Yesterday I had a revelation: Most people would rather feel good than do good. I would put myself in that category. I think it goes back to the belief that my mom emotionally abandoned me at puberty. Maybe I feel that the world owes me, and that's why I'm not willing to make significant sacrifices for others. I don't have the faith that my sacrifices will be rewarded, since my devotion to my friends has so often been unrequited. Although my lack of faith predates my friends' post-collegiate abandonment of me. It probly has a lot more to do with my mom's abandonment. I think this explains most of the selfishness in the world. People get hurt when they're children, and they grow up to believe that they need to look out for just themselves, because no one else will.
Of course, as we all know, doing good does not always bring good fortune. That's why one of the age-old questions is: Why do bad things happen to good people? In high school I thought of an answer to this question. I was very impressed with myself, as I've never heard anyone offer a solution to this theological riddle. I don't think I've ever presented my answer publicly before. I've mentioned it to a few friends, in high school and college and maybe a few years ago. I'll preface it by saying it presupposes a benevolent deity/universal soul/life-force. The answer goes like this: If only good things happened to good people, there'd be no virtue in being good. People would only do good so that good things would happen to them. Whadda ya think? Pretty cool, huh? I'm sure I'm not the first to think of that, but I'm pretty sure I came up with it on my own. Not that I put a lot of thought into it. It was just one of those things that comes to you, like a bolt from the blue.
Watching The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy probly put me in this frame of mind. I watched the BBC TV series from '81. It was a chore getting through all 6 half-hour episodes. The special effects were horrible, and the lighting for the interior scenes was painfully bright. Some of the actors were good, but some were not, and the miserably low production value quickly sapped my will to finish the series. I did though, and at least it gave me the right to harangue those H2G2 (The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy) fanboys (and -girls) who think the movie was a crime against nature. The movie is so much fucking better than the TV series! I would say it's even better than the books. The real test is how does it stack up against the original incarnation of H2G2: the radio series. In my opinion, it's better than that as well. So take that, you H2G2 cultists! The movie is the best version of the saga yet! And I hope they make a million sequels, because the movie fucking rocks! Yeah!
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Summer of Sad
I just plugged in the floor lamp next to the recliner in the living room. That's the only way to turn it on. If I could only give you one piece of advice, it would be this: Don't buy the cheapest floor lamp at Target. It might look cool with its sleek, metallic design and its touch-sensitive pole, but it will only let you down.
I considered titling this post "The Summer of My Discontent," but I thought it was too cliche. Hopefully my backup choice will be adequate. This evening I finally accepted the fact that I'm sad. I'm really sad and lonely and it doesn't look like things are gonna change anytime soon. Just accepting it makes it easier to handle. I'm still waiting to really cry and break my 18-year dry spell. It's hard to overcome sadness when you won't let yourself feel it. I keep trying to convince myself that I can let go, that there is a safety net to catch me. (I'm the safety net.)
On the bus today it occurred to me that joy and pain can't be separated. I tried to keep them apart, and doing so tore me apart. But now I know I can hold them at the same time, one in each hand, without dropping either. They're connected by a string. If I drop one, eventually the other will drop too. The trick is to hold onto the pain as tightly as I cling to the joy, but no more.
Well, enough of that New Age nonsense. The Celtics won the NBA title last night in a ridiculous Game 6 rout, 131-92. I'm glad they waited 'til they were back in Boston. Clinching the championship at home is much more gratifying. The game was over by halftime. I was disappointed in the Lakers' lackluster effort. The Celtics' defense was almost impenetrable, but L.A. didn't show much heart. KG's postgame interview was insane. He went crazy. They bleeped him at one point, but I don't know if it was necessary. It made me happy to see that. His hug with Bill Russell was esp. touching. I wish I'd felt more jubilant about it. Oh well. It is just a game after all.
Yesterday I watched the "video" (back in 1975 they used film) for Cheech & Chong's "Basketball Jones" on YouTube. I love that song, but good lord is that film racist! All the black folks had huge lips and most of 'em didn't have eyes. You could see the black cheerleaders' panties under their skirts, and each pair had a day of the week printed on them. I'll leave it to your imaginations to interpret that sight gag. It seems kinda misogynistic to me. Maybe I'm overreacting, but I think they ruined an endearing, surprisingly good comic song with a raunchy, racist promotional film.
(For my fellow "Basketball Jones" trivia lovers, you might be interested to know that the song features such musical luminaries as George Harrison on lead guitar, Billy Preston on organ, Carole King on electric piano, and Michelle Phillips of the Mamas and the Papas on backing vocals. I don't know about you, but that information blew my mind. No wonder it's such a sweet song!)
The main factor behind my emotional opening-up has probly been the recurring insomnia I've had in the past week. Even though I slept a lot last night and this morning, I didn't feel quite rested. I hope it doesn't persist. That would make the whole process of getting back on my feet a lot harder. But if I keep opening up, I should be alright.
I considered titling this post "The Summer of My Discontent," but I thought it was too cliche. Hopefully my backup choice will be adequate. This evening I finally accepted the fact that I'm sad. I'm really sad and lonely and it doesn't look like things are gonna change anytime soon. Just accepting it makes it easier to handle. I'm still waiting to really cry and break my 18-year dry spell. It's hard to overcome sadness when you won't let yourself feel it. I keep trying to convince myself that I can let go, that there is a safety net to catch me. (I'm the safety net.)
On the bus today it occurred to me that joy and pain can't be separated. I tried to keep them apart, and doing so tore me apart. But now I know I can hold them at the same time, one in each hand, without dropping either. They're connected by a string. If I drop one, eventually the other will drop too. The trick is to hold onto the pain as tightly as I cling to the joy, but no more.
Well, enough of that New Age nonsense. The Celtics won the NBA title last night in a ridiculous Game 6 rout, 131-92. I'm glad they waited 'til they were back in Boston. Clinching the championship at home is much more gratifying. The game was over by halftime. I was disappointed in the Lakers' lackluster effort. The Celtics' defense was almost impenetrable, but L.A. didn't show much heart. KG's postgame interview was insane. He went crazy. They bleeped him at one point, but I don't know if it was necessary. It made me happy to see that. His hug with Bill Russell was esp. touching. I wish I'd felt more jubilant about it. Oh well. It is just a game after all.
Yesterday I watched the "video" (back in 1975 they used film) for Cheech & Chong's "Basketball Jones" on YouTube. I love that song, but good lord is that film racist! All the black folks had huge lips and most of 'em didn't have eyes. You could see the black cheerleaders' panties under their skirts, and each pair had a day of the week printed on them. I'll leave it to your imaginations to interpret that sight gag. It seems kinda misogynistic to me. Maybe I'm overreacting, but I think they ruined an endearing, surprisingly good comic song with a raunchy, racist promotional film.
(For my fellow "Basketball Jones" trivia lovers, you might be interested to know that the song features such musical luminaries as George Harrison on lead guitar, Billy Preston on organ, Carole King on electric piano, and Michelle Phillips of the Mamas and the Papas on backing vocals. I don't know about you, but that information blew my mind. No wonder it's such a sweet song!)
The main factor behind my emotional opening-up has probly been the recurring insomnia I've had in the past week. Even though I slept a lot last night and this morning, I didn't feel quite rested. I hope it doesn't persist. That would make the whole process of getting back on my feet a lot harder. But if I keep opening up, I should be alright.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
A Father's Day Miracle
I spent Father's Day at the Minnesota Zoo with my parents and encountered a bizarre example of antisemitism. It was in the Shark Reef aquarium, as I recall. I saw a big, disturbing fish with a face that looked like a human caricature. It was identified on the accompanying chart as a "Goliath Grouper/Jewfish." That threw me for a loop. As the Wikipedia entry makes clear, "Jewfish" was dropped in 2001 for the "more considerate" sobriquet, "goliath grouper." Ironic that the replacement includes a reference to the Old Testament. Apparently the Minnesota Zoo didn't get the memo. Perhaps a more conscientious citizen would've recommended to a staff member that they get rid of the rather offensive name. That didn't even occur to me. I'd rather just laugh and blog about it.
The entire afternoon was consumed by the Zoo. Can I just say one thing? There are a LOT of fuckin' kids runnin' around these days. I easily exceeded my kid limit for the day. Nuthin' wrong with a little whinin' and cryin' and whatnot, but having to listen to dozens of kids act in this manner for over 4 hours is asking a bit much. This irritation mixed with my complicated relationship with my parents and made a delicious gravy. I mean a cranky gravy. Even though it was a beautiful day, we were out in the sun for a long time, so by late afternoon my patience was wearing thin.
The Zoo was nowhere near the thrill it was when I was a kid. The factors contributing to my non-enjoyment were as follows: being a 30-year-old guy alone with my parents, without any friends and/or a girlfriend, questioning the morality of keeping animals in captivity, seeing these animals often just lying around or looking kinda unhappy and, again, the kids. The best/worst moment of the trip came near the end when a Chilean pudu ("the world's smallest deer") stuck its nose through the chicken wire to eat a leaf. This cat-sized creature got one of its adorable little horns stuck in the wire, but managed to extricate itself and pull the leaf through the wire. Dad said, "That alone was worth the price of admission." I agreed with him, though I also found it rather sad. That animal shouldn't be caged for our amusement, even if it does impress on us a greater sense of our communion with nature. It's not a fair trade-off.
Being surrounded by kids got me thinking about a belief that seems to be common, although I'm not sure I've ever heard it articulated in person. I've heard it on The McLaughlin Group (haughtily ejaculated from the Jabba the Hut-like maw of the Washington Times' "conservative" columnist Tony Blankley) and maybe read it online, but it has never issued forth from the mouth of someone in my midst. It is the belief that not having kids is selfish. (Now, if it turns out this belief is rare, the following rejoinder will seem rather quixotic.)
This notion really pisses me off. Am I to believe that people have kids out of a sense of societal duty? Of course they don't. They have kids because they want to (or because the condom broke). With 6.67 billion people in the world (according to an exhibit at the Zoo) and 300 million in the U.S., does any sane, non-Crazy Christian person believe we need to increase the human population? If anything, we need to drastically reduce the population. Climate Change, Peak Oil and environmental pollution are symptoms of overpopulation. I agree with those who think that the American and European lifestyles are a problem, but even with a lifestyle change in our countries, the world population will have to shrink to cope with Global Warming and the depletion of fossil fuels.
Well, now that I've gotten that out of my system, I can get back to the reason for the weekend: Father's Day. It began yesterday when my folks picked me up in the morning for a tour of the Guthrie, followed by a perambulation through the Mill City Farmer's Market, lunch at spoonriver next door and a matinee performance of The Secret Fall of Constance Wilde. My friend Noah is Assistant Director for the show, so I was eager to see it. He didn't disappoint. The play was quite good and very much in the vein of his company, the Live Action Set, with some dance sprinkled over a nonlinear narrative. Constance was the rather tragic wife of Oscar Wilde. I'd never even heard of her.
After the play we drove to my boyhood home in the 'burbs. I mowed the second half of my parents' alpine lawn to give my dad a much-appreciated break. That evening I felt sad. I've been really lonely, off and on, for the last month or so, but last night it was OK, because I was able to be sad in front of my parents. It's been almost 6 years, maybe longer, since I felt like I could be sad in their presence. Eventually we all wound up downstairs in the den watching Rudy on the USA Network. This movie has a special significance for us, because my dad went to Notre Dame and I grew up watching their football games with him, listening to this generally genial man yell at the screen whenever the Fightin' Irish fucked up. Our eyes welled up as we watched the final reel. How cliche can ya get? We managed to avoid the predictable "I love you"'s and climactic bear hug, but only because we lacked the courage to open up that wide.
The entire afternoon was consumed by the Zoo. Can I just say one thing? There are a LOT of fuckin' kids runnin' around these days. I easily exceeded my kid limit for the day. Nuthin' wrong with a little whinin' and cryin' and whatnot, but having to listen to dozens of kids act in this manner for over 4 hours is asking a bit much. This irritation mixed with my complicated relationship with my parents and made a delicious gravy. I mean a cranky gravy. Even though it was a beautiful day, we were out in the sun for a long time, so by late afternoon my patience was wearing thin.
The Zoo was nowhere near the thrill it was when I was a kid. The factors contributing to my non-enjoyment were as follows: being a 30-year-old guy alone with my parents, without any friends and/or a girlfriend, questioning the morality of keeping animals in captivity, seeing these animals often just lying around or looking kinda unhappy and, again, the kids. The best/worst moment of the trip came near the end when a Chilean pudu ("the world's smallest deer") stuck its nose through the chicken wire to eat a leaf. This cat-sized creature got one of its adorable little horns stuck in the wire, but managed to extricate itself and pull the leaf through the wire. Dad said, "That alone was worth the price of admission." I agreed with him, though I also found it rather sad. That animal shouldn't be caged for our amusement, even if it does impress on us a greater sense of our communion with nature. It's not a fair trade-off.
Being surrounded by kids got me thinking about a belief that seems to be common, although I'm not sure I've ever heard it articulated in person. I've heard it on The McLaughlin Group (haughtily ejaculated from the Jabba the Hut-like maw of the Washington Times' "conservative" columnist Tony Blankley) and maybe read it online, but it has never issued forth from the mouth of someone in my midst. It is the belief that not having kids is selfish. (Now, if it turns out this belief is rare, the following rejoinder will seem rather quixotic.)
This notion really pisses me off. Am I to believe that people have kids out of a sense of societal duty? Of course they don't. They have kids because they want to (or because the condom broke). With 6.67 billion people in the world (according to an exhibit at the Zoo) and 300 million in the U.S., does any sane, non-Crazy Christian person believe we need to increase the human population? If anything, we need to drastically reduce the population. Climate Change, Peak Oil and environmental pollution are symptoms of overpopulation. I agree with those who think that the American and European lifestyles are a problem, but even with a lifestyle change in our countries, the world population will have to shrink to cope with Global Warming and the depletion of fossil fuels.
Well, now that I've gotten that out of my system, I can get back to the reason for the weekend: Father's Day. It began yesterday when my folks picked me up in the morning for a tour of the Guthrie, followed by a perambulation through the Mill City Farmer's Market, lunch at spoonriver next door and a matinee performance of The Secret Fall of Constance Wilde. My friend Noah is Assistant Director for the show, so I was eager to see it. He didn't disappoint. The play was quite good and very much in the vein of his company, the Live Action Set, with some dance sprinkled over a nonlinear narrative. Constance was the rather tragic wife of Oscar Wilde. I'd never even heard of her.
After the play we drove to my boyhood home in the 'burbs. I mowed the second half of my parents' alpine lawn to give my dad a much-appreciated break. That evening I felt sad. I've been really lonely, off and on, for the last month or so, but last night it was OK, because I was able to be sad in front of my parents. It's been almost 6 years, maybe longer, since I felt like I could be sad in their presence. Eventually we all wound up downstairs in the den watching Rudy on the USA Network. This movie has a special significance for us, because my dad went to Notre Dame and I grew up watching their football games with him, listening to this generally genial man yell at the screen whenever the Fightin' Irish fucked up. Our eyes welled up as we watched the final reel. How cliche can ya get? We managed to avoid the predictable "I love you"'s and climactic bear hug, but only because we lacked the courage to open up that wide.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Lukewarmth
Game 3 of the NBA Finals continued my partiality for the Lakers, although it made more sense to root for them since the Celtics were up 2-0 and, when my loyalties are this lukewarm, I always want a long, close series. L.A. was not impressive in letting the Celtics take the lead in the 3rd Quarter and keep it close 'til the end. But I'll stick with my pre-Finals prediction: Celtics in 7.
This was a pretty uninspiring day in the life of an unemployed guy. The boredom is starting to get to me. That might be the best motivation for getting a job. Although I might take a vacation in July. I'm comfortable with the idea of not finding a job this summer. The only question is: What would my parents think? They don't know I cashed out my 401(k), and that knowledge would probly upset them. I can't let their disapproval dissuade me. Parents can be extremely aggravating. My dad said I shouldn't base my decisions on his opinion, but I know damn well he'd be upset if I told him about the 401(k) and went on vacation.
I walked to the Big K at Lake & Nicollet to check out the A/C window units. I just checked the prices for future comparison with Target. So far I haven't needed even a fan for my bedroom, which I don't think would help much anyway. The previous occupants of my apartment said an A/C unit would be mandatory for the summer. Maybe my luck will hold out and these gorgeous 70-something-degree days will be the warmest of the summer. That isn't likely, but the power of prayer should not be underestimated.
In the late afternoon I went to the park at Lyndale & 33rd to shoot hoops. As luck would have it, a group of guys gravitated to the court after I arrived. We played 5-on-5 full-court, a rare treat for me, especially since the play was at my skill level, plenty of guys were better than me and the mood was fairly easy-going. Over time there got to be more arguments over fouls, but it was a better atmosphere than most pickup games I've been in.
I left the park at 7, feeling weak with a troubling sensation in my chest. It wasn't pain, but I was worried I'd pushed myself too hard, even though I hadn't been sucking wind or choking on phlegm or seeing stars. I got home, drank some water, stretched and showered. Duane showed up while I was in the shower. Game 3 had just started, so he took a seat on the couch to watch.
I ordered a pizza from Galactic at halftime. When it arrived, to my delight, my friend Chris was the deliverer. It was the first time he'd delivered for me. He invited me to join him and Dustin at the Bulldog that night. I accepted and, after the game, headed over to the Bulldog. I had a Hennepin beer at the bar and awaited their arrival. I was there for 40 minutes, but Chris and Dustin never showed. Somewhat disappointed but unperturbed, I paid for the beer and went home.
That's how I got to where I am now, still trying to shake the buzz of the Hennepin. My roommate Beth just hopped in the shower. She's pretty cool. I'll probly have some things to say about her this summer. Hopefully this week I'll have more interesting things to talk about than the Freaks and Geeks DVD's I've been renting from Hollywood. (In a word, brilliant. I wish my adolescence had been that redemptive.)
This was a pretty uninspiring day in the life of an unemployed guy. The boredom is starting to get to me. That might be the best motivation for getting a job. Although I might take a vacation in July. I'm comfortable with the idea of not finding a job this summer. The only question is: What would my parents think? They don't know I cashed out my 401(k), and that knowledge would probly upset them. I can't let their disapproval dissuade me. Parents can be extremely aggravating. My dad said I shouldn't base my decisions on his opinion, but I know damn well he'd be upset if I told him about the 401(k) and went on vacation.
I walked to the Big K at Lake & Nicollet to check out the A/C window units. I just checked the prices for future comparison with Target. So far I haven't needed even a fan for my bedroom, which I don't think would help much anyway. The previous occupants of my apartment said an A/C unit would be mandatory for the summer. Maybe my luck will hold out and these gorgeous 70-something-degree days will be the warmest of the summer. That isn't likely, but the power of prayer should not be underestimated.
In the late afternoon I went to the park at Lyndale & 33rd to shoot hoops. As luck would have it, a group of guys gravitated to the court after I arrived. We played 5-on-5 full-court, a rare treat for me, especially since the play was at my skill level, plenty of guys were better than me and the mood was fairly easy-going. Over time there got to be more arguments over fouls, but it was a better atmosphere than most pickup games I've been in.
I left the park at 7, feeling weak with a troubling sensation in my chest. It wasn't pain, but I was worried I'd pushed myself too hard, even though I hadn't been sucking wind or choking on phlegm or seeing stars. I got home, drank some water, stretched and showered. Duane showed up while I was in the shower. Game 3 had just started, so he took a seat on the couch to watch.
I ordered a pizza from Galactic at halftime. When it arrived, to my delight, my friend Chris was the deliverer. It was the first time he'd delivered for me. He invited me to join him and Dustin at the Bulldog that night. I accepted and, after the game, headed over to the Bulldog. I had a Hennepin beer at the bar and awaited their arrival. I was there for 40 minutes, but Chris and Dustin never showed. Somewhat disappointed but unperturbed, I paid for the beer and went home.
That's how I got to where I am now, still trying to shake the buzz of the Hennepin. My roommate Beth just hopped in the shower. She's pretty cool. I'll probly have some things to say about her this summer. Hopefully this week I'll have more interesting things to talk about than the Freaks and Geeks DVD's I've been renting from Hollywood. (In a word, brilliant. I wish my adolescence had been that redemptive.)
Sunday, June 08, 2008
I Won't Let the Celtics Hurt Me Again
I've been watching a lot of the NBA playoffs during my unemployment. But, since 90% of the games are on cable, I've had to go to bars or my parents' house to catch the games. Luckily, the Finals are on ABC, so I was able to stay home on Thursday night for Game 1. Unluckily, it wasn't much fun watching the game alone. I was glad when Duane invited me over to watch Game 2 this evening.
Although it was much better than watching alone, I still had trouble enjoying the game. My loyalties are confused in this series. Traditionally, I've been a Celtics fan. My dad's from Connecticut, so I grew up rooting for their great teams of the '80s that featured my idol, Larry Bird, (Minnesotan) Kevin McHale, Robert Parish, Dennis Johnson, Danny Ainge and their many hard-working, fundamentally sound role players. The Lakers were the flashy, arrogant embodiment of the triumph of style over substance: in other words, the perfect representatives of L.A.
There was also a racial subtext, as the Celtics were an unusually white NBA team and the Lakers, like most NBA teams, were predominantly black. That may have had something to do with my conception of the Celtics as "hard-working" and "fundamentally sound" and the Lakers as "flashy" and "arrogant." However, my liberal guilt was assuaged in the early '90s by college basketball. (Do I need to clarify that it was men's college basketball? Would it offend anyone if I didn't? I kinda resent that imposition. Considering this is a blog, and a rarely-read one at that, I probly shouldn't worry about it.)
I became enamoured of the Runnin' Rebels of UNLV (University of Nevada-Las Vegas), a high-flying collection of African-American youths dripping with flash and arrogance. And when these showboats were upset in the 1991 Final Four by Duke, I became equally scornful of the prim and proper, predominantly white goody two-shoes on the Blue(-blooded) Devils. My apparent colorblindness as a basketball fan was reinforced in '92 and '93 by my helpless devotion to the Fab Five of Michigan, whom I got to see in person at both their Final Fours.
Even though I'm still a KG fan and like Paul Pierce and Ray Allen, I can't quite convince myself to root for them. They disappointed me by letting the Hawks push them the distance in the first round. After that I figured they didn't have what it took to win the title, so I abandoned the bandwagon. I was only going to support them if I thought they had a chance to go all the way. Once I gave up hope in their championship chances, I switched my allegiance back to LeBron in the second round and then the Pistons in the conference finals.
But in each series, Boston overcame stunningly inconsistent play (world-beaters at home, zombies on the road) to prevail, outlasting King James and the Cavs in a Game 7 nail-biter and besting Detroit in 6. They improved each round, though not spectacularly enough to win me back. My tender basketball heart had been hurt by them once before and needed more time to heal. Also, the Lakers had gotten on my good side by dispatching the Spurs, the gritty, tiresome 4-time champs who outlasted their welcome.
Watching Games 1 and 2, I found myself pulling for the Lakers, in spite of all the reasons to pull for the Celtics and the weak grounds for supporting L.A. Kobe Bryant is a great player, but not that cuddly. Most people seem to have forgotten, but there was that whole "rape" thing a couple years ago. It never went to trial, but still. Pau Gasol is good, but not particularly graceful or compelling. Lamar Odom is silky smooth, but not slick enough to consistently slip past defenders. None of the other players has established a salient style. They each step up and deliver when called upon, but, for me, the team hasn't developed a personality.
Really what I want is a well-played, hard-fought Finals. I'm basically just a basketball purist, after all. But I have to admit that I'm happier when "my" team wins, and, at this point, my team seems to be the Los Angeles Lakers. Although I have a feeling I would not be happy to see them hoist the trophy. Maybe my infidelity to the Celtics has ruined my enjoyment of their playoff run, and, even if they do win it all, I won't be able to share in the joy. That would be a shame. You see, non-sports fans, this is a lot like a relationship. Once the trust is broken, it's hard to go back.
Although it was much better than watching alone, I still had trouble enjoying the game. My loyalties are confused in this series. Traditionally, I've been a Celtics fan. My dad's from Connecticut, so I grew up rooting for their great teams of the '80s that featured my idol, Larry Bird, (Minnesotan) Kevin McHale, Robert Parish, Dennis Johnson, Danny Ainge and their many hard-working, fundamentally sound role players. The Lakers were the flashy, arrogant embodiment of the triumph of style over substance: in other words, the perfect representatives of L.A.
There was also a racial subtext, as the Celtics were an unusually white NBA team and the Lakers, like most NBA teams, were predominantly black. That may have had something to do with my conception of the Celtics as "hard-working" and "fundamentally sound" and the Lakers as "flashy" and "arrogant." However, my liberal guilt was assuaged in the early '90s by college basketball. (Do I need to clarify that it was men's college basketball? Would it offend anyone if I didn't? I kinda resent that imposition. Considering this is a blog, and a rarely-read one at that, I probly shouldn't worry about it.)
I became enamoured of the Runnin' Rebels of UNLV (University of Nevada-Las Vegas), a high-flying collection of African-American youths dripping with flash and arrogance. And when these showboats were upset in the 1991 Final Four by Duke, I became equally scornful of the prim and proper, predominantly white goody two-shoes on the Blue(-blooded) Devils. My apparent colorblindness as a basketball fan was reinforced in '92 and '93 by my helpless devotion to the Fab Five of Michigan, whom I got to see in person at both their Final Fours.
Even though I'm still a KG fan and like Paul Pierce and Ray Allen, I can't quite convince myself to root for them. They disappointed me by letting the Hawks push them the distance in the first round. After that I figured they didn't have what it took to win the title, so I abandoned the bandwagon. I was only going to support them if I thought they had a chance to go all the way. Once I gave up hope in their championship chances, I switched my allegiance back to LeBron in the second round and then the Pistons in the conference finals.
But in each series, Boston overcame stunningly inconsistent play (world-beaters at home, zombies on the road) to prevail, outlasting King James and the Cavs in a Game 7 nail-biter and besting Detroit in 6. They improved each round, though not spectacularly enough to win me back. My tender basketball heart had been hurt by them once before and needed more time to heal. Also, the Lakers had gotten on my good side by dispatching the Spurs, the gritty, tiresome 4-time champs who outlasted their welcome.
Watching Games 1 and 2, I found myself pulling for the Lakers, in spite of all the reasons to pull for the Celtics and the weak grounds for supporting L.A. Kobe Bryant is a great player, but not that cuddly. Most people seem to have forgotten, but there was that whole "rape" thing a couple years ago. It never went to trial, but still. Pau Gasol is good, but not particularly graceful or compelling. Lamar Odom is silky smooth, but not slick enough to consistently slip past defenders. None of the other players has established a salient style. They each step up and deliver when called upon, but, for me, the team hasn't developed a personality.
Really what I want is a well-played, hard-fought Finals. I'm basically just a basketball purist, after all. But I have to admit that I'm happier when "my" team wins, and, at this point, my team seems to be the Los Angeles Lakers. Although I have a feeling I would not be happy to see them hoist the trophy. Maybe my infidelity to the Celtics has ruined my enjoyment of their playoff run, and, even if they do win it all, I won't be able to share in the joy. That would be a shame. You see, non-sports fans, this is a lot like a relationship. Once the trust is broken, it's hard to go back.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
The Name of the Game
I just read a great, short essay by Richard Heinberg, probly the best Peak Oil writer of them all. You can read it here. For those who'd rather not go to all that trouble, here's the last line:
I haven't been terribly faithful to my mission, but there's some emotional business I need to attend to first. I know fulfilling the mission will help with my emotional issues, but dealing with them directly will help more and enable me to "quest" without being weighed down by any baggage.
Taking in traumatic information and transmuting it into life-affirming action may turn out to be the most advanced and meaningful spiritual practice of our time. That's what I've been trying to do, off and on, for the last 3 years. It's pretty amazing when someone describes your life's mission in one sentence. Although I would add one thing. Not only am I trying to transmute traumatic information into life-affirming action, I'm also trying to transmute it into life-affirming and energizing art (which may be redundant).
I haven't been terribly faithful to my mission, but there's some emotional business I need to attend to first. I know fulfilling the mission will help with my emotional issues, but dealing with them directly will help more and enable me to "quest" without being weighed down by any baggage.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Rainy Day
I wanna write about driving through the 'burbs, carwashes and garage sales, but there's a cloud hanging over me that I hafta shake off first. The last month has been productive emotionally. I seem to be strengthening and stabilizing, with the help of my friends and parents. Loneliness has been a recurring problem because of my continuing unemployment and difficulty in getting in touch with friends. But I finally feel ready (almost eager) to begin my long-delayed job search, which I will at 8:30 am on Monday at the Workforce Center (a free state program) at Chicago and Lake.
Getting up early could be tough after 2 months of sleeping past 11, although I've actually been using my alarm (inconsistently) this week to ease the transition. At first, setting the alarm infected my sleep with anxiety. But, after hangin' out with my dad last weekend and sharing some of my vocational concerns with him, I was able to sleep pretty soundly even with the prospect of an early morning wake-up call. I think I associated the alarm with my old job and the possibility of ending up with another job as a corporate bitch. Getting ready in the morning was always the toughest, most soul-crushing part of the job for me.
So, about that cloud hanging over me, it regards my nascent career in standup. Last week I was scheduled to do a set at a certain comedy-themed show in the Uptown area that shall remain nameless. Well, the host of said show failed to include me in that evening's lineup, despite the fact I'd booked it with him months in advance. With a calm, but unequivocal expression of anger, I exited the venue and spent the night venting and chillin' with two friends who'd come to see my standup for the first time. Thank god they showed up; otherwise I would've been in tough shape.
After several days, I mustered all my restraint and sent an e-mail to the host of the show with a list of grievances. There'd been other incidents leading up to that night that made it the final straw. My criticism was harsh but emotionally reserved. I struck a somewhat conciliatory note at the end and even more strongly in a follow-up e-mail, but he still hasn't responded. I don't expect he will at this point. I think I prefer that to getting "flamed," if I'm using that internet slang correctly.
Since then I've been plagued by paranoia, afraid that I'll run into him on my perambulations along the streets of Uptown. It appears to have soured my interaction with strangers, and just when I'd apparently cleansed myself of the social anxiety left over from middle school. I think this is the first test of my new optimistic outlook. Success almost seems inevitable, just a function of patience and time. But, for now, the process is riddled with doubt and fear.
I didn't want this post to be a rainy day, but that's what I had to write. I'll try and let the sunshine in next time.
Getting up early could be tough after 2 months of sleeping past 11, although I've actually been using my alarm (inconsistently) this week to ease the transition. At first, setting the alarm infected my sleep with anxiety. But, after hangin' out with my dad last weekend and sharing some of my vocational concerns with him, I was able to sleep pretty soundly even with the prospect of an early morning wake-up call. I think I associated the alarm with my old job and the possibility of ending up with another job as a corporate bitch. Getting ready in the morning was always the toughest, most soul-crushing part of the job for me.
So, about that cloud hanging over me, it regards my nascent career in standup. Last week I was scheduled to do a set at a certain comedy-themed show in the Uptown area that shall remain nameless. Well, the host of said show failed to include me in that evening's lineup, despite the fact I'd booked it with him months in advance. With a calm, but unequivocal expression of anger, I exited the venue and spent the night venting and chillin' with two friends who'd come to see my standup for the first time. Thank god they showed up; otherwise I would've been in tough shape.
After several days, I mustered all my restraint and sent an e-mail to the host of the show with a list of grievances. There'd been other incidents leading up to that night that made it the final straw. My criticism was harsh but emotionally reserved. I struck a somewhat conciliatory note at the end and even more strongly in a follow-up e-mail, but he still hasn't responded. I don't expect he will at this point. I think I prefer that to getting "flamed," if I'm using that internet slang correctly.
Since then I've been plagued by paranoia, afraid that I'll run into him on my perambulations along the streets of Uptown. It appears to have soured my interaction with strangers, and just when I'd apparently cleansed myself of the social anxiety left over from middle school. I think this is the first test of my new optimistic outlook. Success almost seems inevitable, just a function of patience and time. But, for now, the process is riddled with doubt and fear.
I didn't want this post to be a rainy day, but that's what I had to write. I'll try and let the sunshine in next time.
Monday, April 28, 2008
2007 Iowa State Fair: 13 Going on 30
(Personal Update 4/27/08: I didn't go to the burlesque show last night, but today I'm feeling more stable and secure than I've felt in a month. Given my sense of emotional security and the usual tedium of my life, I'm going to write about a day last summer. I tend to be much more interested in writing about my experiences months or, better yet, years after I've had them. There must be a word for that phenomenon. "Nostalgia." That's it.)
Last summer my mom and I went to Iowa for a weekend. My motivation was the Iowa State Fair, long a pastoral fascination of mine, along with the state itself. We stayed at the Dunn family farm (Mom's side) in central Iowa, where my grandparents used to live and for which one of my uncles is now the caretaker. It was an hour drive to Des Moines late Saturday morning. Mom would drop me off at the fair and go visit some relatives in town.
It was a scorcher and the sun was in full effect, therefore it was a deadbolt lock that Mom would insist I thoroughly cover my exposed skin with sunblock. I sullenly obliged, in that adolescent way of knowing your parents are right but detesting the humiliation of having to admit it. The fact that I was on the cusp of 30 didn't help. But let me set the scene so you'll have a full appreciation of my state of mind: There I was, a 29-year-old girlfriend-less man-child with a soul-deadening data-entry job and no car, sitting in my mom's car in a gas station parking lot in Des Moines, IA, applying sunblock while she supervised, with such nuggets as "Did you get your neck?" and "How about your legs?" And it was about 90 degrees out.
After extricating myself from that Sartrean hell, I walked between the fenced-in, packed-to-the-gills parking lots to the gate and purchased my admission. The people-watching is usually the highlight of any fair, and this day was to be no exception. Unfortunately, this had more to do with the uninspiring entertainments than the fairgoers. It was a predictable mix of strollers and nuclear families with stereotypical Middle American bellies and straining t-shirts. (It can't be healthy when a culture develops stereotypes about itself.)
I wandered through the masses with no destination in mind. Pretty soon I found myself alone at the edge of the fairgrounds. It was smaller than I remembered, which was disappointing, but I turned around and went into the art building, the one place I went every time (about 5 times) I made it to the Iowa State Fair. There were some good watercolors and charcoal sketches made by Iowans young and old, although it wasn't enough to revive my old "fair joy."
The next stop was a first for me. It was an old house that served as the fair's museum, displaying the history of the event. There were yellowed newspaper clippings, artifacts and videos with black-and-white archival footage, just the kind of things that would normally make my heart all aflutter, but I just wasn't feelin' it. One exhibit that caught my eye was a contest they used to have to determine Iowa's healthiest baby. They probably stopped that when they noticed its similarity to the cattle- and zucchini-judging.
According to Iowa State Fair: Country Comes to Town by Thomas Leslie, "Human specimens were judged alongside their animal brethren throughout the 1930s, with prizes given for healthiest babies, boys, and girls. These contests' uncomfortable echo of eugenics led to their immediate cessation after World War II." So it was the Nazis! That's interesting, as I would encounter their legacy later in the day. By the way, that excerpt accompanies a photo of an extremely "healthy" (read: not too plump, not too skinny, but not that cute) teenage girl in a one-piece swimsuit being "inspected" by a middle-aged (male, obviously) doctor wearing one of those old-timey doctor headbands with the reflective metal disc. She's smiling, though, so we know she wasn't being exploited. She's also wearing a nice watch.
From the museum I headed to a barn filled with old-fashioned technology. A crowd watched the blacksmith work in quiet admiration, seemingly amazed by his mastery of a nearly-dead skill. There was an awkward silence around the smithy, as if they wanted to ask questions but were afraid of exposing their ignorance. Exhibits of old washing machines and other household appliances stood rusting behind ropes, with no identification of their purpose or age. Maybe the exhibits were for people who already knew about that stuff or for elders to explain them to their children or grandchildren. Didn't do me much good though.
In another barn was a stage and folding chairs half filled with spectators. The entertainment was provided by guitars and singers, but I can't remember the style. Maybe bluegrass. Along the right wall towered the tallest cornstalks in Iowa. Red, white or blue ribbons marked the winning entries. Vintage iron and wooden toys lined display counters. A concession stand was selling lemonade. It seemed like the old folks and the families with young children were trying to recapture their know-your-neighbors, homemade, folk-music past, if only for an afternoon. Or maybe that was just me.
The third barn held many delights, both cute and creepy. There were children's books, toys, board games (including "Love Boat: The Game"), flea-market memorabilia (Elvis and the Beatles had their own sections side-by-side) and recreations of WW1 and WW2 tents with rifles, helmets and comic books of the eras. I examined a 1953 Allie Reynolds baseball card with amused awe. The year Reynolds, a New York Yankee, won the Cy Young Award as the best pitcher in the American League, my dad was a Red Sox-loving, Yankee-hating kid from blue-collar Norwich, Connecticut visiting New York City with his dad for a Red Sox-Yankees game. They stopped by a hotel where the teams were staying and saw Reynolds. My grandfather asked my dad if he wanted the pitcher's autograph. My dad refused, because Reynolds was a Yankee, thereby thoroughly aggravating my well-intentioned grandfather.
I related this story to the vendor. He didn't seem too moved, so I moved on. The card was $60 anyway, out of my sentimental value price range. What I found next was somewhat disturbing. Arrayed across a large table were Nazi medals and armbands, a rare photo of Hitler bestowing a medal on a soldier and other Nazi mementoes for all your white-supremacist occasions. I know skinheads aren't the only ones interested in this stuff, but who in their right mind wants a souvenir of what might've been the most malevolent regime in world history? Why would you want a token of pure evil in your house? I just don't get it.
After I was done with the three barns I'd pretty much exhausted the intriguing possibilities of the fair. The video game tent was a dead end since I've had little practice on the recent generations of platforms. Even the sports titles I used to enjoy have evolved beyond my skill level, leaving me at the mercy of the teens and pre-teens who ruled the tent. The animal barns were monotonous, just rows and rows of animals standing in hay soaked with their own urine. The cow sculpted in butter was no big whoop, even with the mantequilla menagerie of Harry Potter and other current pop culture icons. As the afternoon wound down, I escaped the life-draining heat in an air-conditioned hall of living infomercials. There were whirlpools, never-dull knives and many more antidotes to modern life.
With the clock approaching five, I made my way toward the main entrance for the appointed rendezvous with Mom. En route I encountered the Iowa National Guard's collection of humvees and tanks, mixed in with the tractors and combines. Kids eagerly climbed inside the vehicles, captivated by these adult-sized toys. Throwing red paint on the war machines didn't even occur to me, which is surprising given my far left-wing politics. I was probably in the early stages of sun stroke.
After exiting through the understated main gate, I stood at the intersection and awaited the day's final indignity. The sun beat down on me for an hour as I watched my car-less compatriots get picked up or dropped off. When Mom finally showed up, she was anxiously apologetic. We had agreed to meet at "the main gate," but, for whatever reason, she assumed we'd reconnoiter at the gas station where she dropped me off. I bore some responsibility for the delay, because I'd let my cell phone battery die before she called me from the station.
I wearily waved off her apologies and asked to go "home," i.e. the farm. Despite my reddening sunburn and justifiably sour mood, she insisted on showing me a local marvel she'd just seen that day: a stone map of the U.S. laid out by the state capitol, in which each state was represented by a different-colored rock. I glanced out the window, acknowledged its existence and telepathically demanded we leave Des Moines immediately. She finally acquiesced and we began our journey home, although not until after a very long train forced us to make a detour on our way out of town.
We stopped at a nameless family restaurant in Ames for dinner. As I dismally tucked into a bland, Perkins-esque breakfast-for-dinner, the kind of meal that delighted me as a kid, Mom held up her end of a lopsided conversation. I sulked quietly, believing that virtually any other companion would've made the day salvageable. It was as if nothing had changed since I turned 13. I was still keeping silent guard over a king's ransom of resentment, and she was still trying to make polite conversation rather than acknowledge the 16-year-old wall between us. I should've known my ability to enjoy life wouldn't return until I grew out of this extended adolescence. But that knowledge still had a ways to go on the long journey from my head to my heart.
Last summer my mom and I went to Iowa for a weekend. My motivation was the Iowa State Fair, long a pastoral fascination of mine, along with the state itself. We stayed at the Dunn family farm (Mom's side) in central Iowa, where my grandparents used to live and for which one of my uncles is now the caretaker. It was an hour drive to Des Moines late Saturday morning. Mom would drop me off at the fair and go visit some relatives in town.
It was a scorcher and the sun was in full effect, therefore it was a deadbolt lock that Mom would insist I thoroughly cover my exposed skin with sunblock. I sullenly obliged, in that adolescent way of knowing your parents are right but detesting the humiliation of having to admit it. The fact that I was on the cusp of 30 didn't help. But let me set the scene so you'll have a full appreciation of my state of mind: There I was, a 29-year-old girlfriend-less man-child with a soul-deadening data-entry job and no car, sitting in my mom's car in a gas station parking lot in Des Moines, IA, applying sunblock while she supervised, with such nuggets as "Did you get your neck?" and "How about your legs?" And it was about 90 degrees out.
After extricating myself from that Sartrean hell, I walked between the fenced-in, packed-to-the-gills parking lots to the gate and purchased my admission. The people-watching is usually the highlight of any fair, and this day was to be no exception. Unfortunately, this had more to do with the uninspiring entertainments than the fairgoers. It was a predictable mix of strollers and nuclear families with stereotypical Middle American bellies and straining t-shirts. (It can't be healthy when a culture develops stereotypes about itself.)
I wandered through the masses with no destination in mind. Pretty soon I found myself alone at the edge of the fairgrounds. It was smaller than I remembered, which was disappointing, but I turned around and went into the art building, the one place I went every time (about 5 times) I made it to the Iowa State Fair. There were some good watercolors and charcoal sketches made by Iowans young and old, although it wasn't enough to revive my old "fair joy."
The next stop was a first for me. It was an old house that served as the fair's museum, displaying the history of the event. There were yellowed newspaper clippings, artifacts and videos with black-and-white archival footage, just the kind of things that would normally make my heart all aflutter, but I just wasn't feelin' it. One exhibit that caught my eye was a contest they used to have to determine Iowa's healthiest baby. They probably stopped that when they noticed its similarity to the cattle- and zucchini-judging.
According to Iowa State Fair: Country Comes to Town by Thomas Leslie, "Human specimens were judged alongside their animal brethren throughout the 1930s, with prizes given for healthiest babies, boys, and girls. These contests' uncomfortable echo of eugenics led to their immediate cessation after World War II." So it was the Nazis! That's interesting, as I would encounter their legacy later in the day. By the way, that excerpt accompanies a photo of an extremely "healthy" (read: not too plump, not too skinny, but not that cute) teenage girl in a one-piece swimsuit being "inspected" by a middle-aged (male, obviously) doctor wearing one of those old-timey doctor headbands with the reflective metal disc. She's smiling, though, so we know she wasn't being exploited. She's also wearing a nice watch.
From the museum I headed to a barn filled with old-fashioned technology. A crowd watched the blacksmith work in quiet admiration, seemingly amazed by his mastery of a nearly-dead skill. There was an awkward silence around the smithy, as if they wanted to ask questions but were afraid of exposing their ignorance. Exhibits of old washing machines and other household appliances stood rusting behind ropes, with no identification of their purpose or age. Maybe the exhibits were for people who already knew about that stuff or for elders to explain them to their children or grandchildren. Didn't do me much good though.
In another barn was a stage and folding chairs half filled with spectators. The entertainment was provided by guitars and singers, but I can't remember the style. Maybe bluegrass. Along the right wall towered the tallest cornstalks in Iowa. Red, white or blue ribbons marked the winning entries. Vintage iron and wooden toys lined display counters. A concession stand was selling lemonade. It seemed like the old folks and the families with young children were trying to recapture their know-your-neighbors, homemade, folk-music past, if only for an afternoon. Or maybe that was just me.
The third barn held many delights, both cute and creepy. There were children's books, toys, board games (including "Love Boat: The Game"), flea-market memorabilia (Elvis and the Beatles had their own sections side-by-side) and recreations of WW1 and WW2 tents with rifles, helmets and comic books of the eras. I examined a 1953 Allie Reynolds baseball card with amused awe. The year Reynolds, a New York Yankee, won the Cy Young Award as the best pitcher in the American League, my dad was a Red Sox-loving, Yankee-hating kid from blue-collar Norwich, Connecticut visiting New York City with his dad for a Red Sox-Yankees game. They stopped by a hotel where the teams were staying and saw Reynolds. My grandfather asked my dad if he wanted the pitcher's autograph. My dad refused, because Reynolds was a Yankee, thereby thoroughly aggravating my well-intentioned grandfather.
I related this story to the vendor. He didn't seem too moved, so I moved on. The card was $60 anyway, out of my sentimental value price range. What I found next was somewhat disturbing. Arrayed across a large table were Nazi medals and armbands, a rare photo of Hitler bestowing a medal on a soldier and other Nazi mementoes for all your white-supremacist occasions. I know skinheads aren't the only ones interested in this stuff, but who in their right mind wants a souvenir of what might've been the most malevolent regime in world history? Why would you want a token of pure evil in your house? I just don't get it.
After I was done with the three barns I'd pretty much exhausted the intriguing possibilities of the fair. The video game tent was a dead end since I've had little practice on the recent generations of platforms. Even the sports titles I used to enjoy have evolved beyond my skill level, leaving me at the mercy of the teens and pre-teens who ruled the tent. The animal barns were monotonous, just rows and rows of animals standing in hay soaked with their own urine. The cow sculpted in butter was no big whoop, even with the mantequilla menagerie of Harry Potter and other current pop culture icons. As the afternoon wound down, I escaped the life-draining heat in an air-conditioned hall of living infomercials. There were whirlpools, never-dull knives and many more antidotes to modern life.
With the clock approaching five, I made my way toward the main entrance for the appointed rendezvous with Mom. En route I encountered the Iowa National Guard's collection of humvees and tanks, mixed in with the tractors and combines. Kids eagerly climbed inside the vehicles, captivated by these adult-sized toys. Throwing red paint on the war machines didn't even occur to me, which is surprising given my far left-wing politics. I was probably in the early stages of sun stroke.
After exiting through the understated main gate, I stood at the intersection and awaited the day's final indignity. The sun beat down on me for an hour as I watched my car-less compatriots get picked up or dropped off. When Mom finally showed up, she was anxiously apologetic. We had agreed to meet at "the main gate," but, for whatever reason, she assumed we'd reconnoiter at the gas station where she dropped me off. I bore some responsibility for the delay, because I'd let my cell phone battery die before she called me from the station.
I wearily waved off her apologies and asked to go "home," i.e. the farm. Despite my reddening sunburn and justifiably sour mood, she insisted on showing me a local marvel she'd just seen that day: a stone map of the U.S. laid out by the state capitol, in which each state was represented by a different-colored rock. I glanced out the window, acknowledged its existence and telepathically demanded we leave Des Moines immediately. She finally acquiesced and we began our journey home, although not until after a very long train forced us to make a detour on our way out of town.
We stopped at a nameless family restaurant in Ames for dinner. As I dismally tucked into a bland, Perkins-esque breakfast-for-dinner, the kind of meal that delighted me as a kid, Mom held up her end of a lopsided conversation. I sulked quietly, believing that virtually any other companion would've made the day salvageable. It was as if nothing had changed since I turned 13. I was still keeping silent guard over a king's ransom of resentment, and she was still trying to make polite conversation rather than acknowledge the 16-year-old wall between us. I should've known my ability to enjoy life wouldn't return until I grew out of this extended adolescence. But that knowledge still had a ways to go on the long journey from my head to my heart.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Putting It All on the Line
I see it's been two weeks since my last post, and two weeks passed between that post and the previous one. My emotional state is beginning to stabilize. I filled out a job application at Galactic Pizza yesterday. I wasn't even nervous about it, which is odd. After a month of being unemployed, I thought I'd be wary of re-entering the workforce, considering the insomnia I had the night before my last day at ING.
Last night I didn't get to sleep til after 3 am and didn't get up til after noon. I shouldn't've had that much trouble since I woke up at 11 yesterday thanks to my alarm. That was the first time I'd used my alarm just to make sure I'd get up before noon. Traditionally, during my periods of unemployment in Chicago, I'd sleep in later and later, but only for 8 hours a night. Now I'm sleeping almost 10 hours a night, although I had been able to get up before noon, until today.
I'm not sure how my body will react to re-employment. I've had some anxiety, since I quit my job, when I had a morning engagement. It's like my body didn't think these engagements were what I should be doing, like I was moving in the wrong direction. Actually, the only morning engagement I can think of was riding along with Noah for his Lasik consultation. It turned out to be pointless from a practical perspective, because Noah's car is a stick, which I don't know how to drive, and they didn't even dilate his pupils. Emotionally speaking, though, it was great, because we hung out in a coffee shop near the clinic in Bryn Mawr, tackled random subjects in "free writing" exercises and read each other our hilarious impromptu pieces.
Last night I didn't get to sleep til after 3 am and didn't get up til after noon. I shouldn't've had that much trouble since I woke up at 11 yesterday thanks to my alarm. That was the first time I'd used my alarm just to make sure I'd get up before noon. Traditionally, during my periods of unemployment in Chicago, I'd sleep in later and later, but only for 8 hours a night. Now I'm sleeping almost 10 hours a night, although I had been able to get up before noon, until today.
I'm not sure how my body will react to re-employment. I've had some anxiety, since I quit my job, when I had a morning engagement. It's like my body didn't think these engagements were what I should be doing, like I was moving in the wrong direction. Actually, the only morning engagement I can think of was riding along with Noah for his Lasik consultation. It turned out to be pointless from a practical perspective, because Noah's car is a stick, which I don't know how to drive, and they didn't even dilate his pupils. Emotionally speaking, though, it was great, because we hung out in a coffee shop near the clinic in Bryn Mawr, tackled random subjects in "free writing" exercises and read each other our hilarious impromptu pieces.
Most likely, neither Noah nor my college friend Emily will be moving in with me, which kinda sucks. But I posted the vacancy on craigslist and set up a tour for tomorrow. By the way, if anybody knows somebody looking for a $400 apt in Uptown after May 15, e-mail me. Thanx.
It occurred to me today that submitting writing samples to City Pages and elsewhere might be an excellent way to get me through this "rough patch." Maybe putting everything I've got into writing (which I consider to be my calling) and handing my work over to (apparently) demanding literary authorities to be judged is just what I need to feel like I've accomplished something and am moving toward a worthwhile, fulfilling goal. I just wish it didn't sound so corny. If I wanted to, I could probly re-write it to sound cool, but this is my blog and no one can reject it since it's already published, so I'd rather keep the original, unadorned version of the sentiment. It feels truer.
I need to hang out with my friends more. I've been pretty isolated. That's by far the toughest part. Loneliness seems to be the great plague of our age. We've given up far too much meaningful human contact for technology. This afternoon I attended the Live Action Set's bowling party to celebrate their first year as a non-profit. It was really nice to hang out with those cool people. But I was anxious thinking about how soon it would be over and wondering when I'd get to hang out with those people (or people like them) again. Why should those times be the exception and not the rule? Seems like they had a lot more of that in the olden days.
My emotions continue to gain strength. At the bowling party I chatted with a girl who was really cute and nice and interesting, although I fell prey to the same old anxiety when she talked to other guys (esp. one young, attractive guy) or anyone else. It feels great to want things again (esp. girls, not that they're "things"), but there's a downside: the risk of losing them becomes real again too. This girl does burlesque and she's performing tonight. Not sure if I'll go without a companion, even though I have a car so I could go by myself. But don't bet on it.
Author's Note: If the title of this post evokes memories of sports training montages from 80's movies, then I've done my job.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
A Better, Quieter Week
(This was mostly written Friday afternoon.)
If you're wondering why I haven't been blogging, it's because I've been feeling better. I'd been writing out of desperation. Usually, writing is not my activity of last resort. In fact, traditionally, I write less when I'm depressed, probly to avoid dealing with my emotions. But my anxiety was so intense I couldn't ignore it.
I went home Saturday (April 5th) to watch the Final Four with Dad. It was nice, but the following day was tough. Mom and Theresa (sister) were showing off their souvenirs from China. I was anxious to return to Uptown. The night before my resistance to Mom melted away briefly. I kinda wanted to give her a hug, but she had a bad cold or flu and I was hesitant anyway. On Sunday my feelings boomeranged, as if she'd rejected my interior thoughts.
I got drenched yesterday (Thu, April 10th) walking from Hollywood to Ragstock. When I started it was mostly rain. By the time I got to where I was going, it was mostly snow. I got no problem with the April snow showers, as long as it don't stick. It was actually kinda nice to walk thru that and not freeze my ass off. Two days before at Hollywood I scanned the shelves for quite a while. That's something I should do more often. Wandering the aisles of a video store is one of the few joys of suburban life.
That's why I have reservations about the phenomenon of Netflix. Of course, with Netflix you can avoid the whole "I have a vague idea of what I'd like to see but none of these fits the bill" hassle. But my other problem with Netflix is I generally don't know what I wanna watch until that evening. My preferences are apt to change between the time I add the DVD to my queue and the time it arrives. So those are my thoughts on Netflix, in case you were wondering. I'd hate to leave you in suspense.
On Tuesday I finally decided on The Man Who Would Be King. It was OK. With Michael Caine, Sean Connery, Christopher Plummer, John Huston as co-director, awesome mountain vistas and a cracking yarn by Rudyard Kipling, ya think it'd be cooler. Yesterday I picked up Michel Gondry's "sampler" DVD. Interesting stuff so far.
I'm at Plan B Coffeehouse right now. It would be an ideal writing locale if not for the music. It's not too loud, but any music with lyrics can distract me. The fact that my WiFi connection only works when the laptop is on the coffee table (instead of my lap) is also annoying. The network isn't even Plan B's. I tried their password and it didn't work. God damn it! I'm typing this in WordPad to post later. I should probly go home and start on dinner. I gotta be at the Permaculture Film Festival at 6:30.
(The following was written today on my couch.)
The Permaculture Film Fest was mostly stuff I saw last summer. Once again, I flaked out on the Permaculture Workshop the following day. I had some insomnia on Thu nite. Even though I got maybe 8 hours of sleep I felt tired, so I was worried about being really sleep-deprived on Sat since the workshop started at 9 am. The irony is I woke up in time to go (without the alarm and despite being up til 2) and didn't feel tired, but I was afraid I'd crap out in the afternoon and I didn't know if I could handle spending all day with a bunch of strangers. The film fest had been slightly stressful.
Instead of the workshop I watched the Michel Gondry DVD (very good) and ventured out late in the afternoon for socks. The tube socks at Ragstock didn't look very thick, so I went next door to the new American Apparel store. The Cars were blaring over an undeniably early '80s decor. As I wandered toward the back, I saw a girl pulling on the waistband of some tights(?) in a dressing room. The curtain was pulled back, allowing a full view of her (clothed, except for the mid-riff) body. I must say, it was an awesome body, highlighted by an incredible rack. (Yes, that's right, Mickey's the kind of guy who uses the word "rack" in reference to the female form. Sorry to disappoint anyone who thought my brain inhabited loftier regions. I'm just a man.) She met my gaze just as I averted it. I successfully fought the urge to look again. It was almost cruel of her to leave the curtain open like that. If she was offended by my wandering eye, I'd have to say to her, "See here, miss. You are ridiculously hot, therefore you cannot leave the dressing room curtain open and expect men to keep their eyes to themselves. It is an unreasonable test of self-control." I'm sure then she'd understand.
Getting back to the socks, the only athletic kind they had were tube socks (again) and they were absurdly expensive. My sock expedition had come up empty, but on the way home I picked up a gyro and fries at the Soho Cafe, so all was not lost. By the time I finished my supper, I had to rush to get dressed for the Live Action Set's show at the Southern. I just barely missed the bus on Lyndale and waited 20 minutes for a taxi, much longer than I'd expected. I made it to the Southern in time to get one of the last standing-room-only tickets (half-price). Megan found me an empty seat next to the videographer, which was nice for a 90-minute show with no intermission.
The show, The Piano Tuner, was quite good and right up my alley, dealing with resource depletion driven by capitalism. It was like a theatrical companion piece to There Will Be Blood. The Piano Tuner is set in 1911, making the parallels all the clearer. There was a talkback after the show, during which I summoned the courage to ask a question. I blurted out, in what seemed like an unusually loud voice for me, "I'd like to know if the subject of Easter Island ever came up." Megan asked me to repeat the subject, which I did. (She was the director, mistakenly thinking that role would require less of her in the wake of her pregnancy.) They said it never came up, but I was just happy they answered my question.
After the long, inevitable round of socializing after the show, we headed 'round the corner to the Town Hall Brewery. I ended up chatting at length with a young (mid-20's) actor named Tony. I would've liked to spend more time visiting with Sarah and Noah and the rest, but I enjoyed the opportunity to lend guidance to an up-and-comer. Hopefully, Tony will benefit from my sage advice. I wound up rambling to Tim Cameron (who played the show's titular character) about the fall of the American Empire, Peak Oil and my accompanying nervous breakdown. I tried to keep it short and not sound too crazy. He was pretty quiet.
Noah generously drove me home, even though he lives in Dinkytown now. We amused each other and discussed the possibility of him moving in with me. Just that day my roommate Heather said she'd be moving out in a month to live (literally) across the street with some friends. Knowing that Noah was looking for a place after June, I called him right after she told me, simultaneously overjoyed at the prospect of rooming with Noah again and terrified by the chance it wouldn't happen. It was cool and kinda scary to want something so badly for the first time in quite a while. The initial euphoria has worn off, though, and I realize having Noah as a roommate again wouldn't fix all my problems. But it would be supercool.
If you're wondering why I haven't been blogging, it's because I've been feeling better. I'd been writing out of desperation. Usually, writing is not my activity of last resort. In fact, traditionally, I write less when I'm depressed, probly to avoid dealing with my emotions. But my anxiety was so intense I couldn't ignore it.
I went home Saturday (April 5th) to watch the Final Four with Dad. It was nice, but the following day was tough. Mom and Theresa (sister) were showing off their souvenirs from China. I was anxious to return to Uptown. The night before my resistance to Mom melted away briefly. I kinda wanted to give her a hug, but she had a bad cold or flu and I was hesitant anyway. On Sunday my feelings boomeranged, as if she'd rejected my interior thoughts.
I got drenched yesterday (Thu, April 10th) walking from Hollywood to Ragstock. When I started it was mostly rain. By the time I got to where I was going, it was mostly snow. I got no problem with the April snow showers, as long as it don't stick. It was actually kinda nice to walk thru that and not freeze my ass off. Two days before at Hollywood I scanned the shelves for quite a while. That's something I should do more often. Wandering the aisles of a video store is one of the few joys of suburban life.
That's why I have reservations about the phenomenon of Netflix. Of course, with Netflix you can avoid the whole "I have a vague idea of what I'd like to see but none of these fits the bill" hassle. But my other problem with Netflix is I generally don't know what I wanna watch until that evening. My preferences are apt to change between the time I add the DVD to my queue and the time it arrives. So those are my thoughts on Netflix, in case you were wondering. I'd hate to leave you in suspense.
On Tuesday I finally decided on The Man Who Would Be King. It was OK. With Michael Caine, Sean Connery, Christopher Plummer, John Huston as co-director, awesome mountain vistas and a cracking yarn by Rudyard Kipling, ya think it'd be cooler. Yesterday I picked up Michel Gondry's "sampler" DVD. Interesting stuff so far.
I'm at Plan B Coffeehouse right now. It would be an ideal writing locale if not for the music. It's not too loud, but any music with lyrics can distract me. The fact that my WiFi connection only works when the laptop is on the coffee table (instead of my lap) is also annoying. The network isn't even Plan B's. I tried their password and it didn't work. God damn it! I'm typing this in WordPad to post later. I should probly go home and start on dinner. I gotta be at the Permaculture Film Festival at 6:30.
(The following was written today on my couch.)
The Permaculture Film Fest was mostly stuff I saw last summer. Once again, I flaked out on the Permaculture Workshop the following day. I had some insomnia on Thu nite. Even though I got maybe 8 hours of sleep I felt tired, so I was worried about being really sleep-deprived on Sat since the workshop started at 9 am. The irony is I woke up in time to go (without the alarm and despite being up til 2) and didn't feel tired, but I was afraid I'd crap out in the afternoon and I didn't know if I could handle spending all day with a bunch of strangers. The film fest had been slightly stressful.
Instead of the workshop I watched the Michel Gondry DVD (very good) and ventured out late in the afternoon for socks. The tube socks at Ragstock didn't look very thick, so I went next door to the new American Apparel store. The Cars were blaring over an undeniably early '80s decor. As I wandered toward the back, I saw a girl pulling on the waistband of some tights(?) in a dressing room. The curtain was pulled back, allowing a full view of her (clothed, except for the mid-riff) body. I must say, it was an awesome body, highlighted by an incredible rack. (Yes, that's right, Mickey's the kind of guy who uses the word "rack" in reference to the female form. Sorry to disappoint anyone who thought my brain inhabited loftier regions. I'm just a man.) She met my gaze just as I averted it. I successfully fought the urge to look again. It was almost cruel of her to leave the curtain open like that. If she was offended by my wandering eye, I'd have to say to her, "See here, miss. You are ridiculously hot, therefore you cannot leave the dressing room curtain open and expect men to keep their eyes to themselves. It is an unreasonable test of self-control." I'm sure then she'd understand.
Getting back to the socks, the only athletic kind they had were tube socks (again) and they were absurdly expensive. My sock expedition had come up empty, but on the way home I picked up a gyro and fries at the Soho Cafe, so all was not lost. By the time I finished my supper, I had to rush to get dressed for the Live Action Set's show at the Southern. I just barely missed the bus on Lyndale and waited 20 minutes for a taxi, much longer than I'd expected. I made it to the Southern in time to get one of the last standing-room-only tickets (half-price). Megan found me an empty seat next to the videographer, which was nice for a 90-minute show with no intermission.
The show, The Piano Tuner, was quite good and right up my alley, dealing with resource depletion driven by capitalism. It was like a theatrical companion piece to There Will Be Blood. The Piano Tuner is set in 1911, making the parallels all the clearer. There was a talkback after the show, during which I summoned the courage to ask a question. I blurted out, in what seemed like an unusually loud voice for me, "I'd like to know if the subject of Easter Island ever came up." Megan asked me to repeat the subject, which I did. (She was the director, mistakenly thinking that role would require less of her in the wake of her pregnancy.) They said it never came up, but I was just happy they answered my question.
After the long, inevitable round of socializing after the show, we headed 'round the corner to the Town Hall Brewery. I ended up chatting at length with a young (mid-20's) actor named Tony. I would've liked to spend more time visiting with Sarah and Noah and the rest, but I enjoyed the opportunity to lend guidance to an up-and-comer. Hopefully, Tony will benefit from my sage advice. I wound up rambling to Tim Cameron (who played the show's titular character) about the fall of the American Empire, Peak Oil and my accompanying nervous breakdown. I tried to keep it short and not sound too crazy. He was pretty quiet.
Noah generously drove me home, even though he lives in Dinkytown now. We amused each other and discussed the possibility of him moving in with me. Just that day my roommate Heather said she'd be moving out in a month to live (literally) across the street with some friends. Knowing that Noah was looking for a place after June, I called him right after she told me, simultaneously overjoyed at the prospect of rooming with Noah again and terrified by the chance it wouldn't happen. It was cool and kinda scary to want something so badly for the first time in quite a while. The initial euphoria has worn off, though, and I realize having Noah as a roommate again wouldn't fix all my problems. But it would be supercool.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Regression Therapy
Today was my first full day back in my apt. since quitting my job last Wed. It was kinda tough, had a little insomnia this morning. I was inexpicably tired last night and again this afternoon and evening. It's gotta be depression. Luckily, I spent the afternoon with Marc & Sadie. Otherwise I woulda been hurtin'. We had lunch at the Uptown Thai Chili (nee Sawatdee) and spent a long time analyzing my issues. They went a little overboard with the pop psychology, but it meant a lot to me that they showed so much interest in my problems. After that session, I had an official round of therapy that flew by ridiculously fast. 50 minutes felt like 15. It was the intro session, so I mostly just ran down my history, or "basketcase file." I felt OK, but what really helped was talkin' to my dad this evening. My mood was anxious and my manner was hesitant, but I guess just letting myself be that way with him calmed me afterward.
For the last few months I've been looking for history books. When I was a kid in elementary school, I read many books on ancient history and the Age of Discovery. Some of them were so dry I probly couldn't even read them now, but back then I loved 'em. I think I might've done more reading on my own during elementary school than I did for my college courses. (The truth is you can get an English degree without doing that much actual reading.) In the last two weeks I've steeped myself in televised sports, my other great childhood pastime (besides playing sports, a reasonably close third).
This may be an attempt to reconnect with my youth and the person I used to be. In early September of '06, I entered a weeks-long period of serenity, when my old anxiety and self-consciousness seemed to fall away like dead skin. The confidence that followed was welcome, but I lost a connection with my old, original self. He no longer seemed relevant. I couldn't relate to his passions and fears. The new Mickey saw nothin' but smooth sailing ahead, except for some troubling new physical symptoms.
Of course, the cruise didn't last. What I have called my "emotional hibernation" was disturbed by a few anxiety attacks and the cyclical return of old anxieties. But I have been able to hold onto some of the improvements that came with the Serenity Period, like being more at ease with people in social situations. And now that I've been fully, rudely awakened from my psychic(?) slumber, hopefully I can mesh the new confidence and openness with the old passion and empathy.
For the last few months I've been looking for history books. When I was a kid in elementary school, I read many books on ancient history and the Age of Discovery. Some of them were so dry I probly couldn't even read them now, but back then I loved 'em. I think I might've done more reading on my own during elementary school than I did for my college courses. (The truth is you can get an English degree without doing that much actual reading.) In the last two weeks I've steeped myself in televised sports, my other great childhood pastime (besides playing sports, a reasonably close third).
This may be an attempt to reconnect with my youth and the person I used to be. In early September of '06, I entered a weeks-long period of serenity, when my old anxiety and self-consciousness seemed to fall away like dead skin. The confidence that followed was welcome, but I lost a connection with my old, original self. He no longer seemed relevant. I couldn't relate to his passions and fears. The new Mickey saw nothin' but smooth sailing ahead, except for some troubling new physical symptoms.
Of course, the cruise didn't last. What I have called my "emotional hibernation" was disturbed by a few anxiety attacks and the cyclical return of old anxieties. But I have been able to hold onto some of the improvements that came with the Serenity Period, like being more at ease with people in social situations. And now that I've been fully, rudely awakened from my psychic(?) slumber, hopefully I can mesh the new confidence and openness with the old passion and empathy.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Keeping the Wolves at Bay
I didn't blog yesterday 'cuz I was feeling good. The improvement of Thursday and Friday continued, to the point that Saturday night didn't require me to "keep the wolves at bay," in the words of the Clash. Thursday night through today I watched the NCAA tournament with my dad. It got better each day. We gradually talked more. His mood seemed to improve too.
I was feeling good today, until the end of the last game. I knew I had to leave, to see how I could do on my own in my apartment. Dad asked me uncertainly if I wanted a hug. I immediately said "yes" and we embraced by rote (at least I did). My emotions were being held back by habit (and plenty of other issues I'm sure). I wanted to open up but couldn't.
When I got to my place, the wolves returned. I started putting away stuff that I'd left lying around since I moved in 3 1/2 months ago. I had to stay busy, although I wasn't frantic, which was good. After a while, I eased back into a safe level of comfort. That's where I am now. But it can't last forever.
I'll be hanging out with Sadie tomorrow afternoon. Her and Marc's return to the Twin Cities reinforces my belief in a benevolent higher power. Boy, do I ever need them right now. If I could see Megan this week, that would be perfect. She's like my guardian angel. (God, that sounds corny!)
I'm kinda scared to face this week alone. Hopefully Noah will be around to help me through it. I'm also seeing my counselor (or therapist or whatever) tomorrow, so that should help. If you're one of my friends, drop me a line or call me up. I could really use some company.
Thanx,
Mickey
I was feeling good today, until the end of the last game. I knew I had to leave, to see how I could do on my own in my apartment. Dad asked me uncertainly if I wanted a hug. I immediately said "yes" and we embraced by rote (at least I did). My emotions were being held back by habit (and plenty of other issues I'm sure). I wanted to open up but couldn't.
When I got to my place, the wolves returned. I started putting away stuff that I'd left lying around since I moved in 3 1/2 months ago. I had to stay busy, although I wasn't frantic, which was good. After a while, I eased back into a safe level of comfort. That's where I am now. But it can't last forever.
I'll be hanging out with Sadie tomorrow afternoon. Her and Marc's return to the Twin Cities reinforces my belief in a benevolent higher power. Boy, do I ever need them right now. If I could see Megan this week, that would be perfect. She's like my guardian angel. (God, that sounds corny!)
I'm kinda scared to face this week alone. Hopefully Noah will be around to help me through it. I'm also seeing my counselor (or therapist or whatever) tomorrow, so that should help. If you're one of my friends, drop me a line or call me up. I could really use some company.
Thanx,
Mickey
Friday, March 28, 2008
The Eye of the Storm
Today has been unusually placid. The morning began with the expected nerves, but those faded by the early afternoon. It isn't an eery calm. However, I'm worried that I'm repressing the anxiety until it boils over in an even more painful eruption.
I didn't do any job searching today. Didn't work out. But it wasn't for a lack of hope. I was just feeling comfortable for the first time in a while and wanted to relax. Hopefully, the comfort won't keep me from doin' stuff, whether it's the job search, writing or gettin' some exercise. I feel languid, which is nice, but I don't want it to hold me back from making progress on my new path.
TV is more appealing today, as is lying around doing nothing. Not exactly how I wanted to feel, but still a marked improvement over the last few days. I drove around Uptown and the 'burbs. Thought about gettin' out and walkin' around Uptown, but decided there'd be plenty of time for that and looked for a nice, walkable district in the 'burbs. I never found one. By that time it was late afternoon and my enthusiasm for even mild exercise was waning.
I should enjoy this vacation from stress, but the guilt of unemployment is slinking back in. I need to let myself relax and enjoy the weekend. There'll be plenty of time to worry in the coming weeks.
I didn't do any job searching today. Didn't work out. But it wasn't for a lack of hope. I was just feeling comfortable for the first time in a while and wanted to relax. Hopefully, the comfort won't keep me from doin' stuff, whether it's the job search, writing or gettin' some exercise. I feel languid, which is nice, but I don't want it to hold me back from making progress on my new path.
TV is more appealing today, as is lying around doing nothing. Not exactly how I wanted to feel, but still a marked improvement over the last few days. I drove around Uptown and the 'burbs. Thought about gettin' out and walkin' around Uptown, but decided there'd be plenty of time for that and looked for a nice, walkable district in the 'burbs. I never found one. By that time it was late afternoon and my enthusiasm for even mild exercise was waning.
I should enjoy this vacation from stress, but the guilt of unemployment is slinking back in. I need to let myself relax and enjoy the weekend. There'll be plenty of time to worry in the coming weeks.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
The Day After
Today has gone much better than expected. I woke up a few times last night, but only for a few minutes, so it looks like I dodged the insomnia bullet, which is a huge relief. (Three years ago, during my last breakdown, I experienced 7 months of severe insomnia, causing near-constant exhaustion, followed by about 7 months of just being really tired.) I got up shortly after 9, made myself some Malt-O-Meal (Yum!) and watched Democracy Now! on a community-access station.
The reason I was able to watch a cable channel was because I'm at my parents' house. I drove here last night after eating dinner and watching a little TV with a creeping sense of dread, until I realized I could just mosey on up to New Brighton and, hopefully, get a lot of emotional support. When I arrived at the empty house, I took a bath. My dad got home while I was still in the tub. He knocked on the door to see if it was me and asked how I was. "Not so great" was my typically understated reply. When I was done, I went to the kitchen and told him I'd quit. He was pretty relaxed and understanding. That helped a lot, because disappointing him might be my biggest fear.
I watched Everybody Loves Raymond, because I was emotionally fragile. It's the kind of inoffensive, but still amusing sitcom that comes in handy at those times. I went to bed at 10, same time as he did. The first time I woke up in the night I was afraid the insomnia had survived, but I quickly fell back to sleep and slept for probly 10 hours (not unusual for me the last few months), briefly waking twice more.
After Democracy Now!, I checked out some grad school info and job leads online, while listening to pop hits of the '50s and early '60s. (I've been jonesin' for that stuff lately. But I can't think of a good name for that musical era. I thought the "Innocent Rock" era was too condescending.) For lunch I had Cream of Mushroom soup, but it was low sodium, so it'd been watered down. I also had some Orange Milano cookies, which were pretty good. (I apologize for the excruciating detail. This must be part of the "healing process.")
Then I drove to Uptown and worked out at the YWCA. My usual 45-minute stairmaster regimen was a little easier than I'd anticipated. I picked up some stuff at my apartment and drove back to the 'burbs, feeling almost shockingly good. I was listening to a song by Seal I hadn't heard before and thinking, "Augh! Why do I like this?!" There's just somethin' about him that I can't quite resist, even though his accompaniment sounds slick and not very well-crafted.
The dread that had been lingering in the background relented, and I was able to relax. The music on the radio sounded really good, the passing scenery looked really cool. The long shadows around the Uptown Theater reminded me of '70s movies and TV shows. It seems like back then they fell in love with the fading sunlight of the late afternoon and early evening, especially when it was suffused with the clay dust of a baseball field. Truly, it was a simpler, more graceful time.
So that's where I am right now, emotionally speaking. (That's seems to be the only manner in which I speak these days.) I just hope this isn't the top of the roller coaster. The last two weeks have been wearyingly unpredictable. I'd like to believe this is a sign of things to come.
Note to Michael: Thank you for your kind message. You said exactly what I needed to hear. I'd love to hang out with you soon. Maybe next week? Drop me an e-mail.
The reason I was able to watch a cable channel was because I'm at my parents' house. I drove here last night after eating dinner and watching a little TV with a creeping sense of dread, until I realized I could just mosey on up to New Brighton and, hopefully, get a lot of emotional support. When I arrived at the empty house, I took a bath. My dad got home while I was still in the tub. He knocked on the door to see if it was me and asked how I was. "Not so great" was my typically understated reply. When I was done, I went to the kitchen and told him I'd quit. He was pretty relaxed and understanding. That helped a lot, because disappointing him might be my biggest fear.
I watched Everybody Loves Raymond, because I was emotionally fragile. It's the kind of inoffensive, but still amusing sitcom that comes in handy at those times. I went to bed at 10, same time as he did. The first time I woke up in the night I was afraid the insomnia had survived, but I quickly fell back to sleep and slept for probly 10 hours (not unusual for me the last few months), briefly waking twice more.
After Democracy Now!, I checked out some grad school info and job leads online, while listening to pop hits of the '50s and early '60s. (I've been jonesin' for that stuff lately. But I can't think of a good name for that musical era. I thought the "Innocent Rock" era was too condescending.) For lunch I had Cream of Mushroom soup, but it was low sodium, so it'd been watered down. I also had some Orange Milano cookies, which were pretty good. (I apologize for the excruciating detail. This must be part of the "healing process.")
Then I drove to Uptown and worked out at the YWCA. My usual 45-minute stairmaster regimen was a little easier than I'd anticipated. I picked up some stuff at my apartment and drove back to the 'burbs, feeling almost shockingly good. I was listening to a song by Seal I hadn't heard before and thinking, "Augh! Why do I like this?!" There's just somethin' about him that I can't quite resist, even though his accompaniment sounds slick and not very well-crafted.
The dread that had been lingering in the background relented, and I was able to relax. The music on the radio sounded really good, the passing scenery looked really cool. The long shadows around the Uptown Theater reminded me of '70s movies and TV shows. It seems like back then they fell in love with the fading sunlight of the late afternoon and early evening, especially when it was suffused with the clay dust of a baseball field. Truly, it was a simpler, more graceful time.
So that's where I am right now, emotionally speaking. (That's seems to be the only manner in which I speak these days.) I just hope this isn't the top of the roller coaster. The last two weeks have been wearyingly unpredictable. I'd like to believe this is a sign of things to come.
Note to Michael: Thank you for your kind message. You said exactly what I needed to hear. I'd love to hang out with you soon. Maybe next week? Drop me an e-mail.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
The Die is Cast
I quit my job this afternoon. No turnin' back now. I left work (Downtown) at 2:30 and got home (Uptown) about 4. I was carrying a box of binders that Joan the office manager said I could have a few months ago. I had my backpack and parka on, but I got sweaty, so I took off my parka and wrapped it around my waist in classic recess sports style. It kept slipping over my ass, though, and the Loring Greenway had a chilly wind tunnel effect goin' on, so I put the parka back on, still unzipped. It musta gotten up into the 50's today. I was comfy for a while in my short-sleeved shirt.
I walked home to process this major life transition. I remained cautiously optimistic with wolves of despair creeping in the shadows. As the shadows lengthen and drown the sun (or "when night falls"), the wolves will get bolder. That seems to be my routine lately. I do pretty well until the evening. Then it can get scary.
What made up my mind was experiencing a bad dose of insomnia last night. I'd had a really good talk with my dad and felt good enough to give my job another shot, but waking up at 3:30 am and finding it impossible to balance my body temperature between uncomfortably warm and uncomfortably cold proved to me that I couldn't ride the corporate merry-go-round anymore. The insomnia was clearly a sign of repressed anxiety, and if I had to repress that much just to go to work for one day, it was surely time to move on.
Mary (my boss) asked me how I was doing soon after I got in. I told her about the insomnia and my pessimism about continuing. She understood and just asked me to let her know when I decided what I wanted to do. I felt fine early on, but I knew that wouldn't last. The anxiety spiked over lunch. (Eating tends to do that.) My daily post-lunch filing session was irritatingly exhausting. After that was (mostly) done, and the clocks had inaudibly clicked two, I decided to bite the bullet.
I went into Mary's office and said I needed to quit. She asked (supportively) what made me so uncomfortable. I vaguely pointed to my current emotional "rough patch" and she accepted it. We hugged a few times. She said I was an "awesome employee." I said she was an "awesome boss." (She is. Too bad I unconsciously wanted her to be my mom.) Her eyes got kinda moist. I took down my Pissarro calendar, packed my office shoes (which I would leave in a plastic bag in a drawer at the end of each day), a crappy spare pair of ear buds, a discman instruction manual, my Toshiba Gigabeat mp3 player, the nice iPod ear buds that I use and that was it. (I forgot my Seventh Generation kleenex box.)
That was the mark I made on Corporate America after 5 years nestled in its bubonic bosom. I threw on my parka and backpack, grabbed the box of binders and split. I wasn't in too big of a hurry to leave, although I was a little wary of getting dragged into a tearful vortex by some co-workers. (I doubt they would've initiated the waterworks, but if I had started it, they certainly would've escalated.)
I'm still kinda dazed, trying to hold back the tidal wave of despair that seems poised to overwhelm me. I know most pain comes from resisting feelings, rather than from the feelings themselves. But right now there seems to be a monstrous depression piling fear on top of fear up to alpine heights, lying in wait just over the horizon. I was hoping that leaving the job would make it easier to give in to the despair and deal with it, but my anxiety about being unemployed is making it hard to let down my defenses. Now I seem to be relaxing slightly, as I wrap up my blog at Caffetto's. Hopefully this is a sign of growing comfort with my new situation.
Please keep me in your thoughts.
Thanx,
Mickey
Note to Uptown Coffeehouses: Soft music is MUCH better than loud music. Right now I'm listening to jazz at Caffetto, which is perfect because it's quiet but it doesn't put you to sleep. Bob's Java Hut had an annoying playlist yesterday. New Wave hits of the '80s is not appropriate coffeehouse music. I love Gary Numan as much as the next guy, but there's a time and a place for his eccentric, alienated synth-pop.
I walked home to process this major life transition. I remained cautiously optimistic with wolves of despair creeping in the shadows. As the shadows lengthen and drown the sun (or "when night falls"), the wolves will get bolder. That seems to be my routine lately. I do pretty well until the evening. Then it can get scary.
What made up my mind was experiencing a bad dose of insomnia last night. I'd had a really good talk with my dad and felt good enough to give my job another shot, but waking up at 3:30 am and finding it impossible to balance my body temperature between uncomfortably warm and uncomfortably cold proved to me that I couldn't ride the corporate merry-go-round anymore. The insomnia was clearly a sign of repressed anxiety, and if I had to repress that much just to go to work for one day, it was surely time to move on.
Mary (my boss) asked me how I was doing soon after I got in. I told her about the insomnia and my pessimism about continuing. She understood and just asked me to let her know when I decided what I wanted to do. I felt fine early on, but I knew that wouldn't last. The anxiety spiked over lunch. (Eating tends to do that.) My daily post-lunch filing session was irritatingly exhausting. After that was (mostly) done, and the clocks had inaudibly clicked two, I decided to bite the bullet.
I went into Mary's office and said I needed to quit. She asked (supportively) what made me so uncomfortable. I vaguely pointed to my current emotional "rough patch" and she accepted it. We hugged a few times. She said I was an "awesome employee." I said she was an "awesome boss." (She is. Too bad I unconsciously wanted her to be my mom.) Her eyes got kinda moist. I took down my Pissarro calendar, packed my office shoes (which I would leave in a plastic bag in a drawer at the end of each day), a crappy spare pair of ear buds, a discman instruction manual, my Toshiba Gigabeat mp3 player, the nice iPod ear buds that I use and that was it. (I forgot my Seventh Generation kleenex box.)
That was the mark I made on Corporate America after 5 years nestled in its bubonic bosom. I threw on my parka and backpack, grabbed the box of binders and split. I wasn't in too big of a hurry to leave, although I was a little wary of getting dragged into a tearful vortex by some co-workers. (I doubt they would've initiated the waterworks, but if I had started it, they certainly would've escalated.)
I'm still kinda dazed, trying to hold back the tidal wave of despair that seems poised to overwhelm me. I know most pain comes from resisting feelings, rather than from the feelings themselves. But right now there seems to be a monstrous depression piling fear on top of fear up to alpine heights, lying in wait just over the horizon. I was hoping that leaving the job would make it easier to give in to the despair and deal with it, but my anxiety about being unemployed is making it hard to let down my defenses. Now I seem to be relaxing slightly, as I wrap up my blog at Caffetto's. Hopefully this is a sign of growing comfort with my new situation.
Please keep me in your thoughts.
Thanx,
Mickey
Note to Uptown Coffeehouses: Soft music is MUCH better than loud music. Right now I'm listening to jazz at Caffetto, which is perfect because it's quiet but it doesn't put you to sleep. Bob's Java Hut had an annoying playlist yesterday. New Wave hits of the '80s is not appropriate coffeehouse music. I love Gary Numan as much as the next guy, but there's a time and a place for his eccentric, alienated synth-pop.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Retail Shock Therapy
(This is a continuation of "Poised on the Precipice" that picks up where that post left off. But, if you wanna skip my personal drama, you should start here.)
After some wishy-washy lollygagging, I decided to drive to the Mall of America. (My mom and sister are on vacation in China, so my dad let me borrow one of their two cars.) I like to visit the Mall on a randomly annual basis. I find it oddly comforting, like some kind of dystopian Twin Cities town square where overconsumption and boredom are the lingua francas. I parked in P4 East, a.k.a. Florida, with a picture of a gator to help me remember. (Ironically, I think it worked.) Looking at the triple-decker skyways connecting the huge parking ramp to that side of the window-less Mall reinforced my sense of the place as 1984 come to pass.
I entered through Sears and wandered through a food court. Unfortunately, I wasn't hungry. I really dig some of that food and, usually, the only time I want it is when I drop by the Mall. My visits are probably synchronized with the vicissitudes of my appetite. But this time my stomach wouldn't comply, and I had to keep walking through the indifferently ravenous hordes. A few athletic shoe stores, my old standby, provided a pleasant diversion. They have many of my favorite kinds of comfort-food-for-the-eyes: athletic shoes, jerseys, baseball caps and other sports-related apparel. Anything to do with sports can provide me with comfort under the right conditions. (That's probably why I spent last Thursday through Sunday watching all 40+ hours of the NCAA men's basketball tournament.)
I wanted to see a movie, so I went up to the 4th floor and checked the selection. The only appealing offering was Juno, which I'd already seen. I hemmed and hawed and then bought a ticket for a repeat viewing. There was a wall of arcade games on either side of the long concession stand. I wasn't in the mood to shoot or kick people or drive a big rig though. The only game that appealed to me was Galaga, paired with Ms. PacMan in a "20th Reunion" machine that is now 7 years old. I got past the first alien armada, but not much further. Dan, my best friend in high school, loved Galaga, but I always sucked at video games and generally preferred to avoid the embarrassment of repeated failure.
I walked up the corridor leading to the theaters and marveled at the deserted luxury. (I'm using "luxury" in a more liberal sense than we bourgeoisie have become accustomed to.) The soft, burgundy floor and walls climbed gently to a smaller, lighted and abandoned concession stand. I love those empty suburban oases, like dying malls (esp. the late, great Apache) and bowling alleys on weekday afternoons. I like solitude in a place where it isn't supposed to exist. Or perhaps I've always unconsciously reveled in the failures of capitalism.
I opened the door to my screen and walked through a dark hall to an empty theater. I took a seat almost dead-center. After the previews started I was joined by a few other quiet folks. After the credits I learned they were two middle-aged women sitting in a back corner. Juno was pretty good the second time. I picked up on a few clues I'd missed the first time, but some of the overly clever lingo still eluded me. I did cry a little at the end. Again. When she broke the news of her pregnancy and her dad was super-disappointed, that hit me kinda hard after my telephone conversation last night with my dad. All in all, though, it was a pleasant cinematic experience.
On my way out I stopped in a Foot Locker and the main Lids store (as opposed to the many smaller baseball cap-only branches scattered throughout the Mall) for two last tastes of comfort-eye-candy. I'd like to write about all the other distorted simulations of older, functional societies you can find at the Mall, but it feels like this entry is coming to an end and I think I've written enough for today.
As I drove out of the parking garage via one of the ramps leading to or from the Mall (It's more fun if you imagine it's a water slide!), Modest Mouse's "Float On" came on the Current and I hoped it would be prophetic of a personal recovery for me. Even if it wasn't, it's still a great song that I hadn't heard in a while.
After some wishy-washy lollygagging, I decided to drive to the Mall of America. (My mom and sister are on vacation in China, so my dad let me borrow one of their two cars.) I like to visit the Mall on a randomly annual basis. I find it oddly comforting, like some kind of dystopian Twin Cities town square where overconsumption and boredom are the lingua francas. I parked in P4 East, a.k.a. Florida, with a picture of a gator to help me remember. (Ironically, I think it worked.) Looking at the triple-decker skyways connecting the huge parking ramp to that side of the window-less Mall reinforced my sense of the place as 1984 come to pass.
I entered through Sears and wandered through a food court. Unfortunately, I wasn't hungry. I really dig some of that food and, usually, the only time I want it is when I drop by the Mall. My visits are probably synchronized with the vicissitudes of my appetite. But this time my stomach wouldn't comply, and I had to keep walking through the indifferently ravenous hordes. A few athletic shoe stores, my old standby, provided a pleasant diversion. They have many of my favorite kinds of comfort-food-for-the-eyes: athletic shoes, jerseys, baseball caps and other sports-related apparel. Anything to do with sports can provide me with comfort under the right conditions. (That's probably why I spent last Thursday through Sunday watching all 40+ hours of the NCAA men's basketball tournament.)
I wanted to see a movie, so I went up to the 4th floor and checked the selection. The only appealing offering was Juno, which I'd already seen. I hemmed and hawed and then bought a ticket for a repeat viewing. There was a wall of arcade games on either side of the long concession stand. I wasn't in the mood to shoot or kick people or drive a big rig though. The only game that appealed to me was Galaga, paired with Ms. PacMan in a "20th Reunion" machine that is now 7 years old. I got past the first alien armada, but not much further. Dan, my best friend in high school, loved Galaga, but I always sucked at video games and generally preferred to avoid the embarrassment of repeated failure.
I walked up the corridor leading to the theaters and marveled at the deserted luxury. (I'm using "luxury" in a more liberal sense than we bourgeoisie have become accustomed to.) The soft, burgundy floor and walls climbed gently to a smaller, lighted and abandoned concession stand. I love those empty suburban oases, like dying malls (esp. the late, great Apache) and bowling alleys on weekday afternoons. I like solitude in a place where it isn't supposed to exist. Or perhaps I've always unconsciously reveled in the failures of capitalism.
I opened the door to my screen and walked through a dark hall to an empty theater. I took a seat almost dead-center. After the previews started I was joined by a few other quiet folks. After the credits I learned they were two middle-aged women sitting in a back corner. Juno was pretty good the second time. I picked up on a few clues I'd missed the first time, but some of the overly clever lingo still eluded me. I did cry a little at the end. Again. When she broke the news of her pregnancy and her dad was super-disappointed, that hit me kinda hard after my telephone conversation last night with my dad. All in all, though, it was a pleasant cinematic experience.
On my way out I stopped in a Foot Locker and the main Lids store (as opposed to the many smaller baseball cap-only branches scattered throughout the Mall) for two last tastes of comfort-eye-candy. I'd like to write about all the other distorted simulations of older, functional societies you can find at the Mall, but it feels like this entry is coming to an end and I think I've written enough for today.
As I drove out of the parking garage via one of the ramps leading to or from the Mall (It's more fun if you imagine it's a water slide!), Modest Mouse's "Float On" came on the Current and I hoped it would be prophetic of a personal recovery for me. Even if it wasn't, it's still a great song that I hadn't heard in a while.
Poised on the Precipice
Yesterday was pretty rough for me. The only thing that kept me from telling my boss I was going to quit was her early departure. So last night I was in an emotional pit, unable to continue at my job and terrified of the abyss lying before me. I called my dad because I figured he'd be upset about my decision to quit. Sure enough, I was right. He basically said I was crazy to leave my job without having anything else lined up. He means well, but sometimes he sure knows how to destroy my confidence. After that harangue, I couldn't reach Noah, so I took an emotionally wrenching shower. My alarm was moved back an hour so I could get up just in time to call my boss and give my notice.
Despite some anguished chest pains, I got to sleep and woke up incrementally, per usual, and well-rested. The phone call to my boss came after some gut-checking, but she wasn't there so I left a message, saying I thought I needed to give my notice because just going into work was getting difficult. I ate my normal breakfast of oatmeal with applesauce. (Lame, but nutritious.) I checked the news and weather on my laptop and tried to maintain some semblance of normalcy. It took almost 2 hours for my boss to call me back. She asked me why I felt uncomfortable at work. I told her that I felt guilty about being "disengaged" and listening to my headphones all the time. She had "expressed concern" about my disengagement 2 weeks ago. She does that at least once a year. It hurts for a while, but I eventually get over it. This talk had come at a very bad time, because the night before I'd been in therapy with my parents and some old wounds had been re-opened. She's always been very nice and supportive, but it sucks when you've substituted your boss for your emotionally absent mother. Any criticism from her can be deeply wounding.
I let Mary (my boss) know that she's become a surrogate mom for me. (I'd mentioned this before.) She was very understanding and suggested I come back to avoid layering financial uncertainty on top of my already-full stress plate. I agreed to give it another shot. I hadn't wanted to quit; I just felt forced into an impossible situation because of the emotional duress caused by working through deep-rooted issues with my parents and guilt about my job performance for my surrogate mom-boss. Tomorrow I'll try and drag myself out of bed and get back to work. Doing the job is pretty easy from an emotional standpoint. Getting up before the dawn and getting ready for a pointless, mind-numbing, soul-deadening job in a dark, lonely apartment is tough. (You may not be surprised to learn that I'm beginning to have second thoughts about my decision.)
It bothers me that we (in the insurance industry) seem to profit on human misery. But that was never enough to convince me to quit. A much bigger problem seems to be the feeling that I'm letting Mary down. I'm disappointed that a relatively minor personal obstacle like that would force me to put on the brakes, while a huge public moral issue would prove no more than a speed bump. It doesn't seem like an encouraging sign for my moral rectitude.
Writing about that personal emotional stuff can be really difficult for me. Right now is a perfect example. I didn't enjoy it, but hopefully it'll help me deal with this shit. What I really wanted to write about is what I did this afternoon, but I already know it won't be as long and it probably won't be as popular as this emotional post. Oh well. That's just how it goes for us writers sometimes.
Despite some anguished chest pains, I got to sleep and woke up incrementally, per usual, and well-rested. The phone call to my boss came after some gut-checking, but she wasn't there so I left a message, saying I thought I needed to give my notice because just going into work was getting difficult. I ate my normal breakfast of oatmeal with applesauce. (Lame, but nutritious.) I checked the news and weather on my laptop and tried to maintain some semblance of normalcy. It took almost 2 hours for my boss to call me back. She asked me why I felt uncomfortable at work. I told her that I felt guilty about being "disengaged" and listening to my headphones all the time. She had "expressed concern" about my disengagement 2 weeks ago. She does that at least once a year. It hurts for a while, but I eventually get over it. This talk had come at a very bad time, because the night before I'd been in therapy with my parents and some old wounds had been re-opened. She's always been very nice and supportive, but it sucks when you've substituted your boss for your emotionally absent mother. Any criticism from her can be deeply wounding.
I let Mary (my boss) know that she's become a surrogate mom for me. (I'd mentioned this before.) She was very understanding and suggested I come back to avoid layering financial uncertainty on top of my already-full stress plate. I agreed to give it another shot. I hadn't wanted to quit; I just felt forced into an impossible situation because of the emotional duress caused by working through deep-rooted issues with my parents and guilt about my job performance for my surrogate mom-boss. Tomorrow I'll try and drag myself out of bed and get back to work. Doing the job is pretty easy from an emotional standpoint. Getting up before the dawn and getting ready for a pointless, mind-numbing, soul-deadening job in a dark, lonely apartment is tough. (You may not be surprised to learn that I'm beginning to have second thoughts about my decision.)
It bothers me that we (in the insurance industry) seem to profit on human misery. But that was never enough to convince me to quit. A much bigger problem seems to be the feeling that I'm letting Mary down. I'm disappointed that a relatively minor personal obstacle like that would force me to put on the brakes, while a huge public moral issue would prove no more than a speed bump. It doesn't seem like an encouraging sign for my moral rectitude.
Writing about that personal emotional stuff can be really difficult for me. Right now is a perfect example. I didn't enjoy it, but hopefully it'll help me deal with this shit. What I really wanted to write about is what I did this afternoon, but I already know it won't be as long and it probably won't be as popular as this emotional post. Oh well. That's just how it goes for us writers sometimes.
Monday, March 10, 2008
The Homeland Heebie-Jeebies
I was a political naif when 9/11 happened. My trust in the government was pretty solid, with a few unexplored liberal qualms. But I remember feeling a chill when they announced the creation of the Department of Homeland Security. It was just that word, "Homeland," that creeped me out. Although, at the time, my faith in the Powers That Be didn't allow me to question their actions on a fundamental level.
As I'm sure many of you remember, it seemed like everybody put their faith in the government (esp. in Bush) after 9/11. (In hindsight, it seems completely retarded that Bush's approval rating hit 91% after 9/11. Why would you suddenly trust a president who just let 3,000 people die through either incredible incompetence or complicity? Hint: Read Machiavelli. Not that I have, but I heard he had something to say on the subject.) That may have been the only period when they could've set up the DHS, or started calling America "the Homeland." The fact that they didn't bring back the draft right then is a very good sign for us, I think. Even in that scared-straight atmosphere, the Bushies were afraid of awakening the ghosts of the '60s.
So, getting back to "Homeland," I find it to be a very creepy word. It calls to mind the "Motherland" of the Russian Empire or the "Fatherland" of the German Reichs. The implication of the words is imperial. The DHS protects the Homeland, and the Department of Defense protects the rest of the empire, i.e. the world. Is anybody pickin' up what I'm layin' down? I wonder if y'all agree or if ya think I'm out of my fucking gourd. Holla if ya hear me.
(Author's Note: Mad props to Michael for being my first multi-commentator, in other words, for being the first person to post more than one comment on my blog. Thanx for the encouraging words, man.)
As I'm sure many of you remember, it seemed like everybody put their faith in the government (esp. in Bush) after 9/11. (In hindsight, it seems completely retarded that Bush's approval rating hit 91% after 9/11. Why would you suddenly trust a president who just let 3,000 people die through either incredible incompetence or complicity? Hint: Read Machiavelli. Not that I have, but I heard he had something to say on the subject.) That may have been the only period when they could've set up the DHS, or started calling America "the Homeland." The fact that they didn't bring back the draft right then is a very good sign for us, I think. Even in that scared-straight atmosphere, the Bushies were afraid of awakening the ghosts of the '60s.
So, getting back to "Homeland," I find it to be a very creepy word. It calls to mind the "Motherland" of the Russian Empire or the "Fatherland" of the German Reichs. The implication of the words is imperial. The DHS protects the Homeland, and the Department of Defense protects the rest of the empire, i.e. the world. Is anybody pickin' up what I'm layin' down? I wonder if y'all agree or if ya think I'm out of my fucking gourd. Holla if ya hear me.
(Author's Note: Mad props to Michael for being my first multi-commentator, in other words, for being the first person to post more than one comment on my blog. Thanx for the encouraging words, man.)
Sunday, March 09, 2008
The Limits to Growth
When I see 2.999 on the gas station sign, I can feel the 3-dollar barrier straining against the demands of capitalism. "Grow, grow, grow, you big, beautiful economy! Hang those who speak of less or just maintaining the current GDP!" Do people realize how fucking crazy capitalism is? Do you realize that WE CANNOT STOP GROWING? Do you realize that if we stop growing, the economy dies? How fucking stupid is that? Infinite growth requires infinite natural resources. We're going to discover the limits to growth very soon, and then we'll all have to wake up.
I used to feel guilty for wishing for economic collapse, but I figured out why I'm right to hope for its imminent arrival. It's very simple: The sooner the economy collapses, the sooner we all wake up to reality and get our shit together. And by "get our shit together," I mean re-organizing society in a manner and scale that don't require the massive, concentrated energy provided by fossil fuels. The longer we continue to sleepwalk, the worse the crash will be.
I don't know how many of you are familiar with this enviro-political perspective, but the Malthusian argument is making a big comeback. This is actually the moral of Urinetown, which ends with the cast exclaiming, "Hail, Malthus!" I wish I'd known about that when I saw it 5 years ago on Broadway with my parents. It took me a year-and-a-half to learn that lesson. Only when it was spelled out in stark, apocalyptic terms did the message sink in.
Unfortunately, the revelation was so overwhelming that I collapsed in on myself. I wish I hadn't been carrying so much emotional baggage when I discovered Peak Oil. It probably wouldn't have led to a nervous breakdown. But, as they say, the truth hurts. They also say the truth will set you free, and I've found that to be true as well. I wonder what will happen when the whole world figures this out. I think a lot of people are going to have to sort through their baggage like I have for the past 3 years (and will for a long time to come).
I used to feel guilty for wishing for economic collapse, but I figured out why I'm right to hope for its imminent arrival. It's very simple: The sooner the economy collapses, the sooner we all wake up to reality and get our shit together. And by "get our shit together," I mean re-organizing society in a manner and scale that don't require the massive, concentrated energy provided by fossil fuels. The longer we continue to sleepwalk, the worse the crash will be.
I don't know how many of you are familiar with this enviro-political perspective, but the Malthusian argument is making a big comeback. This is actually the moral of Urinetown, which ends with the cast exclaiming, "Hail, Malthus!" I wish I'd known about that when I saw it 5 years ago on Broadway with my parents. It took me a year-and-a-half to learn that lesson. Only when it was spelled out in stark, apocalyptic terms did the message sink in.
Unfortunately, the revelation was so overwhelming that I collapsed in on myself. I wish I hadn't been carrying so much emotional baggage when I discovered Peak Oil. It probably wouldn't have led to a nervous breakdown. But, as they say, the truth hurts. They also say the truth will set you free, and I've found that to be true as well. I wonder what will happen when the whole world figures this out. I think a lot of people are going to have to sort through their baggage like I have for the past 3 years (and will for a long time to come).
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Another Saturday Night
Have you ever heard that pop song from the 50's or early 60's?
Another Saturday night and I ain't got nobody
I got some money 'cuz I just got paid
Now how I wish I had someone to talk to
I'm in an awful way
I was singing that after I got home from my weekly Saturday evening workout at the Y. I wasn't feeling as lonely as I used to, but I still had to wonder when I'm gonna get out of this solitary rut. Rather than pick up dinner at Lund's or Kowalski's, I went to the Mysore Cafe (across the street from the Y). The only other patrons there were four Indian guys. It was quite subdued. At least I didn't have to feel too self-conscious about dining alone. The only menu option was the buffet. It was decent, but I wouldn't mourn the loss of the Mysore. It looks to be on its last legs anyhow. (I wonder if watching a muted Red River is affecting my style.)
Two girls (20something, I guess) came in after the men had departed and, for some reason, the host seated them at the same table where the guys had been, next to mine. They were rather attractive, but I only glanced over at them a few times. I wasn't in the mood to make conversation. Even on my most extraverted days, such a move would be exceedingly rare. Has my shyness kept me alone? I've always been exasperated by the apparent shyness of women. Perhaps my joyless visage has discouraged potential suitors. (Hee, hee. "Suitors." Maybe they should be called "suitresses.")
Either way, it's academic. At the end of the night, I'm still alone. I'm much happier now than I was just a year-and-a-half ago, but I don't think I'll be truly happy til I have a girl to call my own. Sappy, but true.
Another Saturday night and I ain't got nobody
I got some money 'cuz I just got paid
Now how I wish I had someone to talk to
I'm in an awful way
I was singing that after I got home from my weekly Saturday evening workout at the Y. I wasn't feeling as lonely as I used to, but I still had to wonder when I'm gonna get out of this solitary rut. Rather than pick up dinner at Lund's or Kowalski's, I went to the Mysore Cafe (across the street from the Y). The only other patrons there were four Indian guys. It was quite subdued. At least I didn't have to feel too self-conscious about dining alone. The only menu option was the buffet. It was decent, but I wouldn't mourn the loss of the Mysore. It looks to be on its last legs anyhow. (I wonder if watching a muted Red River is affecting my style.)
Two girls (20something, I guess) came in after the men had departed and, for some reason, the host seated them at the same table where the guys had been, next to mine. They were rather attractive, but I only glanced over at them a few times. I wasn't in the mood to make conversation. Even on my most extraverted days, such a move would be exceedingly rare. Has my shyness kept me alone? I've always been exasperated by the apparent shyness of women. Perhaps my joyless visage has discouraged potential suitors. (Hee, hee. "Suitors." Maybe they should be called "suitresses.")
Either way, it's academic. At the end of the night, I'm still alone. I'm much happier now than I was just a year-and-a-half ago, but I don't think I'll be truly happy til I have a girl to call my own. Sappy, but true.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
A Glorious Wrench
(Non-sports fans will have to forgive me this entry. My deeply-rooted love of athletic contests demands that I expound on Super Bowl XLII, the greatest Super Bowl of all time, in my humble opinion.)
Over 3 quarters of a defensive struggle, the tension had been building for an historic climax. The Giants continually stymied the Patriots' already legendary offense. New York's pass rush put Tom Brady on his back repeatedly while the secondary locked down Randy Moss and held the other receivers to short gains. Except for the game's opening drive, a 9-minute marathon that ended with a field goal, the Giants had been kept off the scoreboard by New England's time-tested bend-but-don't-break defense.
Heading into the 4th quarter, the Patriots held a 7-3 lead, but I suspect few thought that score would stand. The G-men broke through first with an efficient drive that culminated in a short precision strike from Eli Manning to David Tyree, the receiver's first touchdown of the season. With less than 7 minutes to go, the Patriots suddenly reassumed the ruthlessly efficiency they'd displayed throughout their perfect season. Brady picked apart the Giants' defense and methodically drove his team to the go-ahead touchdown. The score was anticlimactic, a piece-of-cake toss to Moss after the cornerback lost his balance while backpedaling into the end zone. Since I was rooting for New York, that play filled me with despair, but I also thought it was a shitty way to lose a Super Bowl, with the defender falling down.
What happened next is the kind of drive of which legends are made. Surely, long after our bodies and blogs have returned to the dust whence they came, people will still be telling this story to their children around post-apocalyptic bonfires. The winning drive was a stupefying string of missed connections and miracles. Only a sequence of events this unlikely could've undone the heretofore-perfect Patriots.
There were almost 3 minutes left, so the Giants still had plenty of time. Down 14-10, it was end zone or bust. They were soon faced with a 4th-and-1 in their own territory. The play-by-play man (Joe Buck) suggested they might punt and use their 3 timeouts to keep the Pats from running out the clock. I thought that was insane and was relieved when the G-men went for it and (barely) got it. The next turning point was a long 3rd down. Eli anxiously stood his ground in the pocket, unable to find a receiver. The d-line eventually converged on him, with at least 2 Pats getting a hold of his jersey. In a maneuver that can only be called Tarkentonian, Eli scrambled out of the scrum, reared back and lobbed an (ill-advised) Hail Mary down the middle of the field. Tyree leapt for the ball simultaneously with New England safety Rodney Harrison. Clearly, the New York receiver had said his prayers the night before, because the catch he made was at least as blessed as the Immaculate Reception of football yore. He somehow managed to trap the ball against his helmet and, as he came down, held onto it despite Harrison's attempt to rip it away.
This was the greatest play in Super Bowl history, but it still left the Giants thirty-odd yards short of their goal. They narrowly converted a 3rd down thanks to a heads-up catch and run along the sideline by the rookie Steve Smith. With the ball inside the 15, New England brought a blitz, leaving Plaxico Burress in single coverage. Plax faked an inside route and darted past the fooled defender to the front corner of the end zone. Eli lofted the ball over the helpless Patriot and, adjusting slightly, Burress caught it and kneeled into the end zone as the surprisingly numerous Giants fans erupted.
I too erupted in my parents' den, shocked and delirious that the script had been flipped so unbelievably. 35 seconds remained for the Patriots to keep the dream alive, but it died when Brady's 4th-down bomb to Moss bounced harmlessly off the hands of one of the Giants' defensive backs. There was still 1 second left, although apparently the Patriots head coach, the esteemed and enigmatic Bill Belichick, thought the game was over as he shook the hand of Tom Coughlin (New York's coach) and left the field. Or he was too crushed by the defeat to stick around for the Giants' final snap and kneel-down. This incident can only add to his mystique.
What made this experience so captivating for me was the way the Giants had thrown a glorious wrench in the gears of the Patriots' storybook season. Just when it looked like Tom Brady had manufactured the perfect ending to an unblemished year with that methodical march down the field to take the lead, Eli Manning engineers an implausible comeback with a lot of help from David Tyree and the Almighty. It wasn't so much David vs. Goliath as it was the General Lee vs. KITT.
Too bad my dad was rooting for the Patriots. He didn't seem too disappointed though.
Over 3 quarters of a defensive struggle, the tension had been building for an historic climax. The Giants continually stymied the Patriots' already legendary offense. New York's pass rush put Tom Brady on his back repeatedly while the secondary locked down Randy Moss and held the other receivers to short gains. Except for the game's opening drive, a 9-minute marathon that ended with a field goal, the Giants had been kept off the scoreboard by New England's time-tested bend-but-don't-break defense.
Heading into the 4th quarter, the Patriots held a 7-3 lead, but I suspect few thought that score would stand. The G-men broke through first with an efficient drive that culminated in a short precision strike from Eli Manning to David Tyree, the receiver's first touchdown of the season. With less than 7 minutes to go, the Patriots suddenly reassumed the ruthlessly efficiency they'd displayed throughout their perfect season. Brady picked apart the Giants' defense and methodically drove his team to the go-ahead touchdown. The score was anticlimactic, a piece-of-cake toss to Moss after the cornerback lost his balance while backpedaling into the end zone. Since I was rooting for New York, that play filled me with despair, but I also thought it was a shitty way to lose a Super Bowl, with the defender falling down.
What happened next is the kind of drive of which legends are made. Surely, long after our bodies and blogs have returned to the dust whence they came, people will still be telling this story to their children around post-apocalyptic bonfires. The winning drive was a stupefying string of missed connections and miracles. Only a sequence of events this unlikely could've undone the heretofore-perfect Patriots.
There were almost 3 minutes left, so the Giants still had plenty of time. Down 14-10, it was end zone or bust. They were soon faced with a 4th-and-1 in their own territory. The play-by-play man (Joe Buck) suggested they might punt and use their 3 timeouts to keep the Pats from running out the clock. I thought that was insane and was relieved when the G-men went for it and (barely) got it. The next turning point was a long 3rd down. Eli anxiously stood his ground in the pocket, unable to find a receiver. The d-line eventually converged on him, with at least 2 Pats getting a hold of his jersey. In a maneuver that can only be called Tarkentonian, Eli scrambled out of the scrum, reared back and lobbed an (ill-advised) Hail Mary down the middle of the field. Tyree leapt for the ball simultaneously with New England safety Rodney Harrison. Clearly, the New York receiver had said his prayers the night before, because the catch he made was at least as blessed as the Immaculate Reception of football yore. He somehow managed to trap the ball against his helmet and, as he came down, held onto it despite Harrison's attempt to rip it away.
This was the greatest play in Super Bowl history, but it still left the Giants thirty-odd yards short of their goal. They narrowly converted a 3rd down thanks to a heads-up catch and run along the sideline by the rookie Steve Smith. With the ball inside the 15, New England brought a blitz, leaving Plaxico Burress in single coverage. Plax faked an inside route and darted past the fooled defender to the front corner of the end zone. Eli lofted the ball over the helpless Patriot and, adjusting slightly, Burress caught it and kneeled into the end zone as the surprisingly numerous Giants fans erupted.
I too erupted in my parents' den, shocked and delirious that the script had been flipped so unbelievably. 35 seconds remained for the Patriots to keep the dream alive, but it died when Brady's 4th-down bomb to Moss bounced harmlessly off the hands of one of the Giants' defensive backs. There was still 1 second left, although apparently the Patriots head coach, the esteemed and enigmatic Bill Belichick, thought the game was over as he shook the hand of Tom Coughlin (New York's coach) and left the field. Or he was too crushed by the defeat to stick around for the Giants' final snap and kneel-down. This incident can only add to his mystique.
What made this experience so captivating for me was the way the Giants had thrown a glorious wrench in the gears of the Patriots' storybook season. Just when it looked like Tom Brady had manufactured the perfect ending to an unblemished year with that methodical march down the field to take the lead, Eli Manning engineers an implausible comeback with a lot of help from David Tyree and the Almighty. It wasn't so much David vs. Goliath as it was the General Lee vs. KITT.
Too bad my dad was rooting for the Patriots. He didn't seem too disappointed though.
Monday, February 04, 2008
DWV: Driving While Vomiting
During the 2 years I lived in Chicago, I had many temp jobs. The longest-lasting of these (3 months) was a data entry gig in the burbs, which required me to commute in my parents' 1992 Buick LeSabre. One morning toward the end of my tenure (early December 2001), I woke up somewhat nauseous, strange for me but not a red flag at that point. I still ate my usual microwaved oatmeal breakfast. That week I experimented by sprinkling craisins into the mix. They didn't help the taste much.
I trudged out of my dreary garden apartment to my parents' car, usually parked less than 3 blocks away. (Chicago parking, huh? Whatta ya gonna do? At least I never got ticketed for lacking the supposedly obligatory city parking sticker.) As I drove through the neighborhoods and corporate campuses of Morton Grove and Glenview, my nausea increased, so I stopped at a drug store and picked up some Pepto-Bismol chewable pills. I popped a few of those and made it to work an hour late, per usual. (Our supervision was extremely lax.)
Now, though, my stomach was on the verge of rebellion. One of my fellow temps, a married woman in her 30's (?), suggested herbal tea. I made a cup and took some sips, but the tide of sickness could not be held back any longer. I tracked down our supervisor (no mean feat) and told her I was ill and homeward bound. "Go," she insisted. "See ya later." It sounded like she was afraid I was gonna puke on her shoes right then and there. Later I learned that the stomach flu had been going around the office.
I was tempted to go straight to the restroom, but, as much as I hate throwing up, I hate the embarrassment of doing so at work even more. So I began the drive home. But I didn't make it. While cruising down an unusually serene freeway, the alarm went off and I knew I had to find a restroom. On the exit ramp is when it began. I just had to point my mouth toward the passenger side and hope that I would miss the dashboard. A fountain of vomitus gushed onto the floor. I was able to take a few breaths and keep the car on the road before the next deluge. A few passing drivers seemed to be aware of a problem. Their confused stares conveyed a certain disgust, but no real concern as far as I could tell. Maybe I'd just been living in Chicago too long to expect total strangers to show any kind of sympathy for me. I turned into a mall parking lot, unleashing another torrent before I was finally able to bring the car (and my stomach) to a state of rest.
There were no more outbursts the rest of the way, thankfully. I pulled into the alley behind my apt. building and somehow cleaned up the mess. (The only part of the cleaning process I remember is the last step: Febreze, Febreze, Febreze.) Due to the craisins, the light blue upholstery of the passenger-side floor and the space between the driver and passenger seats retained a magenta-spotted scheme thereafter. (I'm glad I was able to sanitize that image for you. I was afraid it might get too graphic.)
That evening I was enveloped in a waking fever dream as I tried (and failed) to watch The Sound of Music on TV. (Didn't they used to show that at Easter?) The flu subsided considerably the next day (which was, mercifully, a Saturday). But, when my college friend Courtney called, I still wasn't quite up to hanging out at her new pad. What makes it really sad is that was the last time I spoke with her. In my last 7 months in the Windy City, I left her several messages but never heard back. That had a lot to do with my departure from Chi-town.
Hm. That's a pretty depressing way to end what was supposed to be a whimsical anecdote. I'll have to work on that.
I trudged out of my dreary garden apartment to my parents' car, usually parked less than 3 blocks away. (Chicago parking, huh? Whatta ya gonna do? At least I never got ticketed for lacking the supposedly obligatory city parking sticker.) As I drove through the neighborhoods and corporate campuses of Morton Grove and Glenview, my nausea increased, so I stopped at a drug store and picked up some Pepto-Bismol chewable pills. I popped a few of those and made it to work an hour late, per usual. (Our supervision was extremely lax.)
Now, though, my stomach was on the verge of rebellion. One of my fellow temps, a married woman in her 30's (?), suggested herbal tea. I made a cup and took some sips, but the tide of sickness could not be held back any longer. I tracked down our supervisor (no mean feat) and told her I was ill and homeward bound. "Go," she insisted. "See ya later." It sounded like she was afraid I was gonna puke on her shoes right then and there. Later I learned that the stomach flu had been going around the office.
I was tempted to go straight to the restroom, but, as much as I hate throwing up, I hate the embarrassment of doing so at work even more. So I began the drive home. But I didn't make it. While cruising down an unusually serene freeway, the alarm went off and I knew I had to find a restroom. On the exit ramp is when it began. I just had to point my mouth toward the passenger side and hope that I would miss the dashboard. A fountain of vomitus gushed onto the floor. I was able to take a few breaths and keep the car on the road before the next deluge. A few passing drivers seemed to be aware of a problem. Their confused stares conveyed a certain disgust, but no real concern as far as I could tell. Maybe I'd just been living in Chicago too long to expect total strangers to show any kind of sympathy for me. I turned into a mall parking lot, unleashing another torrent before I was finally able to bring the car (and my stomach) to a state of rest.
There were no more outbursts the rest of the way, thankfully. I pulled into the alley behind my apt. building and somehow cleaned up the mess. (The only part of the cleaning process I remember is the last step: Febreze, Febreze, Febreze.) Due to the craisins, the light blue upholstery of the passenger-side floor and the space between the driver and passenger seats retained a magenta-spotted scheme thereafter. (I'm glad I was able to sanitize that image for you. I was afraid it might get too graphic.)
That evening I was enveloped in a waking fever dream as I tried (and failed) to watch The Sound of Music on TV. (Didn't they used to show that at Easter?) The flu subsided considerably the next day (which was, mercifully, a Saturday). But, when my college friend Courtney called, I still wasn't quite up to hanging out at her new pad. What makes it really sad is that was the last time I spoke with her. In my last 7 months in the Windy City, I left her several messages but never heard back. That had a lot to do with my departure from Chi-town.
Hm. That's a pretty depressing way to end what was supposed to be a whimsical anecdote. I'll have to work on that.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Compulsory Post
I'm just writing this entry because I promised myself I would write something today. I'm not gonna put any effort into it. I don't wanna give you the satisfaction. You bastards.
What's with the arbitrary hostility, you say? You would say that. You're so predictable. God, you make me sick.
Maybe I just learned that Diablo Cody is a year younger than me. And she's been nominated for an Academy Award for Best Screenplay. And she's had the privilege of working with Michael Cera. And she's physically attractive. Maybe that's what's eating me. Ya ever think of that, Einstein? Of course not.
You disgust me. Honestly, why do I even bother?
What's with the arbitrary hostility, you say? You would say that. You're so predictable. God, you make me sick.
Maybe I just learned that Diablo Cody is a year younger than me. And she's been nominated for an Academy Award for Best Screenplay. And she's had the privilege of working with Michael Cera. And she's physically attractive. Maybe that's what's eating me. Ya ever think of that, Einstein? Of course not.
You disgust me. Honestly, why do I even bother?
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
My Advice to Britney
I try to shield myself from celebrity news as much as possible, but even I couldn't help but notice the torrent of advice being hurled at Britney Spears these days. It's become a virtual industry unto itself. I can only imagine that newspaper advice columns will be replaced with advice-for-Britney columns, and the self-help section in each bookstore will become the Britney-help section.
In the spirit of the age, I'd like to offer our favorite jailbait-popstar-turned-wastrel a little advice. Before I begin, I should mention that I have no training in psychology, psychiatry or holistic medicine, nor do I possess anything more than a vague understanding of her situation. Still, I feel she could use a heaping helping of my homespun wisdom to get her out of this raspberry jam.
No, I'm joking. The best thing I can offer Britney is some opprobrium for all the douchebags who are profiting off her misery and then have the unmitigated gall to give her advice. It strikes me as "odd" that the people who seem to have the most contempt for her are the same ones whose careers depend on her. I wouldn't go so far as to post a tearful screed on YouTube in her defense, but she's certainly more worthy of sympathy than those whose job it is to exploit her (and other celebrities') pain. I'm looking at you, TMZ.
(That was an odd post. Now I feel like I hafta make up for this one in the next post. I'll try and make sure the next one is either personal or profound or both.)
In the spirit of the age, I'd like to offer our favorite jailbait-popstar-turned-wastrel a little advice. Before I begin, I should mention that I have no training in psychology, psychiatry or holistic medicine, nor do I possess anything more than a vague understanding of her situation. Still, I feel she could use a heaping helping of my homespun wisdom to get her out of this raspberry jam.
No, I'm joking. The best thing I can offer Britney is some opprobrium for all the douchebags who are profiting off her misery and then have the unmitigated gall to give her advice. It strikes me as "odd" that the people who seem to have the most contempt for her are the same ones whose careers depend on her. I wouldn't go so far as to post a tearful screed on YouTube in her defense, but she's certainly more worthy of sympathy than those whose job it is to exploit her (and other celebrities') pain. I'm looking at you, TMZ.
(That was an odd post. Now I feel like I hafta make up for this one in the next post. I'll try and make sure the next one is either personal or profound or both.)
Monday, November 05, 2007
The One That Got Away
It's tough when you're looking for your soulmate but you feel like you've already met her and it doesn't seem like there's any way you'll ever end up together.
This story begins in the summer of 2003. I'd recently hooked up with two guys from South Dakota writing sketch comedy. They lived downtown and uptown (Mpls., of course). I was coming to the end of a year living with my parents in the 'burbs. (That was where I crash-landed after crapping out in Chicago for 2 years, my first post-collegiate experience.)
The guy who lived downtown (Hans) moved in with the guy who lived uptown (Casey). During that gloriously boring summer (the weekly brainstorming sessions with Hans and Casey were my only salvation), they had a housewarming party. Obviously, I attended. That was their 2nd party of the season. I believe those were the only truly social events I attended that year, besides my own birthday, which they very generously hosted in the fall.
I'm not sure if the number of partygoers ever broke double digits. The apartment's decor was spartan. A single thrift-store table was the locus of the dining room (that doubled as a foyer), around which some folding chairs gravitated. There was indie rock on the stereo nearby in the living room, where 3 people chatted on a futon. I was sitting in a folding chair, trying not to feel incredibly awkward about the silence enveloping the group of people around me.
That's when Liz arrived. Casey answered the door and must've hugged her or gotten a hug from her. When I saw her, I just thought, "Wow. She's really cute. There's no way she'd ever go out with me." Her top was a khaki green t-shirt with bright orange(?) lettering on the front. I don't remember what it said, besides "I was purchased secondhand." That was all I needed to know. She sat down at the folding chair nearest mine, which was still a few feet removed. She just sat there for a few minutes, didn't say anything, no one said anything to her. The chairs were spaced too far apart to encourage conversation over the blaring stereo, and everyone was too socially uncomfortable to move their chair to a more accomodating location.
After a few minutes of this agony, I thought, "There's a really cute girl sitting all alone a few feet from you. She's WAY out of your league; therefore, you have nothing to lose. Just talk to her and you can go home with the satisfaction of having talked to a really pretty girl." I leaned slightly in her direction and inquired, "Do you like music?" In my mind, this was a brilliant joke. Who doesn't like music? (Only the soulless.) Unfortunately, she didn't hear it. I believe her exact word was "What?" But she said it so kindly and with such a generous smile that repeating myself felt like a privilege she had bestowed on me. So I scooted my chair closer and repeated the question. Apparently, it lost its humor in repetition. She said "yes" warmly, and we set off on a conversation of our favorite bands.
Luckily, the music of the Flaming Lips was extremely dear to both of us. She talked about their tour with Beck and how he supposedly covered some of their songs on the nights when he opened for them (they alternated), which pissed them off because it prevented them from playing those songs in their own set. I was extremely disappointed in Beck. I distinctly recall saying, "Oh no! But I love Beck!" She did too and was also disappointed. I told her of my dream of forming a Flaming Lips tribute band. She must've been supportive. (I can't imagine her being anything else.)
After a half-hour or so, the conversation ended and she left. I left soon after. The talk was good, but not the kind of life-changing event you'd expect to have with your soulmate. I asked Casey about her once or twice in the following year. The questions were just about what she was up to. I didn't wanna tip my hand too blatantly. It would've been too embarrassing. I didn't want them to think I actually thought I had a chance with Liz. They might've feared for my sanity. She was in her senior year at Creighton University in Omaha. As it so happens, my cousin and long-time best friend Erin attended Creighton. This was a pleasant coincidence.
In the summer of 2004, our sketch comedy troupe (the Half Windsors) performed our first revue at the Bryant-Lake Bowl. (That show had premiered at the Acadia Cafe in the spring.) Afterward, Liz and a guy and a girl chatted with us outside the BLB's front door. She was standing next to me and playfully said, "I bet you don't remember my name." I smiled shyly (it felt like my face turned a little red too) and answered, "Of course I do..., Liz."
Then she smiled.
One year later, as I was slowly climbing out of a deep emotional hole blasted open by a nervous breakdown, that moment when Liz smiled at me suddenly seemed like the defining event of my life. After two years of just having a crush on her, I immediately became convinced that she was my soulmate. The few seconds of that smile turned into something out of a movie, a transcendent instant when everything else in the universe ceased to exist and her face was the sun, blinding in its beauty and love.
But, at the time, it didn't seem to have such a profound effect on me. It felt amazingly good, but not necessarily transcendent. I wonder if my extraordinarily vulnerable emotional state the following year invested that memory with a significance it didn't really have, or if my extraordinarily open emotional state allowed me to openly feel, for the first time, the strong affection for Liz that I hadn't allowed myself to feel, out of fear of rejection.
Soon after my soulmate "revelation," I sent a voicemail and e-mail to Casey, pleading for any contact info for Liz. Eventually, he e-mailed back that he didn't have any. I still find that hard to believe. The truth, and his potential motives, remains a mystery. I'd left the Half Windsors the previous year. I only heard from them in occasional mass e-mails promoting their shows. They're in NYC now trying to make it in comedy, so the question of the integrity of his friendship is moot.
I didn't have her last name, rendering my internet searches pointless. I actually tried to guess her last name, based on nothing but a hunch. My attempts to track her down online went nowhere, and, as the months passed, my infatuation faded.
Flash forward to the summer of 2007. I was walking home with two of my best friends, Marc and Sadie. I mentioned Liz and my desire to see her again, if only to learn whether that moment when she smiled at me meant something to her too. They suggested looking her up on MySpace or Facebook. I felt pretty dumb for not thinking of that before and said I'd try it. The next day I got an e-mail from Sadie saying "Is this her?" It was a link to her MySpace page. It was her. She wasn't quite as beautiful as I remembered. (I don't think the camera can capture that kind of beauty.)
I wanted to e-mail her, but I paused. According to her page, she was "in a relationship," and there was a guy in two photos who looked like a boyfriend. (Predictably, he was much more handsome than I.) I wasn't sure I could handle seeing her now if we could only be friends. But I e-mailed her anyway, nervously. Two years had passed since our last (and second) meeting. I tried to jog her memory and otherwise played it safe. Unfortunately (or fortunately), I never heard back from her. Maybe it'd been too long. Maybe I never meant that much to her. Or maybe, just maybe (Damn that bitch goddess, Hope!) she felt the same way about me and couldn't put herself through the agony of seeing me again while still pledged to someone else! (For the record, that last theory has about 1% support in my brain.)
So that's where I stand. I can't help but think this fate was preordained. I've always been a star-crossed romantic. I'd rather pine for a girl who seems angelic from a distance than get up close and risk having my hopes dashed on the rocks of reality. How could I be so obsessed with a girl with whom I've spent less than an hour of my life? What kind of God would cast me in this tragedy? Or is it my fault for passing up my chances with her and other girls for the risk-free escape of fantasy? I've got my money on the last theory.
(Author's Note: None of the names has been changed. Hopefully, that will not come back to haunt me. The song you should listen to after reading this story is "Simple Twist of Fate" by Bob Dylan, the 2nd cut off of Blood on the Tracks. That's how it felt.)
This story begins in the summer of 2003. I'd recently hooked up with two guys from South Dakota writing sketch comedy. They lived downtown and uptown (Mpls., of course). I was coming to the end of a year living with my parents in the 'burbs. (That was where I crash-landed after crapping out in Chicago for 2 years, my first post-collegiate experience.)
The guy who lived downtown (Hans) moved in with the guy who lived uptown (Casey). During that gloriously boring summer (the weekly brainstorming sessions with Hans and Casey were my only salvation), they had a housewarming party. Obviously, I attended. That was their 2nd party of the season. I believe those were the only truly social events I attended that year, besides my own birthday, which they very generously hosted in the fall.
I'm not sure if the number of partygoers ever broke double digits. The apartment's decor was spartan. A single thrift-store table was the locus of the dining room (that doubled as a foyer), around which some folding chairs gravitated. There was indie rock on the stereo nearby in the living room, where 3 people chatted on a futon. I was sitting in a folding chair, trying not to feel incredibly awkward about the silence enveloping the group of people around me.
That's when Liz arrived. Casey answered the door and must've hugged her or gotten a hug from her. When I saw her, I just thought, "Wow. She's really cute. There's no way she'd ever go out with me." Her top was a khaki green t-shirt with bright orange(?) lettering on the front. I don't remember what it said, besides "I was purchased secondhand." That was all I needed to know. She sat down at the folding chair nearest mine, which was still a few feet removed. She just sat there for a few minutes, didn't say anything, no one said anything to her. The chairs were spaced too far apart to encourage conversation over the blaring stereo, and everyone was too socially uncomfortable to move their chair to a more accomodating location.
After a few minutes of this agony, I thought, "There's a really cute girl sitting all alone a few feet from you. She's WAY out of your league; therefore, you have nothing to lose. Just talk to her and you can go home with the satisfaction of having talked to a really pretty girl." I leaned slightly in her direction and inquired, "Do you like music?" In my mind, this was a brilliant joke. Who doesn't like music? (Only the soulless.) Unfortunately, she didn't hear it. I believe her exact word was "What?" But she said it so kindly and with such a generous smile that repeating myself felt like a privilege she had bestowed on me. So I scooted my chair closer and repeated the question. Apparently, it lost its humor in repetition. She said "yes" warmly, and we set off on a conversation of our favorite bands.
Luckily, the music of the Flaming Lips was extremely dear to both of us. She talked about their tour with Beck and how he supposedly covered some of their songs on the nights when he opened for them (they alternated), which pissed them off because it prevented them from playing those songs in their own set. I was extremely disappointed in Beck. I distinctly recall saying, "Oh no! But I love Beck!" She did too and was also disappointed. I told her of my dream of forming a Flaming Lips tribute band. She must've been supportive. (I can't imagine her being anything else.)
After a half-hour or so, the conversation ended and she left. I left soon after. The talk was good, but not the kind of life-changing event you'd expect to have with your soulmate. I asked Casey about her once or twice in the following year. The questions were just about what she was up to. I didn't wanna tip my hand too blatantly. It would've been too embarrassing. I didn't want them to think I actually thought I had a chance with Liz. They might've feared for my sanity. She was in her senior year at Creighton University in Omaha. As it so happens, my cousin and long-time best friend Erin attended Creighton. This was a pleasant coincidence.
In the summer of 2004, our sketch comedy troupe (the Half Windsors) performed our first revue at the Bryant-Lake Bowl. (That show had premiered at the Acadia Cafe in the spring.) Afterward, Liz and a guy and a girl chatted with us outside the BLB's front door. She was standing next to me and playfully said, "I bet you don't remember my name." I smiled shyly (it felt like my face turned a little red too) and answered, "Of course I do..., Liz."
Then she smiled.
One year later, as I was slowly climbing out of a deep emotional hole blasted open by a nervous breakdown, that moment when Liz smiled at me suddenly seemed like the defining event of my life. After two years of just having a crush on her, I immediately became convinced that she was my soulmate. The few seconds of that smile turned into something out of a movie, a transcendent instant when everything else in the universe ceased to exist and her face was the sun, blinding in its beauty and love.
But, at the time, it didn't seem to have such a profound effect on me. It felt amazingly good, but not necessarily transcendent. I wonder if my extraordinarily vulnerable emotional state the following year invested that memory with a significance it didn't really have, or if my extraordinarily open emotional state allowed me to openly feel, for the first time, the strong affection for Liz that I hadn't allowed myself to feel, out of fear of rejection.
Soon after my soulmate "revelation," I sent a voicemail and e-mail to Casey, pleading for any contact info for Liz. Eventually, he e-mailed back that he didn't have any. I still find that hard to believe. The truth, and his potential motives, remains a mystery. I'd left the Half Windsors the previous year. I only heard from them in occasional mass e-mails promoting their shows. They're in NYC now trying to make it in comedy, so the question of the integrity of his friendship is moot.
I didn't have her last name, rendering my internet searches pointless. I actually tried to guess her last name, based on nothing but a hunch. My attempts to track her down online went nowhere, and, as the months passed, my infatuation faded.
Flash forward to the summer of 2007. I was walking home with two of my best friends, Marc and Sadie. I mentioned Liz and my desire to see her again, if only to learn whether that moment when she smiled at me meant something to her too. They suggested looking her up on MySpace or Facebook. I felt pretty dumb for not thinking of that before and said I'd try it. The next day I got an e-mail from Sadie saying "Is this her?" It was a link to her MySpace page. It was her. She wasn't quite as beautiful as I remembered. (I don't think the camera can capture that kind of beauty.)
I wanted to e-mail her, but I paused. According to her page, she was "in a relationship," and there was a guy in two photos who looked like a boyfriend. (Predictably, he was much more handsome than I.) I wasn't sure I could handle seeing her now if we could only be friends. But I e-mailed her anyway, nervously. Two years had passed since our last (and second) meeting. I tried to jog her memory and otherwise played it safe. Unfortunately (or fortunately), I never heard back from her. Maybe it'd been too long. Maybe I never meant that much to her. Or maybe, just maybe (Damn that bitch goddess, Hope!) she felt the same way about me and couldn't put herself through the agony of seeing me again while still pledged to someone else! (For the record, that last theory has about 1% support in my brain.)
So that's where I stand. I can't help but think this fate was preordained. I've always been a star-crossed romantic. I'd rather pine for a girl who seems angelic from a distance than get up close and risk having my hopes dashed on the rocks of reality. How could I be so obsessed with a girl with whom I've spent less than an hour of my life? What kind of God would cast me in this tragedy? Or is it my fault for passing up my chances with her and other girls for the risk-free escape of fantasy? I've got my money on the last theory.
(Author's Note: None of the names has been changed. Hopefully, that will not come back to haunt me. The song you should listen to after reading this story is "Simple Twist of Fate" by Bob Dylan, the 2nd cut off of Blood on the Tracks. That's how it felt.)
Friday, February 23, 2007
My Review of the 1960 Movie "Pepe"
On President's Day Morning I leapt out of bed like a kid, hurrying to see what Uncle Sam had left under our plastic, flag-bedecked Liberty Bell. When I saw that the living room was as barren, lifeless and bottle-strewn as usual, I realized that my President's Day fantasy had merely been a fever dream brought on by my second bout of stomach flu in 2 months. (That last part's true. Thank god this case was much milder than the last.)
In lieu of a patriotic bounty, I found a cinematic oddity on cable. My choice to watch this film was determined by its status as a musical (as indicated by the DIRECTV on-screen guide) and the involvement of Shirley Jones. I've greatly admired her work for just over a year and a half now, since first I had the pleasure of watching her in Oklahoma!, Carousel and The Music Man. She has a beautiful voice. Plus, she was dreamy back then.
The star-studded project Ms. Jones chose to lend her name to is entitled Pepe. It's a love story, specifically, the love between a man and a horse. Cantinflas, the Mexican Charlie Chaplin (but for the talking and the moustache that exists only on the edges of the lip and not at all in the middle, the polar opposite of the Chaplin/Hitler), plays the titular character, a horse trainer who leaves Mexico for L.A. when Don Juan, the magnificent white stallion he has raised from infancy and calls his "son," is sold to a movie producer. Pepe can't bear to be separated from Don Juan, so he goes looking for the horse's new owner in La-La Land.
Thus begins a long string of luminaries who are confounded by the simple, linguistically-challenged Mexican. The first victim is Ernie Kovacs as the border security official who is thoroughly flummoxed to learn that Pepe's son is a horse. Even Kovacs' legendary, world-weary mug can't salvage this routine. Unfortunately, the bits don't improve much on the first one, and there are roughly 5,000 cameos in this film. Paying all those celebrities must've taken up most of the budget. It doesn't seem like there was much left over for the script.
Clearly, this isn't a movie meant to be savored for its plot. It's like a Three Musketeers bar in which the star-gazing represents the fake-mousse filling and the musical comedy represents the chocolate shell. My problem with the picture is that it lasts TWO-AND-A-HALF HOURS! Sure, there are many intriguing scenes, which I will shortly relate to you, but nothing that justifies a running time of ~150 minutes. The plot would be blown away at the slightest breath. The characters would fall flat at the softest touch. It's just amazing to me that they would make a piece of celluloid so long and yet so thin. Oh well. It's still way better than Gigli. (Or so I've heard.)
So anyhoo, Pepe goes to the backlot of the studio where the producer who bought Don Juan works. There he meets Shirley Jones, a hardened waitress whose parents failed to realize their showbiz dreams. It's kinda funny listening to Shirley give a bitter, street-smart screed on the naivete of Hollywood hopes, given her peaches'n'cream screen persona and the fact that her career is proof of the (albeit rare) fulfillment of big-screen ambitions. Pepe soon runs afoul of Bing Crosby and Jack Lemmon, who's in drag, presumably for Some Like It Hot. The best reference to a star's screen work comes when Pepe delivers flowers to Janet Leigh while she's taking a bath. I found it an amusing nod to her shower scene in Psycho.
Pepe visits Shirley at her cafe, a subterranean cavern full of beatniks where the coffee is hot and the jazz is hotter. Bobby Darin entertains the crowd with a cool tale of love and murder. I don't think real beatniks found Bobby Darin all that "hep," but their silver-screen facsimiles really seem to "dig" him. The next number is a modern dance piece that bears an uncanny resemblance to West Side Story, with chain-link fences, back alleys and desperate, attractive youth. Shirley portrays a girl on the short end of a love triangle. Just when the tension between her suitors starts to heat up, a concerned Pepe intervenes to "save" Shirley. This throws the entire club into chaos, forcing Bobby Darin to cut the epilogue of his song short as projectiles whiz by his head and smash the windows behind him.
At this point I'm going to drop all attempts to reconstruct the plot. As I said before, it's not worth the effort. I'll just stick to the interesting scenes. One highlight is when the movie producer is trying to write the script for his new film. It's important to note here that he's a recovering alcoholic, and, in a moment of weakness, he removes the cap to a rubenesque liquor bottle covered in a wicker(?) mesh. Two tiny Mexicans emerge from the bottle and float down to the tabletop. They're wearing big sombreros that hide their faces, but in the course of their dance we discover that it's Cantinflas and Debbie Reynolds. The song they're dancing to is "Tequila," and I must say the scene rivals Pee Wee's Big Adventure for best dance number ever performed to this song. The Mexicans dodge a huge pencil and other giganticized objects in a drunken, acrobatic dance as the leviathan face of the producer looms over them in a state of stupefaction.
Pepe hitches a ride to Las Vegas to find the producer, who's embarked on a bender after his plan to direct his script was rejected by Edward G. Robinson. (The "producer" seems to be more of a writer/director, but I've been calling him the "producer" for too long to stop now. I thought that's what he was called in the movie.) Pepe finds the producer and learns that he needs $250,000 to make his movie. With the money in his piggy bank (Yes, he brought his piggy bank to offer it to the producer. That's Pepe!), Pepe proceeds to win $250,006 at the Sands (I don't remember what the extra 6 bucks was for. He gives it to Frank Sinatra, one of the owners of the casino, as a thank-you gift.) while driving the entire Rat Pack (plus Jimmy Durante) to distraction.
Now that the producer has the money for his movie, he begins filming in Acapulco with Shirley Jones as the star. (Earlier, Pepe managed to bring together the producer and Shirley on this project. It was quite a feat, too, considering their stubbornness, her distrust of showbiz types and his alocoholism. But Pepe's a people person. SPOILER ALERT: Shirley and the producer's relationship will evolve beyond its initially professional scope ;-) The triumvirate (Pepe, Shirley and the producer) take in a show at a fancy club in Acapulco featuring Maurice Chevalier and a bevy of beauties. Pepe and the producer join M. Chevalier on stage for a dance, after which Pepe asks the Frenchman for advice in love. Unfortunately, this leads Pepe to believe he has a shot with Shirley, an utter absurdity to anyone with half a brain. (Sorry, I didn't mean to be so mean. I'm kinda bitter when it comes to romance.)
After picking out an engagement ring with help from Kim Novak, he goes looking for Shirley only to find Edward G. Robinson, who tells him that Shirley and the producer are engaged. Pepe tells Robinson to give Shirley the ring and that he's going back home. Robinson quickly runs into Shirley and the producer and gives them the ring and the news. The couple feels understandably awful about their treatment of Pepe, and try to catch him before he leaves. Predictably, they do, and the whole sha-bang is wrapped up in a funny, touching, heartfelt denouement which I can't recall. The final scene is Pepe leading Don Juan (the horse, remember?) and his foals (including a cute little burro) down the dusty dirt streets of what appears to be a shantytown. So, even though Pepe has achieved financial security, he seems to be back where he started. But isn't that what we all hope for, really?
I realize that I broke my promise about not discussing the plot, but, in my defense, the problems with continuity in this essay mirror the movie's. To dig myself deeper I'll describe another scene in the film. It takes place in Acapulco, before Pepe buys the ring, I think. The producer yells at Pepe for interfering with the filming of his movie, and Pepe wanders off glumly with a concerned Shirley in hot pursuit. They stumble onto a street festival of floats and kids in their Sunday best. Pepe forlornly paces in the entrance of an old Spanish basilica while Shirley watches from the steps. Taking matters into her own hands, she gets a stick puppet from a vendor and begins singing the praises of her Mexican friend to a gathering of adorable local children, using the puppet as a stand-in. Pepe is heartened by the kind words, but can only beam from between black iron pikes, as the basilica's gate was shut behind him. Eventually, the entire festival is swept up in the song. Pepe somehow manages to escape the basilica grounds and joins in the chorus:
Children: "P-E-P-E!"
Pepe: "Pepe! That's me!"
The scene sounds better (and funnier) than it is. But it's still pretty funny.
You may be asking yourself, "If you can't believe that 2 1/2 hours of celluloid were devoted to the recording and preservation of this film, then why did you waste so many words commenting on it?" I wish I could answer that question. I really do. The best I can do is admit that I'm fascinated with pop culture of previous decades and that my life is quite boring.
In lieu of a patriotic bounty, I found a cinematic oddity on cable. My choice to watch this film was determined by its status as a musical (as indicated by the DIRECTV on-screen guide) and the involvement of Shirley Jones. I've greatly admired her work for just over a year and a half now, since first I had the pleasure of watching her in Oklahoma!, Carousel and The Music Man. She has a beautiful voice. Plus, she was dreamy back then.
The star-studded project Ms. Jones chose to lend her name to is entitled Pepe. It's a love story, specifically, the love between a man and a horse. Cantinflas, the Mexican Charlie Chaplin (but for the talking and the moustache that exists only on the edges of the lip and not at all in the middle, the polar opposite of the Chaplin/Hitler), plays the titular character, a horse trainer who leaves Mexico for L.A. when Don Juan, the magnificent white stallion he has raised from infancy and calls his "son," is sold to a movie producer. Pepe can't bear to be separated from Don Juan, so he goes looking for the horse's new owner in La-La Land.
Thus begins a long string of luminaries who are confounded by the simple, linguistically-challenged Mexican. The first victim is Ernie Kovacs as the border security official who is thoroughly flummoxed to learn that Pepe's son is a horse. Even Kovacs' legendary, world-weary mug can't salvage this routine. Unfortunately, the bits don't improve much on the first one, and there are roughly 5,000 cameos in this film. Paying all those celebrities must've taken up most of the budget. It doesn't seem like there was much left over for the script.
Clearly, this isn't a movie meant to be savored for its plot. It's like a Three Musketeers bar in which the star-gazing represents the fake-mousse filling and the musical comedy represents the chocolate shell. My problem with the picture is that it lasts TWO-AND-A-HALF HOURS! Sure, there are many intriguing scenes, which I will shortly relate to you, but nothing that justifies a running time of ~150 minutes. The plot would be blown away at the slightest breath. The characters would fall flat at the softest touch. It's just amazing to me that they would make a piece of celluloid so long and yet so thin. Oh well. It's still way better than Gigli. (Or so I've heard.)
So anyhoo, Pepe goes to the backlot of the studio where the producer who bought Don Juan works. There he meets Shirley Jones, a hardened waitress whose parents failed to realize their showbiz dreams. It's kinda funny listening to Shirley give a bitter, street-smart screed on the naivete of Hollywood hopes, given her peaches'n'cream screen persona and the fact that her career is proof of the (albeit rare) fulfillment of big-screen ambitions. Pepe soon runs afoul of Bing Crosby and Jack Lemmon, who's in drag, presumably for Some Like It Hot. The best reference to a star's screen work comes when Pepe delivers flowers to Janet Leigh while she's taking a bath. I found it an amusing nod to her shower scene in Psycho.
Pepe visits Shirley at her cafe, a subterranean cavern full of beatniks where the coffee is hot and the jazz is hotter. Bobby Darin entertains the crowd with a cool tale of love and murder. I don't think real beatniks found Bobby Darin all that "hep," but their silver-screen facsimiles really seem to "dig" him. The next number is a modern dance piece that bears an uncanny resemblance to West Side Story, with chain-link fences, back alleys and desperate, attractive youth. Shirley portrays a girl on the short end of a love triangle. Just when the tension between her suitors starts to heat up, a concerned Pepe intervenes to "save" Shirley. This throws the entire club into chaos, forcing Bobby Darin to cut the epilogue of his song short as projectiles whiz by his head and smash the windows behind him.
At this point I'm going to drop all attempts to reconstruct the plot. As I said before, it's not worth the effort. I'll just stick to the interesting scenes. One highlight is when the movie producer is trying to write the script for his new film. It's important to note here that he's a recovering alcoholic, and, in a moment of weakness, he removes the cap to a rubenesque liquor bottle covered in a wicker(?) mesh. Two tiny Mexicans emerge from the bottle and float down to the tabletop. They're wearing big sombreros that hide their faces, but in the course of their dance we discover that it's Cantinflas and Debbie Reynolds. The song they're dancing to is "Tequila," and I must say the scene rivals Pee Wee's Big Adventure for best dance number ever performed to this song. The Mexicans dodge a huge pencil and other giganticized objects in a drunken, acrobatic dance as the leviathan face of the producer looms over them in a state of stupefaction.
Pepe hitches a ride to Las Vegas to find the producer, who's embarked on a bender after his plan to direct his script was rejected by Edward G. Robinson. (The "producer" seems to be more of a writer/director, but I've been calling him the "producer" for too long to stop now. I thought that's what he was called in the movie.) Pepe finds the producer and learns that he needs $250,000 to make his movie. With the money in his piggy bank (Yes, he brought his piggy bank to offer it to the producer. That's Pepe!), Pepe proceeds to win $250,006 at the Sands (I don't remember what the extra 6 bucks was for. He gives it to Frank Sinatra, one of the owners of the casino, as a thank-you gift.) while driving the entire Rat Pack (plus Jimmy Durante) to distraction.
Now that the producer has the money for his movie, he begins filming in Acapulco with Shirley Jones as the star. (Earlier, Pepe managed to bring together the producer and Shirley on this project. It was quite a feat, too, considering their stubbornness, her distrust of showbiz types and his alocoholism. But Pepe's a people person. SPOILER ALERT: Shirley and the producer's relationship will evolve beyond its initially professional scope ;-) The triumvirate (Pepe, Shirley and the producer) take in a show at a fancy club in Acapulco featuring Maurice Chevalier and a bevy of beauties. Pepe and the producer join M. Chevalier on stage for a dance, after which Pepe asks the Frenchman for advice in love. Unfortunately, this leads Pepe to believe he has a shot with Shirley, an utter absurdity to anyone with half a brain. (Sorry, I didn't mean to be so mean. I'm kinda bitter when it comes to romance.)
After picking out an engagement ring with help from Kim Novak, he goes looking for Shirley only to find Edward G. Robinson, who tells him that Shirley and the producer are engaged. Pepe tells Robinson to give Shirley the ring and that he's going back home. Robinson quickly runs into Shirley and the producer and gives them the ring and the news. The couple feels understandably awful about their treatment of Pepe, and try to catch him before he leaves. Predictably, they do, and the whole sha-bang is wrapped up in a funny, touching, heartfelt denouement which I can't recall. The final scene is Pepe leading Don Juan (the horse, remember?) and his foals (including a cute little burro) down the dusty dirt streets of what appears to be a shantytown. So, even though Pepe has achieved financial security, he seems to be back where he started. But isn't that what we all hope for, really?
I realize that I broke my promise about not discussing the plot, but, in my defense, the problems with continuity in this essay mirror the movie's. To dig myself deeper I'll describe another scene in the film. It takes place in Acapulco, before Pepe buys the ring, I think. The producer yells at Pepe for interfering with the filming of his movie, and Pepe wanders off glumly with a concerned Shirley in hot pursuit. They stumble onto a street festival of floats and kids in their Sunday best. Pepe forlornly paces in the entrance of an old Spanish basilica while Shirley watches from the steps. Taking matters into her own hands, she gets a stick puppet from a vendor and begins singing the praises of her Mexican friend to a gathering of adorable local children, using the puppet as a stand-in. Pepe is heartened by the kind words, but can only beam from between black iron pikes, as the basilica's gate was shut behind him. Eventually, the entire festival is swept up in the song. Pepe somehow manages to escape the basilica grounds and joins in the chorus:
Children: "P-E-P-E!"
Pepe: "Pepe! That's me!"
The scene sounds better (and funnier) than it is. But it's still pretty funny.
You may be asking yourself, "If you can't believe that 2 1/2 hours of celluloid were devoted to the recording and preservation of this film, then why did you waste so many words commenting on it?" I wish I could answer that question. I really do. The best I can do is admit that I'm fascinated with pop culture of previous decades and that my life is quite boring.
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