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And now for something uncharacteristically non-ironic. It’s a really hard time right now for a lot of people, and having stumbled upon this today, I was really struck by how touching it is. Seemed like something we all could use right now.
I give you… Mr. Rogers’ retirement speech. Perhaps the last old guy we really did respect (a little).
I spent the last week in Detroit.
This isn’t the suck-fest it usually is. In fact, it was downright pleasant. My parents, bless their souls, spent their time and (increasingly precious) money spoiling me rotten, and seeing my sister and her fiancée is always fun. Despite being ground zero for the current financial armageddon plaguing the country, the place radiated the same slow-drip echoes of life I’d come to expect of the place.
My post-adolescent anger at the land has long since dried up, and now whenever I visit I’m constantly in awe at the pace of life there; how every emotional impact seems absorbed and slowed as if suspended in a giant vat of Karo syrup. It’s something that I can only appreciate in low doses, but that I can appreciate it at all is progress. And after the punishing few months I’ve spent trapped in a vicious circle of self-doubt and defeat, it was exactly the healing I needed to step back and redefine my path.
That said, the path wasn’t exactly a clear one. The day after Thanksgiving was my 10 year high school reunion. Now, having been someone who never fit in among those his own age, to say I was apprehensive about this reunion was an understatement. I wanted to attend, if for no other reason than to sate my curiosity. I’d made a clean break with a large cast of characters that had followed me for years, and I was admittedly overcome with curiosity as to what became of them, for better or worse. At the same time, I was absolutely terrified of being judged by the same group of milquetoast preppy kids that had failed to accept me years earlier.
After a lengthy review of my personal appearance, I nervously drove my mother’s SUV to downtown Birmingham, a small suburb that fancies itself the Beverly Hills of Detroit. (Not having driven at night in 8 years I was white-knuckle the entire trip.) I walked in and to my surprise was greeted by a small group of guys I remembered well with appreciation and fond memories. These were nice people, and while I didn’t have much to say to them, it gave me some much needed self-confidence.
Conversations generally had a three-minute life to them: I would reintroduce myself, they would reintroduce themselves, we’d feign excitement at seeing each other again and perhaps regurgitate a random memory of the other person, recap what we’d been up to lately, and then find ourselves without further topics of mutual interest. Stammering after a few seconds of awkward silence, we’d politely excuse ourselves and move onto the next person. The lack of name tags meant we were constantly guessing as to who each other were if we didn’t recognize them (we’ve all put on a lot of weight), so some conversations were a polite game of chicken, each of us trying to hide the fact that we MIGHT be able to place the other person’s face, but the name utterly escaped us.
After regurgitating the last decade of my life in sound bite form several times, I became mindful of just how lame it sounded. I wasn’t going for my doctorate, I didn’t have any major credits to my name. In fact, I really had very little to brag about. I began to sweat, and as the loud bar with laser lights and loud music and hockey on the TV started to fill up, I had a sense of panic as my eyes swung across the room, looking for someone who might be open to conversation. As my prospects increasingly dimmed (especially among the women — I never had much interest in those fake and judgmental cunts, and they returned the favor) I decided I had to get the hell out of there.
I don’t regret going. It allowed me to finally close the chapter on that period of my life. Those people don’t matter in any way, and never really did. Also, I had rejected them as much (perhaps more) than they rejected me. But my panicked state was made worse by two things: that I had accomplished so little, and that I had left the car’s headlights on and the car wouldn’t start. (I called my dad to come out and give me a jump, and then laid back in the driver’s seat and reflected.) The day before, my grandparents had asked me if I had been on television lately. Apparently some family friends had called them excitedly after confusing me with the Saturday Night Live announcer’s introduction of Jason Sudeikis.
As the week wore on and I had time to think, I realized that I’ve been chickening out and short-changing myself. I had deprived myself of the possibilities of becoming somebody interesting by burrowing deeper and deeper into my nerd nest, no longer having the experiences nor the ability to communicate with others in a way my dreams required of me. And I vowed to change that.
Found an old notebook of mine, and was struck dumb by a moment of clarity sketched on it. I remember writing this to a friend, 6 years ago.
I suddenly realize that I fear dying. The realization dawned on me, during an idle moment, while my mind was preoccupied with my usual psychotic obsessions. Dying — death, not necessarily of the body, but of the mind. Nothing is scarier to me than the inevitable death of my thought, my memories. Whether these things fade away, or drift into the communal ether is something that even religion can’t (or won’t) answer.
So, why the sudden fear of such a thing? Perhaps because I am starting to realize the fragility of that thing we call “mind.” Whether I can blame chemicals or something more fundamental, the result is the same. I can’t escape it — my mind is failing. I feel it failing — like a weak heart. I can feel my own sanity slipping away from me. It’s absolutely terrifying — every psychotic episode seems like it brings me closer to death.
Assuming, then, that my time as a functional human being is quickly coming to a close, my dreams and aspirations suddenly develop a new sense of urgency. The threat of becoming unable to fulfill my dreams weighs down on me like a cloud of dread. I absolutely cannot afford to stay idle.
Whether I’ve ten useful years left in me, or even five, the clock is ticking, and I must achieve. If I don’t, all of my struggles to keep a hold of my wits will be a complete waste.
I was a senior in college when I wrote this, and suffering from near-crippling bipolar disorder. It was easily one of the worst years of my life, and yet one of my most important and formative. I’m no longer anywhere near that unstable and haven’t been in quite a long time. I sought treatment by a professional, and came out okay.
And yet there are certain aspects of being in that place, that very dark place, that I miss. First and foremost is the sense of direction, the drive, the panic-induced aspiration. It’s been so long since I’ve been on the brink and worried about losing my mind. Stability has robbed me of this, and complacency has set in. Maybe “complacency” is too strong a word, but I’ve most certainly lost the fire in my gut, replaced by a vague sense of unease and discontent.
I’ll be spending the next few months trying to get that back.
Life seemed to turn on a dime last night as the election results came in. I was at my usual haunt, a bar in Greenpoint called Black Rabbit. The night went from tense and nervous at around 7pm to nervous and cautious optimism at 9pm to awed and excited anticipation at 10pm, which exploded into utter jubilation at 11, when every news organization simultaneously called it for Obama. Surrounded by friends, the cheers of like-minded people, and a sense that we may yet crawl out of this horrible cesspool we’ve dug for ourselves, I started to overload. (As McCain gave his concession speech, a huge fire down the street further added to our jitters.)
Today, speaking to my hardcore neo-conservative father and reading the reactions of the now disenfranchised right, I found the resentment I had towards them not fade, but morph into relief that they no longer seemed to matter. I no longer need to fear their ignorance and their selfishness, for the moment at least. Nonetheless, an unholy generational gap has emerged, between those of us who have had friends in other countries before we were allowed to drive, who have grown up in a world of sushi and MySpace and AIM, and those who live in isolation and fear. That such isolation and fear and their violent, reactionary consequences have taken root in a generation that once touted themselves as one of universal love and acceptance will become the joke of history. That America has finally found its footing again is proof that we can reinvent ourselves. I’d be lying if I wasn’t worried about someday turning into something so foolish and outdated myself. But for today, I’ll let the tears flow as I hear stories of inner city, minority youth dreaming of becoming a lawyer, and never fully comprehending the extent of suffering, the small-mindedness, the racism that was overcome. To not revel in this joy today is to deny these things. To not appreciate the difference this seemingly minor change in psychology will make in the lives of people worldwide and others’ perception of us as a people is to turn one’s back on dreams of a better world.
I’m currently obsessed with a new band called Passion Pit, which I first heard on KEXP’s Song of the Day podcast. It’s really experimental electronica, with a gritted-teeth sort of intensity and the innocence of 80s pop. Visually, it’s the sort of music that conveys a sunny fall day on a pleasant street somewhere, as you watch the world go by. I haven’t been this excited about a new band since MGMT.
As I lay back listening to this warm swimming pool of comfort and contemplating a world that suddenly seems like it holds promise of decency and forward thinking, I’m overcome by an utterly alien sense of relief and joy. I don’t know what to do with it. It’s scaring me.
I was at the gym tonight, and one of the plasma displays encircling the weight area was showing the evenings WWE Pro Wrestling event. It was one of the gayest things I’ve ever seen, featuring a man wearing a small bikini bottom, ass cheeks completely exposed, getting “attacked” by a much bigger, masked man complete with dramatic, traumatizing lighting and smoke effects, and finally, in the aftermath, the bikini-bottomed guy stood up, with various trails of dirt streaking his face and body, looking used. The mullet kids behind him cheered wildly.
Jesus. I’m starting to think the WWE is the biggest practical joke ever pulled on the nation’s white trash. I wonder how many of them saw last week’s South Park, which depicted several graphic scenes of gay rape, and they STILL didn’t get that?
Then again, last week I was in the gym at the same time, and looked over to the same monitor in time to see a woman from the audience, whose fleshy folds were hanging over her giant pink pantsuit and whose chin thoroughly dissolved into a glob of flesh that later became her torso, get to come on stage and get to touch the greased up flesh of her 8-foot-tall idol. Despite the woman no longer clearly having a discernible gender of any kind, that was comparatively hetero.
Ahh, America.
I was going to save this for a rainy day, and it was actually pretty nice, but I screwed up my neck in my sleep. As I’m unable to turn my head to the left, it qualifies as a metaphorical rainy day in my book.
The most horrifying shit ever
It will never cease to amaze me, the depths to which grown men and women will sink in the name of entertaining children.
My parents bought this for me on a whim for my 5th birthday. I really didn’t know what to make of it at the time, but I was a media whore and was starved for recorded material, so it ended up in my collection. It didn’t get played very often. On its initial play my mom thought it was so corny she accused my dad of being behind it. He swore innocence, and I believe him. Corny as my dad is sometimes, this is waaay below him.
But god, what a cloying, annoying horrid piece of work. Can you imagine the poor guy who had to record all the different versions for all the various names? (You can hear where the different names are spliced in, barely.)
And what’s with those eyes on the star? He be doin’ some fucked up drugs.
Touch & Dance!
Thank you, Japan, for a world where we can still make fun of a pudgy white kid named Johan.
For years, there was a fruit market on the corner of 30th Avenue and 35th Street, around the block from me. It always had fruit and vegetables beautiful enough to photograph, was a bit too expensive for the neighborhood, and would close around 9 every night whereas other neighborhood fruit markets would stay open all night. I seldom bought anything there, but enjoyed walking by it, taking in the view of some of the most beautiful produce I’d ever seen.
About a year ago, the place closed, and after about six months of construction, in its place opened “Corner 30″, one of many nicely decorated sidewalk cafés on that street.
Many of those sidewalk cafés actually have pretty good food, so I thought I’d give Corner 30 a try. It was overpriced and terrible. Its offerings had no sense of style or identity, and its food tasted like it was made out of obligation. The place closed after only a month, 1/6th of the time it took to build the damn thing.
Six months later, the windows remain papered over. I noticed yesterday that the small potted evergreen bushes sitting outside had died, and somebody had taken (or stolen) the pots, leaving the brown trees collapsed on their clumps of potting soil, ground pointing up at a 45° angle. Perched in front of a clearly ill-conceived business, they seemed like tombstones to the dream of the proprietor, as temporary and as worthless as the dream itself.
So I helped my friend Dylan move apartments today. I hadn’t actually moved or helped move anyone since I made my last move over 7 years ago. It’s amazing how 7 years dull the pain.
As I’m inevitably going to move myself in a few months, it occurs to me that the sooner I get rid of my old high school stereo, the TV I bought when I was 13, my VHS deck, my old mac and the half-billion CDs I don’t like and will never listen to, the better. Because there is nothing more terrifying to me than having to move that stuff.
I come from a long line of pack rats. When I was a kid I used to (kinda) look forward to going to my Chinese grandmother’s place, a large two-story treasure trove of old crap that reeked of mothballs and old food. I never knew what I was going to find there, from a WWII era cigarette lighter to an 8mm projector. My then-college aged uncle also had most of his stuff there, and there were countless old cigar boxes that reeked in ways I would not experience again until college.
In more recent days I had to argue with my father as he clung tenaciously onto his first DVD player, a miniature Sharp model that no longer works at all. “DVD players are $30 now, dad!” I told him. He agreed and exhaled with a sad look on his face, and I instantly understood what he was going through. I glanced over at his reel-to-reel tape deck circa 1972. It had spent over a decade of its life in my bedroom. Next to it was my first bookshelf stereo system, two cassette decks, a turntable, and a Radio Shack audio processor that never seemed to do anything useful. I had lost track of what was originally mine and what was my dad’s. (I should admit here I was less sympathetic to my mother and her over 4 full metal cabinets full of craft supplies she hadn’t touched in over a decade.)
I’ve always been a media collector, be it ancient video game ROM files, anime or obscure movies. In that way, the digital revolution has been a boon to me, as I can sort of have my cake at eat it too, or rather have a perfect reproduction of a 35mm-quality film print without having to keep the 70-pound canister of film. Now that DAYS worth of music can fit on a 25¢ DVD-R and I have the life-long creative output of a small army of movie directors in a binder on my shelf, the media and its related rituals have been lost. Romanticism aside, it seems like a decent trade-off.
In my heart of hearts, I know I’m not going to be able to pair down this collection much. My CD library, much of it serving more a sentimental role than a utilitarian one, will probably not see much more than a 30% reduction. My DVD library, around 500 discs strong, will likely not take a hit at all. But I can try.
Ironically, the first to go seems to be not the media itself, but the engine on which I play it. My bookshelf stereo system, a Sony all-in-one replete with tape deck, AM/FM radio and 5-disc carousel CD changer, is headed for Craig’s List. I can’t remember the last time I used any of those. (I still have a few cassettes, but most of them are unimportant and easily replaced.) More alarming is that the Logitech iPod dock I bought for $30 after rebate sounds considerably better than this old behemoth. So out it goes, along with the quite serviceable but big and ugly turntable my uncle gave me. I was delighted to discover I still had my little portable turntable, the Mister Disc.
Japanese magazine ad for the red version. Only the silver was released in the States.
Originally marketed in Japan with the hysterical name “Sound Burger”, the Mister Disc is a turntable capable of playing full-sized records, but it folds up into a little brick not much bigger than one of my shoes. With a built-in preamp, it hooks right into a modern stereo, and even had headphone jacks. So between my Sirius radio, my iPod dock, and my Mister Disc, my entire stereo system now fits in an 18″ x 9″ square on my computer desk.
We’re living in the future.
I actually bought a CD this week. I haven’t bought a CD in years! But, listening to Pandora on my iPhone, I actually found a song I really liked that just wasn’t available online ANYWHERE. It was a late 80s cover of Elvis Presley’s “Burning Love” by none other than Ronnie Spector. So I found a used copy on half.com for $8 or so.
Jesus, there is only ONE GOOD SONG on this whole freaking disc. And that was it. Every other song was this terrible 80s pop pablum that made me want to sit in a dentist’s waiting room flipping through old issues of Us Weekly. All I could think was, “$8 for THIS? Imagine if I had bought it NEW back in the day!”
And then I remembered that I did. We all did. And we pretended to like it, but every album and CD we bought with a single listenable track made us all die a little inside.
Downloading isn’t what killed the music business. Filler. THAT’S what killed it.
