Project: CMMWSWUK (Cover Mid-90s Midwest Emo Songs With USB Keyboard) has hit a snag. Never mind the fact that I've forgotten small details like what time signatures are, or that I can't figure out how to set up drum loops yet. The real problem is that as of tonight, the computer refuses to play audio. Perhaps it's a sign.
Playing the keyboard revives the excitement I used to get from going to punk fests. There was an idea that you could do whatever you wanted to do, and it wasn't about talent as much as expression. Some bands used to look down on Constatine Sankathi, sneering and muttering, "They don't even know how to play their instruments." But they played them anyway, and they were sincere in their emotion, which is ultimately more important than their trombone tuning.
I was always afraid to play music (and do a lot of things) because I wanted to be good at it. I didn't want to do something half-assed, and I worried that I'd be just another hack. Similarly, I didn't write short stories because I feared they'd be bad. So now, more than a decade after I should have figured this out, I am finally stringing notes together. The songs are not groundbreaking or anything, but they are mine. My roommate heard one of them and said it sounded dreamlike. Anything that isn't "shitty" is a-ok! Now to get the speakers working again...
On a related note, my friend Heather has released the video she's been working on for ages. I'm really proud of her and hopeful for her success. I'm also here to tell you that the video may be mildly NSFW. You've been warned — or enticed, as the case may be.
Playing the keyboard revives the excitement I used to get from going to punk fests. There was an idea that you could do whatever you wanted to do, and it wasn't about talent as much as expression. Some bands used to look down on Constatine Sankathi, sneering and muttering, "They don't even know how to play their instruments." But they played them anyway, and they were sincere in their emotion, which is ultimately more important than their trombone tuning.
I was always afraid to play music (and do a lot of things) because I wanted to be good at it. I didn't want to do something half-assed, and I worried that I'd be just another hack. Similarly, I didn't write short stories because I feared they'd be bad. So now, more than a decade after I should have figured this out, I am finally stringing notes together. The songs are not groundbreaking or anything, but they are mine. My roommate heard one of them and said it sounded dreamlike. Anything that isn't "shitty" is a-ok! Now to get the speakers working again...
On a related note, my friend Heather has released the video she's been working on for ages. I'm really proud of her and hopeful for her success. I'm also here to tell you that the video may be mildly NSFW. You've been warned — or enticed, as the case may be.
Labels: music, regression to adolescence
To keep ourselves entertained, Jen and I have created a new inside jokey game. Actually, it's not that new. Toddlers probably play it all the time. But it's new to us! Basically, we try to outdo each other by texting nonsensical sentences to each other. Here's a sampling:
Linguistically, the interesting thing is that as the game goes on, the nonsense begins to shape itself into sense. ("Mesh cats are in the rectory" was understood to mean that my plane landed safely.) If we keep this up, it's only a matter of time before eep opp ork ah-ah means I love you.
- Gouda shoes.
- Massage the car into a ball of sumo wrestler.
- How's the day waxing sticky velvet? Jackrabbit! (My response: "Papaya.")
- Battery-powered quiz bowl with snowflakes of orange zest.
- Mesh cats are in the rectory.
- Plush fangs slip on some shower curtains.
- Frankfurter disco nap.
- Porkpie hats steal laser sauce! Unfortunately, the cactus whispers to the tugboat. It's a neon pomelo.
- Purple Pieman washes granola.
- How many Milos does it take to roast a chicken? Silverware!
- The celery stalks at midnight. Koo koo ka choo, Mrs. Robinson Crusoe.
Linguistically, the interesting thing is that as the game goes on, the nonsense begins to shape itself into sense. ("Mesh cats are in the rectory" was understood to mean that my plane landed safely.) If we keep this up, it's only a matter of time before eep opp ork ah-ah means I love you.
Labels: regression to adolescence
I ate Burger King last night and now I'm filled with existential dread. — John Coyle Steinbrunner, February 19
JC's whopper of a fast-food hangover made me think of how, as a child, fast food seemed like magic to me. Pizza delivery — the concept that you could pick up the phone and have a slab of cheese on dough brought to your front door — was truly mind-blowing. We lived in the country, where the nearest fast food place was 15 miles away (it's now less than that) and nobody delivered pizza or any other food to our dirt road.
Naturally, my 10-year-old mind felt that this was an income opportunity.
I drew up — literally, with crayons and colored pencils — a business plan that would bring Burger King within walking distance of our house. That way, I could almost effortlessly enjoy a cherry pie that tasted like the cardboard it was presented in. It was an election year, so I scribbled some notes on how the presence of Burger King would bring much-needed jobs to the neighborhood. (It's the economy, stupid.) I attempted to cajole my parents into opening the Burger King. "We'll be millionaires," I explained. "And we can have a chicken sandwich anytime! You'll never have to cook again!" Betty has yet to heed my youthful sales pitch, but I'm telling you, there could be literally dozens of dollars made from it every week. And who doesn't want to live next to a Burger King?
The funny thing is, now I could walk to some awful fast-food place in just a few minutes, and all I want is to make food at home. Sadly, I haven't had a home-cooked meal in eight days now, all thanks to the magic of delivered Zen Palate and room service. Even tonight, when I really wanted to cook but haven't been home long enough to buy groceries, I gave up and ordered some kati rolls. They showed up less than an hour afterward, and it is still amazing — wondrous in that we-live-like-royalty way — that I can dial a number, speak into a shiny slab of technology, and have paneer wraps brought to the apartment while they're still hot. Let's just hope they don't spark a crisis of the existential or gastrointestinal variety later on.
Labels: regression to adolescence
If I hadn't had to fly out to Belize so soon, I might have flown to Chicago to hear four measly songs at this show. Sometimes I loathe the internet, but today I love it — more specifically, I love hot mama-to-be Jessica — for letting me see this:
Labels: chicago, music, regression to adolescence
Indeed they did, and I can still remember exactly how my friends and I danced at that show. Back then, I had a nervous adolescent crush on the reed-thin bass player, Dan. He was four years older than me, he was artsy, and he looked like he was always thinking intensely. He towered above me in too-short trousers that revealed white socks wedged into black work shoes. Pale skin, dark hair, bright eyes — pretty much the archetype of my ideal dreamboat. There's a reason the lanky bartender at Monk's Kettle has been nicknamed Fake Dan ________.
Though it should go without saying, I was not a teenage boy magnet. (See exhibit A: yours truly in a Broken Hearts Are Blue shirt.) When I dared talk with Dan, I stammered and stuttered and probably offered him some sort of unpleasantly bland vegan cookie. (To this day, pushing baked goods on people remains one of my I-will-make-you-love-me strategies.) Dan was always polite in response, and if he thought I was a weirdo, he never made me feel like one. And he could have.
Dan went out with a girl named Marie, who was the kind of unintentional queen bee who ascends to the top of a scene without trying. She was just the coolest. She had thick dark hair that was cut into a short wedge, and she might have had a star tattoo, but she definitely had a nose piercing. She wore holey wool sweaters and twill workpants, and she was unfailingly smart and friendly. She was the closest thing Kalamazoo had to a riot grrrl, as we all saw when called sexists out on their shit. She made me as nervous as Dan did, because while I knew that I had no shot with him, I desperately wanted to be her friend. She had a well-written and gut-wrenchingly honest zine called Rock Candy. It was, as she put it:
a zine about being an eighteen-year-old girl, sexual abuse survivor, and general badass, and all the hope and beauty I see in myself, my friends, and everyday life.In contrast, my zine covered misheard Jawbreaker lyrics and a trip to Target.
Anyway, Marie decided to move to Portland or Olympia or another one of those Pacific Northwest towns where they hand out tattoos upon entering city limits. I'd hear fuzzy details of her life like a game of Telephone, not knowing which stories — if any — were true. Recalling and repeating them isn't worth the effort, because the only thing worse than false gossip is ancient false gossip.
In contrast, everything I'd heard about Dan turned out to be true. Friends said that he had become an art teacher in Minnesota, that he was married with kids. I would think of him now and then when listening to BHAB or when wearing my Ordination of Aaron shirt. Then, the other day, he found me online and said hello. I was surprised because, honestly, I didn't think he'd even remembered the existence of such a dorky high schooler, much less my name. But he did, and it was nicely nostalgic to see what he's up to. His hair is a little bit gray, he's a talented artist, his wife seems like a catch, and their children are cute. Also, there is a Vespa. I don't know why, because it's not like we were close friends, but it brought me joy to know that he's built a happy life.
I still don't know what happened to Marie. In the decade-plus since I've seen her, I've often wondered what her life is like. Does she still write? Would we be friends? Who has she become? And does she know the impression she left on someone who barely knew her? Maybe someday I'll discover the answers to those and other questions; I hope her story will be a sweet one.
Labels: regression to adolescence
So for the past few months, I have been trying to figure out if Robot Boy was my boyfriend. I am neurotic (you don't say) and although I know it's very seventh-grade of me, I kinda need to label a relationship after a while. I assume that unless we say "OK, I am dating only you," then we are free to date other people. In fact, unless told otherwise, I assume the other person is dating other people. And that makes me think, "Uh oh, I should be dating other people, too! Cannot put all dating eggs in one basket!"
(I told you I was neurotic.)
So when Robot Boy introduced me to someone as his friend back in August, I quietly slipped into the Tomlin Freakout — the inevitable panic that stops emotional attachment before it gets too deep. Being a former English major, I overanalyze vocabulary choices with the best of them. Naturally, I assumed that he must think of me as just a platonic friend and I should really diversify my dating portfolio and boy was I dumb to think he liked me in the same way, I bet he's dating that redhead too, and I had better retreat, RETREAT! I managed to regain enough sanity to talk myself down from the freakout, and we talked about my unnecessary parsing, but still, I spent the next couple of months wondering why he wouldn't just say he was my boyfriend. It's junior-high, I know. I am not proud of it. It's just that in my experience, people who say "Aw, let's not label ourselves" wind up being the ones who are shtupping some 22-year-old girl while you're at home naively baking them romantic cupcakes or whatever. So you see why I like a little reassurance, don't you?
Long story short, I recently explained that I needed more definition, which is the adult way of saying, "I just want to be called your girlfriend, even though I am embarrassed to admit that." Robot Boy said, duh, of course you're my girl, silly. And then we broke up! It was a Bizarro World breakup, one of those "Hey, we're in love with each other, so let's call the whole thing off!" events that, in a movie, would have Jennifer Garner doing madcap cute-crazy things to get her ex back. I thought about doing something sweepingly romantic, except I'm heavier on the crazy than the cute. So instead I allowed myself a week to wallow, and now, in an effort to stop pining, I am writing lists of things that weren't great about Robot Boy. The problem is that he is a good man who is proving difficult to vilify. I have a hard time coming up with real flaws, so the list is filled with trivialities like "doesn't like my shoes" and "does not discourage redhead from blatantly sexual flirting" and "has facial hair." (In my defense, my shoes are stylish, and he does seem to enjoy the attention, and, well, longtime readers know how I feel about facial hair.)
Betty was saddened to hear about these recent developments; I think she had visions of tiny Robot Boys and Robot Girls running around someday. "That was not great timing on his part," she said. "Of course, maybe he'd been wanting to break up with you for a while, but he didn't want to dump you while you were worried about Dad dying." Leave it to my mother to introduce more conspiracy theories into my head. I have spent the hours since lying in bed, amplifying coincidences into evidence to support this idea. The cycle of neuroses has been recharged!
(I told you I was neurotic.)
So when Robot Boy introduced me to someone as his friend back in August, I quietly slipped into the Tomlin Freakout — the inevitable panic that stops emotional attachment before it gets too deep. Being a former English major, I overanalyze vocabulary choices with the best of them. Naturally, I assumed that he must think of me as just a platonic friend and I should really diversify my dating portfolio and boy was I dumb to think he liked me in the same way, I bet he's dating that redhead too, and I had better retreat, RETREAT! I managed to regain enough sanity to talk myself down from the freakout, and we talked about my unnecessary parsing, but still, I spent the next couple of months wondering why he wouldn't just say he was my boyfriend. It's junior-high, I know. I am not proud of it. It's just that in my experience, people who say "Aw, let's not label ourselves" wind up being the ones who are shtupping some 22-year-old girl while you're at home naively baking them romantic cupcakes or whatever. So you see why I like a little reassurance, don't you?
Long story short, I recently explained that I needed more definition, which is the adult way of saying, "I just want to be called your girlfriend, even though I am embarrassed to admit that." Robot Boy said, duh, of course you're my girl, silly. And then we broke up! It was a Bizarro World breakup, one of those "Hey, we're in love with each other, so let's call the whole thing off!" events that, in a movie, would have Jennifer Garner doing madcap cute-crazy things to get her ex back. I thought about doing something sweepingly romantic, except I'm heavier on the crazy than the cute. So instead I allowed myself a week to wallow, and now, in an effort to stop pining, I am writing lists of things that weren't great about Robot Boy. The problem is that he is a good man who is proving difficult to vilify. I have a hard time coming up with real flaws, so the list is filled with trivialities like "doesn't like my shoes" and "does not discourage redhead from blatantly sexual flirting" and "has facial hair." (In my defense, my shoes are stylish, and he does seem to enjoy the attention, and, well, longtime readers know how I feel about facial hair.)
Betty was saddened to hear about these recent developments; I think she had visions of tiny Robot Boys and Robot Girls running around someday. "That was not great timing on his part," she said. "Of course, maybe he'd been wanting to break up with you for a while, but he didn't want to dump you while you were worried about Dad dying." Leave it to my mother to introduce more conspiracy theories into my head. I have spent the hours since lying in bed, amplifying coincidences into evidence to support this idea. The cycle of neuroses has been recharged!
Labels: betty, neuroses, regression to adolescence
It had been a long, long time since I'd checked my old e-mail address. I miss that address, actually, but I couldn't handle the copious amounts of junk mail that hit it due to sneaky spam crawlers, so I switched. But for some reason, I thought, "Huh, I haven't logged into Metafilter for years. Maybe I should do that." (I know, this is all scintillating, but I've already worked something like 34 hours this week, and my mind is fuzzy.) But then I couldn't remember my password, and I had to sssssssh over in a shhhhhhhell to have my password hint delivered.
Ah, the forgotten yet familiar Pine! Its black-and-white simplicity brought a wave of nostalgia over me. I appreciate how connected everyone is now, how easy it is to do anything online, but there's a large part of me that misses the way things were before we had stupid Blackberrys and annoying iPhones to keep us linked up all of the time. Those gadgets are to Pine as Britney Spears is to Catherine Deneuve: faster, shinier, omnipresent, but trying a little too hard to do what its predecessor did so neatly and effortlessly.
Labels: crabbiness, regression to adolescence
Last night, I dreamed that Robert Pattinson and I were in love, driving past wheat fields in Michigan. Blame Sabrina for this. Last fall, she started reading those corny-ass Twilight books, which I have always dismissed as a second-rate Buffy knockoff. Not that I've read them, but come on, the high school girl who falls in love with a "good" vampire? I decided not to read the books, because there are countless pieces of actual literature that I have yet to read. Better to spend my time with those.
I didn't read the books, but when Sabs wanted to go see the movie version of the film, I was game. Why not? The actor was pretty cute, I said. So we spent the entire time cracking wise at the screen and slowly developing teenage-style crushes on Edward Cullen. (Byronic hero-lite! Great hair! What's not to like?) It would have ended there, except dummy me looked up interviews with Robert Pattinson. And then it was all over, because Pattinson is more interesting than his character. He likes modernist literature and le nouvelle vague, which made me think that I could take him on my Mies Van der Rohe walking tour of Chicago and he'd like it. (I always thought that was a great date; the guy I took it on was unimpressed.) Worse still, a colleague had interviewed Pattinson — at the very same moment that I was in cultural hell interviewing Paris Hilton — and when I asked her to please tell me that he was a jackass so that I could squash my crush, she couldn't do it. Instead, she said he was endearingly awkward and open. Crap! I love awkwardness!
Sabrina and I agreed that I only needed to find out something unpleasant about Pattinson, and then I could stop blushing every time a new paparazzi photo came out. We Googled phrases like "Pattinson cokehead" and "Pattinson snob" and, in one desperate moment, "Pattinson bad breath." Nothing! If anything, our endeavors had the opposite effect: The more interviews I read, the more I crushed out on his nerdiness. (In one, he alluded to liking older women. Well, hey, I'm an older woman, I thought.) You can see how Tiger Beat things were becoming. One day, Sabs found out that his favorite musician is Van Morrison. So far, this and his smoking are the only things that have cooled things down. That's not a very long list, which is why, very pathetically, my junior-high self has resurfaced to insist that if only we were to meet, Pattinson would be charmed by my equally oddball tendencies, and I'd make a Nick Drake mix tape, and I'd make him omelets in the morning. This is why I am on a strict no-Pattinson media diet. See, I told you it was embarrassing.
I didn't read the books, but when Sabs wanted to go see the movie version of the film, I was game. Why not? The actor was pretty cute, I said. So we spent the entire time cracking wise at the screen and slowly developing teenage-style crushes on Edward Cullen. (Byronic hero-lite! Great hair! What's not to like?) It would have ended there, except dummy me looked up interviews with Robert Pattinson. And then it was all over, because Pattinson is more interesting than his character. He likes modernist literature and le nouvelle vague, which made me think that I could take him on my Mies Van der Rohe walking tour of Chicago and he'd like it. (I always thought that was a great date; the guy I took it on was unimpressed.) Worse still, a colleague had interviewed Pattinson — at the very same moment that I was in cultural hell interviewing Paris Hilton — and when I asked her to please tell me that he was a jackass so that I could squash my crush, she couldn't do it. Instead, she said he was endearingly awkward and open. Crap! I love awkwardness!
Sabrina and I agreed that I only needed to find out something unpleasant about Pattinson, and then I could stop blushing every time a new paparazzi photo came out. We Googled phrases like "Pattinson cokehead" and "Pattinson snob" and, in one desperate moment, "Pattinson bad breath." Nothing! If anything, our endeavors had the opposite effect: The more interviews I read, the more I crushed out on his nerdiness. (In one, he alluded to liking older women. Well, hey, I'm an older woman, I thought.) You can see how Tiger Beat things were becoming. One day, Sabs found out that his favorite musician is Van Morrison. So far, this and his smoking are the only things that have cooled things down. That's not a very long list, which is why, very pathetically, my junior-high self has resurfaced to insist that if only we were to meet, Pattinson would be charmed by my equally oddball tendencies, and I'd make a Nick Drake mix tape, and I'd make him omelets in the morning. This is why I am on a strict no-Pattinson media diet. See, I told you it was embarrassing.
Labels: men i would have dated, regression to adolescence, Robert Pattinson, sabs, sleep
When I was 17, I had an enormous crush on Derek. Immense. He worked at the record store, and I'd go there to purposely look for obscure records so I could talk with him more. Derek introduced me to Stan Getz and The Winter of Our Discontent and the Coen Brothers and all kinds of other good things that I still love. He never judged me for buying awful hardcore records, for which I am now thankful. Before I moved to Ann Arbor for college, I dressed up as him (yet another example of me being quite drag-king as a kid) and made my mother take a photograph. In it, I am wearing a Broken Hearts Are Blue t-shirt, dark green men's trousers, a slicked-back faux pompadour, and a smile.
Last night he informed me that I'm staying at the hotel where much of Combat Rock was written, which made my night. Then we had a quick hour today. Not enough time, of course, but it's funny how old friends always feel like home right away.
Last night he informed me that I'm staying at the hotel where much of Combat Rock was written, which made my night. Then we had a quick hour today. Not enough time, of course, but it's funny how old friends always feel like home right away.
Labels: new york, regression to adolescence, signs of latent homosexuality
When I was about four years old, I appeared on the Channel 3 Kids' Clubhouse — some local morning show for the little ones. The host asked each child what his or her favorite holiday was. On the tape, there's footage of me nervously chewing my lip until the host says, "And Anne? What's your favorite holiday?"
Valentine's Day, I said to her, because you get to tell people you love 'em. And it's true: I was obsessed with Valentine's Day, and I'd spend weeks making valentines, or writing personalized notes to my classmates on the backs of store-bought Chipmunks valentines. The sting of this, of course, is that my romantic moves did not pay off. When other children began stealing pecks on the cheeks, I was leaving band-fundraiser chocolates on the front porch of my poor junior-high crush, Justin Woiwode. I was a complete weirdo.
I was looking through the old posts here, and I found this one, written a few days before v-day 1998. It's funny to look at it 11 years later. It's also funny to look at this old shot of me and Jaime in our salad days. It's a picture of friendship, but it always makes me happy — especially because we remain friends more than a decade after it was taken.
Valentine's Day, I said to her, because you get to tell people you love 'em. And it's true: I was obsessed with Valentine's Day, and I'd spend weeks making valentines, or writing personalized notes to my classmates on the backs of store-bought Chipmunks valentines. The sting of this, of course, is that my romantic moves did not pay off. When other children began stealing pecks on the cheeks, I was leaving band-fundraiser chocolates on the front porch of my poor junior-high crush, Justin Woiwode. I was a complete weirdo.
I was looking through the old posts here, and I found this one, written a few days before v-day 1998. It's funny to look at it 11 years later. It's also funny to look at this old shot of me and Jaime in our salad days. It's a picture of friendship, but it always makes me happy — especially because we remain friends more than a decade after it was taken.
Labels: jaime, regression to adolescence
In a while, I'm going out with Sabs and Burger Time, lady-style. We're going to some Britpop night that involves dancing and karaoke. Sabs is an excellent singer (which is why she'll have to lead in our band) but I have a cowardly habit of choosing songs to purposely sing poorly. Burger may or may not be a good singer, but here's a glimpse of our duet from a while back:
I often feel like a giant klutz when karaoke-ing, because I really want to be good at it. I used to be a soprano in choir (until we were forced to do a Wilson Phillips medley, which threatened my indie cred) and I love to sing in the shower. But you get me in front of a crowd, and my voice turns terrible. I'd rather have people laugh at me on purpose, you know? So if you're out and about, SF, and you hear something like a pubescent toad belting out "This Charming Man," you'll know who to thank.
I often feel like a giant klutz when karaoke-ing, because I really want to be good at it. I used to be a soprano in choir (until we were forced to do a Wilson Phillips medley, which threatened my indie cred) and I love to sing in the shower. But you get me in front of a crowd, and my voice turns terrible. I'd rather have people laugh at me on purpose, you know? So if you're out and about, SF, and you hear something like a pubescent toad belting out "This Charming Man," you'll know who to thank.
Labels: morrissey, regression to adolescence
I am not superstitious, but I do think that life gives you signs, and if you don't pick up on them, you're going through life half-blind. Yesterday, I had two of them: I sent payment for the last $6.58 of one of my two student loans in the afternoon, and in the evening I crossed the bridge and went to 924 Gilman. The Thorns of Life, the terribly named* but very promising band featuring Blake Schwarzenbach/Aaron Cometbus/Daniela Sea. I'd worried that going to Gilman would make me feel old, or too yuppified, or not punk enough. Instead, everything felt right. (OK, everything but the filthy bathrooms at Gilman.) Things are becoming clearer — even if I can't share how so just yet — and it feels like home again.
* Yes, I know it's a Shelley reference, but the fact that we spent half of our trek to the East Bay trying to remember the name of Charlotte Rae's character on The Facts of Life says something.
* Yes, I know it's a Shelley reference, but the fact that we spent half of our trek to the East Bay trying to remember the name of Charlotte Rae's character on The Facts of Life says something.
Labels: jawbreaker, music, regression to adolescence, thorns of life
I worked until just before eight, then hopped on the bus to go home and do some more work. A teenage kid, probably 15, boarded the bus and was easily the most striking person I've ever seen in this town. A tall twig of a punk, with curly hair bleached yellow-blonde, dark roots peeking out underneath the tangles. Baggy, boxy red Sex Pistols sweatshirt and skinny jeans. I didn't know if I was looking at a boy or a girl at first, but when I saw the jeans tucked into the boots, I realized: girl.
Her skin was poreless, creamy, smooth. She had big round azure eyes and a tiny turned-up nose and a light smattering of freckles over angled cheeks. Perfectly symmetrical. And she had that self-consciousness of adolescence: chewed-down fingernails, darting eyes, sudden shifts of carriage. Looking at everything.
I told her that she should go to a modeling agency. She folded into herself a little, mumbled something to deflect my words, and bashfully smiled despite herself. I wound up talking with her dad a bit more; the two of them were visiting from London and traveling the coastline. The girl's eyes lit up when I mentioned Joy Division, and her dad was giddy because he'd followed New Order around back in the day. "You really should take her to Storm Models," I said to him. "She'd be bigger than Agyness Deyn." At this, the girl seemed as excited as a 15-year-old punk can be, and I saw this wonderful glimpse of the woman she might become when she sheds her self-consciousness.
It was such a wonderful, tiny conversation — and though this may be cheesy, I saw some of my former self in this girl. I was never as beautiful, but I remember swimming in clothes and dying my hair and feeling completely awkward and unattractive. And seeing how happy she was to hear a stranger insist that she was beautiful made me very happy indeed.
Her skin was poreless, creamy, smooth. She had big round azure eyes and a tiny turned-up nose and a light smattering of freckles over angled cheeks. Perfectly symmetrical. And she had that self-consciousness of adolescence: chewed-down fingernails, darting eyes, sudden shifts of carriage. Looking at everything.
I told her that she should go to a modeling agency. She folded into herself a little, mumbled something to deflect my words, and bashfully smiled despite herself. I wound up talking with her dad a bit more; the two of them were visiting from London and traveling the coastline. The girl's eyes lit up when I mentioned Joy Division, and her dad was giddy because he'd followed New Order around back in the day. "You really should take her to Storm Models," I said to him. "She'd be bigger than Agyness Deyn." At this, the girl seemed as excited as a 15-year-old punk can be, and I saw this wonderful glimpse of the woman she might become when she sheds her self-consciousness.
It was such a wonderful, tiny conversation — and though this may be cheesy, I saw some of my former self in this girl. I was never as beautiful, but I remember swimming in clothes and dying my hair and feeling completely awkward and unattractive. And seeing how happy she was to hear a stranger insist that she was beautiful made me very happy indeed.
Labels: regression to adolescence
Unless I am the one giving a party, I don't do so well at big events. I know how to be witty and charming and so forth, but it just takes so much out of me that I like to conserve my energy. And by "conserve my energy," I mean "shamelessly stuff my mouth with hors d'oeuvres."
I do like to make chit-chat with the catering staff, though, mostly because so many people at swanky events treat them like they're robotic servers. It makes me cringe, particularly because I often assume that catering workers do that job for the flexibility, which in turn makes me think they've got cool artistic endeavors going on otherwise.
So a few weekends ago, I was at an event in Los Angeles. There were go-go dancers, and there was also a tall, gangly catering staffer as well. He and I exchanged sympathetic looks: You'd probably like to be elsewhere, right? Were I younger, I would have been nervous around him because I'd have thought he was dreamy. But I'm at least five years older than him, so I had no interest in awkward flirtation. Thus, I was able to talk with him like a normal person.
OR SO I THOUGHT.
He had wildly curly black hair and the catering staff's uniform of black skinny trousers and a black button-front shirt and a black skinny tie. Total mid-90s DC style.
He came by with tall, skinny shot glasses brimming with cucumber soup. I dislike cucumbers, so I passed, but I did ask him: "Do you ever get that you look like Ian Svenonius?"
Blank-eyed blinking in response. "What?" he asked. "I can't hear you."
"I SAID, DO PEOPLE EVER TELL YOU THAT YOU LOOK LIKE IAN SVENONIUS? NATION OF ULYSSES? THE MAKE-UP? WEIRD WAR? FORMER SASSIEST BOY IN AMERICA?"
He leaned over to get closer, but in doing so, he tipped all of the cucumber soup directly onto my chest. As it turns out, cucumber soup looks like vomit. So not only did he have no clue who Ian Svenonius was, I wound up looking like Lady Upchuck for the rest of the night. Another successful social event!
I do like to make chit-chat with the catering staff, though, mostly because so many people at swanky events treat them like they're robotic servers. It makes me cringe, particularly because I often assume that catering workers do that job for the flexibility, which in turn makes me think they've got cool artistic endeavors going on otherwise.
So a few weekends ago, I was at an event in Los Angeles. There were go-go dancers, and there was also a tall, gangly catering staffer as well. He and I exchanged sympathetic looks: You'd probably like to be elsewhere, right? Were I younger, I would have been nervous around him because I'd have thought he was dreamy. But I'm at least five years older than him, so I had no interest in awkward flirtation. Thus, I was able to talk with him like a normal person.
OR SO I THOUGHT.
He had wildly curly black hair and the catering staff's uniform of black skinny trousers and a black button-front shirt and a black skinny tie. Total mid-90s DC style.
He came by with tall, skinny shot glasses brimming with cucumber soup. I dislike cucumbers, so I passed, but I did ask him: "Do you ever get that you look like Ian Svenonius?"
Blank-eyed blinking in response. "What?" he asked. "I can't hear you."
"I SAID, DO PEOPLE EVER TELL YOU THAT YOU LOOK LIKE IAN SVENONIUS? NATION OF ULYSSES? THE MAKE-UP? WEIRD WAR? FORMER SASSIEST BOY IN AMERICA?"
He leaned over to get closer, but in doing so, he tipped all of the cucumber soup directly onto my chest. As it turns out, cucumber soup looks like vomit. So not only did he have no clue who Ian Svenonius was, I wound up looking like Lady Upchuck for the rest of the night. Another successful social event!
Labels: regression to adolescence
Everything I write lately sounds like I'm back in 9th grade, poorly imitating Morrissey with a load of pitiful self-absorption. I kinda envy the people who can laugh at Moz/The Smiths and say, "Ah, yes, I remember them." Because, amusingly, I listen to the old fart and think, "Crap. I still identify intensely with an uncomfortably high proportion of his sentiments." I'll get through it, but I think getting through it requires actually going through it.
And on that note, I think it's possible to sum up failed relationships in five Smiths/Morrissey songs or fewer:
"This Charming Man"
"Now My Heart Is Full"
"Little Man, What Now?"
"Will Never Marry"
"Stop Me If You Think You've Heard This One Before"
And on that note, I think it's possible to sum up failed relationships in five Smiths/Morrissey songs or fewer:
"This Charming Man"
"Now My Heart Is Full"
"Little Man, What Now?"
"Will Never Marry"
"Stop Me If You Think You've Heard This One Before"
Labels: regression to adolescence
Oh, this video makes me so happy!
Earlier today, Weeks and I were IMing about some oddball Partnership for a Drug-Free America commercials for... straight-edge. They show teenagers reciting "Straight Edge" all deadpan-like, and somehow I suppose we're expected to think, "Ah! I was thinking of doing drugs, but instead I shall listen to a punk band from 25 years ago." It doesn't work as an advertisement, because straight-edge generally feels like something that misfits get into to feel like less of a misfit. At least that's part of the reason it felt right to me. Also, the commercials made us feel old.
Earlier today, Weeks and I were IMing about some oddball Partnership for a Drug-Free America commercials for... straight-edge. They show teenagers reciting "Straight Edge" all deadpan-like, and somehow I suppose we're expected to think, "Ah! I was thinking of doing drugs, but instead I shall listen to a punk band from 25 years ago." It doesn't work as an advertisement, because straight-edge generally feels like something that misfits get into to feel like less of a misfit. At least that's part of the reason it felt right to me. Also, the commercials made us feel old.
Labels: music, regression to adolescence
