Rule Number 9: Don't make mountains out of molehills...and the other maternal slogan greatest hits
I have an absurdly good memory about some things, although this usually doesn't help me. Sure I can talk your ears off about the revolving door band theorem behind Queens of the Stone Age or the artistic merit of American Pie, but this usually does more destruction to my image than good. One of the things that I've never forgotten, though, are the sayings that my mother used to badger into my head as a child. How about a quick tracklist, while we're at it.
Ellen Bill's Motherly Slogans - The Greatest Hits
1.Don't beat a dead horse - All greatest hits records need to start with a classic. And I was damn good as a child at beating a topic until it eventually had an aneurysm and had to be taken to the overripe subject hospital. Much like I did with that metaphor.
2. Watch your door - Because seriously, when you get out of a car...watch it.
3. You aren't doing anything stupid, right? - And as any son knows, this isn't really a question that has a right answer.
4. You can't always get what you want, Travis - I still don't think I've learned this one...
5. Don't make mountains out of molehills
Alright, so this is a Greatest Hits work in progress, but it got me to my main point, which is that I am an absolute legend at taking minute details and turning them into catastrophes. Like my mother, I'm a perfectionist and a bit of a control freak. Hence the repetition of "you can't always get what you want." I really didn't (and often still don't) understand that concept. And really, why should I? This is America dammit. We pull ourselves up by our bootstraps and claim all that is ours! Ronald Reagan baby!
Just kidding. In any case, inability to let things go and move on is much less becoming on a person when he's in college, in his twenties, and a business major. At a certain age people are supposed to learn to let the little things go and focus on the big picture. However, I'm better at creating invisible checklists in my head of all the times that a person or situation has wronged me. Eventually, the smallest detail can send this thesis of grievances snowballing into flat out stupid destruction. Ever had somebody erupt over an innocuous tone in your voice or a strange look. I'm that guy. I believe everything is pregnant with meaning and symbolism and that perhaps if I remember every detail, I'll be able to piece it all together into something perfect. The problem is, of course, that not everything has meaning. In fact, most things do not have an intentional meaning behind them. The way that I merge through traffic doesn't seem to me like it should be important to the passengers in the vehicle, but that is how I've treated life for a long time. Simply put, I cannot let things go, and this is wrong.
Two weeks ago, my ex-girlfriend Jenna passed away after a long bout with cancer. She was an incredible human being, and I was devastated over the time I had spent on trivial crap that I could have spent reconnecting with her. Of course, it also put a lot of other things from my semester into perspective. The minute details that I tend to complain about disappeared for a little while, and I saw the big picture. At the time, though, I knew that this transcendent understanding couldn't last forever. I wrote a lyric to a new song that said "I was a fool to think our youth was so invincible, and I'll be a fool again this time next month." It only took two weeks. I found myself snapping about little things and complaining about minutia less than a month after I had supposedly sworn out of my hyper-controlling ways.
Unfortunately, this blog doesn't have a happy ending. I mainly posted it because I was doing it again yesterday, and I woke up pretty frustrated about my inability to deal with my Achilles Heel. By this point, I've realized that you can't change people to the point where their major battles simply disappear. This is something that will always plague me, just like other things plague other people. Those slogans that your mother tells you as a child are important though. They're meant to be roadblocks to help you find your difficulties, and then weave through them. As it happens, my mom had to say either "don't make mountains out of molehills" or "don't sweat the small stuff" more than any other childhood slogan. And although this looks like it may be an incurable disease for me, I know that with that memory I can do my best to treat it.
Earlier this week I made a joke that my exorbitant complaints were like global warming. Everyone knows it exists by now, though it can't be stopped immediately. I need some sort of Kyoto Protocol to slowly diminish my impact on the world. From what I hear, the UN's working on it.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
In Honor of National Novel Writing Month
Last year, I did a project for a semester which was loosely entitled "write a fucking novel you idiot." And I wrote a 50,000 word novella for my non-violence class which has now been sitting on my shelf half-edited and half-scorned. In any case, I've been dragged into the phenomena of National Novel Writing Month yet again (this time with more emphasis on the month portion, as I only have around 12,000 words starting the month) with the hope that now that I've done it once, this time will be a lot easier. That is far from the truth. In any case, I wanted to encourage other people to attempt to do this with me, even if you don't get to the 50,000 words by the end of the month. And I wanted to share the first couple pages of this years novel, which I've entitled Ferguson's Convenience Grocery. I hope you enjoy!
Drip, drip, drip. The pipes in the bathroom were faulty, and with every splash of water against the inside of an already mildewing cabinet, I could hear dollars passing from my wallet, sales that were never made. The Chinese water torture of capitalism was inflicting itself on my modest apartment, with a thin layer of plywood protecting the uncovered linoleum from the ugly rusted water that wove like the Euphrates through my bathroom fixtures. Ride the Tiger, or the Tiber, or however the saying went. Leaking or plugged, I was still sitting on my bed with a gun in my hand hoping that enough dollars and cents would amass for me to finally overcome the urge to pull the trigger. A plumber wasn’t an option; I didn’t make enough money to pay somebody else to fix my pipes, and given my godawful mechanical knowledge, I was a long shot to figure it out myself. Somehow, the price of a pack of bullets and a split second of courage seemed far less than what it would take to fix the leak. Fortune favors the bold whispered the steel between my lips. I wasn’t born to be bold.
For the last five years I’ve worked as the full-time owner of a small grocery store somewhere in between the outskirts and civilization in my loathsome Zion. My parents used to run the shop, but they felt driving my grandfather’s Mercedes into a power generator to be a more cogent use of their God given talents. The story made the news for a day or two. The paper even ran an exposé a month later on why a happily married, modestly kept couple would commit suicide in such an unruly fashion. They even put on the clothes that they had worn to my christening. Wool and cotton sparked into an electrical inferno that caused a power outage at the local shopping mall for 38 minutes. 38 minutes of lost receipts and marketing ploys. What nerve they had.
In any case, the daily operations of Ferguson’s Convenience Grocery fell to me, a twenty-three year old high school drop-out who had spent most of his high school years snorting cocaine off of toilet seats and listening to Pearl Jam in an effort to fit in. We all dropped out together in solidarity and, well, the movement seems to have passed us by. It was a shame for the rest of them, and I doubt that any of them ever found a calling in life. As for me, my quiet life of cleaning a 500 square foot prison cell of brand name snack foods and birth control was about as close to a calling in life as I thought I’d ever find. The fact of the matter is, as soon as my parents decided to break the mold, so to speak, I knew that I had fallen into a fortuitous position in the Ferguson family. Whereas previously my goals in life had ranged between fucking my high school prom queen out of spite and buying a car so that I could drive to Mexico and never look back, I now had an actual purpose for being in Boston. I had inherited a family legacy of selling alcohol to minors, poking holes in the condoms of especially snooty teenage yuppies, and doctoring price tags so that we could actually charge upwards of forty cents more than the manufacturer had determined appropriate. Or, perhaps these were all modifications that I invented once I become the sole owner and operator of my 500 foot purgatory. I didn’t get a chance to interview the corpses on their managerial techniques.
In all aspects of its existence, Boston proved itself to be the perfect location for my operation. The general uproarious behavior of the population allowed my apathy towards anything other than my store to fill a niche that the city so badly needed covering. You see, when a group of people historically shifts to one end of the political, social, and economical spectra, it starts to wonder why people with different views aren’t forcing a different result. Thankfully for Boston, I’m here to fill the void. Just try to give me a 100 dollar bill in payment for your Snickers bar. Watch me tell you to fuck off with my finger on the trigger of a loaded pistol in case you decide to cause trouble. Still think your city is full of working class candor and collegiate pride? I’ve got another story for you to tell your psychiatrist on Monday morning.
Everyone hated winter on the East Coast. The entire city braved the snow by resting their lives on the win-loss record of the New England Patriots. I wasn’t a sports fan, but my store was. My parents had long ago placed Budweiser advertisements with quasi-lifesize Patriots helmets on them, a green football field in the background and the team’s schedule fighting for room between the grandiosity of the helmet and the grittiness of the chalky frozen gridiron behind it. Each year the beer manufacturer sent me a new poster; the images never changed, and the names and dates on the schedule were the sole reminder that a year had even passed. Blue and red streamers adorned the front of the store, weaving around capriciously inside of the decrepit structure and its barred windows. I had even added a touch recently which I feel would have made my parents particularly proud. Over the glass window of the malt liquor refrigerator, I had posted a special edition beer helmet poster, one which I had asked for specifically from the man on the phone in God Knows Where, Virginia where they take orders for all of America’s beautiful brewed poison. The sign stated “Be a team player, always use a designated driver,” and included the ever-important Patriots helmet and Budweiser logo. The irony, of course, and it was so fucking clever to me, God everyone would love it, was that the only people who ever purchase malt liquor are homeless people and college students. If that isn’t a group of rag tag team players already, then I don’t know who is.
This winter was particularly comedic, with inches more snowfall in a week’s time than most Bostonians are used to in a month. The streets were continuously filled with a collage of black pea coats, weathered leather jackets and puffy outerwear that enveloped ruddy-faced owners. All I had ever seen in twenty-three years in Boston was a change in jackets as fashions shifted in and out of commonality. Microfibers of various sorts were clouded by the gray façade of irony that even in the shittiest climate to found a heterogeneous community, Americans would find a way. There was a reason why these no-named patriots didn’t pack up their belongings and move to California. They still had something to prove. As for me…I just had a grocery store.
Drip, drip, drip. The pipes in the bathroom were faulty, and with every splash of water against the inside of an already mildewing cabinet, I could hear dollars passing from my wallet, sales that were never made. The Chinese water torture of capitalism was inflicting itself on my modest apartment, with a thin layer of plywood protecting the uncovered linoleum from the ugly rusted water that wove like the Euphrates through my bathroom fixtures. Ride the Tiger, or the Tiber, or however the saying went. Leaking or plugged, I was still sitting on my bed with a gun in my hand hoping that enough dollars and cents would amass for me to finally overcome the urge to pull the trigger. A plumber wasn’t an option; I didn’t make enough money to pay somebody else to fix my pipes, and given my godawful mechanical knowledge, I was a long shot to figure it out myself. Somehow, the price of a pack of bullets and a split second of courage seemed far less than what it would take to fix the leak. Fortune favors the bold whispered the steel between my lips. I wasn’t born to be bold.
For the last five years I’ve worked as the full-time owner of a small grocery store somewhere in between the outskirts and civilization in my loathsome Zion. My parents used to run the shop, but they felt driving my grandfather’s Mercedes into a power generator to be a more cogent use of their God given talents. The story made the news for a day or two. The paper even ran an exposé a month later on why a happily married, modestly kept couple would commit suicide in such an unruly fashion. They even put on the clothes that they had worn to my christening. Wool and cotton sparked into an electrical inferno that caused a power outage at the local shopping mall for 38 minutes. 38 minutes of lost receipts and marketing ploys. What nerve they had.
In any case, the daily operations of Ferguson’s Convenience Grocery fell to me, a twenty-three year old high school drop-out who had spent most of his high school years snorting cocaine off of toilet seats and listening to Pearl Jam in an effort to fit in. We all dropped out together in solidarity and, well, the movement seems to have passed us by. It was a shame for the rest of them, and I doubt that any of them ever found a calling in life. As for me, my quiet life of cleaning a 500 square foot prison cell of brand name snack foods and birth control was about as close to a calling in life as I thought I’d ever find. The fact of the matter is, as soon as my parents decided to break the mold, so to speak, I knew that I had fallen into a fortuitous position in the Ferguson family. Whereas previously my goals in life had ranged between fucking my high school prom queen out of spite and buying a car so that I could drive to Mexico and never look back, I now had an actual purpose for being in Boston. I had inherited a family legacy of selling alcohol to minors, poking holes in the condoms of especially snooty teenage yuppies, and doctoring price tags so that we could actually charge upwards of forty cents more than the manufacturer had determined appropriate. Or, perhaps these were all modifications that I invented once I become the sole owner and operator of my 500 foot purgatory. I didn’t get a chance to interview the corpses on their managerial techniques.
In all aspects of its existence, Boston proved itself to be the perfect location for my operation. The general uproarious behavior of the population allowed my apathy towards anything other than my store to fill a niche that the city so badly needed covering. You see, when a group of people historically shifts to one end of the political, social, and economical spectra, it starts to wonder why people with different views aren’t forcing a different result. Thankfully for Boston, I’m here to fill the void. Just try to give me a 100 dollar bill in payment for your Snickers bar. Watch me tell you to fuck off with my finger on the trigger of a loaded pistol in case you decide to cause trouble. Still think your city is full of working class candor and collegiate pride? I’ve got another story for you to tell your psychiatrist on Monday morning.
Everyone hated winter on the East Coast. The entire city braved the snow by resting their lives on the win-loss record of the New England Patriots. I wasn’t a sports fan, but my store was. My parents had long ago placed Budweiser advertisements with quasi-lifesize Patriots helmets on them, a green football field in the background and the team’s schedule fighting for room between the grandiosity of the helmet and the grittiness of the chalky frozen gridiron behind it. Each year the beer manufacturer sent me a new poster; the images never changed, and the names and dates on the schedule were the sole reminder that a year had even passed. Blue and red streamers adorned the front of the store, weaving around capriciously inside of the decrepit structure and its barred windows. I had even added a touch recently which I feel would have made my parents particularly proud. Over the glass window of the malt liquor refrigerator, I had posted a special edition beer helmet poster, one which I had asked for specifically from the man on the phone in God Knows Where, Virginia where they take orders for all of America’s beautiful brewed poison. The sign stated “Be a team player, always use a designated driver,” and included the ever-important Patriots helmet and Budweiser logo. The irony, of course, and it was so fucking clever to me, God everyone would love it, was that the only people who ever purchase malt liquor are homeless people and college students. If that isn’t a group of rag tag team players already, then I don’t know who is.
This winter was particularly comedic, with inches more snowfall in a week’s time than most Bostonians are used to in a month. The streets were continuously filled with a collage of black pea coats, weathered leather jackets and puffy outerwear that enveloped ruddy-faced owners. All I had ever seen in twenty-three years in Boston was a change in jackets as fashions shifted in and out of commonality. Microfibers of various sorts were clouded by the gray façade of irony that even in the shittiest climate to found a heterogeneous community, Americans would find a way. There was a reason why these no-named patriots didn’t pack up their belongings and move to California. They still had something to prove. As for me…I just had a grocery store.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Halloween in the Dub
As a few of you probably know, this year I decided to skip the alcohol-drenched college ritual of dressing up in as little clothing as possible, soliciting more alcohol at various fraternities and co-ops, and ultimately trying to end up in bed with somebody with an equally compromising costume...or as it's more commonly known, Halloween. I've always felt that Halloween was a bit overrated (seriously, if I can't make a costume out of what I already own, I won't), and this time around I actually had a valid excuse to return home (my brother was premiering his really awesome skate film, and I wanted to be there). Therefore, I took lukewarm holiday candor back to my suburban hometown in a quest to relax, study for an accounting midterm, and generally be a curmudgeon about October's finest shitshow. Well, after the video premiere last night, Veronica and I decided that since we had nothing better to do, we'd wander around Walnut Creek as sober observers of some of Halloween's finest specimens. We also decided to do this because the new Parkmead playground is possibly the most dangerous place in town, and that was our second best option. Seriously, why are some of the elevated shaped things stationary, while others move a lot if you jump on them? And why is there a toy that spins so quickly that Veronica suggested I used the sentence "in the moments before my death via centrifugal force, I realized something..." The horror of Downtown Walnut Creek couldn't have been half as bad as these toys meant for small children. But I digress.
For those of you who aren't from Walnut Creek, here's what you should know about my home town. Originally, Walnut Creek was a small suburban town with good schools; families used to move here in order to do all the normal suburban things, essentially. Recently, Walnut Creek has developed a more robust shopping and nightlife scene. Our downtown features every vomit-inducing designer clothing store you could imagine, plus the only clubs outside of San Francisco that actually look like they could be featured on an episode of Jersey Shore. As thus, my town is now home to an alarming amalgamation of egoistic snobbishness and post collegiate, white collar trashiness (along with some actually trashiness which can mainly be attributed to the many people from Concord/Antioch/Brentwood who visit on weekends to come to our bars). As a sober twenty year old with no intentions of partying on the Saturday before Halloween, I felt like Steve Irwin in the Outback. It was time to catch some fucking crocodiles.
Observation 1: Sluttiness is a self-fulfilling prophecy
One of the main events of the night, as it is anywhere on Halloween, is looking at the dreadfully simple, yet heroically slutty costumes. In college, this is considered slightly acceptable because you're in a bubble, going to college parties, conceivably seeking to hook up with people who are also within your bubble. However, when you're wandering through quiet suburban streets chain smoking and wearing what I could only describe as "a nightgown??" the acceptability is a bit...muddled. At one point a young woman who I walked by in a very short Snow White costume (which was actually pretty modest in comparison to some of the outfits we saw) actually very drunkenly yelled across the street "I feel slutty...hmmm." The males weren't much better, as almost every man I walked by was rocking the unbuttoned "cowboy/Chippendales/Patrick Swayze" outfit in an obvious effort to show off their rock hard abs...bro. My only conclusion from all this is as follows: if you dress like you want to have anonymous sex, you shouldn't be surprised when you stumble into that situation. Now, I'm not saying that these people should be ashamed - without Halloween, we wouldn't have the single best random hookup opportunity that college offers. It just gets a little alarming when you're in your mid thirties, have clearly rumbling ovaries, and aren't exactly as flattering as you were in your early twenties. I've said that you are what you eat and you are what you love...and now I'm going to say that you are how you dress as well. For better or worse. Mostly worse.
Observation 2: If you're over forty, you really shouldn't be going to clubs called "Vice" dressed as Dracula
This is a pretty simple observation, but the point is lost on many people. There should be age limits on dressing up in ridiculous costumes. Granted, the older crown had a much firmer grasp on what was appropriate and what was also clever, but still, go to a Halloween party at somebody's mansion if you want to pull that crap! There were a handful of incidents regarding people who were just way to old to be nodding their heads to Lil Wayne and drinking hard alcohol. I'm all for adults going out and having a good time. But at least try to look cool about it...and maybe do it on a night other than Halloween.
Observation 3: I really don't want to end up drinking in costume in my hometown 10 years after I graduate college
By far the bulk of the crowd we saw seemed to be the older siblings of people that went to high school with us. Whether they ended up taking the six year community college to underwhelming local job route or whether they just migrated back to Walnut Creek is irrelevant - the point is that people should try to leave the suburbs at some point, right? I've noticed that in Walnut Creek, the majority of new bars are swanky places designed to trick people into thinking that they're in a hip place like Santa Monica. Newsflash: you aren't. Your town isn't hip when fourteen year olds sit outside of a movie theater for three hours trying to bum cigarettes. Last night I actually had somebody who looked like he couldn't drive legally tell me that whiskey was his favorite alcohol too. So, by that logic, I'm relatively certain that you aren't in a swanky upper class club. However, many people seem to have tricked themselves into believing that they're a part of an admirable "scene." They dress up as Jersey Shore cast members (or perhaps those weren't costumes) and pretend that they are in the cosmopolitan cities of their dreams, when in reality, they are simply pencil pushers in the suburbs. And maybe this is enough for them. Honestly, it did seem like everybody that I saw was having a great time wandering around the sprawl from bar to bar, whistling at women and flexing their muscles. I can't judge happiness if that's what it looks like for some people. All I know was that it made me sad for the future of my town.
If there's any overarching theory that can be gleaned from these random thoughts, its that growing up in the suburbs is always a mixed bag. You have people raising families, people getting their first jobs and apartments, and people still living with their parents...it's a very socially diverse (if not racially diverse) constituency. For Walnut Creek, this is especially potent because of the developing nightlife that seems to draw these crowds from all over East Contra Costa County. It was nice to be able to look at the Halloween ritual as it would look like ten years after I graduate and know that for me personally, I wouldn't be caught dead anywhere close to it. For now I'll put on half-assed costumes and do the party runaround in college - really, that's what I'm supposed to do at this age and that's what I enjoy doing. And I'm not opposed to one day returning to Walnut Creek, having a beer and watching a basketball game at a bar. But if you see me downing shots in Crogan's when I'm thirty, please gag me, put me in a locked room, and force me to watch those horrific Carrot Top commercials for four straight days. That's the only punishment that could ever fit that crime for me.
For those of you who aren't from Walnut Creek, here's what you should know about my home town. Originally, Walnut Creek was a small suburban town with good schools; families used to move here in order to do all the normal suburban things, essentially. Recently, Walnut Creek has developed a more robust shopping and nightlife scene. Our downtown features every vomit-inducing designer clothing store you could imagine, plus the only clubs outside of San Francisco that actually look like they could be featured on an episode of Jersey Shore. As thus, my town is now home to an alarming amalgamation of egoistic snobbishness and post collegiate, white collar trashiness (along with some actually trashiness which can mainly be attributed to the many people from Concord/Antioch/Brentwood who visit on weekends to come to our bars). As a sober twenty year old with no intentions of partying on the Saturday before Halloween, I felt like Steve Irwin in the Outback. It was time to catch some fucking crocodiles.
Observation 1: Sluttiness is a self-fulfilling prophecy
One of the main events of the night, as it is anywhere on Halloween, is looking at the dreadfully simple, yet heroically slutty costumes. In college, this is considered slightly acceptable because you're in a bubble, going to college parties, conceivably seeking to hook up with people who are also within your bubble. However, when you're wandering through quiet suburban streets chain smoking and wearing what I could only describe as "a nightgown??" the acceptability is a bit...muddled. At one point a young woman who I walked by in a very short Snow White costume (which was actually pretty modest in comparison to some of the outfits we saw) actually very drunkenly yelled across the street "I feel slutty...hmmm." The males weren't much better, as almost every man I walked by was rocking the unbuttoned "cowboy/Chippendales/Patrick Swayze" outfit in an obvious effort to show off their rock hard abs...bro. My only conclusion from all this is as follows: if you dress like you want to have anonymous sex, you shouldn't be surprised when you stumble into that situation. Now, I'm not saying that these people should be ashamed - without Halloween, we wouldn't have the single best random hookup opportunity that college offers. It just gets a little alarming when you're in your mid thirties, have clearly rumbling ovaries, and aren't exactly as flattering as you were in your early twenties. I've said that you are what you eat and you are what you love...and now I'm going to say that you are how you dress as well. For better or worse. Mostly worse.
Observation 2: If you're over forty, you really shouldn't be going to clubs called "Vice" dressed as Dracula
This is a pretty simple observation, but the point is lost on many people. There should be age limits on dressing up in ridiculous costumes. Granted, the older crown had a much firmer grasp on what was appropriate and what was also clever, but still, go to a Halloween party at somebody's mansion if you want to pull that crap! There were a handful of incidents regarding people who were just way to old to be nodding their heads to Lil Wayne and drinking hard alcohol. I'm all for adults going out and having a good time. But at least try to look cool about it...and maybe do it on a night other than Halloween.
Observation 3: I really don't want to end up drinking in costume in my hometown 10 years after I graduate college
By far the bulk of the crowd we saw seemed to be the older siblings of people that went to high school with us. Whether they ended up taking the six year community college to underwhelming local job route or whether they just migrated back to Walnut Creek is irrelevant - the point is that people should try to leave the suburbs at some point, right? I've noticed that in Walnut Creek, the majority of new bars are swanky places designed to trick people into thinking that they're in a hip place like Santa Monica. Newsflash: you aren't. Your town isn't hip when fourteen year olds sit outside of a movie theater for three hours trying to bum cigarettes. Last night I actually had somebody who looked like he couldn't drive legally tell me that whiskey was his favorite alcohol too. So, by that logic, I'm relatively certain that you aren't in a swanky upper class club. However, many people seem to have tricked themselves into believing that they're a part of an admirable "scene." They dress up as Jersey Shore cast members (or perhaps those weren't costumes) and pretend that they are in the cosmopolitan cities of their dreams, when in reality, they are simply pencil pushers in the suburbs. And maybe this is enough for them. Honestly, it did seem like everybody that I saw was having a great time wandering around the sprawl from bar to bar, whistling at women and flexing their muscles. I can't judge happiness if that's what it looks like for some people. All I know was that it made me sad for the future of my town.
If there's any overarching theory that can be gleaned from these random thoughts, its that growing up in the suburbs is always a mixed bag. You have people raising families, people getting their first jobs and apartments, and people still living with their parents...it's a very socially diverse (if not racially diverse) constituency. For Walnut Creek, this is especially potent because of the developing nightlife that seems to draw these crowds from all over East Contra Costa County. It was nice to be able to look at the Halloween ritual as it would look like ten years after I graduate and know that for me personally, I wouldn't be caught dead anywhere close to it. For now I'll put on half-assed costumes and do the party runaround in college - really, that's what I'm supposed to do at this age and that's what I enjoy doing. And I'm not opposed to one day returning to Walnut Creek, having a beer and watching a basketball game at a bar. But if you see me downing shots in Crogan's when I'm thirty, please gag me, put me in a locked room, and force me to watch those horrific Carrot Top commercials for four straight days. That's the only punishment that could ever fit that crime for me.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Make War
I think this post is best started with a little introduction about how my day has gone so far. I woke up this morning to the realization that my application story to a short fiction class I'm hoping to take was due at 4 PM and I still had nine pages to write, pounded out 3,000 words of possibly the most personal writing I've ever done (while still going to Econ lecture), dealt with a few theft and tenant issues at the house, went to a largely unhelpful co-op wide manager meeting, and had an unsolicited conversation with my ex-girlfriend. I, therefore, feel it rather appropriate to discuss a topic I've been dealing with recently. Yes, you guessed it, it's the practical application of rage.
Rule Number 8: Make war with all the things that keep you from the place you know you need to be
Frankly, there is nothing more emo than using a phrase from a Bright Eyes song in a rule-based blog post regarding the general makeup of relationships. However, I'm short on metaphors and the fact that I'm even writing this is more an indication of how much I don't want to end my day by reading Willa Cather than anything else. With that in mind, let's get down to the basics. It's absolutely impossible to eradicate rage, destructiveness, and general disdain from your life. This blog was initially a tool to curb my destructive tendencies into something positive, and in that sense it has done its job, but I do believe that a healthy dose of warranted rage can go a long way in everyday life.
Allow me to explain what I mean, via a cultural reference, of course. The most interesting band that I've grown to love this year is a group called Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. Frontman Alex Ebert formed the band based around the concept of a man (the pseudonymous Edward Sharpe) who was sent to Earth to save it from inevitable destruction. However, once he finally gets down to Earth, he gets sidetracked by all the things that we do (namely girls, drugs, and desert jam sessions). The debut album follows a linear narrative involving Edward Sharpe trying to fight his way out of the follies which we all encounter, but not through actual violence. Instead, this band is making war in an incredibly peaceful way that acknowledges the concept of love and death in our existence and seeks to use an understanding of both to exist successfully on Earth. The most powerful moment of their live show was when Ebert jumped into the audience, jumped around like a crazed baptist minister and repeated the refrain "I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die." Ultimately, he is a man who understands the fragility of life on Earth, and most importantly, understands that the constant threat of death doesn't have to scare us, but can actually serve as a revelation. We can fight against everything that keeps us from where we feel we should be both physically and emotionally, and it doesn't have to look like war as we've grown to understand it.
Now you may be saying to yourself, "that doesn't sound like rage." If so, you clearly don't understand my ability to take wholly dysfunctional ideas and turn them into beautiful blogo-gems. I would argue that the reason that Edward Sharpe works as a band is not because they live an entirely peaceful life. When it comes down to it, Ebert is a recovering drug addict from Laurel Canyon who has rounded up a group of people who seem to have similar stories. Ultimately, Edward Sharpe is more a band about making war against the things that have continually plagued these people than anything else. Now, I'm not advocating throwing on a loin cloth and dancing as the answer to everyone's problems. However, I think this provides a good contrast to the rage that I most often experience - the destructive, vindictive kind.
Flash back to my personal reality. Today (the first half of this blog was written yesterday) I went to San Francisco alone with the intention of spending some time at the Stanley Donwood exhibit, finding a restaurant to watch the Giants game at, and actually relaxing. While I was in the city, I climbed to the top of Buena Vista Park, the highest geographical point in SF. As I looked around this city that I loved, I felt that it would be a shame to be carrying a notebook and not actually write in it, so I wrote a little bit about the deficiencies that I see in myself that I've never fully been able to get over. It didn't seem self-deprecating or depressing, it was simply a list of all the things that I knew I needed to fight to get past in the future. What I've realized is that I can't actually avoid the fact that I am human...I will seek vindication and be flustered, stressed, and full of anger in many situations. As with any emotion though, it's not the actual feeling that matters, but how you direct it. Edward Sharpe didn't stick with me because they were a bunch of Laurel Canyon hippies. Living in Berkeley has given me a keen eye for a purely egotistical and self-righteous hippie lifestyle. What stuck with me was the fact that Ebert was more than willing to admit his flaws openly and candidly, and then get down in the muck and do something about them. Making war and being purposely abhorrent of the things that keep you from where you need to be is not a deviance from a peaceful lifestyle...in fact, its an absolute necessity in creating personal realization.
Ultimately, on a day to day basis I still do things out of vengeance and undirected, negative anger. This is something I should try to avoid in the future (although, in my defense, many of these things are uninvited and intentionally directed to incite my rage). Regardless, making war and getting angry about things shouldn't be frowned upon; really, it's the only reason things ever get done. I hate so many people, things, and situations that I've seen in my life, and moreover, I hate so many aspects about myself. My guess is that many of you feel the same way. So let's quit whining about it, dig in our heels, and do the fucking work. After all, we're all in this eternal quest to become better versions of ourselves together.
Rule Number 8: Make war with all the things that keep you from the place you know you need to be
Frankly, there is nothing more emo than using a phrase from a Bright Eyes song in a rule-based blog post regarding the general makeup of relationships. However, I'm short on metaphors and the fact that I'm even writing this is more an indication of how much I don't want to end my day by reading Willa Cather than anything else. With that in mind, let's get down to the basics. It's absolutely impossible to eradicate rage, destructiveness, and general disdain from your life. This blog was initially a tool to curb my destructive tendencies into something positive, and in that sense it has done its job, but I do believe that a healthy dose of warranted rage can go a long way in everyday life.
Allow me to explain what I mean, via a cultural reference, of course. The most interesting band that I've grown to love this year is a group called Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. Frontman Alex Ebert formed the band based around the concept of a man (the pseudonymous Edward Sharpe) who was sent to Earth to save it from inevitable destruction. However, once he finally gets down to Earth, he gets sidetracked by all the things that we do (namely girls, drugs, and desert jam sessions). The debut album follows a linear narrative involving Edward Sharpe trying to fight his way out of the follies which we all encounter, but not through actual violence. Instead, this band is making war in an incredibly peaceful way that acknowledges the concept of love and death in our existence and seeks to use an understanding of both to exist successfully on Earth. The most powerful moment of their live show was when Ebert jumped into the audience, jumped around like a crazed baptist minister and repeated the refrain "I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die." Ultimately, he is a man who understands the fragility of life on Earth, and most importantly, understands that the constant threat of death doesn't have to scare us, but can actually serve as a revelation. We can fight against everything that keeps us from where we feel we should be both physically and emotionally, and it doesn't have to look like war as we've grown to understand it.
Now you may be saying to yourself, "that doesn't sound like rage." If so, you clearly don't understand my ability to take wholly dysfunctional ideas and turn them into beautiful blogo-gems. I would argue that the reason that Edward Sharpe works as a band is not because they live an entirely peaceful life. When it comes down to it, Ebert is a recovering drug addict from Laurel Canyon who has rounded up a group of people who seem to have similar stories. Ultimately, Edward Sharpe is more a band about making war against the things that have continually plagued these people than anything else. Now, I'm not advocating throwing on a loin cloth and dancing as the answer to everyone's problems. However, I think this provides a good contrast to the rage that I most often experience - the destructive, vindictive kind.
Flash back to my personal reality. Today (the first half of this blog was written yesterday) I went to San Francisco alone with the intention of spending some time at the Stanley Donwood exhibit, finding a restaurant to watch the Giants game at, and actually relaxing. While I was in the city, I climbed to the top of Buena Vista Park, the highest geographical point in SF. As I looked around this city that I loved, I felt that it would be a shame to be carrying a notebook and not actually write in it, so I wrote a little bit about the deficiencies that I see in myself that I've never fully been able to get over. It didn't seem self-deprecating or depressing, it was simply a list of all the things that I knew I needed to fight to get past in the future. What I've realized is that I can't actually avoid the fact that I am human...I will seek vindication and be flustered, stressed, and full of anger in many situations. As with any emotion though, it's not the actual feeling that matters, but how you direct it. Edward Sharpe didn't stick with me because they were a bunch of Laurel Canyon hippies. Living in Berkeley has given me a keen eye for a purely egotistical and self-righteous hippie lifestyle. What stuck with me was the fact that Ebert was more than willing to admit his flaws openly and candidly, and then get down in the muck and do something about them. Making war and being purposely abhorrent of the things that keep you from where you need to be is not a deviance from a peaceful lifestyle...in fact, its an absolute necessity in creating personal realization.
Ultimately, on a day to day basis I still do things out of vengeance and undirected, negative anger. This is something I should try to avoid in the future (although, in my defense, many of these things are uninvited and intentionally directed to incite my rage). Regardless, making war and getting angry about things shouldn't be frowned upon; really, it's the only reason things ever get done. I hate so many people, things, and situations that I've seen in my life, and moreover, I hate so many aspects about myself. My guess is that many of you feel the same way. So let's quit whining about it, dig in our heels, and do the fucking work. After all, we're all in this eternal quest to become better versions of ourselves together.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Bullitt
Rule Number 7: There is no longer such a thing as a real life Steve McQueen, but that won't stop him from making you look like an asshole
I've had a few heated debates recently with a friend of mine (who was just staring at me self-righteously while criticizing my blog's direction) who suggested (demanded) that I stray away from the rules based formula of my blog. And I will say that her argument has some merit (begrudgingly, of course). It's been a few months since my breakup and in many scenarios, these "rules to dealing with a breakup" will start to sound like melodramatic sob stories. So I give to you my new formula. Continue on with the rules format (suck it, Katie), yet remain vague and nebulous about what exactly I'm giving you rules for. In fact, in some cases like tonight, I'll just open my blog with a poorly-constructed witticism and hope that it tricks you into thinking I'm clever and that these rules actually matter. Don't look now, but you've just been played, oh reader.
And now onto the crux of the matter. What's the deal with Steve McQueen? Taking a quick glance at Mr. McQueen's Wikipedia page, one can learn that he possesses not only the dashing good looks and rebellious persona that have made so many young women swoon throughout the years, but that he's also a certifiable badass. He served as a marine, did all his own stunts, was an avid motorcycle racer, had a black belt in some variety of martial arts that I've never heard of, and did all of this while snorting cocaine and having inconceivable amounts of movie star sex. He even died in Mexico for Christ's sake. The man was more legend than flesh and bone during the apex of his fame. And what was this man's key to success? Acting in roles where he pretended to be unassuming, careless, and generally aloof. And this is what gets men laid. Not being a marine or a black belt, but pretending like none of that matters and that really you'd rather just smoke a cigarette on the hood of a car in the desert. Do you still wonder why there were so many sexually frustrated authors and physicists?
McQueen is a perfect example of a trend in our culture that seems to have started with post-modernism and has now expanded to include Pavement, James Bond, and Burt Reynold's moustache. Disillusionment is chic. It's one thing to do a lot of cool things with your life, but it's an entirely different thing to have an air of superiority. Much like women are led to believe that they need to be either sun-stained skinny models or intriguing indie goddesses, men are pretty much led to believe that they should be unassuming action figures, alcoholics, and sex fiends. I understand that this is making a lot of assumptions about what females are actually looking for in men...but let's face it ladies, a lot of you would rather go for the guy staring down a bottle of whiskey in the corner of a club than the guy talking your ear off with genuine, caring questions about your day. The problem is that I've never actually met a man who fully embodies this disillusioned apathy that is so idealized in modern culture. At some point, we have to show some emotion. Steve McQueen's don't actually exist in real life; or rather, they don't exist beyond the Hollywood ideals that we cast upon them. Remember Tom Cruise? We all thought that he was one of the coolest guys in Hollywood. Then the homoerotic Top Gun scene started gaining some indie steam, he came out as a Scientologist, and jumped on Oprah's couch. As much as men can pretend to be disillusioned and to feign indifference, ultimately, we will all fall short of the ideal.
Now I've put myself in a vulnerable position, because as a single man I'm not supposed to reveal that I have emotion and am supposed to actively ignore any woman who I am remotely attracted to on the off chance that someday she'll see me stare longingly at a proverbial green light on the opposite dock (hopefully at the same time as she notices my grungy stubble and dirt-stained jeans) and realize that I'm her soul mate. I blame you F. Scott Fitzgerald, and you Charles Bukowski, and mostly, I blame you Steve McQueen. That said, I do believe that there is hope for the men in society who don't live up to this ideal (read: all men). The hope? We're all in the same boat together. Granted, there will always be the eternally douchey jock crowd that will never admit that they have emotions beyond "this Natty Ice tastes great." But for the rest of us, there is some solace in the fact that eventually, even if we don't play into the eternal aloofness hypothesis, we will all meet somewhere on our journey towards the middle. I do have faith in the crowd of women who don't idealize me or my kind as cooler than we should be. And occasionally, it is a little fun to play the game and come off as indifferent when in reality, most of my instincts are bouncing off the walls like children on Christmas. In the end, though, a man will not end up with a woman who thinks he is Steve McQueen. Men will end up with women who understand that they are exactly as they are, and that there's a reason for that.
Mr. McQueen's Wikipedia page also lists three different wives. I have a feeling those romantic failings didn't occur because McQueen was too cool to handle. I have a feeling they occurred because after all, even the coolest actor that's ever hit the big screen is still human after all.
I've had a few heated debates recently with a friend of mine (who was just staring at me self-righteously while criticizing my blog's direction) who suggested (demanded) that I stray away from the rules based formula of my blog. And I will say that her argument has some merit (begrudgingly, of course). It's been a few months since my breakup and in many scenarios, these "rules to dealing with a breakup" will start to sound like melodramatic sob stories. So I give to you my new formula. Continue on with the rules format (suck it, Katie), yet remain vague and nebulous about what exactly I'm giving you rules for. In fact, in some cases like tonight, I'll just open my blog with a poorly-constructed witticism and hope that it tricks you into thinking I'm clever and that these rules actually matter. Don't look now, but you've just been played, oh reader.
And now onto the crux of the matter. What's the deal with Steve McQueen? Taking a quick glance at Mr. McQueen's Wikipedia page, one can learn that he possesses not only the dashing good looks and rebellious persona that have made so many young women swoon throughout the years, but that he's also a certifiable badass. He served as a marine, did all his own stunts, was an avid motorcycle racer, had a black belt in some variety of martial arts that I've never heard of, and did all of this while snorting cocaine and having inconceivable amounts of movie star sex. He even died in Mexico for Christ's sake. The man was more legend than flesh and bone during the apex of his fame. And what was this man's key to success? Acting in roles where he pretended to be unassuming, careless, and generally aloof. And this is what gets men laid. Not being a marine or a black belt, but pretending like none of that matters and that really you'd rather just smoke a cigarette on the hood of a car in the desert. Do you still wonder why there were so many sexually frustrated authors and physicists?
McQueen is a perfect example of a trend in our culture that seems to have started with post-modernism and has now expanded to include Pavement, James Bond, and Burt Reynold's moustache. Disillusionment is chic. It's one thing to do a lot of cool things with your life, but it's an entirely different thing to have an air of superiority. Much like women are led to believe that they need to be either sun-stained skinny models or intriguing indie goddesses, men are pretty much led to believe that they should be unassuming action figures, alcoholics, and sex fiends. I understand that this is making a lot of assumptions about what females are actually looking for in men...but let's face it ladies, a lot of you would rather go for the guy staring down a bottle of whiskey in the corner of a club than the guy talking your ear off with genuine, caring questions about your day. The problem is that I've never actually met a man who fully embodies this disillusioned apathy that is so idealized in modern culture. At some point, we have to show some emotion. Steve McQueen's don't actually exist in real life; or rather, they don't exist beyond the Hollywood ideals that we cast upon them. Remember Tom Cruise? We all thought that he was one of the coolest guys in Hollywood. Then the homoerotic Top Gun scene started gaining some indie steam, he came out as a Scientologist, and jumped on Oprah's couch. As much as men can pretend to be disillusioned and to feign indifference, ultimately, we will all fall short of the ideal.
Now I've put myself in a vulnerable position, because as a single man I'm not supposed to reveal that I have emotion and am supposed to actively ignore any woman who I am remotely attracted to on the off chance that someday she'll see me stare longingly at a proverbial green light on the opposite dock (hopefully at the same time as she notices my grungy stubble and dirt-stained jeans) and realize that I'm her soul mate. I blame you F. Scott Fitzgerald, and you Charles Bukowski, and mostly, I blame you Steve McQueen. That said, I do believe that there is hope for the men in society who don't live up to this ideal (read: all men). The hope? We're all in the same boat together. Granted, there will always be the eternally douchey jock crowd that will never admit that they have emotions beyond "this Natty Ice tastes great." But for the rest of us, there is some solace in the fact that eventually, even if we don't play into the eternal aloofness hypothesis, we will all meet somewhere on our journey towards the middle. I do have faith in the crowd of women who don't idealize me or my kind as cooler than we should be. And occasionally, it is a little fun to play the game and come off as indifferent when in reality, most of my instincts are bouncing off the walls like children on Christmas. In the end, though, a man will not end up with a woman who thinks he is Steve McQueen. Men will end up with women who understand that they are exactly as they are, and that there's a reason for that.
Mr. McQueen's Wikipedia page also lists three different wives. I have a feeling those romantic failings didn't occur because McQueen was too cool to handle. I have a feeling they occurred because after all, even the coolest actor that's ever hit the big screen is still human after all.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
The Deodorant Theorem
Rule Number 6: Nostalgia is the best medicine, and the worst drug
This may not be much of a rule, but it's something that I came up with when I was in high school, and I've never gotten over it. And by that I mean that I thought I was so damn clever for coming up with this when I was sixteen years old that I'm going to ram it down everyone's throat until it finally gets published in a coffee table book with advice for high school graduates looking back upon their golden years. I'm serious. Add this to my list of ambitions.
Regardless, describing the effect that nostalgia has on people is enormously difficult. It can be simultaneously very heartening and very distasteful. Either way, our brains are hard-wired with so many implicit connections that reminiscing on the past is impossible to avoid. Take this example: have you ever bought a new style of deodorant? The first time you use deodorant, you can smell it on you for a few days and you think to yourself "hot damn this deodorant smells great, girls are going to love me for wearing this, I'm like Fonzi in this shit." OK, well maybe I just really like a new style of deodorant, but even if you aren't as enthusiastic about smell as I am, you notice that you smell different. But after a few days, your nose and brain get used to the smell. Your body accommodates, and the scent disappears. Now, try switching deodorants for a few months, and then switching back to the original scent. You'll smell it again, and not only that, you'll remember everything that happened during those few days when you first used the deodorant. Yes, this is an experimental process that takes a few months and a couple sticks of deodorant, but I promise I'm not full of shit. I also promise that this won't be worth your time to try if you haven't noticed it already, but whatever.
The point I'm trying to get at is that we unconsciously absorb so many things. There are times when I think I've totally forgotten some parts of my life, and then I'll walk into a room, look at a specific corner in a way that reminds me of another time, and drift into oddly specific memories of years past. For instance, every time I walk into the production studio after my DJ shift at KALX I'm reminded of a specific date that I took an ex-girlfriend on a few years ago. These two things are likely very thinly related, and I still haven't figured out the reasons why I make these connections, but I think that's the point. Nostalgia isn't supposed to make any fucking sense. Unless you think about the deodorant theorem. Much like how our noses accommodate a new smell, our brains accommodate moments that are repeated and ordinary. People generally look back on the past fondly because it is a new stimulus that their brains have forgotten for a while. It is the deodorant that you haven't used for a few months and are just trying on again. While that's a nice feeling, it's very frustrating that we can recognize in hindsight that maybe we should have taken things more seriously while we were involved. Everyone's had the experience at some point of looking back on time spent with a long-lost friend or ex-girlfriend and realizing, "man, I shouldn't have taken that for granted." Nostalgia is a great medicine, but it's an addicting depressant as well.
I've realized recently though that "not taking things for granted" isn't realistic. Our brains are hard-wired to deal with nostalgia in the way they do precisely because they aren't hard-wired to handle full ranges of emotion and comprehension at all hours of the day. We have to take some of this information, store it up, and bring it out in idle times where we have a few moments to become nostalgic and think back on how we felt in the past. If we were always so sentimental, nothing would ever get done. We'd all be likened to the elderly man telling his grandchildren about the "good old days." So how do we get around this and not take things for granted when we're in the moment?
I haven't totally figured out an answer to that question. I have too many regrets in the recent past to think that I'm even making progress in that field. If anything, I think the best we can do is enjoy the waves of positive nostalgia, and when the negative inevitably arrives, take a deep breath and move forward. Nostalgia can be a great medicine, but ultimately the goal in life is to live comfortably drug-free, whether medicinal or not. As far as dealing with the present, my goal is to live intentionally. I will still take things for granted, but I know that I am capable of opening up my brain to what's actually occurring around me. Instead of falling into deep moments of thought about the past and future, I can close off that part of my brain for a bit and just notice the present. It's difficult, but worth attempting.
I have to go to Walgreen's today to buy a new stick of deodorant. I think I'm going to buy something I've never bought before and make a statement about my future. These are the days that I'll remember if I ever try my experiment again, and I'm alright with that. And maybe someday I'll be ready to come back to what I've been wearing recently and will remember some of the things that have happened over the past year. If I'm lucky, I just might look back fondly.
This may not be much of a rule, but it's something that I came up with when I was in high school, and I've never gotten over it. And by that I mean that I thought I was so damn clever for coming up with this when I was sixteen years old that I'm going to ram it down everyone's throat until it finally gets published in a coffee table book with advice for high school graduates looking back upon their golden years. I'm serious. Add this to my list of ambitions.
Regardless, describing the effect that nostalgia has on people is enormously difficult. It can be simultaneously very heartening and very distasteful. Either way, our brains are hard-wired with so many implicit connections that reminiscing on the past is impossible to avoid. Take this example: have you ever bought a new style of deodorant? The first time you use deodorant, you can smell it on you for a few days and you think to yourself "hot damn this deodorant smells great, girls are going to love me for wearing this, I'm like Fonzi in this shit." OK, well maybe I just really like a new style of deodorant, but even if you aren't as enthusiastic about smell as I am, you notice that you smell different. But after a few days, your nose and brain get used to the smell. Your body accommodates, and the scent disappears. Now, try switching deodorants for a few months, and then switching back to the original scent. You'll smell it again, and not only that, you'll remember everything that happened during those few days when you first used the deodorant. Yes, this is an experimental process that takes a few months and a couple sticks of deodorant, but I promise I'm not full of shit. I also promise that this won't be worth your time to try if you haven't noticed it already, but whatever.
The point I'm trying to get at is that we unconsciously absorb so many things. There are times when I think I've totally forgotten some parts of my life, and then I'll walk into a room, look at a specific corner in a way that reminds me of another time, and drift into oddly specific memories of years past. For instance, every time I walk into the production studio after my DJ shift at KALX I'm reminded of a specific date that I took an ex-girlfriend on a few years ago. These two things are likely very thinly related, and I still haven't figured out the reasons why I make these connections, but I think that's the point. Nostalgia isn't supposed to make any fucking sense. Unless you think about the deodorant theorem. Much like how our noses accommodate a new smell, our brains accommodate moments that are repeated and ordinary. People generally look back on the past fondly because it is a new stimulus that their brains have forgotten for a while. It is the deodorant that you haven't used for a few months and are just trying on again. While that's a nice feeling, it's very frustrating that we can recognize in hindsight that maybe we should have taken things more seriously while we were involved. Everyone's had the experience at some point of looking back on time spent with a long-lost friend or ex-girlfriend and realizing, "man, I shouldn't have taken that for granted." Nostalgia is a great medicine, but it's an addicting depressant as well.
I've realized recently though that "not taking things for granted" isn't realistic. Our brains are hard-wired to deal with nostalgia in the way they do precisely because they aren't hard-wired to handle full ranges of emotion and comprehension at all hours of the day. We have to take some of this information, store it up, and bring it out in idle times where we have a few moments to become nostalgic and think back on how we felt in the past. If we were always so sentimental, nothing would ever get done. We'd all be likened to the elderly man telling his grandchildren about the "good old days." So how do we get around this and not take things for granted when we're in the moment?
I haven't totally figured out an answer to that question. I have too many regrets in the recent past to think that I'm even making progress in that field. If anything, I think the best we can do is enjoy the waves of positive nostalgia, and when the negative inevitably arrives, take a deep breath and move forward. Nostalgia can be a great medicine, but ultimately the goal in life is to live comfortably drug-free, whether medicinal or not. As far as dealing with the present, my goal is to live intentionally. I will still take things for granted, but I know that I am capable of opening up my brain to what's actually occurring around me. Instead of falling into deep moments of thought about the past and future, I can close off that part of my brain for a bit and just notice the present. It's difficult, but worth attempting.
I have to go to Walgreen's today to buy a new stick of deodorant. I think I'm going to buy something I've never bought before and make a statement about my future. These are the days that I'll remember if I ever try my experiment again, and I'm alright with that. And maybe someday I'll be ready to come back to what I've been wearing recently and will remember some of the things that have happened over the past year. If I'm lucky, I just might look back fondly.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
You Are What You Love
So as to not waste any of your precious time, let's jump right into the rules, since this is something that needs to be discussed ad nauseam. I also need to have time to vigorously pat myself on the back for using the phrase "ad nauseam" in a sentence.
Rule Number 5: You are what you love, and not what loves you back
Alright, so I had to steal this rule from a Jenny Lewis lyric. Haha point and call me a hipster. Regardless, it's a very good representation of the topic of l-o-v-e in our society today. And the reason I know this is because I've been force fed a poor interpretation from traditional times. Yes, it's that Corinthians Bible verse that's read at every wedding. "Love is patient, love is kind, love is a handful of meaningless adjectives strewn together in a way that's designed to make children weep and women swoon." OK, I made that last part up, but there's no arguing that stylistically this verse is a bit bogus. That's not to say that I don't like the verse or its message, I really do believe that a loving relationship should be based on all the things listed in that verse. However, I don't think this actually encapsulates what love really is (despite it's many efforts to define it). Love is not based out of reciprocity and isn't always related to a relationship. In many instances, love is vicious, capricious, forgetful and disappointing. It leads to situations where you can go from talking to someone multiple times a day to never speaking again, usually out of some sense of pride, vengeance or pain. The Bible interpretation may sound pretty in the maid-of-honor's speech, but something so huge as love doesn't really boil down to two people, it actually only involves one.
The better interpretation actually comes in the forgotten verses before it, and the aforementioned Jenny Lewis song. I'll deal with the Bible first. Before the laundry list of adjectives that starts in verse 4, the Corinthians letter says this:
"If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing."
Sounds a little different, right? In the later definition, love is something that is based around how you interact with other people. This time, love is just something that you can possess regardless of how the other people around you act. This is where Jenny Lewis comes in. The lyric that I posted for Rule #5 is especially important to me right now because I've seen the vicious, capricious, disappointing side of relational love recently - and really, for a long time now, as I've essentially bounced between relationships since high school. In other words, I'm very jaded. I don't know what this love thing is, but I want nothing to do with it because it's burned me one too many times. But Lewis reminds me that I am what I love, and not what loves me back, because often those are two different things. Now this is sort of like the "you are what you eat" saying in that if I eat a pear, I'm not actually a pear, but you get the drift. I can love things like writing, music, sports, whatever, and that's how I'm defined, not by my interactions with other people.
That's not to say that interactive love with other people is not important...in fact it's probably the most important thing in life. But in times where I find myself disappointed because I put so much into a relationship (this applies to friendships too) only to have it fall apart, it's nice to be reminded that the end result of my efforts doesn't reflect on who I am as a person. I am what I love, and while sometimes those things are torturous, malicious, and generally don't love me back, I can still take some comfort in knowing that I am the only person who defines myself and how I love things and people alike.
Rule Number 5: You are what you love, and not what loves you back
Alright, so I had to steal this rule from a Jenny Lewis lyric. Haha point and call me a hipster. Regardless, it's a very good representation of the topic of l-o-v-e in our society today. And the reason I know this is because I've been force fed a poor interpretation from traditional times. Yes, it's that Corinthians Bible verse that's read at every wedding. "Love is patient, love is kind, love is a handful of meaningless adjectives strewn together in a way that's designed to make children weep and women swoon." OK, I made that last part up, but there's no arguing that stylistically this verse is a bit bogus. That's not to say that I don't like the verse or its message, I really do believe that a loving relationship should be based on all the things listed in that verse. However, I don't think this actually encapsulates what love really is (despite it's many efforts to define it). Love is not based out of reciprocity and isn't always related to a relationship. In many instances, love is vicious, capricious, forgetful and disappointing. It leads to situations where you can go from talking to someone multiple times a day to never speaking again, usually out of some sense of pride, vengeance or pain. The Bible interpretation may sound pretty in the maid-of-honor's speech, but something so huge as love doesn't really boil down to two people, it actually only involves one.
The better interpretation actually comes in the forgotten verses before it, and the aforementioned Jenny Lewis song. I'll deal with the Bible first. Before the laundry list of adjectives that starts in verse 4, the Corinthians letter says this:
"If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing."
Sounds a little different, right? In the later definition, love is something that is based around how you interact with other people. This time, love is just something that you can possess regardless of how the other people around you act. This is where Jenny Lewis comes in. The lyric that I posted for Rule #5 is especially important to me right now because I've seen the vicious, capricious, disappointing side of relational love recently - and really, for a long time now, as I've essentially bounced between relationships since high school. In other words, I'm very jaded. I don't know what this love thing is, but I want nothing to do with it because it's burned me one too many times. But Lewis reminds me that I am what I love, and not what loves me back, because often those are two different things. Now this is sort of like the "you are what you eat" saying in that if I eat a pear, I'm not actually a pear, but you get the drift. I can love things like writing, music, sports, whatever, and that's how I'm defined, not by my interactions with other people.
That's not to say that interactive love with other people is not important...in fact it's probably the most important thing in life. But in times where I find myself disappointed because I put so much into a relationship (this applies to friendships too) only to have it fall apart, it's nice to be reminded that the end result of my efforts doesn't reflect on who I am as a person. I am what I love, and while sometimes those things are torturous, malicious, and generally don't love me back, I can still take some comfort in knowing that I am the only person who defines myself and how I love things and people alike.
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