The grim interim between Christmas and New Years is upon us, a week of returning the failed gifts from estranged relatives, of counting the days before school resumes. And for me, a final state of limbo before I unite with the van, the road, and the small talk one only engages in with gas station attendants. It’s during this time of year that my attention is usually drawn towards a resolution, the wrapping paper of the New Year, carefully chosen merely to be crumpled and tossed aside by mid February.
The easy ones don’t apply. I don’t smoke. I don’t need to lose weight. I recently gave away 90% of the belongings I may have been placing too much importance on. I’m outside more than I am in front of a television. I don’t find myself overusing the word “like.” Regular drinking binges in the solitude of a hotel room seems like a Bukowski novel I’m unwilling to be a part of. I am sufficiently mediocre. Comfortably boring. But today a short, disgruntled call solidified my quest.
A fellow colleague phoned to vent about a gentleman who swims in the same industry pool. He’d be the one with the swimming trunks that always find themselves clung awkwardly mid thigh, revealing the bluish tint of skin you feel uncomfortable seeing but you're unable to pull away from. You wonder how he’s so comfortable being a close talker with no shirt on, how old he was when he got that tattoo of the flames surrounding a yin-yang. How is he married with kids and you are alone? That guy. The conversation revolved around That Guy officially breaching the echelon of annoyance and moving into nemesis territory.
Bingo.
I remembered a Klosterman short in which he discussed the importance of both having and identifying your own personal nemesis and archenemy, the unique differences of ones relationship with each.
“You kind of like your nemesis, despite the fact that you despise him. You will always have drinks with your nemesis. You would attend the funeral of your nemesis, and -- privately -- you might shed a tear over his or her passing. However, you would never choose to have a cocktail with your archenemy, unless you were attempting to spike the gin with arsenic. If you were to perish, your archenemy would dance on your grave, and then he'd burn down your house and molest your children. You hate your archenemy so much that you keep your hatred secret, because you do not want your archenemy to have the satisfaction of being hated.”
When I had originally read his book IV, it took all but three seconds and I knew exactly who mine would be. Now, two years later, I have neither. The dedicated hatred of my archenemy moved when she did.
So the quest begins for my new El Guapo. For some reason, I think they’ll be Texan.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Minneapolis, MN (music; Johnny Cash)
For the last six hours I have had Mr. Big’s “To be with you” stuck in my head. 6 hours. It seems to range in volume, dimming down when I engage in conversation, but still lingering on the back of my tongue. You know how it is. The latest top 40 hit that you secretly know all the words to, imbedded on constant repeat. The commercial you’ve seen during every interruption of your TV show, echoing down the hall with you at night. It happens. But this Mr. Big bullshit was on purpose. I was targeted. I am the victim.
This started in jest as a little game between my brother and me. Right before bed, I’d hit him with a reminder, “Don’t go chasing waterfalls, please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you’re used to.” He’d counterstrike with something along the lines of “What if God was one of us? Just a slob like one of us?” And we’d laugh through gritted teeth, reciting our own personal mantras silently combating the powers of pop music with Beasties lyrics and “Take 5” covers. It became habit to leave without telling each other so we couldn’t sneak TV show theme song lyrics into our goodbyes. We’d hang up phone calls midsentence. Strategies were formed. Timing was everything. You sing a few bars of “Proud to be an American” before someone gets in the shower, no rinse and repeat methods are going to get it out.
The game spread quickly and soon alliances were formed. Lists carried for easily accessible rapid fire. Being a veteran on the outskirts of town, I’ve been left to fend for myself. My cell phone has been bombarded with texted lyrics and long distance voicemails that leave only artist and song title. Whispers of Bon Jovi were shot in my direction as I was drifting off to sleep earlier this week. Jukeboxes were stockpiled with pristine ammunition. Meatloaf was brought out. The battle has been long. There have been many casualties.
If there’s one thing games with my siblings have taught me, it’s that when in battle, anything goes. I’ve seen dice shakers mangled beyond usage over Parcheesi. The game Risk was literally banned for a three year period after a brutal debate over the rightful owner of Russia. Tears, cursing, full on temper tantrums, we do not take defeat easily. I’ve been trained for this sort of viciousness.
But ‘tis the season of giving, and luckily, Christmas carols make excellent ammunition. Paired with my recently acquired immunity, after suffering overexposure on the drive from Tucson to San Antonio, I’m invincible. So bring on those good tidings. Prepare for defeat.
This started in jest as a little game between my brother and me. Right before bed, I’d hit him with a reminder, “Don’t go chasing waterfalls, please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you’re used to.” He’d counterstrike with something along the lines of “What if God was one of us? Just a slob like one of us?” And we’d laugh through gritted teeth, reciting our own personal mantras silently combating the powers of pop music with Beasties lyrics and “Take 5” covers. It became habit to leave without telling each other so we couldn’t sneak TV show theme song lyrics into our goodbyes. We’d hang up phone calls midsentence. Strategies were formed. Timing was everything. You sing a few bars of “Proud to be an American” before someone gets in the shower, no rinse and repeat methods are going to get it out.
The game spread quickly and soon alliances were formed. Lists carried for easily accessible rapid fire. Being a veteran on the outskirts of town, I’ve been left to fend for myself. My cell phone has been bombarded with texted lyrics and long distance voicemails that leave only artist and song title. Whispers of Bon Jovi were shot in my direction as I was drifting off to sleep earlier this week. Jukeboxes were stockpiled with pristine ammunition. Meatloaf was brought out. The battle has been long. There have been many casualties.
If there’s one thing games with my siblings have taught me, it’s that when in battle, anything goes. I’ve seen dice shakers mangled beyond usage over Parcheesi. The game Risk was literally banned for a three year period after a brutal debate over the rightful owner of Russia. Tears, cursing, full on temper tantrums, we do not take defeat easily. I’ve been trained for this sort of viciousness.
But ‘tis the season of giving, and luckily, Christmas carols make excellent ammunition. Paired with my recently acquired immunity, after suffering overexposure on the drive from Tucson to San Antonio, I’m invincible. So bring on those good tidings. Prepare for defeat.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Minneapolis, MN (music; george thorogood)
Faces I had grown accustom to have transformed into a newer, younger, Ugg wearing crowd. Different baristas. Different timing on the same series of street lights. Familiar folks on newer bikes. I'm stuck in one of those puzzle books I'd sift through during long car rides as a child. Examine the page thoroughly. Now turn to page twelve. What has changed? The clock is set to four instead of two, the juice has been replaced with coffee. The girl is behind a steering wheel instead of a counter. Things are just different enough to be new. I've been gone just long enough to be considered a visitor. As much as the details have changed, I'm growing accustom to the predictability of introductions.
The Chris Farley;
The first and most common response to my job involves the statement, “So, you live in a van?... Down by the river!” within the first four sentences. This lost its charm rather quickly and now rates up with Wedding Day Jewelers radio ads, Mr. T infomercials, and Kathy Griffin- bearable, but not as clever as intended.
The firework;
A slow evolving introduction ending in a bang. These are usually the folks I have previously met. More often than not, they are not bikers (If they were, they'd be riding Orbeas). It begins with one of those slow motion head nods. Their facial expression starting out in furred brow, puzzled, and seemingly interested. It is commonly followed up by asking whether I plan on returning to school at some point. Around sentence six, as if on a timer, the smirk starts to unfold and eruption begins. Comments involve the decreasing likelihood of finding a man to settle down with given my limited exposure to each city and my inability to commit to anything without two wheels. These are usually stated as they turn to walk away, start to stand up from the table, or reach for their cell phone. It's clever, but still only at second place.
The Hi-yo Silver;
This involves commenting on me being "somewhat of a Lone Ranger" which baffles me for three reasons.
1) Roughly 64% of the folks who mention this haven’t seen or heard a full episode of the Lone Ranger.
2) I have no Tanto, an integral part of the Lone Ranger's survival. (I do not consider the van to be a candidate for this position for several reasons that wouldn't be justly explained without a flowchart.)
3) The Lone Ranger code. The moral guidelines for which he lived his masked life. I don't have one of these, but it has got me to thinking about what it would entail if I did.
Unfortunately for these folks, the time I could be investing in creating a scroll of my moral code is being spent determining which handshake to use on those relishing in one of these three responses. Handshakes are the greatest silent response to truly let someone know how you feel about them. In my experience, most folks who fall into these categories tend to deserve an elongated handshake turned bro-hug, or even the rare breed of handshake turned face grasp. I guess my moral code would have to involve something about determining your own fate.
Seasons Greetings.
The Chris Farley;
The first and most common response to my job involves the statement, “So, you live in a van?... Down by the river!” within the first four sentences. This lost its charm rather quickly and now rates up with Wedding Day Jewelers radio ads, Mr. T infomercials, and Kathy Griffin- bearable, but not as clever as intended.
The firework;
A slow evolving introduction ending in a bang. These are usually the folks I have previously met. More often than not, they are not bikers (If they were, they'd be riding Orbeas). It begins with one of those slow motion head nods. Their facial expression starting out in furred brow, puzzled, and seemingly interested. It is commonly followed up by asking whether I plan on returning to school at some point. Around sentence six, as if on a timer, the smirk starts to unfold and eruption begins. Comments involve the decreasing likelihood of finding a man to settle down with given my limited exposure to each city and my inability to commit to anything without two wheels. These are usually stated as they turn to walk away, start to stand up from the table, or reach for their cell phone. It's clever, but still only at second place.
The Hi-yo Silver;
This involves commenting on me being "somewhat of a Lone Ranger" which baffles me for three reasons.
1) Roughly 64% of the folks who mention this haven’t seen or heard a full episode of the Lone Ranger.
2) I have no Tanto, an integral part of the Lone Ranger's survival. (I do not consider the van to be a candidate for this position for several reasons that wouldn't be justly explained without a flowchart.)
3) The Lone Ranger code. The moral guidelines for which he lived his masked life. I don't have one of these, but it has got me to thinking about what it would entail if I did.
Unfortunately for these folks, the time I could be investing in creating a scroll of my moral code is being spent determining which handshake to use on those relishing in one of these three responses. Handshakes are the greatest silent response to truly let someone know how you feel about them. In my experience, most folks who fall into these categories tend to deserve an elongated handshake turned bro-hug, or even the rare breed of handshake turned face grasp. I guess my moral code would have to involve something about determining your own fate.
Seasons Greetings.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Minneapolis, MN (music; the everly brothers)
Upon getting hired, I crammed the essentials into my suitcase & parted ways with the rest of my belongings- a decision I never invested much thought into with exception of a few items. Yeah all of those tee shirts are up for grabs, take ‘em. Eh wait. Yeah, it’s still up for grabs, it’s just.. See this isn’t a reprint. This is an original. Were you a fan? Yeah, yeah, we all were. I get it, but did you have the sheets? The lunch box? Playing cards, huh? Weren’t those free from cereal boxes for a while? Well, here- this one’s probably a better fit for you. It’s similar. Take this one. No way, Weezer is just old enough to be hip again. See, New Kids on the Block is just, see, it’s.. you can’t recreate this. I know it’s a trend right now but this sort of t-shirt is an investment, not a momentary fad. See how it’s thread bare but has no holes? It needs care. It needs the sort of owner whose going to stick with it when horn rimmed glasses and beards go out of style and you don’t strike me as a commitment guy.
In town for the holidays, Ive been staying in the same apartment I used to live in, in the empty version of my room. I’m half expectant of my boxes to be dropped off at any moment. The dresser dusted off from storage will be refilled with the torn jeans I parted ways with. Paintings rehung where the empty nails still sit waiting. It hasn’t truly sunken in yet that it's all gone. An empty room, a suitcase, and me. Having mistakenly purchased 100 watt light bulbs, there is truly nowhere to hide. Fearing the truth catching up with me, and sunburn, I’ve been doing my best to stay away.
First day back I slept on a familiar couch. Day two, I caved and shared a bed. A pillow barrier dividing us as we both feigned sleep, awaiting uncomfortable confrontation. Day three, I went to Target. I walked longingly through home décor. I stood wide eyed in the camping department, looking at the miniature tent models. A few paces down, I did a double take in front of a hammock display. Freestanding, easy storage, with carrying case. Perfect. In brisk pace, I walked gleefully to the register. I began humming the Gillian’s Island theme song. I froze steps away from the checkout line- Gilligan and Skipper in mid-swing on their double decker hammocks.
A scene flashed to mind of an evening out at a local establishment. I found myself engaged in fulfilling conversation over choice beverages with a dashing young gentleman caller.
Flash to me standing in a doorway, attempting to explain a lone hammock. In an empty room. Under 100 watt lighting.
I bought an air mattress.
In town for the holidays, Ive been staying in the same apartment I used to live in, in the empty version of my room. I’m half expectant of my boxes to be dropped off at any moment. The dresser dusted off from storage will be refilled with the torn jeans I parted ways with. Paintings rehung where the empty nails still sit waiting. It hasn’t truly sunken in yet that it's all gone. An empty room, a suitcase, and me. Having mistakenly purchased 100 watt light bulbs, there is truly nowhere to hide. Fearing the truth catching up with me, and sunburn, I’ve been doing my best to stay away.
First day back I slept on a familiar couch. Day two, I caved and shared a bed. A pillow barrier dividing us as we both feigned sleep, awaiting uncomfortable confrontation. Day three, I went to Target. I walked longingly through home décor. I stood wide eyed in the camping department, looking at the miniature tent models. A few paces down, I did a double take in front of a hammock display. Freestanding, easy storage, with carrying case. Perfect. In brisk pace, I walked gleefully to the register. I began humming the Gillian’s Island theme song. I froze steps away from the checkout line- Gilligan and Skipper in mid-swing on their double decker hammocks.
A scene flashed to mind of an evening out at a local establishment. I found myself engaged in fulfilling conversation over choice beverages with a dashing young gentleman caller.
Flash to me standing in a doorway, attempting to explain a lone hammock. In an empty room. Under 100 watt lighting.
I bought an air mattress.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Minneapolis, MN (music; seu jorge)
I've arrived back in Minneapolis during finals week. The couches I've been staying on all belonging to students, it's left me more appreciative to the recent coursework I've been exposed to in the last month.
Fundamentals of sterilization; covering hotel rooms to rest stops. Final evaluation including but not limited to timed test for emergency situations and 'would you rather' essay question.
Hotel 101; judging the book by its cover. Wide array of topics covered including personalization & character judgement.
Dietary Science; you are what you eat. Road friendly foods, the pros & cons of hotel breakfasts & house stays, hotel room cooking. *Includes weekly guest lectures...
"It's still possible to make smart decisions while dining on the road. The way I see it, there are a couple things that one must consider when choosing a mobile snack.
1) Portability. Convenience is a must, and the foodstuff must be able to be consumed one-handed.
2) Cost-per-calorie. They pay you well, but not that well. One mustn't try to survive off of low-calorie foods like celery.
3) Availability. Your snack of choice must be readily accessible nationwide. Thus, no tofurkey-jerky or flax-seed-wheat-germ pretzel crackers.
4) Taste. Savory is a must. Too much sweet will make your teeth fall out of your face, and hearty, savory snacks will make your ride that much more enjoyable.
5) Ease of digestion. Say no to chile-powder dusted mango slices and flamin' hot cheetos. Can't have the runs while you've pushing ten tons of sexy van, now can you?"
(Thanks for the tips!)
Fundamentals of sterilization; covering hotel rooms to rest stops. Final evaluation including but not limited to timed test for emergency situations and 'would you rather' essay question.
Hotel 101; judging the book by its cover. Wide array of topics covered including personalization & character judgement.
Dietary Science; you are what you eat. Road friendly foods, the pros & cons of hotel breakfasts & house stays, hotel room cooking. *Includes weekly guest lectures...
"It's still possible to make smart decisions while dining on the road. The way I see it, there are a couple things that one must consider when choosing a mobile snack.
1) Portability. Convenience is a must, and the foodstuff must be able to be consumed one-handed.
2) Cost-per-calorie. They pay you well, but not that well. One mustn't try to survive off of low-calorie foods like celery.
3) Availability. Your snack of choice must be readily accessible nationwide. Thus, no tofurkey-jerky or flax-seed-wheat-germ pretzel crackers.
4) Taste. Savory is a must. Too much sweet will make your teeth fall out of your face, and hearty, savory snacks will make your ride that much more enjoyable.
5) Ease of digestion. Say no to chile-powder dusted mango slices and flamin' hot cheetos. Can't have the runs while you've pushing ten tons of sexy van, now can you?"
(Thanks for the tips!)
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Dallas, TX (music; shoutoutlouds)
The city has become an ex-boyfriend I've run into at the grocery store, arm and arm with a new woman. I find myself lusting for it.
In three hours I will be face to face with our history. We'll exchange knowing glances that silently sift through our past. The small irritating attributes that seperate us have become endearing. Sleep with the window open, leave your toothpaste remains in the sink. It's wasn't you, it was me.
I'm looking forward to coffee shops that aren't Starbucks. Sleeping in rooms that aren't filled with the stench of overstarched linens and eternal sadness. Starting a brief love afair with the city I can't commit to. Appreciating the details.
Except for the taxis on Nicollet. Fuck 'em.
In three hours I will be face to face with our history. We'll exchange knowing glances that silently sift through our past. The small irritating attributes that seperate us have become endearing. Sleep with the window open, leave your toothpaste remains in the sink. It's wasn't you, it was me.
I'm looking forward to coffee shops that aren't Starbucks. Sleeping in rooms that aren't filled with the stench of overstarched linens and eternal sadness. Starting a brief love afair with the city I can't commit to. Appreciating the details.
Except for the taxis on Nicollet. Fuck 'em.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Euless, TX (music; grandmaster flash & the furious five)
I've been skinny my whole life, as far as I know. My baby pictures are mysteriously missing and there is a large chunk of childhood I don't remember. So I suppose it is possible that during that time frame I was being bussed between home & Montel William's studios one of those you dont know me, you can't judge me. My baby loves oreos dipped in crisco and there aint nothin you can do abouts it sort of things. But from what I remember, I've always been skinny.
Fast food and chains are a general no-go for me which helps. Lately though, the concern isn't quality, it's quantity. Working twelve hour work days in the shop, there was no way to fit in three squares a day without feeling guilty. But on the road it's a different story. The other demo drivers relish in secret local hot spot eaterys which adds a level of unnecessary competition to every meal. Where'd you go? Oh, what a shame. Oh it's nothing. No, I'm sure it WAS good. Oh me? A glass enclosed hot air balloon basket overlooking the grandcanyon where I was served truffles and sushi handrolled and delivered by Kevin Bacon. With Oprah. At sunset.
I had been warned that all demo drivers put on a few pounds, but this was not a fate I was willing to accept. The first few weeks I laughed in the face of scales. Nothing. Not a gram. Attempting to fit in as many hours on a saddle as I did in the driver's seat, I had achieved an exhausting yet attainable balance. And I could eat cake.
E-mails came in questioning my current state, attaching pictures of the body that could be mine with Little Debbie's help. Special travel arrangement suggetions reminded me that having to buy a second airline seat should not be a shameful event. I was assured that blaming the holidays was an acceptable excuse. It infiltrated my dreams. Jeans with elastic wastebands danced in my head. ... I in my moo-moo, my suitcase unpacked. Had just gobbled down two stale fruitcakes for snack.
Let me assure you, not everything is bigger in Texas. Not yet anyhow.
Fast food and chains are a general no-go for me which helps. Lately though, the concern isn't quality, it's quantity. Working twelve hour work days in the shop, there was no way to fit in three squares a day without feeling guilty. But on the road it's a different story. The other demo drivers relish in secret local hot spot eaterys which adds a level of unnecessary competition to every meal. Where'd you go? Oh, what a shame. Oh it's nothing. No, I'm sure it WAS good. Oh me? A glass enclosed hot air balloon basket overlooking the grandcanyon where I was served truffles and sushi handrolled and delivered by Kevin Bacon. With Oprah. At sunset.
I had been warned that all demo drivers put on a few pounds, but this was not a fate I was willing to accept. The first few weeks I laughed in the face of scales. Nothing. Not a gram. Attempting to fit in as many hours on a saddle as I did in the driver's seat, I had achieved an exhausting yet attainable balance. And I could eat cake.
E-mails came in questioning my current state, attaching pictures of the body that could be mine with Little Debbie's help. Special travel arrangement suggetions reminded me that having to buy a second airline seat should not be a shameful event. I was assured that blaming the holidays was an acceptable excuse. It infiltrated my dreams. Jeans with elastic wastebands danced in my head. ... I in my moo-moo, my suitcase unpacked. Had just gobbled down two stale fruitcakes for snack.
Let me assure you, not everything is bigger in Texas. Not yet anyhow.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Dallas, TX (Lyle Lovett)
Somedays you're the bug and somedays you're the windshield. Though every so often, you're the gas station attendant stuck sitting in the sweltering heat for hours to have a single car pull up only for you to wipe those bugs off of the windshield while they glare at you and deny you a tip for your efforts. I haven't been that guy this week, I've been the bits of remaining cowpie on the underside of his boot.
My rant on Christmas music came back and bit me hard. I realized I had left my ipod in Tempe a few hours into my drive, leaving me with country versions of carols for the eighteen hour drive. It was someones way of attempting to brainwash me into enjoying Christmas songs- and I'd say it didn't work, but I think the rebuttle would result in my radio quitting all together, and I'd rather have Sinatra than silence.
A local shop planned a road ride for me in San Antonio. I asked for a mellow 40 to 50 miles, as I had driven straight from Tuscon and hadn't slept yet. As I left and caught them exchanging smirks and elbows to ribs. They were out to kill me. The route was hilly, though I'm a fan of attempting to rip my legs from my body on little sleep. Then the wind picked up. The route changed. They had dumped me into a makeshift cyclecross course. Adding countless bruises to my ensemble, I kept on. Weaving back and forth between dirt path and road shoulders I had plenty of time to consider why I wouldn't want to mess with Texas. Spit on, cursed at, and swerved at by drivers or face planting into their great American soil I emerged from the ride a true patriot. Red with fresh twig claw marks, drained white with pure defeat and exhaustion, blue bruises tattooing the trail map onto my arms & legs. I was truly an American.
(Lost; just rode down the cement slope of the underpass behind me)
My rant on Christmas music came back and bit me hard. I realized I had left my ipod in Tempe a few hours into my drive, leaving me with country versions of carols for the eighteen hour drive. It was someones way of attempting to brainwash me into enjoying Christmas songs- and I'd say it didn't work, but I think the rebuttle would result in my radio quitting all together, and I'd rather have Sinatra than silence.
A local shop planned a road ride for me in San Antonio. I asked for a mellow 40 to 50 miles, as I had driven straight from Tuscon and hadn't slept yet. As I left and caught them exchanging smirks and elbows to ribs. They were out to kill me. The route was hilly, though I'm a fan of attempting to rip my legs from my body on little sleep. Then the wind picked up. The route changed. They had dumped me into a makeshift cyclecross course. Adding countless bruises to my ensemble, I kept on. Weaving back and forth between dirt path and road shoulders I had plenty of time to consider why I wouldn't want to mess with Texas. Spit on, cursed at, and swerved at by drivers or face planting into their great American soil I emerged from the ride a true patriot. Red with fresh twig claw marks, drained white with pure defeat and exhaustion, blue bruises tattooing the trail map onto my arms & legs. I was truly an American.
(Lost; just rode down the cement slope of the underpass behind me)
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Tempe, AZ (music; Feist)
I've never spent this time of year in a warm climate. As far back as I can remember I'd reach October and lose feeling in my toes. The numbness would spread gradually upwards until spring when I would thaw out, top to bottom, only regaining feeling in my toes before the first frost of the next season. I'd always imagined growing up and moving as far away from winter's wretched grasp as possible. Naturally, I was overjoyed at the prospect of getting paid for my escape. My postcards to family have been simply location, current temprature, signature.
In some sick joke, my body has begun to betray me. I caught myself shivering at 40 this evening. I went into the bathroom and stared in myself in the mirror, as a horrified mother would her toddler, pitching a fit in a library. You quit this right now. I can take out out of this climate as quickly as I brought you into it, young lady. Oh, I see, a sweatshirt? What are those MITTENS? You straighen yourself up or claim a new state to be from. I'm starting to break.
Hearing holiday music here went from humorous to just irritating. Usually, I am far from a Christmas music fan. Hearing someone slaughter the high notes of "Oh Holy Night," at some point becomes a personal attack. You should have the right to defend yourself as you see fit. Butcher the national anthem. Sabatoge Mariah Carey when you're alone in your car. But if you can't hit that note, don't try**. Lately though, I can't turn the station. That frozen feeling creeps back through me and I sit. Baffled.
Folks here don't know the half of these songs. The imagery of "Let it Snow..." cannot be fully appreciated without having ever remembered trash pick up at the last minute and having to drag the garbage can and recycling out of the garage in single digit temps. With negative windchills. In slippers. Without gloves on.
States like these need a different soundtrack, B-sides options that don't include certain words like snow or frost. You can't listen to "Walking in a Winter Wonderland" in the desert. I get it, I've been known to sing "Sweet Home Alabama" under the right circumstances. But this is different. This is sacred. I feel as though I'm in a Christmas themed party in July. The decorations are up. The glow of the yule log is on the local station. But the weather outside is not, as some may say, frightful. Not even close.
For getting away with this for so long, we get to keep "Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas." You can have "Everyone's a kid at Christmas time." Take it or leave it.
**Exceptions to this rule involve Baileys, an organ, and the same rumpled ill-distributed pages of holiday classics my family purposely butchers each year out of spite. Dear Jesus, no new puppy for you, but we got you this, ahem...)
In some sick joke, my body has begun to betray me. I caught myself shivering at 40 this evening. I went into the bathroom and stared in myself in the mirror, as a horrified mother would her toddler, pitching a fit in a library. You quit this right now. I can take out out of this climate as quickly as I brought you into it, young lady. Oh, I see, a sweatshirt? What are those MITTENS? You straighen yourself up or claim a new state to be from. I'm starting to break.
Hearing holiday music here went from humorous to just irritating. Usually, I am far from a Christmas music fan. Hearing someone slaughter the high notes of "Oh Holy Night," at some point becomes a personal attack. You should have the right to defend yourself as you see fit. Butcher the national anthem. Sabatoge Mariah Carey when you're alone in your car. But if you can't hit that note, don't try**. Lately though, I can't turn the station. That frozen feeling creeps back through me and I sit. Baffled.
Folks here don't know the half of these songs. The imagery of "Let it Snow..." cannot be fully appreciated without having ever remembered trash pick up at the last minute and having to drag the garbage can and recycling out of the garage in single digit temps. With negative windchills. In slippers. Without gloves on.
States like these need a different soundtrack, B-sides options that don't include certain words like snow or frost. You can't listen to "Walking in a Winter Wonderland" in the desert. I get it, I've been known to sing "Sweet Home Alabama" under the right circumstances. But this is different. This is sacred. I feel as though I'm in a Christmas themed party in July. The decorations are up. The glow of the yule log is on the local station. But the weather outside is not, as some may say, frightful. Not even close.
For getting away with this for so long, we get to keep "Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas." You can have "Everyone's a kid at Christmas time." Take it or leave it.
**Exceptions to this rule involve Baileys, an organ, and the same rumpled ill-distributed pages of holiday classics my family purposely butchers each year out of spite. Dear Jesus, no new puppy for you, but we got you this, ahem...)
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Tucson, AZ (music; Sufjan Stevens)
Todays ride, Mount Lemmon. Twenty-five miles to base of mountain. Twenty-five mile climb.
(enroute to top)
(Inspirational office poster. Add your own quote)
I spotted this enroute to the mountain. The print under the window says "Flip-Flops for Coyboys." I was so baffled I had to swing in on the way back. Sadly, they did not carry flip-flips with gunholsters or anything in a galosh.
I don't think a coyboy would take too kindly to his footwear being grouped together with a shoe that's commonly sold be-dazzled.
(enroute to top)
(Inspirational office poster. Add your own quote)
I spotted this enroute to the mountain. The print under the window says "Flip-Flops for Coyboys." I was so baffled I had to swing in on the way back. Sadly, they did not carry flip-flips with gunholsters or anything in a galosh.
I don't think a coyboy would take too kindly to his footwear being grouped together with a shoe that's commonly sold be-dazzled.
Tucson, AZ (music; Girl Talk)
We all have our secrets.
I have one of those pens where the clothes fall off of a 50's pin up girl when you turn it upside down. I also watched Buffy last night. As in the Vampire Slayer.
I've never had any desire to watch Buffy. Something about watching a busty blond "save the world from vampires, demons, and forces of darkness" as the cover solicits just never summoned my interest.
I'm a biography girl. If Sarah Michelle Gellar and her high school comrades actually did fend off vampires, I'd be into it. I'd probably have read it by now- had it autographed at her book signing at the local mall as her sales teetered near Ann Frank territory. But she didn't.
This all came about in a don't knock it 'til you've tried it sort of way. When the box set found itself fed-ex'd to my doorstep, I knew it was only a matter of time. Not so much out of my own curiosity but out of my Catholic guilt. Someone sent this to you from half way across the country and you aren't even going to watch it? They're going to ask you about it, and then what? You're going to lie? Images of my grandmother flashed to mind. My elementary school uniform.
My real qualm is what if I like it? I've read Green Eggs & Ham. What if I really get into it? I'd be one step closer to ordering one of those Harry Potter wands out of the Skymall catalogue. I'd be in the same mind set of not only dressing up for the Renaissance festival, but learning a fake language and staying in character outside of fair hours. Speakith in the third person. Then what?
What if this is only a gateway drug?
I have one of those pens where the clothes fall off of a 50's pin up girl when you turn it upside down. I also watched Buffy last night. As in the Vampire Slayer.
I've never had any desire to watch Buffy. Something about watching a busty blond "save the world from vampires, demons, and forces of darkness" as the cover solicits just never summoned my interest.
I'm a biography girl. If Sarah Michelle Gellar and her high school comrades actually did fend off vampires, I'd be into it. I'd probably have read it by now- had it autographed at her book signing at the local mall as her sales teetered near Ann Frank territory. But she didn't.
This all came about in a don't knock it 'til you've tried it sort of way. When the box set found itself fed-ex'd to my doorstep, I knew it was only a matter of time. Not so much out of my own curiosity but out of my Catholic guilt. Someone sent this to you from half way across the country and you aren't even going to watch it? They're going to ask you about it, and then what? You're going to lie? Images of my grandmother flashed to mind. My elementary school uniform.
My real qualm is what if I like it? I've read Green Eggs & Ham. What if I really get into it? I'd be one step closer to ordering one of those Harry Potter wands out of the Skymall catalogue. I'd be in the same mind set of not only dressing up for the Renaissance festival, but learning a fake language and staying in character outside of fair hours. Speakith in the third person. Then what?
What if this is only a gateway drug?
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Tucson, AZ (music; Arcade Fire)
(enroute to El Paso)
Just outside El Paso traffic was directed off of the highway by the boarder patrol. I rolled my window down, got my ID ready, practiced reciting my job title without stumbling. I adjusted my belongings in the passanger seat, looked through the grate into the back analyzing its contents. I removed the knife from my pocket and put it in my bag. Images flashed in my mind of three small Mexican children tuck and rolling from my van leaving me shackled to a prison wall, like in Three Amigos. My cheeks turned red.
I rolled up to the police shanty and was waved on before reaching a complete stop.
Immediately a new feeling rushed over me.
What? Not menacing enough to get stopped, huh? Don't think a white chick in a flowered van could be sneaking anyone in? Don't think I'm a drug smuggler? We'll see about that when I cross back through...
I really had no desire to be searched. Unloading and loading all of the bikes would have been a huge pain. Justifying tools and oils that could be used for alternative illegal purposes would have been time consuming. Explaining the story behind two knives with my limited Spanish just wouldn't be the same (see, this one has a wooden handle, every collection needs one- not that I'm a collector, I just don't like using plastic ones, you feel me on this?... That one? Well look at it! it's so dainty! and I don't know about you but when I go looking for knives, something foldable and cute just works, right?).
Maybe next time I'll tie a bandana around my face on the way through.
(rest stop; 60 miles outside of Tucson)El Paso, TX (music;jose gonzalez)
He had a checkered shirt on, worn levis and a pair of brown work boots. He pulled his chevy pick up along side the van as I finished fueling. I climbed back into my seat. One hundred thirty miles to El Paso plus food stop. Five hours in. He parked and sauntered over to the van, pausing to spit some chew to his left and adjust his cap.
"Bikes huh?"
"Yes, sir."
His smile didn't say 'Welcome' so much as it said, 'You're clearly not from here and despite the fact that I know the lay of the land and could probably tell you if there's vegetarian food within a fifty mile radious (there isn't) and how to properly restain a calf without causing injury you don't fit in here. We ride horses, chevys, and the bucking bronco at Jo-Bob's back alley grill Thursday nights, not bicycles.'
"That tire looks a little low don't you think"
I didn't look down. I didn't get out of the van. I maintained eye contact and smiled.
"Ah, thanks. You're probably right, it's about that time."
He was missing quite a few teeth and had red dirt caked within the wrinkles of his face. He adjusted his cap, shook his head, and retreated inside to play the slots.
I got out of the van, cleaned the front window and checked the rest of the tires. He was right. It was low. I pulled the van over the the air hose and dug around for quarters. He exited as I alternated from pressure guage to pump, driving slowly as he passed me, gunning it has he exited the lot.
There's a fine line between creepy and nice.
"Bikes huh?"
"Yes, sir."
His smile didn't say 'Welcome' so much as it said, 'You're clearly not from here and despite the fact that I know the lay of the land and could probably tell you if there's vegetarian food within a fifty mile radious (there isn't) and how to properly restain a calf without causing injury you don't fit in here. We ride horses, chevys, and the bucking bronco at Jo-Bob's back alley grill Thursday nights, not bicycles.'
"That tire looks a little low don't you think"
I didn't look down. I didn't get out of the van. I maintained eye contact and smiled.
"Ah, thanks. You're probably right, it's about that time."
He was missing quite a few teeth and had red dirt caked within the wrinkles of his face. He adjusted his cap, shook his head, and retreated inside to play the slots.
I got out of the van, cleaned the front window and checked the rest of the tires. He was right. It was low. I pulled the van over the the air hose and dug around for quarters. He exited as I alternated from pressure guage to pump, driving slowly as he passed me, gunning it has he exited the lot.
There's a fine line between creepy and nice.
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