you want to go to a great bar, bookstore or restaurant, you go there. If you want to see people who are impossibly well composed by both physical and fashion standards--those are your places. But while I am many things, I am not those. For instance, as I came to learn last night, I look like a character on the show Beauty and the Geek. It's not one of the beautiful women, I assure you. And above all else, I have little daily use for a great bar, nice club or the opportunity to parade myself in front of people expecting something better. I want a place that feels neigborhoody. There is a fairly annoying book I read called The Alchemist. The one fine take away from it is the idea that when you are on the right path the whole universe conspires to help you. I'd always liked that notion, of the world conspiring to aid you. Seems awfully involved what with the universe being everything. For instance how much help do I really need from the Horse Head Nebula. It's doing its shit, handling its business...I don't really need it worrying about my car loans. I got it, I can handle it on my own. I don't see the Nebula asking me for help turning dust into stars. But I digress.
Besides all those post-facto rationalizations the main factor in my choice of Mt Pleasant was financial. I'm paying 500 for rent here, and would be paying 900 in Dupont or Adams Morgan. So here I am in Mt. Pleasant, bank account thankfully not fully exhausted. And it is (and I realize it's only 4 days) exactly what I want in a neighborhood. It's diverse with respect to income, race, nationality and fuction (ie, churches, stores, homes, trees). Dave my roomate said he looked up the Census tract information for the area: 25% African American, 25% white, 25% hispanic, and 25% Asian, immigrant, etc. A church in the area has its Sunday services in English, Spanish, Haitian and Vietnamese.
I'm sure some of this is from walking and taking the bus, but I feel closer to the place. I feel both metaphorically and, I guess, literally closer to the place. I know, for instance, that the Bestway has a sickening sour smell to it, and vegetables that I've never seen nor could I identify. My 4 years of French do not serve me nearly as well as maybe an hour of Spanish would. Because I walk, I've wandered into a closet that pretends (and seems to be permitted to do so) that it is an antique store. It's a hodge podge of junk. And I consider junk a generous description. Because I walk, I've already begun visiting the hardware store just to talk with the folks I know there. Because I live here I have, with great pride, secured a library card.
I came back last night from an evening of hanging out with Emmet in Dupont; soccer, Beauty and the Geek (Emmet tells me I look like one of the guys, entirely possible) and dinner and I was filled with such a sense of joy to see my neighborhood. I'd just left the coolest, hippest part of DC and was thrilled at the prospect of returning to my home, to my neighborhood. Not too shabby.
All things considered, since moving to DC I've been doing a-ok. The apartment is cool in the summer and in a great location. The buses seem to arrive on my schedule. My interview on Monday was with a firm that does amazing work, and for whom I've hoped to work for months now. (Who knows if I'll get the job, but frankly I'm just happy to know that I was able to make the effort, to take the chance). Tuesday I saw old friends and shared with them a couple of beers. Last night was soccer and supper. Today, already I've reconnected with an old friend (from Wellstone) whom I've not heard from in months...turns out she's in DC as well. Tonight I'm going to a Nationals game with folks from Brookings. Tomorrow I leave for Ohio for the best frisbee tournament in the Midwest.
For the first time in a while I'm in a good place in all ways. Mentally, emotionally, geographically. And even better than being in the right place is the realization that I'm moving in the right direction. Call it a conspiracy but I think things are starting to work out.
For years Mark and Brian have engaged in the city dweller game of geographic porn--the celebration and lusting after zip codes and addresses which both confer upon the possessor great cache and which satisfy a desire to live amongst a certain type of people or building, etc. Neighborhoods with impossibly nice apartments or implausibly large egos. The could rattle off neighborhoods and cross streets like the measurements of a Playmate. Both fully aware of the implications of each piece of information, able to paint with streets and sections a picture of perfect, idealized life. It never made sense to me, or at least I never had the ability to imagine that life. Maybe I'm starting to understand, maybe I'm entering the adolescence of my city dwelling life.
I liked living in the Wedge in Minneapolis, it was quirky and nice. Had some cache, some notoriety. But really I liked living in Minneapolis. I liked the city, full stop. After that it was living near Drake. I lived near a diner, but it was Des Moines. No one cared, and I abhorred it. Then on to Seattle. Lived on Capitol Hill (granted the East side). The coolest neighborhood is one of the coolest (by someone's standards) cities in America. I loved my area, but mainly because of the people. If I didn't swoon there, maybe I was swoon-proof.
Before I moved to DC I was hoping to live in Woodley Park or Adams Morgan or even, god willing, Dupont. They are wonderful areas. They represent the intersection of wealth, youth and beauty and the trappings of each of those traits are well marked in the stores, buildings and clubs that fill out and dominate the landscape. If you want to go to a great bar, bookstore or restaurant, you go there. If you want to see people who are impossibly well composed by both physical and fashion standards--those are your places. But while I am many things, I am not those. For instance, as I came to learn last night, I look like a character on the show Beauty and the Geek. It's not one of the beautiful women, I assure you. And above all else, I have little daily use for a great bar, nice club or the opportunity to parade myself in front of people expecting something better. I want a place that feels neigborhoody. There is a fairly annoying book I read called The Alchemist. The one fine take away from it is the idea that when you are on the right path the whole universe conspires to help you. I'd always liked that notion, of the world conspiring to aid you. Seems awfully involved what with the universe being everything. For instance how much help do I really need from the Horse Head Nebula. It's doing its shit, handling its business...I don't really need it worrying about my car loans. I got it, I can handle it on my own. I don't see the Nebula asking me for help turning dust into stars. But I digress.
Besides all those post-facto rationalizations the main factor in my choice of Mt Pleasant was financial. I'm paying 500 for rent here, and would be paying 900 in Dupont or Adams Morgan. So here I am in Mt. Pleasant, bank account thankfully not fully exhausted. And it is (and I realize it's only 4 days) exactly what I want in a neighborhood. It's diverse with respect to income, race, nationality and fuction (ie, churches, stores, homes, trees). Dave my roomate said he looked up the Census tract information for the area: 25% African American, 25% white, 25% hispanic, and 25% Asian, immigrant, etc. A church in the area has its Sunday services in English, Spanish, Haitian and Vietnamese.
I'm sure some of this is from walking and taking the bus, but I feel closer to the place. I feel both metaphorically and, I guess, literally closer to the place. I know, for instance, that the Bestway has a sickening sour smell to it, and vegetables that I've never seen nor could I identify. My 4 years of French do not serve me nearly as well as maybe an hour of Spanish would. Because I walk, I've wandered into a closet that pretends (and seems to be permitted to do so) that it is an antique store. It's a hodge podge of junk. And I consider junk a generous description. Because I walk, I've already begun visiting the hardware store just to talk with the folks I know there. Because I live here I have, with great pride, secured a library card.
I came back last night from an evening of hanging out with Emmet in Dupont; soccer, Beauty and the Geek (Emmet tells me I look like one of the guys, entirely possible) and dinner and I was filled with such a sense of joy to see my neighborhood. I'd just left the coolest, hippest part of DC and was thrilled at the prospect of returning to my home, to my neighborhood. Not too shabby.
All things considered, since moving to DC I've been doing a-ok. The apartment is cool in the summer and in a great location. The buses seem to arrive on my schedule. My interview on Monday was with a firm that does amazing work, and for whom I've hoped to work for months now. (Who knows if I'll get the job, but frankly I'm just happy to know that I was able to make the effort, to take the chance). Tuesday I saw old friends and shared with them a couple of beers. Last night was soccer and supper. Today, already I've reconnected with an old friend (from Wellstone) whom I've not heard from in months...turns out she's in DC as well. Tonight I'm going to a Nationals game with folks from Brookings. Tomorrow I leave for Ohio for the best frisbee tournament in the Midwest.
For the first time in a while I'm in a good place in all ways. Mentally, emotionally, geographically. And even better than being in the right place is the realization that I'm moving in the right direction. Call it a conspiracy but I think things are starting to work out.
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Someone find me a beret
For reasons I don't fully understand I have started humming the theme song from The Mary Tyler Moore Show. Apparently I am reassuring that "[I'm] going to make it afterall." Freeze frame.
Well after driving back to DC from Ohio (this drive grows tiresome quickly) I have set up shop at 18th and Park. I live with a roomate (who is in Milwaukee right now) in a small but serviceable basement apartment. I miss having large windows, but being submerged beneath the earth tends to keep the place nice and cool. Not having air conditioning, I'm just thrilled about anything that keeps the place cooler. I'm a somewhat ironic twist of fate I am borrowing wireless access from someone in the building above me (take that angry middle aged man). My room lacks several basic things. First: a bed. Second an object by which I can keep my clothes off the floor. I'd settle for a bureau or cabinet, hell a strong walled cardboard box would suffice at this point. My room also lacks a desk, but now I'm just being picky.
I set out to find some of these items, namely a book shelf and or some hangers...something to give order to my room. I'm in the beginning of Genesis phase, instead of water and land, I'm trying to separate the clothing from the books. And were I to succeed it would be good. There is a cute little hardware store about 2 blocks from my place and so I headed over with every intent to patronize and support local business...and get some shit done. Turns out they don't have any of the things I need. Including a cutting board or boxes, or really anything besides row after row of Miracle Gro, and S hooks. I'm sure there are many people who need those products--just not me. So I set out walking. I walked a grand total of 3.5 miles trying to find a store that would sell me shitty press board funiture, milk crates, or a cutting board. Nothing. I know I'm not the first person to need these things. People before me have sought to elevate their books and keep their meat off the counter while cutting it. I'm not looking for a pint of unicorn tears. These are reasonable requests. Apaprently you need a car to get most things. But since I'm without...I will have to make due. Stay tuned for further updates into the oh-so thrilling efforts of Aaron to procure the basic accoutrements of apartment living.
Well after driving back to DC from Ohio (this drive grows tiresome quickly) I have set up shop at 18th and Park. I live with a roomate (who is in Milwaukee right now) in a small but serviceable basement apartment. I miss having large windows, but being submerged beneath the earth tends to keep the place nice and cool. Not having air conditioning, I'm just thrilled about anything that keeps the place cooler. I'm a somewhat ironic twist of fate I am borrowing wireless access from someone in the building above me (take that angry middle aged man). My room lacks several basic things. First: a bed. Second an object by which I can keep my clothes off the floor. I'd settle for a bureau or cabinet, hell a strong walled cardboard box would suffice at this point. My room also lacks a desk, but now I'm just being picky.
I set out to find some of these items, namely a book shelf and or some hangers...something to give order to my room. I'm in the beginning of Genesis phase, instead of water and land, I'm trying to separate the clothing from the books. And were I to succeed it would be good. There is a cute little hardware store about 2 blocks from my place and so I headed over with every intent to patronize and support local business...and get some shit done. Turns out they don't have any of the things I need. Including a cutting board or boxes, or really anything besides row after row of Miracle Gro, and S hooks. I'm sure there are many people who need those products--just not me. So I set out walking. I walked a grand total of 3.5 miles trying to find a store that would sell me shitty press board funiture, milk crates, or a cutting board. Nothing. I know I'm not the first person to need these things. People before me have sought to elevate their books and keep their meat off the counter while cutting it. I'm not looking for a pint of unicorn tears. These are reasonable requests. Apaprently you need a car to get most things. But since I'm without...I will have to make due. Stay tuned for further updates into the oh-so thrilling efforts of Aaron to procure the basic accoutrements of apartment living.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Lean Zone
Below is a rather long article/post/essay/set of toughts that I wrote back in March. JKD suggested I give it some real attention, and I did, and since nothing ever became of it, I'll post it here. At the time I was finding myself increasingly concerned with fitness.
For the past month, owing to a 30 day free trial at the gym a block from my office I've been working out. It makes me shudder. I always cringe when I use the term. Working out. It's imbued with a measure of self-focus and pretense that makes me think of the terms "traveling on business", or "I've got to call my broker." They're terms that serve only to indicate the users status and not any specific action. More like a self-congratulatory adjective in hobby form, than any frank appraisal of time spent. Working out just conjures up an image of giant men glistening and women with frizzy hair with leotards. I neither aspire to reflect those images nor find them comforting.
Frustration with terms aside, every Monday, Wednesday and Friday for 30 days I've been working out. I should confess upfront that the aesthetic goals of exercise are secondary to me, or at least I try mightily to ensure that I project that image. Muscles are sorta like my high school relationship with girls: They seem nice enough and other guys seem to have and want them. But mainly I feel a strong sense that I should want them. And besides I'm easily distracted, and it seems like a lot of work.
My free membership ending, I decided to go to another gym. This one is a chain, located just a few blocks from work in an old bank. From the outdated credit card receipt (the kind with the carbon paper) I learned that before corporate buyout the gym used to be called "The Vault." The only visual clue that remains to the buildings prior identity is the walk in vault that doubles as the Jacuzzi. It reminded me of the Willy Sutton line. When asked why he robbed banks, he replied: "That's where the money is." Apparently this is where the fitness is. It's fitting that the gym once served as a bank. While the commodity has changed from currency to appearance the implied security remains. The gym like a bank is in the business of offering security--offering reassurance that your goals are neither outlandish nor hedonistic. Instead the opposite is true, your goals are too limited. Don't you want more, wouldn't it be great to be bigger. Simply replace checking account for chest size and you get a fairly accurate sense of the selling points of a gym.
While both money and muscles are truly useful on their own, allowing you to clothe yourself and not be winded all the time, they are much more powerfully alluring in relation to others. Being able to bench press 350 pounds is great, but what if everyone could do that. It's not great intrinsically; it's great by comparison. Earning 3% interest is fine, but only if that's more than what the uninformed schlub earns. How much business would a gym get if the weight plates were labeled by color instead of number. What good is it to bench press 'purple'? It's the comparison, the metrics, the measurement and ultimately the commodification that makes these industries work. The ability to improve the self primarily in contrast to others. And this fact makes both gyms and banks incredible institutions. They are centers for the accumulation of external approval.
Upon arrival at the gym, an affable and enormous man named Ariel greeted me (more like the Israeli prime minister than the mermaid, I assure you). A large man with a far too comfortable rapport and very large shoulders, he referred to me as "bud" or "chief" several times in the first few minutes of our relationship. I always find interactions like this awkward, when one party fails to recognize the truth--that our relationship is merely commercial. We don't know one another, and your sole reason for talking to me is to sell me a service that reinforces your life choices, and modern aesthetics. I get that and am ultimately fine with it, but the accompanying friendly banter feels forced and seems to imply that I'm seeking counsel from a trusted friend instead of clinical recommendations from a professional. I don't want Ariel to be my friend, my friends don't know jack about fitness. I want a professional, and just as I don't call my doctor "chief" I don't want a jocular relationship with a trainer.
For the rest of the story go to extra vaganza
For the past month, owing to a 30 day free trial at the gym a block from my office I've been working out. It makes me shudder. I always cringe when I use the term. Working out. It's imbued with a measure of self-focus and pretense that makes me think of the terms "traveling on business", or "I've got to call my broker." They're terms that serve only to indicate the users status and not any specific action. More like a self-congratulatory adjective in hobby form, than any frank appraisal of time spent. Working out just conjures up an image of giant men glistening and women with frizzy hair with leotards. I neither aspire to reflect those images nor find them comforting.
Frustration with terms aside, every Monday, Wednesday and Friday for 30 days I've been working out. I should confess upfront that the aesthetic goals of exercise are secondary to me, or at least I try mightily to ensure that I project that image. Muscles are sorta like my high school relationship with girls: They seem nice enough and other guys seem to have and want them. But mainly I feel a strong sense that I should want them. And besides I'm easily distracted, and it seems like a lot of work.
My free membership ending, I decided to go to another gym. This one is a chain, located just a few blocks from work in an old bank. From the outdated credit card receipt (the kind with the carbon paper) I learned that before corporate buyout the gym used to be called "The Vault." The only visual clue that remains to the buildings prior identity is the walk in vault that doubles as the Jacuzzi. It reminded me of the Willy Sutton line. When asked why he robbed banks, he replied: "That's where the money is." Apparently this is where the fitness is. It's fitting that the gym once served as a bank. While the commodity has changed from currency to appearance the implied security remains. The gym like a bank is in the business of offering security--offering reassurance that your goals are neither outlandish nor hedonistic. Instead the opposite is true, your goals are too limited. Don't you want more, wouldn't it be great to be bigger. Simply replace checking account for chest size and you get a fairly accurate sense of the selling points of a gym.
While both money and muscles are truly useful on their own, allowing you to clothe yourself and not be winded all the time, they are much more powerfully alluring in relation to others. Being able to bench press 350 pounds is great, but what if everyone could do that. It's not great intrinsically; it's great by comparison. Earning 3% interest is fine, but only if that's more than what the uninformed schlub earns. How much business would a gym get if the weight plates were labeled by color instead of number. What good is it to bench press 'purple'? It's the comparison, the metrics, the measurement and ultimately the commodification that makes these industries work. The ability to improve the self primarily in contrast to others. And this fact makes both gyms and banks incredible institutions. They are centers for the accumulation of external approval.
Upon arrival at the gym, an affable and enormous man named Ariel greeted me (more like the Israeli prime minister than the mermaid, I assure you). A large man with a far too comfortable rapport and very large shoulders, he referred to me as "bud" or "chief" several times in the first few minutes of our relationship. I always find interactions like this awkward, when one party fails to recognize the truth--that our relationship is merely commercial. We don't know one another, and your sole reason for talking to me is to sell me a service that reinforces your life choices, and modern aesthetics. I get that and am ultimately fine with it, but the accompanying friendly banter feels forced and seems to imply that I'm seeking counsel from a trusted friend instead of clinical recommendations from a professional. I don't want Ariel to be my friend, my friends don't know jack about fitness. I want a professional, and just as I don't call my doctor "chief" I don't want a jocular relationship with a trainer.
For the rest of the story go to extra vaganza
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Newest Home
I'm moving. I am going to be living at 18th and Park in Washington DC. It's a small place, but one that should be just perfect for me. It's not too pricey, and it's close to a lot of things. I'm excited. I think I'll likely move in this weekend. Then I have a job interview on Monday (with the firm BRS, I'm really excited about this). So all in all life is progressing.
Better still, Poultry Days (the best frisbee tournament, besides GLO in Ohio) is two weekends away, and I'm going to be playing with Oberlin team. Should be a great chance for injury and fellowship.
Better still, Poultry Days (the best frisbee tournament, besides GLO in Ohio) is two weekends away, and I'm going to be playing with Oberlin team. Should be a great chance for injury and fellowship.
DC...again and again
I drove into DC last night. I was looking at an apartment in Mt. Pleasant. 500 bucks for a basement place to be shared with a guy who works at Brookings. The place is small, there's no getting around that, and it's got the worn feel of a place that's been well used and not as well cared for. And yet...it's a wonderful location (18th and Park) and very reasonable rent (and I don't have to pledge to live there forever). So with a few assurances here and there I think I may have a new address. Currently I'm writing from the very very posh residence of Mssrs JKramer-Duffield and W Singer. It's across the street (I see it now) from the Metro. The apartment has gorgeous floors, high ceilings and the overall appearance (decoration and layout) of a place where up and coming publishing folks live. Like so many nice places for 20 somethings it feels like the owners are stockholders in Ikea. It's a wonderful place. Maybe if I'm really nice I can spend some evenings engaged in argument here or at least share some port or PBR (seems like a place that could accomodate both) ...it's a huge and comfortable place--kind of like an interior/urban park.
I am heading off to Columbus this morning. I'm going to navigate "The Spur" a section of highway (270) whose name always seems funny to me. The Spur.
In other news I was accosted outside my potential new apartment by a haggard middle aged man in a wife beater. I was sitting in the car with my laptop open. He walked over and banged on my windows. I rolled mine down and he shouted, "If you don't turn that damn thing off, I'm calling the cops. I know what you're doing, you're breaking into networks." I was, of course, taken aback and stammered out something that resembled, "No I'm not. Not at all." He then demonstrated (or hoped to) his sincerity by committing to memory my license plate number. He mumbled this to himself three or four times before launching into more black helicopter visions. He demanded that I take down the GPS locator that I mounted to my window (it plugs into my computer). I explain it was a GPS locator, to help me navigate and he rolled his eyes and said, "Oh sure." This is why a little bit of knowledge is a bad thing. He knows what a computer is. He knows what a network is, in so much as he believes it to be something that I would "hack" in the middle of the afternoon, while sitting listening to NPR. For the rest of the afternoon (I was waiting to meet the potential roomate) he sat and stared at me while, I can only imagine, explaining to his daughter the evils of P2P software and compromised firewalls.
I am heading off to Columbus this morning. I'm going to navigate "The Spur" a section of highway (270) whose name always seems funny to me. The Spur.
In other news I was accosted outside my potential new apartment by a haggard middle aged man in a wife beater. I was sitting in the car with my laptop open. He walked over and banged on my windows. I rolled mine down and he shouted, "If you don't turn that damn thing off, I'm calling the cops. I know what you're doing, you're breaking into networks." I was, of course, taken aback and stammered out something that resembled, "No I'm not. Not at all." He then demonstrated (or hoped to) his sincerity by committing to memory my license plate number. He mumbled this to himself three or four times before launching into more black helicopter visions. He demanded that I take down the GPS locator that I mounted to my window (it plugs into my computer). I explain it was a GPS locator, to help me navigate and he rolled his eyes and said, "Oh sure." This is why a little bit of knowledge is a bad thing. He knows what a computer is. He knows what a network is, in so much as he believes it to be something that I would "hack" in the middle of the afternoon, while sitting listening to NPR. For the rest of the afternoon (I was waiting to meet the potential roomate) he sat and stared at me while, I can only imagine, explaining to his daughter the evils of P2P software and compromised firewalls.
Monday, May 30, 2005
The Marks We Share
As I prepare to leave the reunion I’m washed under the same kind of thoughts that accompanied my graduation. I feel blessed to have been a part of this college, this institution. I feel remarkably sad at the prospect of the great distances that are about to be put between these people, about whom I care deeply, and myself. It’s a more acute version of the sadness that follows a birthday and birthday party. It is the moment of dawning realization, the moment where you realize that tomorrow won’t be hedonistically focused on making you feel special and loved. Tomorrow you won’t be entitled to expect perfect moments of encapsulated joy; tomorrow it’s back to the task of carving out a life. Tomorrow it’s back to assumed anonymity rather than expected recognition.
I was immensely fortunate. Out of the roughly 600 people in the graduating class something like 65 class of ’01 folks showed up. Of those were many of the people who most shaped my Oberlin experience. There were certainly people whom I would have loved to have seen (Ann, Ellen, Beth, Rachel). But to see Aaron, Neil, Dave, Josh, JKD, Ben and Naomi as well as Melissa and Noah felt like a fulfilling reunion.
The reunion was a chance for people to remind one another of moments of glory and moments of imfamy. Old nicknames resurfaced and "whatever happened to" session broke out like dandelions in an abandoned field, each querry sparking a new round. There were numerous moments where a story, in which I played a role, was told and I felt like I was hearing it for the first time. People you never liked before you weren’t forced to love now, but you had to admit that seeing them made the experience fuller. Each of us addressed or confronted old traumas, challenging old demons in the face of old friends…and in the end while some had left scars none had left us disfigured or embittered.
We’ve left Oberlin only to return as if for the first time. In some ways we’ve regressed to near copies of our first week freshman year selves. We cling to our groups; cleave to anyone who, by their presence alone, will suggest that we have friends here. The fear and timidity of freshman year is nothing like that of the newly reunited. As freshman, while afraid and lonely, we recognized that each of us faced the same new problems. But at the reunion there is a sense that everyone else knows more people, has more friends and may just have had a more meaningful time at Oberlin. The intervening years have brought definition and purpose, heartbreak and joy and yet we’re terrified to face our classmates without a brace of Obies. We travel in amorphous packs to bathrooms, dinners and events. The worst fear is that you’ll be left alone, or arrive and be lonely.
It’s been just under 8 years since I first set foot on Oberlin’s campus (as a student). The experience of Oberlin and memories and friendships formed there have in many ways dominated the better part of a third of my life. Neil and I were talking and we realized that the change you see between an old high school friend and an old college friend is remarkable. High schoolers are nearly raw clay ready for formation into vases or bowls, cups or plates. College kids seem to be once fired pieces, all that remains is some kind of finishing glaze. The changes I saw in my friends over the first 4 years I knew them dwarf whatever changes the past four have brought. Being back at Oberlin only reinforces that knowledge. Walking past the building which brought structure and order to those changes just works to remind me (and I think us) that we are very much the same person we were when we left and not at all the same person as when we arrived. Oberlin has marked us, has made us pieces that fit together. Not quite a matching set, but certainly complimentary.
I was immensely fortunate. Out of the roughly 600 people in the graduating class something like 65 class of ’01 folks showed up. Of those were many of the people who most shaped my Oberlin experience. There were certainly people whom I would have loved to have seen (Ann, Ellen, Beth, Rachel). But to see Aaron, Neil, Dave, Josh, JKD, Ben and Naomi as well as Melissa and Noah felt like a fulfilling reunion.
The reunion was a chance for people to remind one another of moments of glory and moments of imfamy. Old nicknames resurfaced and "whatever happened to" session broke out like dandelions in an abandoned field, each querry sparking a new round. There were numerous moments where a story, in which I played a role, was told and I felt like I was hearing it for the first time. People you never liked before you weren’t forced to love now, but you had to admit that seeing them made the experience fuller. Each of us addressed or confronted old traumas, challenging old demons in the face of old friends…and in the end while some had left scars none had left us disfigured or embittered.
We’ve left Oberlin only to return as if for the first time. In some ways we’ve regressed to near copies of our first week freshman year selves. We cling to our groups; cleave to anyone who, by their presence alone, will suggest that we have friends here. The fear and timidity of freshman year is nothing like that of the newly reunited. As freshman, while afraid and lonely, we recognized that each of us faced the same new problems. But at the reunion there is a sense that everyone else knows more people, has more friends and may just have had a more meaningful time at Oberlin. The intervening years have brought definition and purpose, heartbreak and joy and yet we’re terrified to face our classmates without a brace of Obies. We travel in amorphous packs to bathrooms, dinners and events. The worst fear is that you’ll be left alone, or arrive and be lonely.
It’s been just under 8 years since I first set foot on Oberlin’s campus (as a student). The experience of Oberlin and memories and friendships formed there have in many ways dominated the better part of a third of my life. Neil and I were talking and we realized that the change you see between an old high school friend and an old college friend is remarkable. High schoolers are nearly raw clay ready for formation into vases or bowls, cups or plates. College kids seem to be once fired pieces, all that remains is some kind of finishing glaze. The changes I saw in my friends over the first 4 years I knew them dwarf whatever changes the past four have brought. Being back at Oberlin only reinforces that knowledge. Walking past the building which brought structure and order to those changes just works to remind me (and I think us) that we are very much the same person we were when we left and not at all the same person as when we arrived. Oberlin has marked us, has made us pieces that fit together. Not quite a matching set, but certainly complimentary.
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