Every so often we have the opportunity to see ourselves through someone else’s eyes, which can be hilarious, instructional, or terrifying, depending on the fullness of your glass.
Do you know what I’m talking about? It’s sort of like when a guest pops by and all at once you see messes you didn't notice before. You sense your guest’s judgment and gain a whole new perspective on your surroundings…or yourself.
I have glimpsed myself in the eyes of others more than once, and my response usually falls somewhere between amused and appalled. There was the time, for example, my former roommate A thought I was using our bathroom as a second closet. After I did some laundry I decided to hang a few things to air dry on the shower curtain rod. A asked me what was up and I was like, “What did you think I was doing?” The answer was storing my clothes in the bathroom. Lesson: People think I’m crazy.
Then there was the time that K gave me the Lord of the Rings edition of Trivial Pursuit for Christmas. I have recreated that purchase in my head a million times over. I picture him walking through the store and spotting the game on the shelf. Perhaps he laughed. What kind of ridiculous nerd would play the Lord of the Rings edition of Trivial Pursuit? he asked, rhetorically, but then he laughed harder when he realized he actually had an answer. Oh, I know! I should buy this for Kim. Lesson: People think I’m a dork.
(Sorry, K. In your defense, I have never lost that game to anyone, ever. Clearly you were right.)
Then, not so long ago, there was the time I was telling M about how much I like Elton John. He was driving, but he still managed to look at me out of the corner of his eye for a long moment before saying, “Um, so what else do you listen to? Ben Folds Five?” We didn’t know each other so well, but that one left me a little rattled. Lesson: People think I’m a loser.
And then there was there was the time, just the other day, that someone left a comment on my blog calling me an “ultra-bigot,” and the lesson was less clear.
Sometimes I forget that strangers read my blog. I imagine that most of them end up here by mistake during their search for particulars on, say, prison boyfriends or mechanical bulls. Then, when they figure out that I’m just a snarky person marveling at the weird world, and not a real source of information about these things, they move on.
It seems the occasional stranger lingers a while, which is cool…at least, I thought it was cool until someone lingered and said something mean. At first, I felt a little defensive. Anyone with half a brain can tell I’m a misanthrope, not a bigot. And if you have more than half a brain, you might have even noticed that I’m not really a proper misanthrope. It’s something of a posture.
But then I reflected on what I might sound like out of context—out of the context of knowing me in the real world, and possibly even out of the context of a given post. (I’m pretty sure the stranger just read a caption instead of the post.) And I began to worry about having a post called “hipster concentration camp” right next to a post where I say I hate retards.
It grossed me out that I might come across as feeling superior to certain people, as opposed to people in general. (Dear strangers: please note I don’t actually feel superior to all people.)
You see, I was raised in the state where the KKK was born, a veritable bigot goldmine; in fact, I have a few in my extended family. Racists, misogynists, Bible-thumping fundamentalists, homophobes—I have known them all. I grew up with people who flew confederate flags who couldn’t have told you the century in which the Civil War took place, people with swastika tattoos who had never met a Jew, and people who peppered their conversations with the n-word like it was nothing.
As you may have surmised, growing up among such swine was a major source of the aforementioned misanthropy.
I’m not going to act like I have intimate knowledge of what it’s like to be overtly discriminated against on a day-to-day basis, but I have been sexually harassed by d-bag bosses and told that I “don’t look like [I’m] from the South,” and those experiences were extremely unpleasant. (Incidentally, I think that making fun of Southerners is the last socially acceptable form of discrimination. In pop culture, a Southern accent is shorthand for stupid.)
I’ll admit that I feel a little panicky at the idea of being mistaken for a conservative, much less a bigot. One thing I will not feel guilty about, however, is saying that J Mascis looks like a child molester. That is just pure fact, people. Get a grip.
29 July 2008
25 July 2008
hipster concentration camp
I woke on Sunday with very little desire to attend the last day of the Pitchfork Music Festival. Due to the extreme conditions of the day before, I had sustained a number of minor injuries, including a sunburn and an angry-looking itchy blotch on my chest. It seems I have become so translucent that I now have the unique ability to sunburn through cover of heavy rain clouds. I’m less sure about the origin of the blotch. Was it a psychosomatic symptom of all my hate from Saturday? Heat rash? I will never know because I couldn’t even muster the will to google it.
Worse still was morale. Z called around 1:00 to negotiate our start time. “I feel as though we’ve been camping,” I said. (I hate camping.) “Yes,” replied Z, “and fighting off bears.”
The upside to all this was that Z felt discouraged enough to give up on seeing The Apples in Stereo at 3:00—a real coup for me. To my ear, they have always sounded saccharine and retro in a way that I find slightly nauseating; also, I was a manager at my college radio station when Tone Soul Evolution was released, and it turned our deejays into insufferable zombies and our charts into a cesspool of mediocrity. My mystery blotch is flaring up just thinking about it.
We agreed to time our arrival with the start of Les Savy Fav’s set around 4:00. The thought of seeing LSF was exciting enough to make me salve my wounds and gird my loins for another day among the Great Unwashed. You see, I flat-out love this band. Go Forth was one of those albums that came into my life at the perfect moment, renewing my faith that I could like new music post-college. They are sort of like punk for people who don’t like punk so much anymore—that is, old people.
(I’m one of those people who felt pretty old back when I was 23. Imagine my distress now.)
We arrived around 3:45. The weekend weather was still riffing on the theme of apocalypse, this iteration being extreme heat. It was so hot, in fact, that upon arrival Z demanded we visit the water trough, which was our name for the bank of communal water fountains. The trough’s line was maybe ten people deep from all sides, in sharp contrast to the day before, when there was no line ever.
“It’s like hipster concentration camp,” Z said.
He had a point; the crowd was probably three times as many as the day before. Since both days were sold out, I can only assume that people didn’t come out on Saturday because of the ooze. This was ironic because the festival conditions were probably more pleasant on Saturday, all things considered. Sunday's heat was oppressive; I’m guessing it was over 100 degrees.
In another sense, the heat was a plus because it kept Z’s dancing to a bare minimum. It did not, however, seem to affect Tim Harrington, Les Savy Fav’s frontman, even though I expected him to expire at any moment during their set. This was the first time I saw them live, and his stage antics were everything I’d read about and more.
This is Tim:
I heart Tim Harrington.
In some circles, his legend is akin to Ozzy Osbourne’s back in the day. I mean, he doesn’t bite the heads off bats or anything, but he wears silly outfits and makes out with audience members and generally raises heck. In the South, we sometimes call this “Rock[ing] out with your cock out.” On this occasion, he did not disappoint, literally or figuratively.
Perhaps his wardrobe changes impressed me most. We were far enough back that I couldn’t exactly tell where or when he would take off one thing and put on another, but I’m inclined to believe this was for the best. He started off in what I can only describe as one-legged red spandex hotpants and, over time, donned outfits that included (but were not limited to) a Sherlock Holmes costume, a cape, and a bodysuit that left very little to the imagination.
Z stared at the ground through the whole thing because he doesn’t like looking at ugly people. Me, I find Tim mesmerizing, if a little transparent. My theory is that his whole fuck-it persona is a construct designed to distract people from how intensely unattractive he is. After all, an exhibitionist by definition cares about what other people think.
Normally, I find it distasteful when people overcompensate for their insecurities. Occasionally, I find it charming. In this case, I say who cares: I don’t mind if he needs a shtick because I think he’s really, really cool. Also, I appreciate a performer who puts out for the crowd. And it’s awfully hard not to love someone who gave the world this:
That said, it was difficult to watch such a high-energy band in the crazy desert heat. We tried desperately to find some shade when they were finished, but there was none to be had. Instead, we sat in the blazing sun chugging water and read a Time Out magazine that was lying around nearby. This is what we found among its pages:
You are looking at is a Time Out feature called “Where’s Weirdo?: Kill time during dud acts by snapping photos of typical fest characters for our Pitchfork scavenger hunt.”
This is basically a checklist of people to laugh at, including people wearing wrestling singlets (nope), fanny packs (check), off-center rat tails (check), neck beards (check) and—I quote—“anyone ‘cranking dat Soulja Boy,’” which, as you might recall if you read part one of my Pitchfork review, was me circa Saturday. Um, check.
A long bout of people-watching ensued, and let me just take this moment to say that it is a real shame that our culture has not yet managed to instill more body shame in men. I live in the Midwest, where everyone is fat, and I am sick and tired of seeing man guts everywhere I look whenever the weather is warm. For shame, sirs! Start hating yourselves and cover it the fuck up.
After that, we walked around for a bit perusing the wares. Kudos to the Pitchfork organizers for creating a really humane festival in terms of offering food and drink at reasonable prices. (Beers for $4! And the tickets themselves were really cheap, too.) It was a real class act, water trough and all.
The Spiritualized set was loud and terrific and definitely worked the awe factor. I know this is kind of the whole point, but I was still impressed by the Rapture/second coming vibe they had going on. Jason Pierce was dressed in white and backed by a couple of gospel singers. (Maybe he really did die. And now he’s Jesus!) Some of his stuff is a little too druggy for my taste but I like the new album, which was well represented, and I really enjoyed this set.
And then there was Dinosaur Jr. You’ve never really felt like an old-ass thirty-year-old until you gaze upon the favorite band of your youth looking like this:
The band looked so bad that, once again, Z refused to look at the stage.
Still, I was beside myself. For me, seeing J Mascis and Lou Barlow on stage together was like watching Morrissey and Marr—something you never expect will happen in your lifetime.
Rock band rivalries are very compelling to me. Usually, I take sides, but I was genuinely torn over this particular feud. On one side, you had Lou Barlow, who is just too emo to stay mad at anyone. He wrote the “The Freed Pig” as a big burn, which devolved into that video for “Skull” where he plays with a picture of J dangling from his guitar. In one sense, he is a little sappy, but in another you have to admire how he puts it all out there.
And then you have J Mascis, who seems like a total asshole who has spent his entire life sitting in a room playing guitar and whacking off and never talking to anyone. He’s the classic closed-off borderline savant trapped in an unfortunate cycle of insecurity cum egotistical self-absorption. And yet…there is something about him that hints at a whole that is greater than the sum of his parts.
It just dawned on me that I am Lou Barlow and J Mascis is everyone I’ve ever dated. I’m not really sure who comes out on top in that analogy, but I will say this: Lou Barlow is by far the better looking of the two.
It was interesting to me, about halfway through the show, when Z observed that Lou and J acted like they hate each other. (He knew nothing of the feud.) For my part, I like to imagine the negotiations that went down when they came up with the setlist. Perhaps Lou agreed to learn songs from Green Mind and Where You Been in exchange for getting to sing a few of his own, which included whatever that song is that he sings on Beyond and, much to my surprise, “Forget the Swan.” It was kind of neat to hear something so vintage, but the latter frankly blows. I know they had to pick something uptempo to fit in with their rocking set, but if I were to choose my fantasy song from the original Dinosaur album it would be “Severed Lips,” which might be the most sociopathic sappy song of all time.
In spite of these concessions to Lou, I thought it was a really thoughtful set. I literally jumped up and down when they played “Little Furry Things,” such was my excitement. “Out There” was radically epic. And I may have pumped my fist in the air for “Freak Scene,” which was, of course, awesome. There as a lot of lag time in between songs, but whatever: they fully lived up to my high expectations. It was grand.
A few side notes:
1. What was up with the air drummers? I looked around at one point and there were at least ten guys air drumming. It seems obvious to me that air guitar would be the instrument of choice in this situation.
2. Memo to Pitchfork organizers: what your next event really needs is a Battle of the Bands. I had this flash of brilliance during the encore. The main stages are right next to each other in such a way that seems conducive to an epic shredder back-and-forth. Rock out with your cock out!
I’m very sorry to report that the night went downhill from there. I saw Spoon at Taste of Randolph in 2003 and they were low-key and great. This performance was totally different and extremely disappointing. There were lots of bells and whistles, including smoke machines (?). Their sound through the first half of the set was what I can only describe as “Spoon from Space.” The second half was better, I guess, since they sounded more like themselves, but when it was all said and done I was really sad that I chose them over Cut Copy, a decision that has haunted me all week.
We left during the encore, arrived at the Green Line station with minimal delay, and actually managed to fight our way into some seats on the train—a minor miracle. (We sat for a few minutes in triumphant silence before Z looked at me and solemnly said, “It feels like we just won a war.”) After that, it was only a bus ride, a short walk home, and one last high-five at my gate before I headed upstairs and slipped off into a sleep that was, for once, quite sound.
Worse still was morale. Z called around 1:00 to negotiate our start time. “I feel as though we’ve been camping,” I said. (I hate camping.) “Yes,” replied Z, “and fighting off bears.”
The upside to all this was that Z felt discouraged enough to give up on seeing The Apples in Stereo at 3:00—a real coup for me. To my ear, they have always sounded saccharine and retro in a way that I find slightly nauseating; also, I was a manager at my college radio station when Tone Soul Evolution was released, and it turned our deejays into insufferable zombies and our charts into a cesspool of mediocrity. My mystery blotch is flaring up just thinking about it.
We agreed to time our arrival with the start of Les Savy Fav’s set around 4:00. The thought of seeing LSF was exciting enough to make me salve my wounds and gird my loins for another day among the Great Unwashed. You see, I flat-out love this band. Go Forth was one of those albums that came into my life at the perfect moment, renewing my faith that I could like new music post-college. They are sort of like punk for people who don’t like punk so much anymore—that is, old people.
(I’m one of those people who felt pretty old back when I was 23. Imagine my distress now.)
We arrived around 3:45. The weekend weather was still riffing on the theme of apocalypse, this iteration being extreme heat. It was so hot, in fact, that upon arrival Z demanded we visit the water trough, which was our name for the bank of communal water fountains. The trough’s line was maybe ten people deep from all sides, in sharp contrast to the day before, when there was no line ever.
“It’s like hipster concentration camp,” Z said.
He had a point; the crowd was probably three times as many as the day before. Since both days were sold out, I can only assume that people didn’t come out on Saturday because of the ooze. This was ironic because the festival conditions were probably more pleasant on Saturday, all things considered. Sunday's heat was oppressive; I’m guessing it was over 100 degrees.
In another sense, the heat was a plus because it kept Z’s dancing to a bare minimum. It did not, however, seem to affect Tim Harrington, Les Savy Fav’s frontman, even though I expected him to expire at any moment during their set. This was the first time I saw them live, and his stage antics were everything I’d read about and more.
This is Tim:
In some circles, his legend is akin to Ozzy Osbourne’s back in the day. I mean, he doesn’t bite the heads off bats or anything, but he wears silly outfits and makes out with audience members and generally raises heck. In the South, we sometimes call this “Rock[ing] out with your cock out.” On this occasion, he did not disappoint, literally or figuratively.
Perhaps his wardrobe changes impressed me most. We were far enough back that I couldn’t exactly tell where or when he would take off one thing and put on another, but I’m inclined to believe this was for the best. He started off in what I can only describe as one-legged red spandex hotpants and, over time, donned outfits that included (but were not limited to) a Sherlock Holmes costume, a cape, and a bodysuit that left very little to the imagination.
Z stared at the ground through the whole thing because he doesn’t like looking at ugly people. Me, I find Tim mesmerizing, if a little transparent. My theory is that his whole fuck-it persona is a construct designed to distract people from how intensely unattractive he is. After all, an exhibitionist by definition cares about what other people think.
Normally, I find it distasteful when people overcompensate for their insecurities. Occasionally, I find it charming. In this case, I say who cares: I don’t mind if he needs a shtick because I think he’s really, really cool. Also, I appreciate a performer who puts out for the crowd. And it’s awfully hard not to love someone who gave the world this:
That said, it was difficult to watch such a high-energy band in the crazy desert heat. We tried desperately to find some shade when they were finished, but there was none to be had. Instead, we sat in the blazing sun chugging water and read a Time Out magazine that was lying around nearby. This is what we found among its pages:
This is basically a checklist of people to laugh at, including people wearing wrestling singlets (nope), fanny packs (check), off-center rat tails (check), neck beards (check) and—I quote—“anyone ‘cranking dat Soulja Boy,’” which, as you might recall if you read part one of my Pitchfork review, was me circa Saturday. Um, check.
A long bout of people-watching ensued, and let me just take this moment to say that it is a real shame that our culture has not yet managed to instill more body shame in men. I live in the Midwest, where everyone is fat, and I am sick and tired of seeing man guts everywhere I look whenever the weather is warm. For shame, sirs! Start hating yourselves and cover it the fuck up.
After that, we walked around for a bit perusing the wares. Kudos to the Pitchfork organizers for creating a really humane festival in terms of offering food and drink at reasonable prices. (Beers for $4! And the tickets themselves were really cheap, too.) It was a real class act, water trough and all.
The Spiritualized set was loud and terrific and definitely worked the awe factor. I know this is kind of the whole point, but I was still impressed by the Rapture/second coming vibe they had going on. Jason Pierce was dressed in white and backed by a couple of gospel singers. (Maybe he really did die. And now he’s Jesus!) Some of his stuff is a little too druggy for my taste but I like the new album, which was well represented, and I really enjoyed this set.
And then there was Dinosaur Jr. You’ve never really felt like an old-ass thirty-year-old until you gaze upon the favorite band of your youth looking like this:
Still, I was beside myself. For me, seeing J Mascis and Lou Barlow on stage together was like watching Morrissey and Marr—something you never expect will happen in your lifetime.
Rock band rivalries are very compelling to me. Usually, I take sides, but I was genuinely torn over this particular feud. On one side, you had Lou Barlow, who is just too emo to stay mad at anyone. He wrote the “The Freed Pig” as a big burn, which devolved into that video for “Skull” where he plays with a picture of J dangling from his guitar. In one sense, he is a little sappy, but in another you have to admire how he puts it all out there.
And then you have J Mascis, who seems like a total asshole who has spent his entire life sitting in a room playing guitar and whacking off and never talking to anyone. He’s the classic closed-off borderline savant trapped in an unfortunate cycle of insecurity cum egotistical self-absorption. And yet…there is something about him that hints at a whole that is greater than the sum of his parts.
It just dawned on me that I am Lou Barlow and J Mascis is everyone I’ve ever dated. I’m not really sure who comes out on top in that analogy, but I will say this: Lou Barlow is by far the better looking of the two.
It was interesting to me, about halfway through the show, when Z observed that Lou and J acted like they hate each other. (He knew nothing of the feud.) For my part, I like to imagine the negotiations that went down when they came up with the setlist. Perhaps Lou agreed to learn songs from Green Mind and Where You Been in exchange for getting to sing a few of his own, which included whatever that song is that he sings on Beyond and, much to my surprise, “Forget the Swan.” It was kind of neat to hear something so vintage, but the latter frankly blows. I know they had to pick something uptempo to fit in with their rocking set, but if I were to choose my fantasy song from the original Dinosaur album it would be “Severed Lips,” which might be the most sociopathic sappy song of all time.
In spite of these concessions to Lou, I thought it was a really thoughtful set. I literally jumped up and down when they played “Little Furry Things,” such was my excitement. “Out There” was radically epic. And I may have pumped my fist in the air for “Freak Scene,” which was, of course, awesome. There as a lot of lag time in between songs, but whatever: they fully lived up to my high expectations. It was grand.
A few side notes:
1. What was up with the air drummers? I looked around at one point and there were at least ten guys air drumming. It seems obvious to me that air guitar would be the instrument of choice in this situation.
2. Memo to Pitchfork organizers: what your next event really needs is a Battle of the Bands. I had this flash of brilliance during the encore. The main stages are right next to each other in such a way that seems conducive to an epic shredder back-and-forth. Rock out with your cock out!
I’m very sorry to report that the night went downhill from there. I saw Spoon at Taste of Randolph in 2003 and they were low-key and great. This performance was totally different and extremely disappointing. There were lots of bells and whistles, including smoke machines (?). Their sound through the first half of the set was what I can only describe as “Spoon from Space.” The second half was better, I guess, since they sounded more like themselves, but when it was all said and done I was really sad that I chose them over Cut Copy, a decision that has haunted me all week.
We left during the encore, arrived at the Green Line station with minimal delay, and actually managed to fight our way into some seats on the train—a minor miracle. (We sat for a few minutes in triumphant silence before Z looked at me and solemnly said, “It feels like we just won a war.”) After that, it was only a bus ride, a short walk home, and one last high-five at my gate before I headed upstairs and slipped off into a sleep that was, for once, quite sound.
21 July 2008
p4k review (part one of two)
Saturday at the Pitchfork Music Festival: Ups and downs, strikes and gutters.
I went with Z, who turned out to be the perfect companion. Our friendship is pretty much based on hatred and mockery, which really comes in handy in a festival situation. The best and worst thing about Z is his incapacity for shame. He is really bright, maybe the smartest person I know, but here’s the thing: between growing up gay and growing up dorky (participating in activities like mock trial and a variety of summer camps that I can hardly believe exist, including Spanish-language immersion camp, Marxist camp, debate camp, and—wait for it—Constitutional law camp (!!)—he has a pretty thick skin. In fact, he doesn’t give a flying fuck what anyone thinks about him.
And then there’s me. I have written at length about the shame-loss phenomenon, but there are certain situations in which all bets are off. These situations include, but are by no means limited to, public dancing and high-fiving—two things that Z happens to be doing at pretty much any given moment. The problem, of course, is that I’m from the South, where shame is carefully passed down through the generations. I’m hard-wired to feel bad about myself.
When I tried to explain this, Z said, “Once you really learn to say ‘fuck it,’ the world is your oyster.” This outlook is one of my favorite things about him. There are many.
This is all to say that all through the festival, Z did stupid dances to amuse me because that’s what he does. He didn’t mind a bit when people laughed and pointed. (This actually happened.) I appreciated it even though it made me uncomfortable. And maybe his enthusiasm rubbed off a little: at one point, during Dizzee Rascal’s set (Thoughts: 1. British machismo: oxymoron? 2. Dizzee = not Del.), I might have performed the Soulja Boy dance.
That might or might not make me a racist.
We arrived at the festival soon after it started because I really wanted to see A Hawk and a Hacksaw, whose sound is sort of like gypsy music but way less edgy. (Why do I associate anything that sounds Eastern European with gypsies? It must be the racism.) In retrospect, getting there early was a terrible mistake. There was this dreadful rain that was somewhere between a mist and an ooze, and it made everything muddy and unpleasant. The crowd’s misery was palpable.
Had the circumstances been better, I’m still not sure that A Hawk and a Hacksaw is the kind of band that works for an outdoor venue. Most of their stuff is instrumental with a sort of manic quasi-rhythm that makes it really hard to locate the pulse of any given song. To me, that’s a sound that works better in a really small space, like a dive bar or my living room.
In any case, I didn’t much enjoy it, and Z was thoroughly unimpressed. He just stood there and glared at me. Accusations were made. (“You said we should get here early for this?”) Insults were hurled. (Z: “My mother’s a big fan of Fiddler on the Roof. Maybe she would like this.” Me: “Stop hating me!”) Other audience members were mocked.
And that was when something magical happened. Z was making fun of the despicable hippie dancer in front of us when he came up with what we came to call the gypsy dance, which involves clasping hands and skipping around in a circle in a way that seems vaguely Russian. While this embarrassed me a great deal, I also found that it was a powerful mood enhancer. Throughout the rest of the day, during our lowest moments, we danced this dance.
So anyway, about halfway through the set, I conceded that their performance was slowly killing us and agreed to head to the Boost tent, which was really just a way to get out of the rain and sit for a minute. We were both feeling defeated, but we weren’t ready to admit defeat. There was an unspoken understanding that we could not voice our misery or we’d be tempted to go home. Our little break didn’t last long because of the heat; I’m pretty sure they heated the tent so people wouldn’t sit there for long. Fuck you, Boost, and whatever it is that you’re selling. The promotional geniuses behind your tent made it seem as though you are some kind of a bird vendor, though I’m pretty sure you actually make cell phones for poor people.
By then, the ooze had let up, but we weren’t feeling much better. We walked around, deeply unhappy, for a while before I saw a beautiful oasis out of the corner of my eye: the Fuze beverage tent. At first, I thought it was some kind or mirage. It had comfortable-looking pleather couches, yet there was only one person sitting on them. But it was both real and unheated, so ended up sitting there for about half an hour reading some weird DIY magazine that seemed to be about how to make your own camping supplies. By the time we left, we felt like we had spent a week at a spa, and the day got much better from there.
Capsule reviews and other observations:
1. Man shorts make me want to barf.
What the fuck is up with man shorts? It’s like a certain segment of the hipster community decided that looking like a seventies-era pervert is not only okay, but also desirable. Perhaps you did not get the memo: man shorts suggest mental instability unless you are a special sort of awesome (e.g., the singer of !!!). PS: Your mustache is not ironic. PPS: Ditto your sweatband.
2. Let’s all just admit the terrible mistake that was Vampire Weekend.
I feel more than a little misled by all those people who said they were the new Belle & Sebastian. Those who are more interested in music than I are supposed to vet this shit so I, the casual listener, buy fewer crummy albums. This is a band that simply doesn’t stand up to scrutiny. I wonder if critics were just so beside themselves to laud the next big thing that they neglected to listen to this album more than twice? We talked through their entire set.
3. !!! is really fun live.
This isn’t exactly music I listen to at home, but this guy’s dance moves were totally awesome. I envy him.
This, my friends, is a man who knows how to work it.
4. The Hold Steady makes me want to kill myself.
I have one of The Hold Steady’s albums, and I get it: they’re mainstream rock. And you know what? I like plenty of mainstream rock. It’s not their sound that I object to; it’s their fans.
Watching this band was one of the weirdest experiences I’ve had in a long time. About halfway through the first song, it was as though we were at an entirely different event, surrounded by such loathsome d-bags that it filled me with a powerful violence. I imagine that it was akin to, say, going to a John Mayer concert. During the second song, Z and I looked at each other and knew we had to get out of there immediately. That might sound really melodramatic but it’s actually true. We found a far-away spot and sat in the grass for like 45 minutes to recover, which culminated in gypsy dancing.
There is no way I will listen to The Hold Steady ever again, just on principle.
5. One must carefully choose one’s festival companion.
You can’t go to one of these things with just anyone. For me, it was important to have someone who could relate to my flare-ups of misanthropy, but it was also critical to have someone with a similar energy level. (See #6.)
6. The key to festival success is taking it easy most of the time.
It took us a few hours to learn this valuable lesson. I think more than anything it was an adjustment of expectations. Going to a festival is really different from going to a regular show. Unless you truly love a band (something that, for me, didn’t really happen until day two), I think the best strategy is to let their set just wash over you, instead of paying close attention.
The turning point for us was during the Fleet Foxes, which for my money was the top act of the day. We had positioned ourselves on the outskirts of the audience. The sun was out, the ground was close to dry, and it was a really happy moment.
7. Jarvis Cocker: kind of a re and awesome at the same time.
You know how we all thought that Jarvis Cocker’s re glasses suggested intelligence? Or an ironic gesture to British frailty?
Someone who has written a song with the chorus “Fat children took my life” can be forgiven pretty much anything.
Guess what? He’s actually sort of retarded.
Granted, he played a few rocking songs toward the top, but then he shot into these long free-association spoken-word intros that were...unfortunate. And long. Stage banter paraphrase: “Did you know Chicago is a good place for blues music? Also, Peter Cetera and Kanye West hail from this area.” Also, it’s very difficult to pretend that the lyric “the working class is obsolete” is acceptable. And his ballads kind of suck.
Of course, then he sang “Fat Children” and I was like, “Oh wait, I love you.”
8. Pot smokers = nemeses.
Does anyone else think it’s weird that every show in the history of the world has someone there smoking pot? I guess any outdoor event draws the hippie contingent, but Pitchfork was out of control. I think I got a contact high several times.
Heaven knows how much pot was smoked during the Animal Collective set. We left before it started. I’m sorry, but I cannot in good conscience listen to music made by someone who calls himself Panda Bear. You have to draw the line somewhere.
I went with Z, who turned out to be the perfect companion. Our friendship is pretty much based on hatred and mockery, which really comes in handy in a festival situation. The best and worst thing about Z is his incapacity for shame. He is really bright, maybe the smartest person I know, but here’s the thing: between growing up gay and growing up dorky (participating in activities like mock trial and a variety of summer camps that I can hardly believe exist, including Spanish-language immersion camp, Marxist camp, debate camp, and—wait for it—Constitutional law camp (!!)—he has a pretty thick skin. In fact, he doesn’t give a flying fuck what anyone thinks about him.
And then there’s me. I have written at length about the shame-loss phenomenon, but there are certain situations in which all bets are off. These situations include, but are by no means limited to, public dancing and high-fiving—two things that Z happens to be doing at pretty much any given moment. The problem, of course, is that I’m from the South, where shame is carefully passed down through the generations. I’m hard-wired to feel bad about myself.
When I tried to explain this, Z said, “Once you really learn to say ‘fuck it,’ the world is your oyster.” This outlook is one of my favorite things about him. There are many.
This is all to say that all through the festival, Z did stupid dances to amuse me because that’s what he does. He didn’t mind a bit when people laughed and pointed. (This actually happened.) I appreciated it even though it made me uncomfortable. And maybe his enthusiasm rubbed off a little: at one point, during Dizzee Rascal’s set (Thoughts: 1. British machismo: oxymoron? 2. Dizzee = not Del.), I might have performed the Soulja Boy dance.
That might or might not make me a racist.
We arrived at the festival soon after it started because I really wanted to see A Hawk and a Hacksaw, whose sound is sort of like gypsy music but way less edgy. (Why do I associate anything that sounds Eastern European with gypsies? It must be the racism.) In retrospect, getting there early was a terrible mistake. There was this dreadful rain that was somewhere between a mist and an ooze, and it made everything muddy and unpleasant. The crowd’s misery was palpable.
Had the circumstances been better, I’m still not sure that A Hawk and a Hacksaw is the kind of band that works for an outdoor venue. Most of their stuff is instrumental with a sort of manic quasi-rhythm that makes it really hard to locate the pulse of any given song. To me, that’s a sound that works better in a really small space, like a dive bar or my living room.
In any case, I didn’t much enjoy it, and Z was thoroughly unimpressed. He just stood there and glared at me. Accusations were made. (“You said we should get here early for this?”) Insults were hurled. (Z: “My mother’s a big fan of Fiddler on the Roof. Maybe she would like this.” Me: “Stop hating me!”) Other audience members were mocked.
And that was when something magical happened. Z was making fun of the despicable hippie dancer in front of us when he came up with what we came to call the gypsy dance, which involves clasping hands and skipping around in a circle in a way that seems vaguely Russian. While this embarrassed me a great deal, I also found that it was a powerful mood enhancer. Throughout the rest of the day, during our lowest moments, we danced this dance.
So anyway, about halfway through the set, I conceded that their performance was slowly killing us and agreed to head to the Boost tent, which was really just a way to get out of the rain and sit for a minute. We were both feeling defeated, but we weren’t ready to admit defeat. There was an unspoken understanding that we could not voice our misery or we’d be tempted to go home. Our little break didn’t last long because of the heat; I’m pretty sure they heated the tent so people wouldn’t sit there for long. Fuck you, Boost, and whatever it is that you’re selling. The promotional geniuses behind your tent made it seem as though you are some kind of a bird vendor, though I’m pretty sure you actually make cell phones for poor people.
By then, the ooze had let up, but we weren’t feeling much better. We walked around, deeply unhappy, for a while before I saw a beautiful oasis out of the corner of my eye: the Fuze beverage tent. At first, I thought it was some kind or mirage. It had comfortable-looking pleather couches, yet there was only one person sitting on them. But it was both real and unheated, so ended up sitting there for about half an hour reading some weird DIY magazine that seemed to be about how to make your own camping supplies. By the time we left, we felt like we had spent a week at a spa, and the day got much better from there.
Capsule reviews and other observations:
1. Man shorts make me want to barf.
What the fuck is up with man shorts? It’s like a certain segment of the hipster community decided that looking like a seventies-era pervert is not only okay, but also desirable. Perhaps you did not get the memo: man shorts suggest mental instability unless you are a special sort of awesome (e.g., the singer of !!!). PS: Your mustache is not ironic. PPS: Ditto your sweatband.
2. Let’s all just admit the terrible mistake that was Vampire Weekend.
I feel more than a little misled by all those people who said they were the new Belle & Sebastian. Those who are more interested in music than I are supposed to vet this shit so I, the casual listener, buy fewer crummy albums. This is a band that simply doesn’t stand up to scrutiny. I wonder if critics were just so beside themselves to laud the next big thing that they neglected to listen to this album more than twice? We talked through their entire set.
3. !!! is really fun live.
This isn’t exactly music I listen to at home, but this guy’s dance moves were totally awesome. I envy him.
4. The Hold Steady makes me want to kill myself.
I have one of The Hold Steady’s albums, and I get it: they’re mainstream rock. And you know what? I like plenty of mainstream rock. It’s not their sound that I object to; it’s their fans.
Watching this band was one of the weirdest experiences I’ve had in a long time. About halfway through the first song, it was as though we were at an entirely different event, surrounded by such loathsome d-bags that it filled me with a powerful violence. I imagine that it was akin to, say, going to a John Mayer concert. During the second song, Z and I looked at each other and knew we had to get out of there immediately. That might sound really melodramatic but it’s actually true. We found a far-away spot and sat in the grass for like 45 minutes to recover, which culminated in gypsy dancing.
There is no way I will listen to The Hold Steady ever again, just on principle.
5. One must carefully choose one’s festival companion.
You can’t go to one of these things with just anyone. For me, it was important to have someone who could relate to my flare-ups of misanthropy, but it was also critical to have someone with a similar energy level. (See #6.)
6. The key to festival success is taking it easy most of the time.
It took us a few hours to learn this valuable lesson. I think more than anything it was an adjustment of expectations. Going to a festival is really different from going to a regular show. Unless you truly love a band (something that, for me, didn’t really happen until day two), I think the best strategy is to let their set just wash over you, instead of paying close attention.
The turning point for us was during the Fleet Foxes, which for my money was the top act of the day. We had positioned ourselves on the outskirts of the audience. The sun was out, the ground was close to dry, and it was a really happy moment.
7. Jarvis Cocker: kind of a re and awesome at the same time.
You know how we all thought that Jarvis Cocker’s re glasses suggested intelligence? Or an ironic gesture to British frailty?
Guess what? He’s actually sort of retarded.
Granted, he played a few rocking songs toward the top, but then he shot into these long free-association spoken-word intros that were...unfortunate. And long. Stage banter paraphrase: “Did you know Chicago is a good place for blues music? Also, Peter Cetera and Kanye West hail from this area.” Also, it’s very difficult to pretend that the lyric “the working class is obsolete” is acceptable. And his ballads kind of suck.
Of course, then he sang “Fat Children” and I was like, “Oh wait, I love you.”
8. Pot smokers = nemeses.
Does anyone else think it’s weird that every show in the history of the world has someone there smoking pot? I guess any outdoor event draws the hippie contingent, but Pitchfork was out of control. I think I got a contact high several times.
Heaven knows how much pot was smoked during the Animal Collective set. We left before it started. I’m sorry, but I cannot in good conscience listen to music made by someone who calls himself Panda Bear. You have to draw the line somewhere.
18 July 2008
my happy place
It's too fucking hot and as a result I've been off food for a few weeks. In many ways I'm like a small child, so sometimes I trick myself into eating by making gimmicky meals. Lately, I am really into color. Maybe I am less like a small child and more like a re.
Fact: I don't like res. That might make me a bad person, but let's face it: they're different. Also, they smell bad.
Or maybe I'm elderly.
Random association (which seems apropos of the elderly): does anyone remember that TV movie The Electric Grandmother? I may well be living proof that you shouldn't teach children to love robots. Then again, it's possible I was born without feelings.
Luckily, I am too hot and too old to care what you think about any of that. God bless the shame-loss phenomenon!
Sorry, I just can't focus when I'm hot. My point is that I have been experimenting with pretty foods over the last week. Alas, one of these things is not like the other:
In case you didn't know, pesto tastes good with buttery pasta.
I've always been sort of indifferent toward pesto until I realized that you can blanch the basil to make it super-green. I like to stare at its pretty color even more than I like to eat it.
I recently made pistachio butter, which is kind of like peanut butter except way crappier. It is also a lot of trouble: you have to shell the nuts and then blanch them and scrape off the skins, which is BULLSHIT. It took about an hour to finish and another two before I didn't feel like stabbing people. This batch turned into pistachio ice cream (my favorite), but something is not quite right, texture-wise. Breaking news: I'm not so sure about cornstarch-based gelato.
Orange is my favorite color these days. I also like neon purple, but I'm not sure that works for soup.
My new favorite thing is carrot soup, which is a puree of carrots, ghee, garlic, onions, veg stock, and a drizzle of olive oil. The recipe is from Super Natural Cooking by Heidi Swanson, which I highly recommend. (You can also glimpse her genuis at 101cookbooks.com).
When all else fails, I reach for the homely old standbys: plain Greek yogurt with granola (I only like mine, which has oats, coconut, almonds, honey, and salt) or peanut butter. And, you know, Diet Coke. And beer. As usual, I sort of fluctuate between healthy and disgruntled.
Or maybe I'm elderly.
Luckily, I am too hot and too old to care what you think about any of that. God bless the shame-loss phenomenon!
Sorry, I just can't focus when I'm hot. My point is that I have been experimenting with pretty foods over the last week. Alas, one of these things is not like the other:
I've always been sort of indifferent toward pesto until I realized that you can blanch the basil to make it super-green. I like to stare at its pretty color even more than I like to eat it.
I recently made pistachio butter, which is kind of like peanut butter except way crappier. It is also a lot of trouble: you have to shell the nuts and then blanch them and scrape off the skins, which is BULLSHIT. It took about an hour to finish and another two before I didn't feel like stabbing people. This batch turned into pistachio ice cream (my favorite), but something is not quite right, texture-wise. Breaking news: I'm not so sure about cornstarch-based gelato.
My new favorite thing is carrot soup, which is a puree of carrots, ghee, garlic, onions, veg stock, and a drizzle of olive oil. The recipe is from Super Natural Cooking by Heidi Swanson, which I highly recommend. (You can also glimpse her genuis at 101cookbooks.com).
When all else fails, I reach for the homely old standbys: plain Greek yogurt with granola (I only like mine, which has oats, coconut, almonds, honey, and salt) or peanut butter. And, you know, Diet Coke. And beer. As usual, I sort of fluctuate between healthy and disgruntled.
11 July 2008
a good man is hard to find
So I spent an hour or so last night researching prison boyfriends.
Well, actually I was researching prison penpals, but that just doesn’t have quite the same ring. And I’m afraid I’m about to disappoint you even further with this next sentence: it was research for the book I’m trying to write. My descent into madness is not yet complete.
I actually got the idea from a joke I made in a post I wrote a while back. (I guess my idea pool is pretty incestuous.) I have been toying with the idea of an epistolary novel (or a novel with an epistolary element) for a while, and now I might have found a way to make it work.
I think the idea is actually cooler than that just sounded, but I’ll stop there because it’s beside the point. Instead, I want to tell you about what I found.
My first hit was a page called “Tips on How to Write to a Prisoner” on prisonerlife.com, a site that was started by prisoners and is maintained by ex-offender volunteers. It has all sorts of useful information, including personal ads for prisoners who are looking for penpals (both romantic and platonic) and tips for writing.
“Thank you for writing to a prisoner,” it began. “You must be a very special person.”
Granted, I don’t actually know anyone who has written a prisoner, but discounting friends and family, I’m guessing most of them are either Bible-thumping crazies who want to spread the word or desperate ladies who want prison boyfriends.
Of the latter, I imagine there are several subsets: those who are afraid to date men in the real world, those who have been abused, those who are mildly retarded, and/or those who are just plain cuckoo. But my research suggests a fifth subtype of desperate ladies: manipulative women who can’t handle “live” prey.
Take, for instance, this tip the website offers for writing your first letter: “If you are not looking for a romantic relationship, let them know upfront. Don't play headgames. If you do not want any kind of sexual references or suggestive writings from the inmate, make it perfectly clear in the beginning.” And then there’s the fact that most of the personal ads make some kind of reference to resenting people who “play games.” Evidently, this is a big problem.
Otherwise, most of the ads were exactly what you’d expect: men who sounded bored, depressed, and stupid. Many of them insist they were wrongfully convicted. A few of them made me laugh, like Rahim, who dislikes “bad breath, liars, cats, loud and obnoxious people.” Others were depressing. There was Melissa, who I think killed her husband while he was beating her up. There was Michael, who has not had a single personal visit in the nine years he has been on death row. And it made me sad to learn that almost everyone in prison has children.
And then there was death row inmate Johnnie, whose personal ad chilled my blood: “Some of my dislikes include those who ride horses, the sounds of kissing and babies crying.” That is pretty much the most fucked up thing I have ever read. It sort of reminds me of that famous Hemingway short story that gestures to a richly imagined plot in a single sentence.
Other observations:
+ Prisonerlife.com wisely advises “If you don't want the prisoner to know your home address, get a P.O. Box.” This seems practical.
+ Almost all the prisoners advertise themselves as non-smokers. It never occurred to me until now that, as buildings run by the state or feds, prisons probably don’t allow smoking anymore. This blows my mind since smoking is pretty much fundamental to my idea of prison, my understanding of the prison bitch system, etc.
+ I was fascinated by this tidbit I found under “General Information”: “Don't write to more than one inmate from one prison at a time. It's just not a very good idea. From previous experience we have found that many times a person that writes to more than one inmate in the same facility can create a rivalry between inmates. It's best to avoid that situation all together.”
I hardly need to tell you that now I am wracking my brain for another project that could somehow incorporate a prison boyfriend rivalry.
+ There was a whole section of the website dedicated to the prison boyfriend “success stories.” Unfortunately, there were no details about what exactly constitutes a success. Have these men released so they can be with their true loves? Or are they still prisoners who are now in long-term relationships?
+ Most of the “success stories” referred to how their true love was one chosen from a pool of many. It never occurred to me that prison boyfriends have their pick of crazy-lady penpals. Sometimes the weirdness of the world takes my breath away.
Well, actually I was researching prison penpals, but that just doesn’t have quite the same ring. And I’m afraid I’m about to disappoint you even further with this next sentence: it was research for the book I’m trying to write. My descent into madness is not yet complete.
I actually got the idea from a joke I made in a post I wrote a while back. (I guess my idea pool is pretty incestuous.) I have been toying with the idea of an epistolary novel (or a novel with an epistolary element) for a while, and now I might have found a way to make it work.
I think the idea is actually cooler than that just sounded, but I’ll stop there because it’s beside the point. Instead, I want to tell you about what I found.
My first hit was a page called “Tips on How to Write to a Prisoner” on prisonerlife.com, a site that was started by prisoners and is maintained by ex-offender volunteers. It has all sorts of useful information, including personal ads for prisoners who are looking for penpals (both romantic and platonic) and tips for writing.
“Thank you for writing to a prisoner,” it began. “You must be a very special person.”
Granted, I don’t actually know anyone who has written a prisoner, but discounting friends and family, I’m guessing most of them are either Bible-thumping crazies who want to spread the word or desperate ladies who want prison boyfriends.
Of the latter, I imagine there are several subsets: those who are afraid to date men in the real world, those who have been abused, those who are mildly retarded, and/or those who are just plain cuckoo. But my research suggests a fifth subtype of desperate ladies: manipulative women who can’t handle “live” prey.
Take, for instance, this tip the website offers for writing your first letter: “If you are not looking for a romantic relationship, let them know upfront. Don't play headgames. If you do not want any kind of sexual references or suggestive writings from the inmate, make it perfectly clear in the beginning.” And then there’s the fact that most of the personal ads make some kind of reference to resenting people who “play games.” Evidently, this is a big problem.
Otherwise, most of the ads were exactly what you’d expect: men who sounded bored, depressed, and stupid. Many of them insist they were wrongfully convicted. A few of them made me laugh, like Rahim, who dislikes “bad breath, liars, cats, loud and obnoxious people.” Others were depressing. There was Melissa, who I think killed her husband while he was beating her up. There was Michael, who has not had a single personal visit in the nine years he has been on death row. And it made me sad to learn that almost everyone in prison has children.
And then there was death row inmate Johnnie, whose personal ad chilled my blood: “Some of my dislikes include those who ride horses, the sounds of kissing and babies crying.” That is pretty much the most fucked up thing I have ever read. It sort of reminds me of that famous Hemingway short story that gestures to a richly imagined plot in a single sentence.
Other observations:
+ Prisonerlife.com wisely advises “If you don't want the prisoner to know your home address, get a P.O. Box.” This seems practical.
+ Almost all the prisoners advertise themselves as non-smokers. It never occurred to me until now that, as buildings run by the state or feds, prisons probably don’t allow smoking anymore. This blows my mind since smoking is pretty much fundamental to my idea of prison, my understanding of the prison bitch system, etc.
+ I was fascinated by this tidbit I found under “General Information”: “Don't write to more than one inmate from one prison at a time. It's just not a very good idea. From previous experience we have found that many times a person that writes to more than one inmate in the same facility can create a rivalry between inmates. It's best to avoid that situation all together.”
I hardly need to tell you that now I am wracking my brain for another project that could somehow incorporate a prison boyfriend rivalry.
+ There was a whole section of the website dedicated to the prison boyfriend “success stories.” Unfortunately, there were no details about what exactly constitutes a success. Have these men released so they can be with their true loves? Or are they still prisoners who are now in long-term relationships?
+ Most of the “success stories” referred to how their true love was one chosen from a pool of many. It never occurred to me that prison boyfriends have their pick of crazy-lady penpals. Sometimes the weirdness of the world takes my breath away.
05 July 2008
dance or die
E-mails that my mother sends me usually fall into one of three categories: nagging personal messages, links to articles about danger, or lame jokes that she sees fit to forward. But occasionally, she'll send something awesome and unexpected, like this delightful dancing man.
Where the Hell is Matt? (2008) from Matthew Harding on Vimeo.
From his website: Matt is a 31-year-old deadbeat from Connecticut who used to think that all he ever wanted to do in life was make and play videogames. Matt achieved this goal pretty early and enjoyed it for a while, but eventually realized there might be other stuff he was missing out on. In February of 2003, he quit his job in Brisbane, Australia and used the money he'd saved to wander around Asia until it ran out. He made this site so he could keep his family and friends updated about where he is.
A few months into his trip, a travel buddy gave Matt an idea. They were standing around taking pictures in Hanoi, and his friend said "Hey, why don't you stand over there and do that dance. I'll record it." He was referring to a particular dance Matt does. It's actually the only dance Matt does. He does it badly. Anyway, this turned out to be a very good idea.
In 2006, Matt took a 6 month trip through 39 countries on all 7 continents. In that time, he danced a great deal.
Note to mom: That video you sent me of the monkey peeing in its own mouth? Not so awesome.
Where the Hell is Matt? (2008) from Matthew Harding on Vimeo.
From his website: Matt is a 31-year-old deadbeat from Connecticut who used to think that all he ever wanted to do in life was make and play videogames. Matt achieved this goal pretty early and enjoyed it for a while, but eventually realized there might be other stuff he was missing out on. In February of 2003, he quit his job in Brisbane, Australia and used the money he'd saved to wander around Asia until it ran out. He made this site so he could keep his family and friends updated about where he is.
A few months into his trip, a travel buddy gave Matt an idea. They were standing around taking pictures in Hanoi, and his friend said "Hey, why don't you stand over there and do that dance. I'll record it." He was referring to a particular dance Matt does. It's actually the only dance Matt does. He does it badly. Anyway, this turned out to be a very good idea.
In 2006, Matt took a 6 month trip through 39 countries on all 7 continents. In that time, he danced a great deal.
Note to mom: That video you sent me of the monkey peeing in its own mouth? Not so awesome.
04 July 2008
happy fucking fourth
As an Anglophile, I have never really been able to wrap my head around the whole Independence Day celebration thing.
Canadian anarchists? That I can get behind.
Canadian anarchists? That I can get behind.
02 July 2008
it was a dark and stormy night...
I am trying to think of a more clichéd first line than the one I’m about to write here, but the sad truth is that I can think of no better way to tell you that I am sitting here drinking an airplane bottle of liquor and thinking about betrayal and forgiveness.
Which is appropriate, really. I mean, I couldn’t very well think about betrayal and forgiveness if I were doing something awesome like, say, playing Rock Band, watching “So You Think You Can Dance,” or even drinking a respectable drink. Serious topics require a certain sense of ritual, gravitas and, above all, irony. Sometimes I do my best thinking when I pretend like life is nothing more than a romantic dramedy.
The public-sphere version of this really personal story is that I have been feuding with a close friend who behaved badly—the kind of disagreement that makes you question your worth, your judgment, and the difference between good and evil. We have had what you might call a cold war, and while it has never quite been airplane bottle liquor-level misery, it has fucking sucked. We haven’t spoken in more than two months.
Earlier today I got an e-mail from a mutual friend saying this person was badly injured in an accident.
I was shaken. My first instinct was to brush it all aside—to call my old friend and ask what I could do to help. But I didn’t. I held back for a variety of reasons: Was this vapid sentimentalism? (After all, an injured asshole is still fundamentally an asshole.) Was this social obligation?
I considered how my call would be interpreted. What exactly would it mean to offer sympathy or assistance? Would it mean, "I forgive you?" Would I lose face?
I also considered my own motivations. Did I want an excuse to reconcile? Or was this instinct something more elemental, more sincere?
I thought for a while before I realized that maybe I was asking the wrong questions. Maybe it’s less about how awful my friend has been and whether or not he deserves my forgiveness, and more about me and the person I want to be.
For good or ill (and I’m genuinely not sure which), I am a person that wishes my old friend well...who respects the friendship we used to have, even though it seems stiff and dead...who believes, however stupidly, that maybe these are the moments in which we can say something that matters.
It’s getting a little late, but I think I might call tomorrow.
Take from that what you will; maybe I seem sappy or self-sabotaging. The truth is that I probably am, but at the same time it seems to me that the lesson here isn’t so simple. I wonder if forgiveness isn’t as altruistic as we’ve been led to believe. Maybe it is, in fact, a selfish act.
Downside: That idea creeps me out a little. Upside: Even if forgiveness is selfish, I forgive myself. Postmodern meta-forgiveness = win-win!
Which is appropriate, really. I mean, I couldn’t very well think about betrayal and forgiveness if I were doing something awesome like, say, playing Rock Band, watching “So You Think You Can Dance,” or even drinking a respectable drink. Serious topics require a certain sense of ritual, gravitas and, above all, irony. Sometimes I do my best thinking when I pretend like life is nothing more than a romantic dramedy.
The public-sphere version of this really personal story is that I have been feuding with a close friend who behaved badly—the kind of disagreement that makes you question your worth, your judgment, and the difference between good and evil. We have had what you might call a cold war, and while it has never quite been airplane bottle liquor-level misery, it has fucking sucked. We haven’t spoken in more than two months.
Earlier today I got an e-mail from a mutual friend saying this person was badly injured in an accident.
I was shaken. My first instinct was to brush it all aside—to call my old friend and ask what I could do to help. But I didn’t. I held back for a variety of reasons: Was this vapid sentimentalism? (After all, an injured asshole is still fundamentally an asshole.) Was this social obligation?
I considered how my call would be interpreted. What exactly would it mean to offer sympathy or assistance? Would it mean, "I forgive you?" Would I lose face?
I also considered my own motivations. Did I want an excuse to reconcile? Or was this instinct something more elemental, more sincere?
I thought for a while before I realized that maybe I was asking the wrong questions. Maybe it’s less about how awful my friend has been and whether or not he deserves my forgiveness, and more about me and the person I want to be.
For good or ill (and I’m genuinely not sure which), I am a person that wishes my old friend well...who respects the friendship we used to have, even though it seems stiff and dead...who believes, however stupidly, that maybe these are the moments in which we can say something that matters.
It’s getting a little late, but I think I might call tomorrow.
Take from that what you will; maybe I seem sappy or self-sabotaging. The truth is that I probably am, but at the same time it seems to me that the lesson here isn’t so simple. I wonder if forgiveness isn’t as altruistic as we’ve been led to believe. Maybe it is, in fact, a selfish act.
Downside: That idea creeps me out a little. Upside: Even if forgiveness is selfish, I forgive myself. Postmodern meta-forgiveness = win-win!
01 July 2008
conspicuous consumption
Like many people, I went through a phase in college where I was really into Adbusters magazine and Naomi Klein and the whole anti-consumerist movement. I spent a few rather earnest months reading stuff along those lines before I realized that I'm really, really into...stuff. I embraced my inner-pig and never looked back.
These days, one of my favorite ways to procrastinate is to read design blogs and shop online. As a result, I spend a lot of time lusting after (and occasionally buying) pretty (if mostly useless) objects that will probably prevent me from ever doing anything grown-up like investing in a mutual fund.
(...which reminds me of a funny conversation I had the other day when a friend was telling me that she feels like she isn't living up to her idea of 30. I was like, yeah, I didn't think that 30 would necessarily involve eating ice cream for dinner, but who cares? She admitted that she often eats cereal for dinner, which I thought was a more healthy, adult-like choice.)
Anyway, I didn't really feel like writing a real post today so I thought I'd share the wishlist I've been compiling over the last year or so.
1. Tattooed man dolls
Crafty lady Mimi Kirchner makes these clever dolls out of toile fabric. I want them all.
2. Geneva Stereo System
Not only is this the snazziest stereo I have ever seen, it can multitask: it handles cds and ipods, which is awesome since I haven't been buying cds for the last few years.
3. A creepy boat by Ann Wood
Artist Ann Wood makes these nifty boats out of paper mache and vintage fabric. Sadly, they are never in her etsy shop, but I love checking out whatever she's making on her blog.
4. Chie Mihara shoes
I have been looking at these shoes online all damn day and have found a dozen or so pairs I would really like to have. This green pair is particularly fetching.
5. A portrait by Jenny Belin
My friend T turned me on to painter Jenny Belin, whose work has a lot of style and personality. I would love to commission a painting of my parents or my late Westie, Emmy.
6. Sanna Annukka screeprint
I have a lithograph by artist Sanna Annukka, but my heart's desire is this screenprint, "Maidens of the Midnight Sun." Note to savvy buyers: it's way cheaper on her website than it is on roseandradish.com. Of course, if you actually buy it, I might cut you.
7. Mudd Australia Ceramics
If I had five million dollars to spend on dinnerware, I'd buy this stuff in one hot minute.
8. Wii
I thought I was hot for wii fit, but now that wii has released a version of Rock Band, I'm beside myself.
9. A mohair throw at Jayson Home & Garden
This picture is a little fuzzy, but trust me when I tell you that this Chicago store sells the most beautifully colored throws I have ever seen.
10. A miniature horse
Why not dream big? I have wanted a miniature horse ever since I saw a television special about how some blind people use them instead of guide dogs. The horse in the picture is called Twinkie, in case you were wondering.
What's on your list?
These days, one of my favorite ways to procrastinate is to read design blogs and shop online. As a result, I spend a lot of time lusting after (and occasionally buying) pretty (if mostly useless) objects that will probably prevent me from ever doing anything grown-up like investing in a mutual fund.
(...which reminds me of a funny conversation I had the other day when a friend was telling me that she feels like she isn't living up to her idea of 30. I was like, yeah, I didn't think that 30 would necessarily involve eating ice cream for dinner, but who cares? She admitted that she often eats cereal for dinner, which I thought was a more healthy, adult-like choice.)
Anyway, I didn't really feel like writing a real post today so I thought I'd share the wishlist I've been compiling over the last year or so.
1. Tattooed man dolls
Crafty lady Mimi Kirchner makes these clever dolls out of toile fabric. I want them all.
2. Geneva Stereo System
Not only is this the snazziest stereo I have ever seen, it can multitask: it handles cds and ipods, which is awesome since I haven't been buying cds for the last few years.
3. A creepy boat by Ann Wood
Artist Ann Wood makes these nifty boats out of paper mache and vintage fabric. Sadly, they are never in her etsy shop, but I love checking out whatever she's making on her blog.
4. Chie Mihara shoes
I have been looking at these shoes online all damn day and have found a dozen or so pairs I would really like to have. This green pair is particularly fetching.
5. A portrait by Jenny Belin
My friend T turned me on to painter Jenny Belin, whose work has a lot of style and personality. I would love to commission a painting of my parents or my late Westie, Emmy.
6. Sanna Annukka screeprint
I have a lithograph by artist Sanna Annukka, but my heart's desire is this screenprint, "Maidens of the Midnight Sun." Note to savvy buyers: it's way cheaper on her website than it is on roseandradish.com. Of course, if you actually buy it, I might cut you.
7. Mudd Australia Ceramics
If I had five million dollars to spend on dinnerware, I'd buy this stuff in one hot minute.
8. Wii
I thought I was hot for wii fit, but now that wii has released a version of Rock Band, I'm beside myself.
9. A mohair throw at Jayson Home & Garden
This picture is a little fuzzy, but trust me when I tell you that this Chicago store sells the most beautifully colored throws I have ever seen.
10. A miniature horse
Why not dream big? I have wanted a miniature horse ever since I saw a television special about how some blind people use them instead of guide dogs. The horse in the picture is called Twinkie, in case you were wondering.
What's on your list?
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