Beautiful Disease

Moving Day

2009-08-10T09:00:00.000-07:00

*Looks around*

Well, I'm closing up shop here. I needed a bit of a fresh view, and this particular blog host and I weren't seeing eye to eye on what needed to be done to freshen up my world.

See, when I get really, truly, evilly depressed, I make physical changes to try to lighten up. Often literally...my hair is now blondish (my hair will not concede to blonde--it goes red every. single. time.--no matter what color. I have theories about what black dye would end up like, but, er, that would just be a bad idea). Anyhoo, I've set up shop elsewhere...

Come see me!!: http://solitarykitsch.wordpress.com

Funny stuff...just realized that I moved away from Virginia 11 years ago today. Moving day indeed.

Anonymity, Safe Space, and Other Frontiers of Modern Existance

2009-07-20T07:22:00.000-07:00

Warning: Much random thought follows. Not sure if it all comes together in the end.

There's been a bit of a kerfuffle at Duff's SW blog over the last two weeks, owing in part to what is largely a poorly worded gauntlet-throw by our busy author and, well, generalized internet obnoxiousness. There is also a bit of a punk rock debate intermixed, but we'll leave that alone for now...it's a separate issue, though, I grant, one of my personal favorites.

The debate is largely over the condition of anonymity on the internet and how we use it.

Duff's initial reaction appears to have been against commenters who post anonymously, trashing bands and so forth (and, presumably, the truly irritating set who insist on making repulsive remarks about his family--when is this ever necessary??). More precisely, he remarked that people should use their own names. Rightly or wrongly, it inspired scores of his readers to start posting under their own names or connecting their RL names to their online aliases (and, often, the particular ones used at the Loaded site). It seemed to me at the time that he was being reactionary--exactly to what I've not been able to discern (who gives an damn if an anonymous user trashes Green Day or whichever other band is mentioned--band trashing may not be any more conversationally useful than any other form of such behavior, after all), but clearly responding against something that bothered him immensely. Fair enough--his blog, his rules.

This blog is nominally anonymous, in so far as I don't provide my name, but most readers know me personally or I self-disclose by, for instance, directing my students here to read up on explications or some other old post. Yes, I realize that they can read the more personal information, and, truthfully, that's fine with me. I'd rather that they know I am human; I hope that the struggles recounted here could be of help to someone else--a student, a friend, a stranger...it doesn't matter and I don't even need to know, but I would like to think that occasionally this blog can stand as a reminder that someone else is out there, walking a similar road.

As it happens, I already use my RL name in the comment section of Duff's blog. This was a big deal for me at the time I begain posting (I felt so exposed), and, since I link back to these pages, it doesn't take much effort to get my first name.

I use an internet alias here, one I've used over the course of a decade or better, and I seldom post pictures that would identify me, though this is more of a "I hate pictures of myself" problem than a "oh noes they mights figures mes outs*" problem, so I thought I would bite the bullet and share one with you today.

Helpful, isn't it?

This gem, as the shirt suggests, is about 20 years old. I'm not sure how old I was...between 13 & 15, I would imagine, but barring any other identifiers, I can't be sure. Since it wasn't in my room, the posters don't help either, though, truth be told, I probably had many of the same ones back at Chez Kitsch. Oh, and, no, I haven't the slightest idea why I have my hair (OMG--look at all that hair! And the grin. Wow...I used to grin???? See it?) over my face...it was likely a Cousin Itt impersonation, but I might have been trying for Slash, though the photographer could do a waaaaay better Slash than me. But, you know, that picture is a pretty good summation of me: T-shirt, goofy hair, and late-80s music--->me in a nutshell (heck, even now). Anyone who knew me then and still remembers me well enough could easily identify that pic as me, I feel certain. The Duke shirt alone would be a significant tell; if the Duke sweatpants (which I am no doubt wearing) were visible, those too would be a giveaway, I wore them so very often, to the immense annoyance of Tarheels fans I grew up with.

But, I don't expect that people remember me. In fact, that is one of the operating premises of my life. I assume that I'm easily forgotten and of such little consequence that there is never any reason to assume otherwise, so I am caught surprised when people do remember me. So, the anonymity here is also an outgrowth of my standard operating procedure--I generally assume that I am anonymous--more or less--in my everyday life, so it seemed easiest to continue that feeling in the online environment. Thus, the exposure I felt when I first put my name on Duff's comment section; I'm used to a relative amount (however false it may be) of anonymity and to choose to violate that was quite scary.

Another commenter at Shakesville noted recently that she uses her real name when commenting there because she spent so much time hiding and dishonest in her alcoholic days, and I can understand where she is coming from there, too. In fact, when I read that comment, I was a bit stunned. It felt incredibly authentic, something I aspire to, but often mishandle. Authenticity was not why I used my RL name on Duff's blog (I guess); I'm not sure why I did, in truth. All I know is that it felt right at the time, whereas other spaces seem to call for one of my two favorite Internet aliases.**

In the picture above, I was as much myself as any young teen is capable of being--in my best friend's bedroom, goofing off and grinning (just trust me--it's there). I was in the safest of spaces--in the presence of someone I trusted entirely, who, in myriad ways, granted me permission to be whomever I needed to be at that time and space, as I searched for who I would be in the great someday. I think I was perhaps at my most authentic in that moment--goofy, laughing, wanting to be the center of attention, but hiding from the fact of the attention.

Such authenticity is harder to come by now. I've tried to be so many different people, according to the places and times and the demands that are made (or the demands I interpret, which may or may not actually be there). Such is the fact of human existence, of course--we all codeswitch. Many people are forced to live in a private hell for the comfort of others--to violate their authentic selves, lest they be shunned publicly, rather than just privately. Imagine living a life that forces contraction--forces fragmentation beyond the codeswitching we all live within.

Got the pain there? That's empathy. Use it judiciously before going on the attack.

It's funny how often we authenticate our aliases--give the stories behind them, mention how long we've used them (as I did above) and in what contexts. These aliases become a part of our authentic selves, should we use them long and carefully enough. The fragments we create in the aliases initially may bind and reform and reshape us as we grow and change online and off.

The online communities in which we live an participate offer us the possibility of expanded communities, greater empathy, and more opportunities to critically examine HOW we can be authentic, regardless of place, space, or time. The trick is, though, not to lose site of the opportunities by turning the comments into a free-for-all (which is what seems to happen, more often than not). Rather than using aliases as ways of naming ourselves and staking a claim for our selves, we too often use the anonymity to become self-righteous and thoughtless. How much better if we used the "second lives" we can share online to expand, rather than contract and attack. We turn the comment sections of newspapers and blogs into...well, how often do you "avoid reading the comments" because you know how awful they will be (I don't for instance, read comments in newspapers, lest I send myself around the bend)?

Duff made a mistake here: he unintentionally pulled a great big guilt trigger on a number of regular readers and commenters, which bothers me more than I can articulate. Within a few minutes, people began posting first and last names, etc., in order to...what...appease him? It's a peculiar trade-off that I've seen on a number of high-readership blogs; commenters forge a community of sorts--sometimes deliberately and other times just by the circumstance of participating together regularly. The blogger, however, operates in a special zone in the community, which will tend to bend to his or her will or outright reject it. A study of this habit in miniature can be seen in the comments from the blog in the week preceding the one linked above.

I don't believe that he intended such a response--he's never struck me as that sort of manipulator (even if he is a youngest child *grin*), but the revelations--the exposure of names--happened nonetheless, even by people who were offended by the remark that commenters should reveal ~~more than he or she may be comfortable with~~*** the nebulous truth of their names. I *think* (see previous remarks on understanding one's hero vs. taking wild guesses, the latter of which is really what I am doing) he was merely getting at avoiding bad behavior and generalized obnoxiousness--to quote Fred Clark (again): "[s]imply follow the Golden Rule because it will protect you from becoming a gaping asshole."

When we enter a blog, we enter what can be a safe space for sharing, reflection, thinking, and, yes, humor at one an other's expense. We are invited to enter someone's thoughts--a fragment of their own self--and we should respect that. His blog; his rules. But, we should, I think, find ways to encourage each other's growth and voice--help each of us find our inner goofy kid, hiding behind her hair, hoping to be noticed and terrified that she might be, grinning and laughing. Damn, we'd be so much happier if we all got a little goofy together, rather than taking offense, going on the attack, and generally engaging in gaping assholery.

*Props to K. for providing proper Internetz speak here. I'm not yet conversational in the dialect, though I feel competent in my reading ability of such.

**solitarykitsch (of course) and, well, suffice to say that the other involves a long story and Trixter.

***The more I thought about that phrasing, the more wrong it seemed--he never asked for giving beyond comfort per se, though people certainly took it that way.

What I Learned: Running is Cheaper than Therapy

2009-07-14T05:36:00.000-07:00

Actually, running is not cheaper than therapy, the shoes, after all, are not covered by insurance, and they alone will flatten your wallet. But, I love the notion. Moreover, I love that the notion is so common--that there are so many of us for whom running IS therapeutic--that the sentiment ended up on a hat. This post was, of course, supposed to be up and complete sometime last week, but it was neither, as it was still trapped in the confines of my head, and I think the ensuing events of the weekend make the delay a good thing, at least in terms of my ability to articulate what I learned while training for my first marathon.

And, yes, I do suspect and intend that it will not be my last. I enjoyed both the process (mostly) and the event (tremendously) so much that I cannot imagine never running another one. Trouble is now, of course, picking one...so many options. Can't afford all of them, but, hey, nothing wrong with a dream right? Big Sur to Carmel and Vienna, I'm looking at you. The half marathon in my hometown is a heck of a treat to look forward to in the meantime.

So what did I learn in this process and why did I undertake it in the first place? Let's begin here, then: gratitude. I learned a heck of a lot about gratitude during this adventure.

G., of course, deserves several hat tips for even putting up with me as I figured out what I was doing, which shoes really did work best for me, what caloric intake I needed to prevent the bad attitude from appearing, in addition to the hours I spent off and running on Saturdays. He even moved the "big breakfast" morning to Sundays, so that I could run early (early being something of a requirement in the South) on Saturdays and still be able to share the weekly bacon-fest with the kids on Sundays (the kids also deserve kudos--esp. TG, who has assured me that he's going to join me on a race next year). And, bless his heart, G. excels at not rolling his eyes at me when I find yet "another run I really, really, really want to do" or wax ecstatic over this running adventure or that one. I suppose the running commentary (har, har) is something of a relief for him from my normal obsessive streaks.

Speaking of which, I do have to thank Duff, Jeff, Geoff, and Mike from Loaded, who not only provided much of my mental soundtrack (since I don't wear earphones, I rely on whatever my brain is processing. Thank goodness "Sick" came out when it did) during training, and were kind enough to schedule a show in Nashville in honor of my first 15 miler. Okay, so the date of the show and the particular run were simply kismet, but it was a hell of a celebration--at least for me. And Duff, who was on the receiving end of more than one tweet regarding surviving "the big one," was kind enough to send good mantras and congrats. So, thanks gentlemen.

And while we are on the subject of people who have cheered me on from afar and put up with occasional panicked twittering on the subject, my buddy Mad has been a lifeline of understanding and advice. As ever, Mad, thank you--and I wish we were closer; I'd love to run one with you. Rhyte and DD also cheered from afar, and I am most grateful that DD took the chance to email me back in April. I'm so glad to have met you both. Rhyte--you'll rock in October, lady. Keep running!

Locally, I have my running buddies (someday we'll all manage to run together, eh?) J and K, who rock my world and are always way more hopeful about my chances for success than I am. Add to them the tremendous emotional support I got from the office cheering squad--Kelly, Jill, Charles (P.E. profs are so awesome!), Amy, Diane, Chris, Penny, and Sara (who never fails to ask how the morning run went), and the folks from both campuses and from church who followed my progress on race day. Thank you all.

Thank you, too, to the guy who pulled over to make sure I was okay when I fell this weekend, mid-run. I was, or thought I was, but I appreciated your kindness so very much as I dusted my wounded pride and knee. As it turns out, the spill was a bit more significant than I thought at the time. Seems I bruised my ribs, having fallen on the titanium plating that constitutes my right elbow and Humerus. *Sigh* But, I am grateful that this was my first fall--grateful and amazed, given the level of clumsiness that I operate at regularly (see titanium plate mention above. Me and Rollerblades. Terrible combination).

Thank you to the dogs who joined my runs and made me laugh--especially my boy George, who followed me home and stayed. George can also be credited with making me more attentive to my world, which allowed me to see young Agnes in the road; I'm grateful to have such a sweet (usually) young kitten around the house. And, of course, many thanks to the event planners for the Seattle Rock N' Roll marathon, who did such an incredible job.

To my fellow runners--thank you. The guys who recognized me as a newbie and gave me a pep talk before the run. The woman behind me who actually said that this was her "recovery marathon" (she'd run one the week before)--yeah, call me awestruck. The woman who remarked that "we're still in fucking Tukwila?" somewhere along the line. The guy who pointed out the bald eagle in Seward Park, and the guy dressed as Dee Snider (so rocked). And, the spectators throughout, who cheered and occasionally brought out the garden hose to cool down those who wished to do so. I feel so lucky to have been a part of this particular tribe of folk for a while.

My final thanks go to the volunteers who staffed the water stations during the marathon. 25,000 runners means that not only do the planners have to do their job in getting everything arranged, but they rely on the kindnesses of volunteers to stand on the roadsides with water and sports drinks and the occasional GU packet--and SCORES of volunteers are needed to make it work. As I ran through Tukwila and Seattle and the more tired I got, the more I looked forward to seeing their smiles (and, yes, the hydration they were about to bestow). It was difficult to remember to look up and say "thank you," but it also seemed important to do so. I recall thinking about communion services during the run--the sharing of bread and cup--this is exactly what the volunteers were doing. They gave of themselves to help others; they provided sustenance and, in effect, sanctuary for people they did not know and would likely never know. They performed the art of sharing at the table magnificently. I was touched and grateful and delighted to see the action of compassion on the part of volunteers and gratitude on the part of runners. I tried to carry that back to church last week, when I led at the table. Gratitude and compassion as verbs--actions you perform, not just emotions you feel.

For 25,000 runners, there were 25,000 reasons to run. She might of been celebrating her love of the endorphin rush, but the guy beside her in mile 10.5 was celebrating his overcoming of fear. He was running his 125th, and the other guy his first. She was running in honor of her 10 years in remission, while the woman three feet behind her was running in memory of her daughter. Scores of people. Scores of reasons for being there. At least one of us on the course was celebrating 140 days sober, though she couldn't have given you that day count at the time (and had to look it up a few moments ago to check). Whatever our reason for being--we were there: we celebrated together, shared at the same tables, and yanked ourselves along the same finish.

Why did I run? Well, initially it was just a way to keep sober. I felt awful, angry, undisciplined, and a plethora of other emotions at the time I decided to regain control of my life. I hated that I was unable to learn to be a "good drinker"; at the time, I was perhaps as upset about that as the lack of control. I felt like a failure. I was depressed (the ups and downs have not gone away of course, but they have begun to moderate at this point). The decision to run in a marathon was, perhaps, a desperation move, but it provided a goal and a distraction. Eventually, the practice brought discipline and calm. In the end, it provided excitement--and, as Mad put it, it is damn difficult to think yourself worthless and incapable when you complete 26.2 miles.

I am an addict and that will never change. I can choose to give in to the demonic side of that condition or I can choose to redirect its obsessive energies into a different kind of high (though, Rev. Dean did point out that this too can go overboard--he promises to stage an intervention if I start showing signs of anorexia. He was joking at the time (I think), but I'd rather like to hold him to that--I'll keep an eye on me, but it sure helps to have friends who are willing to do the same and make note of when my feet are too much in the fire, especially when I'm led astray by my other beautiful disease--my OCD). I am so delighted to have found a way to make my potentially (and often) negative exceptionalism (the OCD) positive. Running is a good thing. Marathons are fabulous.

Even injured, I can see the wonder and excitement, and I look forward to running again (tried this morning. Made it only .5 mile before having to walk the rest). Even a few months ago, I would have castigated myself for the fall and the inability to recover quickly--but, you know what? I'll get there--it will take time and it will require relying on others on occasion, but I can do that.

I ran 26.2 miles. I can do anything.

Seattle Striding, or Toenails are for Sissies

2009-07-07T07:44:00.000-07:00

Took a bit o' time off from blogging (and training) in order to...

well, I'm not really sure what I did. The living room is painted, and the work is largely complete, but beyond that?

Oh yeah, I walked the dog. Much dog walking in the last week or so.

So, the marathon. The image below captures the finish line and the view of the Viaduct on which we ran the latter half of the marathon. Oh, and the lovely skyline and port too (see how lovely the day turned out to be??).

It was wonderful, in a word. I was relatively confidant that I could finish it from fairly early in the race, which was a most excellent feeling. And I did finish, not only upright (the stated goal) but running. I even ran the SOB final hill at mile 25 (race planners--you are all cruel, evil humans, aren't you?).

The Flight to Seattle
As per normal, Delta hosed the day by delaying our flight by three and a half hours. Saw yet more of Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. Was not pleased, but we did finally arrive in Seattle at about 9:00 pm local time, at which point we settled for dinner at the hotel. Had a veggie Philly-cheesesteak. Yum.

We spent Friday touring Seattle, trying to make sure I didn't walk too much, but that I did get to at least stretch the ole legs, which had been crammed into the minuscule space for the "average size person" (um, yeah, if you mean an eight-year-old. Sure.) in the economy section the day before. We went to the Marathon Exhibition, picked up the race packet and some trinkets, and, because I refused to fly across the country with them, several GU packets. Saw the Sci-Fi museum (you had to know we'd go there) and the Music museum that inhabits the same building (excellent Seattle music room, there. Loved it.). Ate at a tiny cafe next to the museum and drove around Seattle a bit, checking out some of the race course, making the pilgrimage to the REI mothership, and hunting down a grocery store. We had dinner at the Pink Door at the Public Market--good pasta, EXCELLENT coffee. Also found Elliot Bay Bookstore, which is the very stuff of my dreams, and I wandered about its wonderfulness, finally selecting a Tom Robbins novel (Still Life with Woodpecker--love it. Always love my Robbins) and the first Sookie Stackhouse novel, which I cannot recall the name of and refuse to look up because I already wasted enough time on that book, thank you. At least she's honest in her vampire porn pretensions.

The ~~Race~~ Run (not racing, really, after all):

Saturday dawned, well, frankly, my day dawned before dawn, as I got up at 4 am to wolf down the requisite bagel and peanut butter and banana (yum), so we'll go with "Saturday dawned dark" or "Saturday finally dawned about an hour after I got on the shuttle". I wandered out of the hotel, appropriately dressed (surprising at that hour), and headed for the shuttle bus pickup site, which was on the other side of Safeco Field from my hotel. The line of school buses would have made a teen quiver in fear. Said shuttle took us to Tukwila, which is where the marathon was due to begin....in two hours. I met some interesting folk, including Elmer from Panama, who was running in the 7th corral (I was in the 27th of 30 some odd corrals, for reference) and for whom this was the 40th or so marathon. He immediately pegged me as a newbie and gave me a great pep talk. Thanks, Elmer!! One gentleman behind me was also running his first (in his case, the half marathon) and the other was on his 125th. Yes, you read that correctly. 1-2-5. He's 65 and has been running for 19 years. Do the math--that's a holy hell bunch o'marathons in 19 years. Needless to say, I was impressed.

We arrived at the gathering area at about 5 am. Did I mention yet that it was farking cold that morning? No? Well, it was. Farking, I tell you. Farking.

Only a few organizational glitches, nothing serious, and scores of Porta-pots (company name: Honey Pot) made for a pleasant wait in Tukwila. The sun finally deigning to rise made it even more pleasant and reduced the general shivering, which was so great with 25,000 runners that it threatened to generate an earthquake in the area. They called for people to line up in the corrals at 6:30 am. We listened to the music and waited (and waited and waited and waited). The drummer of Presidents of the United States of America was running, as was a guy who had recently run a half marathon in 64 minutes.

Yeah. That was 64.

My corral started about 45 minutes after the gun (see here for an explanation of wave starts, which are a good thing with 25,000 folks). I was more excited to see the start than I would have imagined being; finally, after all that work...it's here. And, as one of the DJs pointed out (rightly, I think), this was not the finish line, this was the party after all the training. For some reason, that totally resonated with me and kept going through my head during the run.

The course was far flatter than one might imagine for Seattle; it seemed to be a good one (sayeth the newbie) . The hills were few, and while steep, they were totally manageable. I was treated to some gorgeous scenery too, such as the turn into Seward Park, which almost made me stop running just to look. The weather turned out to be absolutely perfect--low 70s and sunny (the pictures here were taken over the next day, so they don't reflect all the beauty of the day's run--oh, and the shot of Rainer is from the Tacoma side here, not the Seattle side). Saw a bald eagle in the park (very cool) and, because it was sunny and clear, Rainer was quite visible from the bridge we ran across on Lake Washington. That is one incredible piece of ~~mountain~~ volcano, there. Very beautiful. Though, it did give me pause...people climb that sucker on purpose. Awe. Complete and total awe.

Saw some very interesting folks and phrases along the way. One woman had affixed to her shirt that she was celebrating 10 years of remission from cancer (woohoo!); I congratulated her as I ran by--she was awe-inspiring. A young fellow, about 70 or so, had a sign pinned to his shirt that read "Expected Finish Time: Tuesday. About noon." Loved that. Also loved, as is mentioned in the post title, the hat that read "Toenails are for Sissies." Having donated two (and possibly three) to the cause, I totally agree. Thank you to the LA Racer who wore that and made me giggle.

Returning to Safeco field, we lost the half marathoners and continued on to the Alaskan Way Viaduct, which we ran out to the bridge over Union Lake and then returned on. Miles 18 through 22 were, as expected tough, but I was greeted by such kindly smiling faces (yes, I know they were thinking something along the lines of "oh, that poor fool," but let me live in this one a bit), that I did pull myself through those and onwards to the last mile, where I found a hill. I grew up around sailors and never have I heard the colorful language that decorated that hill before...again, I'd have to call it awe inspiring. I did, however, run the hill (go me and the local hill training). Upon cresting the hill, what did I find but the band playing Faster Pussycat's "Bathroom Wall." Yes, yes, my life is good.

And, I finished the race--5:36:21, about what I expected. So, *grin*. Here's me in all my race completion glory (and all the associated stuff--I look like I'm ready for a day's hike with all the gear--the medal, however, is groovy). Please ignore how incredibly awful I look--remember: post-marathon. Dragged my exhausted tail back to the hotel, cleaned up and read for a while, then wandered off to dinner at Etta's (crabcakes, yet more yum). In short, I had a blast that day. My new marathon goal (and never did I imagine saying anything like that) is to complete one in under 5 hours. Since this is getting a tad long, I'll break the post here and post the rest, which will cover what I have learned in this process, on Thursday. I will let the cat out of the bag that I enjoyed this adventure so much that I'm doing it again--sort of. On the Friday before the marathon, I signed up for the Rock N' Roll Half Marathon in Virginia Beach, so I get to run in my hometown two days after I turn 34. Woohoo! Started training again yesterday...here we go!

Sanctuary III

2009-06-22T08:16:00.001-07:00

The most oft associated image with the term sanctuary is, probably, a house of worship. In my case, that house is called church, though architecturally, it looks more like what Americans tend to associate with a mosque, mostly because of the domed roof. Atop the roof sits a cross, and not just any cross--a lighted cross. Not exterior lights, mind you; the cross itself lights up. It's not quite the solar-powered grave bible, but it's clearly a distant cousin.

Such kitsch features are terribly attractive to me.

The windows on this house of worship are made of granite, which probably sounds a bit odd at first, but realize that granite is something Georgia has a great deal of, then realize that you can cut granite very, very thin and, presto--granite windows. The church across the street also has the granite windows, so it's not an altogether unusual design feature locally (not that I can drum up an iota of proof from the internetz to share with you today, *sigh*).

The church is a modification of the Akron-plan, which appears to be more common in the Northern regions of the U.S., as is true of our denomination in general. The plan theoretically allows the sanctuary to be more flexible; the Sunday school classrooms can be opened via a rolling panel, allowing them to become part of the sanctuary. The architectural plan encourages eye-contact--you can see damn near everyone and, in theory, community, though in practice I've yet to see us function any differently than any other congregation. The sanctuary is gorgeous, filled with wooden beams, (occasionally) bright brass, and huge stained-glass windows, which are particularly beautiful at about 8:30 am, when the sun's rays begin to warm the glass.

If aesthetics were everything for a church, this one would have it. The space is undeniably beautiful, and it seems to offer a certain tranquility to all comers.

But, aesthetics are not everything. The particular modifications of the layout (and I think these choices were largely based on the land available, which is on a fairly small corner) placed the sanctuary level at the second floor, and many of the school classrooms, the nursery, the kitchen, and the fellowship hall area are below. The floors are connected by three narrow (seriously--two people of minimal girth cannot pass beside one another) stairwells, which, because of the "roundness" of the design, twist and turn and lead visitors to unexpected places. Often overheard: how did I end up here?

The design does not lend itself well to serving the community, as the bathrooms are tiny and while we "have" a handicapped stall, it's not especially large--no wheelchairs would fit in the one downstairs (which can only be accessed via stairs--irrespective of which floor you begin on) and the one at sanctuary level is difficult to navigate into. The rooms are often oddly shaped; we have old stairwells than no longer lead anywhere, etc. The space is excellent for a congregation who wishes to meet once a week on Sundays, but it is less useful to a congregation who wishes to serve the community.

This should not be taken to suggest that the church does not serve--we do. Three AA meetings are hosted there, covering 7 days a week. The space serves as a shelter to homeless families in concert with other local congregations, once a quarter. The Red Cross uses the space for training, and so forth. Over the past two or so years, the level of activity at the building has increased probably ten-fold. My favorite example of this occurred on Maundy Thursday this year, as I set up for the Maundy Thursday communion service, while an AA meeting was held, and a Seder supper began.

The building was, for a few hours, alive...filled with an energy that nearly brought me to my knees. THIS. This right here is what we are meant to be...a place and a space of energy and, yes, sanctuary--even if the "sanctuary" is not immediately in use.

For alcoholics and addicts, the places willing to house the meetings can very much be sanctuary; the meetings themselves certainly are for many of them. A community opens its arms to another in need. What better use for a house of worship than to feed the needs of its community.

The denomination I joined, the Disciples of Christ, appeared to be a sanctuary to me when I first joined, having fled the Episcopal church and its then burgeoning crisis over gay membership (the moment someone in my home congregation told me "they" were not welcome, I was done, and I wasn't sure I'd go back to an Episcopal church again, though I do miss parts of the service and mission of that denomination). DoC, as a denomination, celebrates diversity of opinion and education, and I was drawn to these notions.

One of the catch phrases for DoC is "In Essentials, Unity; in Non-essentials, Liberty; in All Things, Charity," which precedes the Restoration Movement (which birthed DoC), but is nevertheless important to it. The quotation, for all of its positivity, can, and does, become trite, all too easily. What, for instance, are the "essentials" and "non-essentials"? Our congregation, for instance, has at least two rather distinct theologies (and myriad vines grow from each of these), one of which is rather Baptist in flavor and one that seems fairly traditionally DoC (at least this is what Rev. Dean tells me; since I am, as he often reminds me, an Episcopalian at heart, I can't really say one way or the other. But, since he's the professional here, we'll give him his due). I see the two theologies play off one another, and I don't see any chance that they will reconcile or be able to live together in harmony or charity.

This divide was made clear, in part, by the building several years ago, and the drama continues to play itself out. Yesterday we met with another dwindling DoC community, to discuss coming together, and somehow or another it turned (at least at my table) into a discussion of the building, and whether or not it was adequate to the cause. Its adequacy, of course, depends on your vision of the church mission: for those for whom Sunday attendance is central, the beautiful space is precisely what it should be--a gorgeous celebration of God and Christ. For those who believe that service is central to faith, the location is excellent, but the space itself is both inadequate and, at times, foreboding, given the demands made by a nearly century-old wooden building with poor wiring.

We come together to discuss mutual faith and survival and we get a discussion about a fucking building. Fabulous. Small wonder young families aren't coming in droves.

Once upon a time, this space was a sanctuary to me. I could find respite from the world there, even as the world was invited in. As the last few years of drama have progressed, it has become something else-a place that is decidedly not safe. I came to the denomination seeking solace and growth, seeking to learn and to learn to share. I have learned, however, silence in these walls. Speak not of possibility lest you be attacked. Speak not of change lest you unintentionally accuse.

Speak not.

I did not speak at the meeting yesterday, choosing to listen to the expanded forum (I've spoken on the subject of unification a number of times; I wanted to know what those being brought in for the first time had to say). I was unfortunate in my table choice, for I was treated to diatribes on lack of care and "some people" and bitterness wrapped in a facade of hope, rather than searches for possibility. Yesterday was another confirmation of my fears for the church--it is destined, like the building in which we worship, to fall.

But, I went into the meeting feeling like that. I go to service every week feeling like that (it's better in the early service, which is modeled on conversation, but I have had to serve as Elder for several weeks recently, which demands that I be at the late service). I hear fellow elders question why we should discuss theology. Seriously? Elders can't talk about theological difference? Fuck--what's the point, then?

Several months ago, I wondered idly why it was easier to tell stories of addiction than faith. I know why I don't at church--the level of judgment involved eradicates any feelings of safety there. I'm less sure why I don't here...though I suppose I fear a certain amount of judgment, though there's no good reason. I wonder if this is the lesson I need to draw here, that sanctuary is a space created, not one provided and that such sanctuaries will always be challenged. How, then, to protect sanctuary, which is so central to my sanity and survival?

Since February, I have run some 425 miles and will pass 450 (obviously) later this week, all in preparation for a marathon that was at first intended to keep me focused on something other than drinking (it works, most of the time) and has evolved into another addiction of sorts; I know I need another race to plan for, announce, and train for (and I guess I better choose one fast!). Running is my sanctuary because I have created it and insisted that it be protected, much as I insisted that my home be protected in the aftermath of the panic attack. So what of spiritual sanctuary-- how to protect it? How, in other words, to live in the world and protect faith from fellow congregants?

Not speaking is clearly not getting me anywhere on this.

Here's my dream: a safe space where worship and service work together for the betterment of the community, not just to draw people into faith, but to support local needs. To be green. To be faithful. To be curious and to be respectful. To promote a conversation about safe spaces and what it means to protect one, because it is no simple task. To be able to own up to violations of that safe space contract, learn from them, and move on together, even if our theologies remain apart.

My faith story is not much longer than that; there was never an ah-ha! moment, though I have been brought to my knees by the wonders of humanity and the world on more than one occasion. Faith is, to me, about the awe--the magic of reaching for a better world and figuring our how the holy hell to get there. Faith is about falling to my knees in awe, sometimes, of a world that is more vast than my understanding, but will nevertheless allow me to study and read and try to understand, all without judgment of my abilities and worth.

Faith is not a building or a place or a space. Faith can be an action of people. Faith can be service. Faith can be gratitude and pleas for understanding or help. Faith can be listening and learning and healing and serving.

I just wish I knew where to go from here. I know where my heart and prayer lead me, but I don't know if I'm that brave, and I don't know if I trust my own discernment that much (ah, the wonders of self-judgment, yes?). I want to be free from the bitterness that pervades that space, and I want to both find and create opportunity. I keep telling myself that if I do this one last thing, I'll have done all that I can do.

I'm on number 5 of that list right now.

Sanctuary II

2009-06-17T07:00:00.000-07:00

This posting, and those that follow under the heading “Sanctuary,” was written over the course of two weeks, beginning shortly after the panic attack.

In keeping with my overall geekiness, I am going to move away from the moodier parts of this posting group and insert a bit of practical and amateur etymology, because it is way more fun than should be allowed by law and it is keeping me from the most painful parts.

So, the first use of sanctuary as a noun, according to the OED, occurred in 1340, referring to the most common meaning of the term: "A building or place set apart for the worship of God or of one or more divinities: applied, e.g., to a Christian church, the Jewish temple and the Mosaic tabernacle, a heathen temple or site of local worship, and the like; also fig. to the church or body of believers." I suppose that when people use the term, they probably use it to mean this or it's most recent colloquial meaning, which is suggestive of something like "a safe place."

As it happens, none of the OED meanings actually points specifically to "safe place"; unsurprisingly, most of the meanings are religious, such as the first one above. Other definitions include "an especially holy place within a temple or church" or within the Jewish temple, specifically, the location of the "Holy of Holies." Sanctuary can refer to "the part of the church around the altar" or to a box containing Holy relics. The term can also refer to earth; often it is applied to describe consecrated ground, but a protected land can also be a sanctuary, with no religious connotation associated, such as a bird or flora sanctuary (often the protected land hold endangered species of one variation or another). This final usage is the one most similar to the "safe place" colloquialism, it seems.

Chances are the last two uses stemmed from the final significant definition of sanctuary, which comes straight out of medieval law (a favorite stomping ground for yours truly):
A church or other sacred place in which, by the law of the mediæval church, a fugitive from justice, or a debtor, was entitled to immunity from arrest. Hence, in wider sense, applied to any place in which by law or established custom a similar immunity is secured to fugitives.
Probably the most memorable popular culture application of this definition (at least for me) appears in Rodgers & Hammerstein's The Sound of Music, when Maria von Trapp and family, buy now fugitives from the Nazi government, are given sanctuary at the church where Maria had previously been a novitiate. Of course, in this instance, the government did not abide by medieval law governing sanctuary for fugitives, but the film rather assumes that the viewer will recognize* what a violation of custom the intrusion is (I can't find a clip of it, but the scene to which I am referring occurs after the rendition of "Edelweiss," which I now have running through my head. Drat.).

As is true of "redemption," sanctuary has both religious and secular meanings, though the intent intersects, as all of the uses seem to identify a space that is special for one reason or another, be it in the protection of religious artifacts or in the protection of animals and/or plants. The medieval law, of course, signifies protection for the fugitive (this being a time and place wherein the notion of "innocent until proven guilty" did not exist), and in Christendom, I think this is particularly important, as Christians are called to witness and love, not to judge.

You know, I was about to write that acts which deliberately push others out of the church are then a violation of that call, but I'm not sure that is entirely apt, because the church (building) is not the most important of features, the community and communal spirit are. The violation of the call would be to leave someone feeling outside the love of God by choosing to abandon someone because their life or beliefs don't mirror our own or we generally make life difficult for people we are supposed to be in communion with, then we have most certainly violated that call. In so doing, we violate both the religious and secular notions of sanctuary.

For many of us, and I know this is true for me, home is the primary secular sanctuary. There are, of course, scores of other possibilities; for me, those other spaces are the areas in which I run (well, some of them--some are not exactly hospitable or sanctuary in their nature), Arches National Park (itself literally a sanctuary by the above definitions), KunstHausWein**, and other places and spaces that provide me with solace and protection. Now, most of my sanctuaries are also solitary (this should surprise no one, given the blog address and my email address are solitarykitsch), but that is not because I necessarily reject community. I also find great solace at certain rock concerts--they become sanctuaries where I can freely express and move, breaking the static mold that I too often find myself needing to hold onto in order to preserve the appearance of sanity. When my sanctuaries are violated, I find myself in immense trouble, such as was true during the panic attack, which was triggered by a perceived violation of my primary sanctuary.

The aftermath of that (perceived) violation was, of course, the panic attack and its attendant aftershocks, which lasted more than a week, as well as an obsessive bout of cleaning that found me scrubbing baseboards and bribing TG to do the same (that right there is a big ole sign that I've been severely triggered. Baseboards???). By the time the cleaning was complete, I felt marginally safe again. The cleaning was ritualistic, and while it was a wholly secular scouring of the house, the ritual description remains apt, as the cleaning was very much intended to rid the house of (perceived***) demons, as it were.

I was fortunate in that there was something to be done, because in some cases the violation of the sanctuary renders the space hostile permanently, and this is true of one of my other sanctuaries. I realized as I worked through the idea of sanctuary that I had attempted to rid that space of its demons by cleansing it too (I think I might have even described the attempt as such at least once), but the space is no longer a sanctuary (as in "safe space") for me, even though, strictly speaking, it is a "sanctuary," since it is a church.

Part III of ? to follow.

*Granted, Nazis have become shorthand for "really bad guy" in film, so one needs to do very little to prove the inherent badness in the course of the plot--the viewers will generally fill in the blanks on behalf of the filmmakers. This tendency, incidentally, is why the original version of Brooks' The Producers works so damn well--it defies our expectations by turning the Nazis into buffoons, which was, after all, Brooks' stated intent. I'm particularly fond of the "beer and pretzel" girls in this clip. Really, if you've never seen the film or never seen this version, check it out:

**Explanations may not be required here, but I never pass up a chance to talk about Hundertwasser, who really and truly rocked my world. When I went to Vienna in 2000, I was seeking solace after a breast lumpectomy (which had turned out fine, but had caused much anxiety for months) and a failed attempt to finish my Master's thesis. I was stuck on the theory and Adorno had stolen too much of my brain. While I was in Vienna, I visted the KunstHaus and saw Hundertwasser's work for the first time, as well as the quotation at the right of this blog, which translates to "The straight line is Godless" (the remainder of the quote renders straight lines also immoral"), meaning that God doesn't work in straight lines and that art and architecture need to be reflective of creation, which tends toward the wavy and gentle, rather than the straight and rigid. He also believed that evil could not exist in nature, only in man, but that communities could work against this evil not by "correcting nature," but by protecting the natural world (sanctuary!). As I stood in KunstHaus, looking over his work, I was finally inspired; I couldn't tell you now what finally triggered, but I saw vividly what the thesis needed to work itself out as I stood in that room, surrounded by his art. I went back to KunstHaus many times in my weeks in Vienna; even now, I am comforted by the thought of the art and the space and, in particular, the floors.

***I should quit undermining my own thoughts on the matter. To me, the incident was very much a violation of my space, even if many wouldn't or do not understand why; that it was my perception does not render the reality of what happened as false, even if the demons remained metaphorical.

Sanctuary

2009-06-15T07:35:00.000-07:00

This posting, and those that follow under the heading “Sanctuary,” was written over the course of two weeks, beginning shortly after the panic attack. As I have mentioned before, when I am battling depression, I typically find myself unable to write or to accept what I do manage to write, so I wrote in fits and spurts until what follows was finally completed. The darkness of the past two weeks (and last week in particular) has been unusually bleak, even for me, though I can’t completely account for why. The darkness comes and goes right now—I feel passably normal as I write this paragraph.

And so it goes…thoughts on Sanctuary…cue The Cult, please….

I was reading (at Rev. Dean's suggestion, and, as it turns out, this book is a favorite of just about every person I know) Anne Lamott's Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith on Friday during lunch. In the particular chapter I was weaving my way through, Lamott examines ways in which we can examine the world through new eyes--by witnessing all of the mercies we encounter, even if they don't look like mercies at the time (her example of the convertible is brilliant). She defines travelling mercies as “Love the journey. God is with you, come home safe and sound” (106). The examples she uses, though, deal with the journey of life and all of its brokenness. She recounts an exchange between a man who worked for the Dalai Lama and Carolyn Myss, when Myss was complaining about difficulties; he told her “they believe that when a lot of things start going wrong all at once, it is to protect something big and lovely that is trying to get itself born—and that this something needs for you to be distracted so that it can be born as perfectly as possible” (107).

The notion of paying attention to the journey and not just the destination is a significant one, as you might imagine, in long distance running. I mean, the end is only a blip of a moment; the journey is loooooong and far more interesting. And that notion has been popping up in other places, rather like road sign posts in a poorly-planned city (you know, the ones that if you fail to pay attention to them you end up nowhere near where you need to be? Yeah, those. I was about to end up in Patterson, NJ instead of Paramus.*) that I’ve been attempting to ignore. A friend of mine has been posting “Enjoy the Journey” as a reminder on her Tweets…it’s just everywhere right now.

On Saturday, I was granted the opportunity to live those mercies and disruptions, when an adorable beagle followed me home.

No, he really did.

When I first ran across him during my run, I was at about mile four, and when he joined me for a spell, I assumed he would be like the other local canines who have graced me with their presence, and he would give up on me in short order. He did not. He followed me for much of the next nine miles, save for the places I carried him, fearing that he would be hit by a car (he almost did, twice, before I began carrying him on really bad sections) on the busy roads we traveled, but knowing by that point that he wasn't giving up on me. Dog was just there to begin with, a pleasant distraction; then he was a nuisance, forcing me to pay more attention to him than to the good run I was having; finally, he grew on me (carrying a 20lb dog for 2 miles tends to do that). In the midst of the run/walk/carry, I recalled Lamott's chapter. Was this dog one of those mercies?

Sure, he distracted me from what had been good training, but he also woke me up to the road and world around me, causing me to rethink each step, to notice more than I usually do, since I was in loco parentis of this particular dog. I got to see TG holding Dog, as Dog fell asleep in his lap, the perfect image of boy and dog. TG and I walked with Dog around the area I had found him, only to discover that no one knew him and that the particular area is notorious as a dog dump. I could not provide the sanctuary of a home on Saturday, but I could provide him with food, love, and, eventually, a place to stay until his owner could be located or a new family found. I hope he finds a good family (new or old).

I'm not sure what lessons I am meant to draw from his encounter (or what might be trying to be born, given the multitude of misdirections in my life right now), but he left my eyes open, far enough that when I was driving home on the highway Tuesday night, I spotted a kitten in the middle of the lane. I pulled to the side and realized there were two, one in front of me and one behind; fortunately, a gentleman in a white truck stopped in front of the first kitten (thank you, thank you, thank you), stopping traffic behind him so that he could grab her and hand her to me; he then drove up to the second and did the same. The second kitty had already been hit and was in great distress, sadly. I drove both kitties, wrapped in my jacket (must put towel back in car. And a leash.) to my vet's office; boy kitty had to be euthanized, as his injuries were extensive.** Miss Thing, on the other hand, was in good shape, only a cut on the lip and lots of fleas. So, I took her home last night. She's hanging out in the bathroom, getting acquainted with this new-fangled contraption called a litter box.

So, Mr. Beagle opens my eyes, and Miss Thing gets a home. Traveling mercies, indeed.

We are all gifted with various sanctuaries, whether someone scoops us up and takes us home or we find a space that has meaning and comfort for us. Home may be sanctuary; work may be; a religiously-affiliated building is often referred to as such. We may find sanctuary in the mountains or at the ocean, and we may locate sanctuary in the midst of the most unlikely of places--a concert, a thunderstorm, a race, but each of us need a sanctuary of some sort. And what I am realizing is that one of the ones I had come to value most in sobriety is no longer a safe place for me.
________________________________________
*I think only one person on earth is destined to understand why those two cities are mentioned, and she doesn’t read this blog, so I think I am safe. Suffice to say that I’ve driven through WAY too much of NJ in the middle of the night.

**It seems worth noting that one of the reasons I go to this vet is that he has a standing agreement with the local police to bring injured cats to him; he euthanizes ones he cannot save and operates/treats to save the others. My cat, Mo, is one of those cats. He was probably a frat cat, got away, was hit by a car and left to die. The police brought Mo to the vet, who diagnosed a dislocated hip. He treated Mo and placed him up for adoption, which is how we ended up with our nutty furbaby. And Miss Thing has been named: she's Agnes now, because she looks like a pre-Vatican II nun. She is learning what a litter box is for and how to aggravate the grown cats very quickly. Dog, yet to be named due to some consternation in the family, comes home today. If you care to vote for a dog name, please feel free to post suggestions below.

Anatomy of a Panic Attack

2009-06-03T06:17:00.000-07:00

I haven't had a panic attack in about two years, so I suppose I was due for the one that occurred last night. I won't rehash the trigger points--they really aren't that entertaining--but as I got the hamster wheel I loosely call my mind to slow down, I started thinking through the construction of a panic attack. Mind you, this will follow my attack, and each individual is likely to have any manner of different experiences in the umbrella of what we call panic attacks, so please take this for what it is.

In reflecting on last night and the attacks of the past, I can safely say that I don't see them coming, though there are always signs of impending doom. Generally, I'm depressed beforehand; perhaps not significantly, but enough to notice. Since depression doesn't always signal an impending attack, it doesn't make for much of a harbinger. The last two times, though, I was rapid-cycling, for lack of a better phrase. I am not bipolar, though, as I have pointed out, I have experienced extensive periods of hypomania and depression, and I tend to move very quickly between them (often in as little as 72 hours). Since my mother is bipolar, this terminology is familiar to me and, as a layman's phrase at any rate, a fairly apt description of what happens.

On Saturday, I awoke to a significant depressive mood; I could even feel it in my legs, which hurt lamf for that whole 25 miles run. Yes, I did complete the run, figuring there was nothing better to be doing than to try to short circuit the depression with an influx of endorphins. It was not precisely a good run, but the mood seemed to lift a bit. The low-mania came back on Sunday, triggered largely by my failure to eat properly, but, again, I managed it reasonably well. I went a bit pogo-stick for a while on Monday then crashed yesterday evening as the anxiety took hold.

Part of the problem is my failure to recognize my symptoms of increasing anxiety. I *thought* that I had handled several incidents of late and the above-described moods fairly well; in reality, I had mostly buried them or not dealt with them in an appropriate way, largely in an attempt handle anger in ways that are more conducive to sharing habitats with other human beings than I am often accustomed to. In other words, I was being dishonest with myself. This is not altogether unsurprising in an addict*; we are masters of dishonesty--especially when it comes to ourselves. The pattern of dishonesty and vacillating emotions should have been a clue, and are pretty clear now that I glance back upon them**; I was reeling toward a break.

The attack came on, as they often do, with little warning and with an outwardly irrational cause. My very first panic attack, when I was 16 or 17, occurred on the campus of Duke University, when I became overwhelmed by what I would never be and where I would never attend and who I would never live up to. These thoughts, which might have been merely annoying for some, became locked in an obsessive loop for me on the campus (it was the cathedral, specifically, and it's vast space that set me off). I could not stop the hamster wheel, and, eventually, it got moving so fast that there was little more to do that break down.

Such is typical for me in a panic attack: Some event or place triggers an obsessive loop (the hamster wheel); the trigger is, outwardly, likely to be relatively innocuous. To know the path my brain takes would require having resided in my head for years (which, incidentally, I don't recommend for the faint of heart). The obsessive loop becomes faster, particularly as I try to derail the wheel. My heart rate increases. I cry and hyperventilate. I don't want to be touched, and will run away if someone tries to do so. Until the anxiety subsides sufficiently, the attack will continue, sometimes for more than an hour. I cannot stop the wheel or the tears once they begin until I can slow my heart rate and remove myself from the trigger. For hours afterward, though I will be emotionally and physically spent, it takes little to set me toward panic again, though I am usually able to self-calm more quickly during the aftershocks.

I've heard people describe their first panic attacks in terms of heart attacks--not knowing what was happening. This did not happen to me the first time, I knew I was breaking down (the benefit of familial mental illness, I guess), even if I didn't have terminology for it, and these days, I know exactly what I am dealing with, almost from the outset (though, oddly, it often takes an hour or more after it ends for me to be able to articulate the phrase "panic attack." No clue why that is.)

I was fortunate last night to have the care, concern, and support of far flung friends, without whom I am certain I would not have been able to settle down, think, and go for the peppermint tea and Oreos (an excellent post-panic attack remedy, incidentally). As Anne Lamott has noted about herself, one of my most common prayers is "thank you, thank you, thank you" (the other being "help me, help me, help me"---there were plenty of both last night). I sent up the flag online that I had triggered, and I want to thank, again, Hooch, Soonie, Z, and Blue, as well as Rip, Avarweth, and Silly (I love handles, don't you?) for jumping in immediately to console and advise and commiserate. And a thank you, too, to rhyte, who saw my remark, recognized it for what it was, and sent excellent reminders to help calm the anxiety, including a favorite duffism: "Be Still and Pray." What a fabulous group of women you are; thank you, thank you, thank you.

So, my mantra for the week (typed weeks at first, but rhyte is right (*grin*) with her other reminders to take life in small chunks) to come will simply be that duffism: Be still and pray. The aftershocks are still here, though they are faded to the point that they are noticable to no one but me. I wish you all well, whereever and whoever you all. Be still. Be calm. Reach out-->you are not alone.

*A clarification of terminology: in these pages, I tend to use alcoholic and addict somewhat interchangeably, though, in the main, the former refers to alcoholism (duh) and the latter to drug addiction. I do this as a reminder to myself--in order to be honest with myself, really. Alcohol was my primary drug of choice, but I craved depressants & opiates of any variation--I maintained a profoundly tight grip on my pill popping desires (because, you know, THAT is sign of a "real" problem <--note sarcasm) to the extent that I don't take anything--even Motrin, very often (and I never take acetaminophen, because it knocks me right the fuck out. Seriously. Give me a bottle of Jameson, and I am the life of the party. Tylenol in any amount--out for hours). I've popped depressants from time to time, stayed away from the drug of my dreams--heroin (along with most other opiates)--because I knew even without taking it I'd sell my soul for a good nod. I'm all about shutting the brain down, so cocaine and speed never interested me, nor anything else (uh, well, except Sir Caffeine) that would replicate my "up" moods.

**Saw the best explanation of Benjamin's Angel of History (Thesis IX in On the Concept of History) recently, in Steven Johnson's fabulous book The Ghost Map, which chronicles the events surrounding the cholera outbreak of 1854 in London and how that outbreak shaped the modern understanding of "city." He notes at the outset, that Benjamin's Angel can be understood in terms of such an outbreak, where we see the piles of bodies of those killed by pestilence overtime, but the "Angel of History" sees their stories and connections. Addiction works similarly; we can see the chains of catastrophes of our past, though it takes "hitting bottom" or some other traipsing into sobriety for us to assume the vision of the Angel of History, who can see us for who we are, rather than just for our series of wreckages.

Punk Style: Drunk, Fast, and Pinned

2009-06-01T13:30:00.000-07:00

So, the second (third? umpteenth?) installment of my foray into punk is getting slightly sidelined by a desire to play a bit with the theories rhyte turned me on to. Apologies for being tardy with this entry--I'll do better (I hope) without Memorial Day distracting me.

I had read some of these pieces in graduate school, but, well, let's just say that in my particular comparative literature department, cultural studies was frowned upon. Didn't, as it turns out, prevent me from doing cultural studies, I just lacked the theoretical constructs that might have saved me a bit of sanity in the process. But, no one ever claimed that doctoral work was for the sane. In fact, I think nearly everyone believes exactly otherwise.

So, rhyte mentioned Stuart Hall and co. as essentials for the work I'm digging around in, and I started digging. Good stuff, I might add.

The majority of what I have encountered so far deals with Brit punk, so I'll hash out a brief summary and then see what we can do with American punk, too, which has a slightly different set of concerns associated with it. The thrust of the arguments is fairly straightforward, claiming that punk is one of several postwar subcultures born inside the British working class, which, of course, is accurate. I will say that it took me some time to work through the use of "sub"culture, as it is a term I have largely rejected in my own writing, in large measure because it assumes privilege. Primarily, I've rejected describing various American regionalisms as "subcultures" (as one will occasionally see them labeled), because such usage assumes not only dominance of a particular culture over the "subs," but a certain superiority. I know precisely where my resistance comes from-->I hold Dr. Ronnie Hopkins and my class on Black English Vernacular entirely responsible, so I struggled with the terminology a bit, until I hit upon the following remark, which made the usage not only perfectly apt in this case, but it reset my thinking on the use of the term: "but just as different groups and classes are unequally ranked in relation to one another, in terms of their productive relations, wealth and power, so cultures are differently ranked, and stand in opposition to one another, in relations of domination and subordination, along the scale of 'cultural power'" (Hall & Jefferson 11). The term highlights the way such cultural groupings are treated within a dominant culture; the use of the term does not necessarily invalidate the cultural group or reduce them, but it does posit the relationship of cultures to one another in a given society; that is, once "sub"cultures ascend to dominance on the spectrum, they simply become the dominant culture--or absorbed into the dominant culture, at any rate.

The contentions here are pretty straightforward too. About punk Dick Hebdige suggests that (and his first point has been made time and again by all manner of folk, including Duff): "[t]he punk aesthetic, formulated in the widening gap between audience and artist, can be read as an attempt to expose glam rock's* implicit contradictions. For example, the 'working classness', the scruffiness and earthiness of punk ran directly counter to the arrogance, elegance, and verbosity of glam rock superstars"; Hebdige further posits punk as parody of glam rock, speaking for the white working-class through a "rendering of working-classness," describing itself in "bondage through an assortment of darkly comic signifiers--straps and chains, strait jackets, and rigid postures. Despite it's proletarian accents, punk's rhetoric was steeped in irony" (63).

Two pieces exist to pick apart here: the "look" (style) of punk and the rhetoric, both of which, Hebdige claims, are ironic positions. The image of punk, especially Brit punk (American punk will have its own peculiarities), is replete with color, attitude, and safety pins galore. Hebdige and others argue that the style is itself a language--it communicates to the "reader" a level of connection or disjuncture, depending on the position of the reader to the subculture; thus, image is, indeed, everything here. To illustrate his point, we need only look at the following clips from two Sex Pistols shows, one at the rise of punk and one at the height (well, for the Pistols, anyway). Look carefully at the difference in image between the initial ascent to television (the mainstream) and the concert footage from '77:

Example one (in which Glen Matlock** appears on bass):

Note that in the first example, the Pistols look more "glam" than punk--at least if we consider the later manifestations of those terms. Note, though, Rotten's earrings, which would appear to be, like his brilliantly pink jacket, a bit glam frou frou; they are, however, far more mundane--mere paperclips. Hair is messy; eyes are properly insane (though nothing like the 1977 footage); studded leather wristband visible. He's a Ted (in his vaguely Edwardian, brilliant pink), but he's a Teddy boy gone wild (sorry--I know that was awful) in his destruction of the jacket--note that the right shoulder is pieced together with safety pins, pieces of the trappings of punk that we will come to know and love. And Rotten owns up to this, at least partially, when in his autobiography, he outlines his distaste for the 70s variation of Teddy boy: "...there was a Rock-n-roll revivalist movement going on that I found loathesome. Here were sixteen-year-old kids into Buddy Holly and Elvis Presley....You shouldn't be propping up somebody's grandad as a hero. They weren't making a life of their own. They were living in someone else's fucking nightmare" (63). Cookie, as always, looks like, well, Cookie, in his drummer finery (dressed as a drummer SHOULD. I'm looking at you, Mr. Studded Thong Lee.***). I've little to say about Matlock, but...Jonesy. The Man. Steve Jones in his finest pink. Sort of a nod to glam, a nod to, what? mod, maybe?, and then a sublime little kick at the piece of equipment and the notoriously fabulous hip swing.

Really, is there more to say about Jones? I'm far too entranced to comment.

So, we move from the 1976 BBC debut to 1977, after Sid joins. A few things to watch for here: first, watch Sid's face between :25 and :31--it's the sneer. A practiced and well-considered sneer (of course, I know no one who does anything similar). Also, watch for the glam send-ups-->especially from Steve and Sid.

Example Two (with Sid occasionally playing bass between poses, bless his heart):

So, did you see the sneer? Consider how many times you have seen that face on one musician or another since 1977. Seriously, it is almost as ubiquitous as the "big bird" of earlier musings. The costumes have changed here, of course. One might argue that this is an effect of no longer being on prime time, as it were--that the demands of stage differ from the demands of TV, and there is some truth to that. One plays a different role according to one's audience, most of the time. But, I think we've got other elements at play here. First, we have the ascent of punk into the media's eye--and the "look" of punk, born, I would argue, out of a shared space between American and Brit punk (Sid's look is nothing if not a play out of the Ramones, who reached London by 1976 with their leather-clad NYC punk; true, though, as Hebdige points out, the leather-look was the stuff of the 60's Brit "rockers"--more well known in American as "greasers," who were also, as Sam pointed out, beginning this whole venture, also known as "punks" in Southern America. Small world, ain't it?). So, we have trenchcoat-clad Jones [which, as Hebdige suggests, plays on the classic sexual aggressor motif--which in turn fits Jones' persona, as he describes himself as "a real pussy hound...constantly looking for anything to fuck" (Lydon 89).], the leather-clad, dog chain-wearing, sneering Vicious, the adorable Cook (properly dressed, again, I might add), and Rotten, looking properly nuts. All of this is well and good, what we come to expect in pre-hardcore punk revelry...and then start The Who moments: Steve's hop (:23-ish), Johnny's sort of Roger-Daltreyeque moments around 2:20, and the other shows which feature Sid doing the windmill, rather inexplicably--look for the Dallas performance of "Holiday in the Sun," I'm pretty sure he does it there. An image shift ahs taken place. Even if we accept Rotten's version of the world, where he simply felt drawn to the clothing of the "bum": "forgetting the dirt, they looked so stylish to me" (71), it seems clear that the media vision of punk, picked up from various sources, including the Pistols, has in turn influences the image they present here. As Hebdige points out, by summer 1977, the flash of punk could be readily mail ordered (96).

So what are we to take of this in terms of the drunk punk? What does this add to the style in question?

Again, we have no less than two sets of problems to outline here: first, the celebration of excess, more aggressive than their equally drug-and-alcohol addled glam rockers and presages the excess of the 80s and, second, the eventual rejection of such a lifestyle, heralded primarily out of DC hardcore followers of Minor Threat. The birth of Straight Edge isn't terribly surprising if one looks at the overall age of the punkers, many of whom were underage-->punk shows were often held outside of bars because 1) media influence convinced not just a few American bar owners that punks were dangerous to their establishments and 2) if you have a "youth-culture," you tend to sell less alcohol in the bar (doesn't mean consumption doesn't happen, but it may not benefit the bar keep, you know?). What better way to announce your power over the inability to work within the established mode (playing in bars) than to denounce that central moneymaker--alcohol?

Hebdige suggests, rightly I think, that everything punk is an intentional obscenity, meant to disrupt and challenge. "Clothed in crisis," he calls it (114). The music was frantic, the clothing meant to appall, and the consumption of alcohol and drugs seems to follow suit--deliberately aggressive. But, I think that to limit ourselves to a purely reactionary reading undermines the nihilism that drove some of the punkers, and, more over, the parody that drove others.

I think parody is going to be our next gambit. Too much of punk was too smart to ignore this bend. Perhaps we should begin with the parody of consumption...

One thought I would like to leave you with: I see scores of Benjaminian moments in here, in large measure because of the audience/artist conflation--many punk stories discuss the fans literally crossing the boundaries, and most of the videos, should you watch enough, herald the interaction between audience and artist--the audience is, more often than not, right there on stage, especially as we progress into American hardcore. But, I would suggest that punk can exist because of the collapse of the aura and the handing over of the process of artistic commodification over to the artists (the masses, and, initially at least, the working class punk). The DIY ethic is an excellent example of the ends to which Benjamin refers in his "Work of Art" essay, where the masses gain control over the technological reproduction of image and sound (the tape exchanges, the zines, and so forth). Moreover, punk quite literally exploits the collapse of the aura in the age of mechanical reproduction by bringing audience and artist together: hiring fans into the bands (Rollins into Black Flag, for instance) is but one example, more significant, I would argue, is the deliberate amateurism of early punk--quite literally, anyone could have a band. Now, the best of punk bands really weren't as amateurish as we tend to discuss them having been, for, as Hebdige reminds us, it is helpful to know the language you are going to parody. Then again, the Germs didn't get "good" in a technical sense until the last show.

Nevertheless, it seems to me that like YouTube, punk is a logical end to Benjamin's call. And, better than YouTube, it began with a political sensibility that was more significant for some punkers than the technical aspects of the music. Perhaps we'll begin there--music as parody in an age of technological reproduction.

Tune in next week.

*I tend to use "glam rock," when talking about 80s hair rock, but that's NOT what Hebdige is talking about. He means Bowie and Bolan and company--the original glam rockers.

**When researching, I found the Urban Dictionary entries for Sex Pistols. Glen Matlock's entry reads "bassist for the sex pistols, everyone thinks sid vicious was the bassist but he was basicly used cuz he was so hot." Internetz writing style aside...wow, even I'm not that far gone.

**I shouldn't poke fun. After all, Axl did have an untoward penchant for U.S. of A. print biker shorts. *shudder*

Hall, Stuart and Tony Jefferson. Resistance Through Rituals: Youth Subcultures in Post-war Britain. London: Hutchison & Co, 1975.

Hebdige, Dick. Subculture: The Meaning of Style. New York: Routledge, 1979.

Lydon, John. Rotten: No Irish, No Blacks, No Dogs. New York: Picador, 1994.

Loaded Punk

2009-05-22T07:39:00.000-07:00

Eeegads...okay, a request, then a post: if you tweet, go follow Duff and Loaded on Twitter, please. Duff has suddenly decided that tweeting rocks; help the man out and show them some Loaded love. Also, as an additional PSA, if you've not heard Loaded's Sick--get out there and have a listen! Myspace, with tracks from the album, is linked at the bottom of the page (it works now, I promise).

Love, love, love my Loaded boys.

Maybe that should be a weekly post (because, you know, I'm so good at keeping up with my own injunctions about what I'll write each week--how many marathon posts do I owe? Forget the sobriety posts--I'm so far behind on my initial dictum that I'd probably be writing until sometime next Juvemeber to approximate catching up to TODAY. Oh, and the punk history I should have finished 6 months ago? *Snort.*) But it would be fabulous, right? A weekly edition of "Have you Loved Loaded Lately"? Or maybe just "Loaded Love"...someone help out here. Need a decent name for the weekly blog posts I'll inevitably forget to do.

Here's a starter, though: Follow 'em on Twitter (links above, but duff64 and loadedlamf, if you don't wish to scroll back up), if you are of the tweeting kind. Go on, I'll wait here.

Finished? Thank you! I'd say that Duff, Mike, Geoff, & Jeff thank you too, as it seems to be a reasonable guess, but, well, I'm not one to speak for other people.

So, the post part--we're going to pick up on the aforementioned punk history track [link provided if you've no clue what I mean, or have forgotten those vast pearls of wisdom (*snort*)]. Two places I have not yet had a chance to wander though yet: gender and consumption. As you might guess from the title, we'll look at the latter of these first--> ye olde drunk punk.

As I have mentioned before, the "drunk punk" rhyme has been around from the get go, so far as I can tell. The first time we have record of "punk" being employed in written text is in 1575, in the bawdy little poem: "Old Simon the Kinge " (can be found in a collection called Loose and Humorous Songs, which can be found here*). The notice that precedes the collection is itself a fabulous study of culture; check this out:

...but we make no excuse for putting forth these Loose and Humorous Songs. They are part of the Manuscript which we have undertaken to print entire, and as our Prospectus says, " to the student, these songs and the like are part of the evidence as to the character of a past age, and they should not be kept back from him." Honi soit qui ma y pense**. They serve to show how some of the wonderful intellectual energy of Elizabeth's and James I.'s time ran riot somewhat, and how in the noblest period of England's literature a freedom of speech was allowed which Victorian ears would hardly tolerate. That this freedom dulled men's wits or tarnished their minds more than our restraint does ours, we do not believe.

I love this rationale, as it reveals so much about Victorian England (when the book was published)--don't judge the Elizabetheans*** on the standards used by Victoriana, their "wonderful intellectual energy" may have "run riot somewhat" (brilliant!!), but we do not believe that it somehow lessened their intellectual force, anymore that the restraint celebrated by our Victorian England does now. We have the same farking argument all the time now--what mode best supports art--freedom or restraint? What limits (if any) should be placed on art? It's clear, of course, that their (editors Percy, Hale, and Furnival) perspective required defense inside their particular culture. What a fantastic glimpse.

Anyway, in the text of the poem, the poet remarks "Soe fellowes, if you be drunke,of ffrailtye itt is a sinne, as itt is to keepe a puncke,or play att in and in..." Put short, the line will go on to tell readers that, while drinking, whoring, and gaming are sinful (and will, result in "want & scabbs"), one must take risks in life--and these are worth it. The worth of wine, women, and game is set out by King Simon, he of the "ale-dropped hose**** & [...] malmsey***** nose ," when he notes that "ffor drinking will make a man quaffe,& quaffing will make a man sing, & singinge will make a man laffe, & laug[h]ing long liffe will bringe." Indeed, laughter is the finest of all medicines, says our king, but laughter sufficently lubricated is even better. When a fellow of the puritanical stripe calls him out for his behavior, he points out that even the puritans, when caught in "human habits" will claim that "'truly all fflesh is ffrayle."

Thus begins a loooong association between punk and drunk. Here, of course, we have two points to ponder. First, the words rhyme (duh), which is one of the primary reasons that they are both employed here. Second, song celebrates wine, women, song, and gaming, so we are most likely dealing with the first of the definitions for "punke," which is, of course, prostitute and, in the case of this song, most likely female prostitutes, given that the context reveals nothing to indicate homoeroticism. We see that second definition, the young male "made punk******" in 1698, in the equally delightful "The Women's Complaint to Venus."

In this bawdy tune, we have an apparent chorus of women decrying the men's recent interest (blamed entirely on France, incidentally) in other men:

How happy were good English Faces
Till monseiur from France
Taught Pego a dance
To the tune of old Sodoms Embraces

But now we are quite out of fashion
Your whores may be Nuns
Since men turn their Guns
And vent on each other their passions

I'm particularly delighted by the second stanza here, which conflates war and sex--it almost makes the complaint sound like a Lysistrata one--our men keep going off to war and not giving us or due pleasure (not quite the complaint in Lysistrata, I grant, but not far off either), particularly in the last two lines where "men turn their guns" (wink, wink, nudge, nudge) and "vent on each other their passions." One could read this, if one had a sufficiently "clean" mind, as a protest on war, I guess, but the poet fairly quickly annihilates the possibilities (if vented passions weren't enough) two stanzas later:

The Beaus whom most we rely'd on
At Night makes a punk
of him that's first drunk
Tho' unfit for the Sport as John Dryden

What a great moment. Not only are the speakers complaining that the men "make punk" the man who is "first drunk" (wow...totally passivity here-->"makes punk" of the drunk, who, presumably, is unable to give consent. Holy hell.), but they are also complaining that the men don't really care what the punk looks like, suggesting that even one as ill-fit as John Dryden (who was notoriously ugly) would do for the "sport".

[An Aside: the careless use of rape imagery here is a bit astonishing and unfortunately familiar. Ever heard the "insult" that someone is "too ugly to be raped" (the weirdest attempt at insult I've ever run across--how to respond to this, "thank you"???)--yeah, that's EXACTLY what the complaint is here.]

So, there's the beginning of the association, steeped as it is in the sexual politics of the days (seems that gender and consumption may be inextricable...interesting). The rhyme between "punk" and "drunk" would never go away, of course, so that it crops up time and again is of no particular surprise. Now, let's fast forward to the late 20th century and the rise of "punk" in it's most recent sense, that of punk music (however you choose to define it, even if you honestly believe it was (and remains) dead in the water by 1980. Or 1982, for you Seattlites). "Punk," we have already seen, is employed to describe music that precedes 1970, such as the Garage Punk of the 1960s, but for the purposes of this adventure, we are going to look at "punk" as it appears in the 70s and 80s (we'll even, much to my chagrin, avoid the 90s and beyond for now).

We surmised previously (see corrections here) that "punk" was appropriated from British prison culture, where the skinheads/hooligans were "made punk" within the system; it's a bit unclear when the conflation occurs, clearly that is not the use employed in the 1950s South U.S., where punk simply referred to an outcast and was, so far as I can tell, often conflated with the greaser type. It's neither here nor there at this point, an interesting artifact of language, true, but the particular etymology doesn't alter what happens when we examine the punk drunks of the 70s and 80s.

Colleague Sam pointed out recently that punk seems to operate from a triangulation of contempt, fashion, and poverty, and I tend to agree. Various punk musicians will fall at various places within that triangulation, with "old punks" veering toward contempt and poverty, and the punks who arose in the era after the media appropriation of the label (think Quincy punks) tend to veer toward fashion and contempt, as many of them hail from the suburbs and have no vested commitment to the politics of punk*******, many of which arise from poverty or, at any rate, fears of poverty.

Next, we'll begin to delve into the question of style and culture within punk, which we'll pick up on our next installment, lest I try your patience with yet another obscenely long post. Part II will follow early next week.

*So delighted to find this online!

**Translation: "Shame be to him who thinks evil of it." Reminds me of a joke:

What is the word for someone who speaks three languages? Trilingual
What is the word for someone who speaks two languages? Bilingual
So, what is the word for someone who speaks one language?

American.

*shakes head*

***BTW, if you or anyone you love is under the impression that our forbears in the English Language were not capable of being dirty, first read Shakespeare. Then, Herrick. Finally, I leave you with these gems of the middle ages. Oh, hell, here's an Italian one as well-->Put the Devil Back in Hell, dammit! If the last doesn't quite resonate with you, shoot me an email for an explanation.

**** Use your imagination, kiddos. If you don't have a sufficiently naughty imagination, you should borrow someone's for a spell. It'll make it much easier.

*****Malmsey = wine; therefore, malmsey nose = alcoholic rosacea

******You know, I don't think I have ever seen the phrase "made punk" used to describe women, though it is equally fitting, as women were made to prostitute through various circumstances and were certainly "made punk" by dominant men in several cases. Huh. So, for women they simply are "punk" (which allows for intent) but men have to be made that way--the masculine is rendered in the passive voice (which eliminates intent). Boy, if that's not discomfort screaming out of the authorial text, I don't know what it.

*******Granted, neither did a fleet of the "old" punkers, many of whom rejected the notion that punk was simply meant to be political.

Facebook Quizzes

2009-05-20T07:57:00.000-07:00

Facebook quizzes are good for something other than wasting time, laughing at poor spelling, and poking fun at the friends who are consistently predictable. They are excellent for nostalgia.

Ah, Vyvyan.

If I put too much stock in these little quizzes, I might be in trouble, because I keep pulling the various psychotics and sociopaths listed: House, Courtney Love, and, the result of today's gem, which asked "Which of The Young Ones are you, prick?"

Apparently, my answers suggest a certain set of common features with Vyvyan, the psychotic punk of the show, for whom boredom was A. Very. Bad (albeit funny). Thing. At least for anyone else around.

Yeah, I can identify with that.

Update: 5/21

Facebook Psycho of the day: Alex DeLarge, from A Clockwork Orange.

Sheesh. Could make a girl a tad paranoid.

Unsolicited Advice for Bitter Parents

2009-05-19T05:24:00.001-07:00

I want to share with you what a friend of mine is struggling with in her steplife. Her story is here; court is today--I can't even begin to guess what will happen, now that she and her husband have surrendered any hope of restoring a normal relationship with her stepkids. My heart breaks for this whole family and the years of pain that is yet to come for them, no matter the outcome today.

I am fortunate that my life has been lived in step on and off since I was about 11 years old. Now, I didn't have a great relationship with my father and stepmother, to put it mildly. And, it does bother me tremendously, even now--and I suspect it will for the rest of my life--that I allowed myself to be so separated from my father. Whatever choices he and my mother made, and, trust me, I have some excellent stories on the matter of how not to interact with your ex (most of them do strike me funny now, if they didn't at the time), I too much allowed those choices, arguments, and power plays to influence how I conducted myself with my father. And since he is long-since buried at sea, there is nothing to be done--the separation is now permanent. I fear this will be true for kitten's stepkids.

I am also a stepmother, and while I don't always know what to do with my stepsons (Turtle and Monkey--TG is my bioson), I do love them. And though they don't usually see it, I defend their rights to appreciate both parents equally and without fear of retribution Every. Single. Day. I have held them as they cried after their mother screamed terrible things about their father; I have reminded them to call her to let her know about activities. I have pulled their father aside or talked him through how to approach an issue without turning it into "dad versus mom," which is too easy to do if the adults can't see past the divorce. I have encouraged him to talk to their mother, even when he tries to avoid it. I don't do this because I'm somehow heroic or better or whatever, I do it because of the three adults in the life of these two kids, I'm the only one who is/was/whatever a stepchild, so my perspective is a bit different.

Do I always handle situations well in step? Hell no. I've provided each of the three kids with plenty of stories to share with their therapists when they are grown (that is the function of the parent, right?). For one, I seldom interact with their mother out of a sense of self-preservation--she is far too much like my own mother for my comfort, and I know my avoidance of her bothers all three kids. I am, hmmm...how do I put this...critical and loud (TG and I are screamers, the rest of the clan is not. Even after 6 years we are still trying to mediate this). I yell and I tell things as I see them, occasionally with a heavy dose of sarcasm. And, of course, there is that addiction piece, which has adversely affected them all, undoubtedly.

I am also the biomom, and I screw up plenty there too. I forget to call and send things to TG's father; I am so very grateful that the schools have since started sending stuff to both addresses, so that my forgetfulness is no longer a problem there. I find myself frustrated at the ways in which TG's father and I differ in our disciplinary tactics and approaches to parenting TG, but when the chips are down, I know damn well I can count on his father to have my back and to support TG. Why? We agreed a looong time ago, that we would work to parent the boy together, even though disagreement. Even across 500 miles. And, yeah, there's the big one for TG's therapist. 11 years ago, I chose to move TG 538 miles away from his father, in order to start graduate school (no, there was no local program for my coursework). That they have the kind of relationship is testament to something--tenacity, perhaps?

As frustrated as I have gotten with TG's father, with Monkey and Turtle's mother, with G and with myself, I can't begin to imagine a moment where I would encourage a child to despise his or her other parents ( bio, step, foster, first, forever or otherwise). To do so is an act of cruelty that I can't even begin to articulate. There are plenty of parents who do things that will result in such hatred from the child--those who abuse, those who abandon, the mentally unstable, and scores of others may earn the contempt of their children (rightly or wrongly) without interference from a third party. Most parents, though, are guilty only of being human and having the audacity to possess human foibles.

So, here's a few pieces of advice:

One, avoid labeling the other parents (step or otherwise) as slut, trollop, asshole, bitch, whatever, in front of the kids. Yes, you might really believe in your heart that he is a no-account-bastard-who-hates-his-children or that she is a psycho-hose-beast-from-hell, but, please do keep that kind of opinion to yourself when around the kids. Share it with your friends if you need to get it off your chest.

Two, don't convince your child that the other parent has hired someone to spy on you and follow you around, unless that is accurate. As a joke it rather sucks. If accurate, that's a whole separate problem.

Three, raising the kids is not about your divorce, split up, or separation. Deal with it. It's not even about you. The affair?--not really their concern. The abuse--yeah, it may be a concern. Very much. Ask for help in talking to the kids about it. There is nothing wrong with asking for help.

Four, waxing nostalgic about the past to the kids is seldom helpful. If your marriage or relationship was such a paradise, chances are you wouldn't have split up. See #3--this is not about you.

Five, wanton destruction of artifacts of your relationship might feel damn good, but do try to keep such activities out of the line of sight of the kids. Again, not really helpful.

Six, if you should happen to blow it on one of the above or something like them, apologize to the kids. If you called the other parent names or lied or shared stories you shouldn't have, you may even need to apologize to the other parent. Yes, I am serious. Humans sometimes do really dumb things; own up and don't repeat.

Most of all, be willing to forgive your screw-ups, those of the other parents, and the kids, when those screw-ups really aren't harmful. Don't assume that someone else is a negative influence just because you *shudder* disagree about something, and for the love of Pete, don't convince the kids that another parent is harmful or negative, just because you disagree. Deal with the disagreement between adults and grow up a tad... an ounce of grace and a pinch of calm will make all of our interactions better.

Rural Running: Porch Dog Primer

2009-05-17T07:48:00.000-07:00

My unintentional* foray into a 24 mile run yesterday took me through some of the remaining rural sections of my domain. Often, one can see the specific area I live in referred to as "rural"--it isn't (though rural seems to be code for "not yet overdeveloped"** in this case); however, you can get to rural areas fairly quickly from here--even, as it turns out, on foot.

The areas that lack the kinds of commercial development that have a stranglehold on most of the surrounding counties (mine included--our tiny county has SCORES of apartment complexes and big box stores) are every bit as beautiful as you might imagine. There are homes and the odd subdivisions scattered throughout, but there are also stretches of grasslands (that were once pine stands, most likely) and quiet. The traffic is, for the most part, relatively light, and those who do drive by tend to give runners plenty of room--unlike the drivers on certain other local roads.

I was fortunate to be joined by a number of new friends on my rambles yesterday, all of them canine. Dogs of all stripes--from farm dogs to apartment dwellers to the elite pampered set--are in abundance in my home county and its surrounding areas. Folks love their dogs, and I count myself in their numbers, since I do adore the canine troops, though I currently share residence with two felines, since G is, to put it mildly, not a dog fan. I was fortunate to grow up with dogs--German Shepherds*** at home and scores of labs, mutts, spaniels (of assorted shapes and sizes), bassets, dachshunds, and even a St. Bernard at the homes of family and friends. Consequently, I learned at a young age how to read dogs and how to approach them, etc. Such skills have served me well over the years, when large dogs (because folks tend to fear them more than the scrappy set--which is a tad foolish) appear in the neighborhood, roaming without obvious human in tow.

Yesterday was no exception, because I met scores of new canine buddies on my travels, and I'd like to introduce them to you. I am sad that I have no pictures to share but, well, the camera really would have been excessive, you know?

Rural Dogs 1 & 2: Turtle in Mouth and Short Dog

If you've never been in the backwoods of the South (or, hell, even a few miles out of the city), then you might never have met a rural dog (is this a regional thing, or a rural thing everywhere?). Rural dogs hang out on and under porches (some will be known as porch dogs, and you'll meet a few below) during the summer, when it is far too hot for anyone to be wandering about, but they tend to roam during the cooler months. Rural dogs do not operate within the confines of a chain link or wooden fence nor especially anything so untoward as the electric fence. These dogs roam, often without a collar, and they tend to find trouble where ever they can.

My first two buddies found me at about mile 6. One was a lab/boxer/indeterminate average black dog and the other was some sort of dachshund mix (rural dogs, by the way, are often black. Black dogs are absolutely ubiquitous in rural GA--which works well, since any other dog will be permanently stained red from the clay). The taller of the two carried a box turtle in his/her mouth. When they saw me run by, they seemed to think it would be swell to join me, though they periodically would stop to check out a chase opportunity--squirrels and the odd chipmunk (Turtle dog never releasing his/her catch during these forays). So, these two fine canines stayed with me in fits and spurts for about a mile-and-a-half, when they arrived at what I think was home. Short dog (who did a bang up of keeping up with me--boy am I slow) turned off the path, followed soon by Turtle Dog, who, prior to running home ignominiously dropped the turtle. *Bang!* Soon, however, TD reappeared and ran with me for another half mile or so, before apparently deciding that I was completely irrational. I think he came back for me that second time under the impression that I needed intervention.

Rural Dogs 3-7: The Boxer Brigade

The next rural dog set appeared around mile 10 or 11, when I met 5 boxer mixes in quick succession and my first true porch dogs (though I've seen a number of them online). Old Dog, the first one I encountered, merely observed my existence and then carried on. The next two, who were apparently plotting to disturb the local cattle, looked briefly guilty and then feigned innocence as I ran by; as soon as I passed (I turned back to look), they resumed their plan to harass the local cows that stood on just on the other side of the wire fence. If the dogs had access to wire cutters, they so would have been there. The last two made a great production of barking at me as I went by, but quieted when I said hello and passed the property line. They also failed to actually move during the barking episode, which suggested to me that perhaps the barking was more for show than actual, you know, property protection--they exemplify the porch dog motif-->all bark, little actual movement.

Rural Dog 8: Jack Russell, Terrier-at-large

The eighth Rural Dog was a Jack Russell, they of the hyperactive streak. He didn't run with me terribly long, a quarter mile or so, before he apparently decided that this was exceedingly uncool and would involve no more than a crazy running woman talking to him, and no food or ball throwing. Deeming the run a useless exercise (at that point, I was inclined to agree with the assessment), he turned back for home.

Rural Dogs 9-11: The Marauding Pack of Chihuahuas

I saw Dogs 9 & 10 before I met Dog 8; the Chihuahuas (I love that they are such an easily identifiable breed--even at that distance) were about a half-mile or so ahead of me, screwing around in the grass beside the road. They took off running about the time Dog 8 found me, and when I rounded the curve ahead, I did not see them, so I assumed they had departed the scene.

Wrong.

As I headed downhill at mile 14 or so, just before my route took a hard left to go around the reservoir, I spotted 9 & 10 at the bottom of the hill. Their pack had grown by one and all three chihuahuas romped at the bottom of the driveway. As I mentioned, dogs don't generally frighten me, but if you have ever seen chihuahuas in a pack in action, then you might realize why the situation--me in a fairly lonely area, facing down three ankle biters--gave me pause. See, chihuahuas, for all their nervous shaking, act like rebellious teens when they are in a group; as with the teens, their collective intelligence drops, the more chihuahua (or teen) you add to the mix. So the "little dog syndrome" they suffer from as single dog is amplified by additional dog, and here I was facing three of the buggers, marauding around the curve I needed to take. As I approached, the yapping began. And got louder. And they kept barking...

and running up the driveway away from me, while barking furiously.

So much for the herd O'Chihuahua.

Rural Dogs 12 & 13: On Pits, Chows, and Insanity

These two fine specimens (both mutts, one with a bit of chow in her, I think) were the only dogs living near a busy road and, probably not coincidentally, the only ones to threaten attack--well, dog 13 did--the chow (Chows are about the only breed I don't like dealing with. Unlike pit bulls, who are congenial animals when raised right, chows are freaking insane). My reticence to deal with chows probably made the situation louder than necessary (I'm sure she knew it), but, again, having been raised around dogs, I have a decent sense about them, and I realized quickly that she (dog 12--a lab/pit mutt variant was, I think, simply following her lead--but mostly wanted to be pet) was less upset by my proximity to her drive way than the fact that I was running. So I slowed to a walk, she quieted down some, and they escorted me, still barking (uh, them barking, not me), to the beginning of the pastureland. What really bugged the crap out of me how easily these dogs could be hit on that highway--the driveway is less than a half-mile from the highway, and, as we have seen, most of the rural dog set is willing to follow at least that far.

So, there you have it, my Tour de Rural Dogland. Maybe I should pack Milk Bones next time...

* I plotted two maps recently, 20 and 22 miles respectively. Unfortunately, when I got to the end of one road, I thought I might have looked at the wrong one, and back tracked to the other road, adding two miles to my intended 22. I really need to trust my memory better than that. On the other hand, I did 24 miles yesterday, walking the final 5 miles (GA gullywasher combined with running out of water--stupid, I know) in the time I estimated for the marathon, so I'm feeling pretty good about the 26.2 in June.

** Not going to go on an environmental rant. Well, not this time, any way.

***Large German Shepherds, at that, averaging about 125 lbs of muscle and fur.

The Death of a Punk

2009-05-15T08:26:00.000-07:00

As you'll note to the side of this blog, one of my favorite people is colleague Sam, he of the curmudgeonly intellectual stripe. He is largely responsible for my initial foray into punk as an academic mode, when he posed a query on the origins of the word "punk."

Well, Sam harrumphed into my office the other day, and, as luck would have it, my copy of Lexicon Devil, the recent oral history bio of Darby Crash, was quietly sitting on my desk, prompting him to wonder aloud why in the world people (read: me) were fascinated by him. I'd shown him a clip from Decline at one point, and, to no one's surprise, it did nothing to improve Sam's opinion of Crash. So, my task for the day--answering Sam's burning question...

What draws people to Darby Crash?

Granted, I've wondered about this myself, usually while I wonder what draws people toward any lead singer. Some of the answers are easy--charisma, bizarre behavior, the standard stuff of celeb worship. Crash was charismatic, by nearly all accounts. Paul Rosseler describes him as having "this natural power; it was hard to figure out what it actually was; it was either that he was so much smarter than anybody else so he could do those things, pr her had techniques that he learned from the books he read or from IPS. Or he just had magic" (23). Of course, not all accounts of his charm are as positive as Rosseler, with several leaning more toward manipulative (successfully, though) and pathetic (using his pathos to lure in those who would then care for him--classic addict move, BTW). Brendan Mullen describes Crash as

much more demonic, intense, intoxicated...he gradually began to exude a much darker persona...The dreaded "Gimme two dollars...gimmie a beee-ah...gimmie a ride home" was the Klaxon From Hell around the scene which witnessed a series of socially ostracized, overweight women, many of them easy-pickings and mind-suggestibles with absent or disapproving father complexes; of more or less the same psychological type preyed on by people like Charlie Manson. Such women openly competed for the attention of this emotionally unavailable, alcohol-besotted LSD guru while picking up his tab for booze, drugs, gas, food, and clothing. (Mullen 115)

He also had the intriguingly bizarre behavior in spades; though, truth be told, if one collected all of the punk stories worldwide and cataloged and categorized them, Crash wasn't exactly out of line with the norm. But, significant as the Germs were to punk, and to LA punk in particular, and as significant as his story is to the history of gender and sexuality politics in music and the particular shifts that occurred in LA punk that irrevocably changed the landscape for gay male punkers (the arrival of the suburban hyper-masculine punks from Huntington Beach, to be specific), the staying-power of Crash's legend is probably most deeply rooted in his death, an iconic death that heralds the coming excesses of the 1980s better than it reflects the "old punk" he championed.

Crash, as punk fans are no doubt already aware, died as a result of a heroin overdose on December 7, 1980. He was twenty-two years old.* By virtually all accounts, the overdose was intentional and well-planned, as he started announcing it some 5 years prior (the 5 year plan,** was, according to Crash legend, inspired by Bowie's "Five Years" on The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. He remarked to Pat Smear, during a rehearsal for the Germs reunion show (Dec. 3, 1980), that he was only "doing this to get money to get enough heroin to kill myself with" (Mullen 243). He was sufficiently dark during and after the show to goad bassist Lorna Doom into trying to get several of Darby's friends to intervene.

Crash stated to Donnie Rose that "the purpose of [the Germs reunion] show was to demonstrate to the new punks how it was, what it was really all about in the old days" (Mullen 247). Ouch--and this at 22. One of the major changes that had occurred on the LA scene was the rise of the Hardcore punks from the beach suburbs, in and around 1979. Jeff MacDonald [oh he of Redd Kross and (!) Spirit of '76***] describes the transition as a sudden one: "We were shocked when it turned out it was the same kids who'd previously been hassling us for liking punk and now they're all red-hot punkers emulating how the media portrayed punk rock, as really violent and fucked up" (Spitz, 193). Mugger describes this group as "full-on white suburbanite rebellion" (Spitz 193). The old school punks--Crash and his crew--were quickly subsumed by the moneyed rebellion. Punk, as the Germs knew it, was dying in the face of what MacDonald and others saw as theatrics.****

How fitting that the speaker of the house for "old" LA Punk should choose such a theatrical exit, then.

He was not, of course, the first overdose post-WWII music had encountered, preceded as he was by Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison (yes, I know, no autopsy--but, really, fair guess that any "heart failure" was externally triggered), Brian Jones and scores of others. Musicians of any stripe within the musical community often spawn legends, among the most famous of which is the life of Robert Johnson, whose crossroads mythology has so permeated the musical landscape that references to it are ubiquitous in modern American culture (and wrong--RJ's legend was copped from the stories of Tommy Johnson by his brother). The deaths of musicians are perhaps even more likely to do so--Elvis seems the obvious example here, but scores of legends exist about Morrison's death as well.

Something in the deaths of Jimi, Jim, and Janis bespoke magical, mystical, legendary, and unattainable qualities that belied the tragedies of the overdoses. Their deaths are often regarded Romantically, not unlike the suicide fads associated with Goethe's Sorrows of Young Werther:

Phillips calls this the Werther Effect, named for the spurned lover in Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther—Werther, in a blue waistcoat and yellow vest, sits down one night, writes the object of his desire a last letter, and shoots himself above his right eye. Soon after the book’s publication in 1774, young men dressed as Werther began to shoot themselves at desks with open books in front of them, and the novel was subsequently banned across Italy, Germany, and Denmark. NY Magazine

Like the Romantic poets before them (Keats and Coleridge, I'm looking at you), these musical icons bore the banner of generational genius--their music captured that certain undefinable something of their generation's particular Zeitgeist.***** The romanticizing of these 1970s deaths (the end of an era, the death of innocence, and so forth) set them remarkably apart from the musical and personal excesses that the 1980s would come to symbolize (even if the excesses, realistically, were identical--read a few bios of the 60s & 70s bands against those by Slash and Nikki Sixx, the excesses are almost identical, if the pleas for redemption that permeate the recent bios are not). In effect, the young deaths are expected (like those of Keats, Shelley, and Byron) because genius cannot exist but for so long in a single place or body. Crash capitalized on this expectation and chose a death that dramatized the excesses in an almost iconic fashion: raw China White heroin (and a large quantity of it, at that), announcements of his impending suicide that had gone so long as to begin to appear comic, etc. Such pronouncements were not unheard of in the punk world, even if they tended to reflect a more theatrical style than one commonly expects out of the genre--see GG Allin (who was jailed for the day he had legendarily promised to commit suicide on stage).

For me at least, and I can't pretend that I can speak for all who have written about Crash or wondered about his significance, Crash exemplifies a specific moment in musical history, where we see the transition of punk (itself a reaction to 70s glam and pot-laced "hippie music") into the vapid excesses of glam rock and metal that would permeate LA during the 80s, finally spawning GnR--the most obvious heirs to the mantle of excess. He's a troublesome figure--plenty of remarks that infuriate, and it is easy to turn him into a "lost soul" myth, which is, I think, what often happens to his story (much like those of Jimi, Janis, & Jim).

*A virtual prodigy, having killed himself some 5 years before he could join the lauded "27 club."

**Not that claims of impending demise always come about. GnR regularly remarked of themselves that none of the would see the far side of 27. Given that all five of the Appetite members not only passed 27 and 29 and the various age revisions in the interviews as they kept managing to survive, but they are collectively staring 50 in the face now. Good job, gentlemen. Glad you are still around.

***If you have never seen this movie...you must. Must. Simply must. Here's a sample of it's delightful awfulness. Want a Snoball? *grin*

****Not that LA Punk didn't have its bastion of theatrics from the get-go. See the Germs, the Screamers...you name it.

*****The most obvious corollary for my generation is, of course, Kurt Cobain. His death on April 5, 1994 is for Generation Xers one of those moments that it seems that everyone can recall what he or she was doing when the news broke three days later. And while his life has certainly been romanticized (the boy from Aberdeen who changed the face of music--what do you know, the Romantic myth of the Common Man), his death has, to a certain extent, not been, unless you count the myriad conspiracy theories that tend to accuse his wife, Courtney Love, of nefarious intent. I tend to agree with the NY mag author linked above, Vanessa Grigoriades, that "a dearth researchers have attributed [etd. to add: the resistance to romanticizing his suicide] to Courtney Love’s emotional denunciation of his act—“I want you all to say ‘asshole’ really loud.” No one wanted to be an asshole." My favorite part of her Eulogy: "Well, Kurt, so fucking what — then don’t be a rockstar you asshole."

Mullen, Brendan, Don Bolles, & Adam Parfrey. Lexicon Devil: The Fast Times and Short Life of Darby Crash and the Germs. Los Angeles: Feral House, 2002.

Spitz, Marc & Brendan Mullen. We Got the Neutron Bomb: The Untold Story of L.A. Punk. New York: Three Rivers Press, 2001.

Plagueless III: Xanax Dreams

2009-05-07T13:29:00.000-07:00

Part II is here, if you missed it.

I mentioned recently that I had read an interview with Duff recently that triggered a recovery memory (note--recovery, not recovered). The interview, which is a damn fine one, references his slip in 2005, which, to the best of my memory, I had never read him speaking quite so directly about (though he's mentioned the general events of 2005 several times--he wrote "Wasted Heart"--if you have never heard it, shame on you, it is a beautiful tribute-- for his wife after the troubles of that year and mentions that at pretty much every show). A second article, referencing the same period, appeared this week

He remarks in the first interview that:

For me, it is the drama. I had a relapse on pills in 2005. It came out of nowhere. It was because of all this bullshit. Xanax was prescribed for me. I was supposed to take one if I had a bad panic attack. I had them in my bag and that was my first mistake. I took one, and the next day, I took two. In only nine days, I was up to 22. That is what guys like you and I do.

Addicts, he means, of course--particularly those of a particular stripe. Addictive behaviors can respond to all manner of triggers, and Duff has never really made any bones about what band and touring stress does to him. Hell, "Beautiful Disease" makes reference to the notion: "lost my mind about 30 time 'cause of bullshit pulled on tour" (this in a song about addiction, and realize that 30, in this case, isn't hyperbolic...in fact, it's probably a conservative estimate). While I am admittedly baffled that someone prescribed Xanax to a person that had struggled so badly with addiction (it's a benzo , for goodness sake--easy addiction), I imagine that the level of stress required--the anxiety produced by that stress--must have been dramatic for him to have even sought the option. I have no idea if he fully informed himself about the dangers of Xanax to addicts either, but that's really neither here nor there.

Reading the remark (and then hearing him talk about it on stage in Nashville) triggered a rather uncomfortable memory from 2007--when I was in therapy. I should note that I am now eternally thankful that the particular doc I saw was an advocate for non-drug therapy, especially for addicts. I recall being so incredibly whacked out (probably the best way to put it), panicking, rising to anger even more quickly than normal, and, oh lord the obsessing! that I went in one day convinced that he needed to prescribe something. Anything would do at that point. All I wanted was to feel normal. Unfortunately, I really hadn't experienced normal in quite sometime. I was simply in sensory overload, which he recognized, and being the good addiction specialist that he was, he taught me a few behavioral tricks to try before writing a scrip. And I am grateful for that for precisely the reason Duff mentions above, because, as he puts it in the second interview, once he began taking the Xanax: "Boom! I was off to the races. It knocked me off my feet, man. Guys like me, once you start thinking you're bulletproof that's when it gets really dangerous. I learned a great lesson from it. I let myself down. I let my whole family down. It killed me." That could have and, worse, likely would have, been me on such anti-anxiety meds. Such would have undoubtedly forced the kind of collapse that I fear--to the detriment of my family.

Addictions are a shared burden, as is the management of the addictions. Too, as with mental illness, the burden is shared with our children as possible (terrible and unintentional) inheritances. I coach TG regularly about addiction--the realities of why mom reads cough syrup labels and finds non-drug ways to deal with anxiety and insomnia-- and why it is absolutely essential that I do and that he pay attention to his own choices and habits. And, while I fear for myself, I fear far more for him and what he stands to inherit from his family tree rife with suicide, mental illness, and addictions.

The other thing that occurred to me when reading this article (the first one) came up time and again as I read the two bipolar memoirs and throughout the last two weeks is this: addictions and mental illness are a shared burden that we slowly learn to share and the we must share. We have to navigate how much to tell and to whom we will tell it. It strikes me as no small thing that 3 1/2 years after the fact, Duff is telling a bit more about his and his family's ordeal in 2005, just as the flood of information about the events of 1994 was slow to spread, but eventually became a natural part of his discourse. I met a young woman recently who confessed her own addiction struggles to me when we met, just as I shared with her. Why? It was important that we do so, given the context behind our meeting, which began with a misunderstanding borne of my attempting to type while angry (always, always a bad idea), and many thank yous to her for her bravery. You know who you are.

I find myself increasingly able to give voice to my addiction stories, especially the pre-2007 ones, though I'm trying to give voice to the recent slip as well. The stories, the act of sharing, creates and maintains a space in which addicts can survive, because the space is honest and realistic and, well, shared. Because if nothing else, each addict has to learn to rely on someone other than him or herself--too often we cannot be trusted with ourselves. We put the Xanax in the bag, give in to that one glass of wine, go seeking that one trigger because it will give license to release the demon (because we were cocky, because we were brave, because we were forgetful, scared, excited, whatever). What a difference there is when someone keeps us from traveling too high or picks us up when we crash; such a gift of a person can only exist inside an honest relationship.

And so we tell. We tell new acquaintances who might become friends. We tell coworkers. We tell our families. We tell the audience at the show. We talk and we tell and we share to survive. Which is, I guess, why I gravitate toward addiction and mental illness narratives, because they are part of an enormous participatory narrative.

Which brings me to Beautiful Boy.

Sheff's narrative of his son's addictions and rehabs and relapses and the toll that they took on the family frightened me initially not because of the point-of-view of intervention and concern--I'm well aware of the havoc addictions wreak on families and friends, but because of the same thing that Duff mentioned as "scaring the hell" out of him when he read it. What frightened me was the father/son role, or parent/child, to generalize a bit. Why? Simple: I worry over TG and what the experience of an actively addict parent and the genetic inheritances will bring about in his life. I worry because he does know that he likely inherited a potentially lethal disorder and that he alone has the ability to escape it. What can I do to prevent addiction for my son?

Honestly? I don't know.

Realistically, addiction begins as pulling a trigger--the first time might get you, or the third, or the ninth, or, if you get lucky--never, but pulling the trigger nevertheless. And, it begins as a solo effort--the not-yet-addict, responding to desire, to peer pressure, to fancy, to...whatever, makes a choice. Perhaps the not-yet-addict is unaware of his or her genetic potential. Perhaps (as was true of me) he or she is perfectly aware of the torrid family history ("she caught the family disease," goes Loaded's "Queen Joanasophina") but pulls the trigger anyway. Maybe she'll get lucky; maybe not. Maybe it will be, as Sheff puts it, a "near miss" that pulls her out of her addiction (274), should that be what comes to pass, rather than wholly destructive or deadly rock bottom. Parents can guide, encourage, intervene, and pray; we can teach and hope something positive sticks. In the end, though...there is choice, over which we do not and should not have control.

I could (no, I can't, but I'll fake it for a moment) try to intellectualize my response to Sheff's book. It chronicles parental struggles in painful (and, at times, overwhelming, detail), and the infernal and constant questions: how much do we tell? How much of our own habits and histories do we share with our children, and how much do we edit, realizing that everything we try to hide may come to light in spite of us, even if we never lived in a spotlight? At what point do our stories cease being cautionary tales (which is certainly how parents tend to see them) and become fodder for arguments over who did what, when, how often, and with whom or, worse (?) mere anecdotes of parental lost-coolness? The reader occupies and experiences those questions and that position throughout Sheff's narrative--the parent overwhelmed by fear and anger and betrayal. And then simply overwhelmed. A telling quote:

There's a lot I don't know, but I have learned some lessons about addiction. Though there are some wrong courses of action to take, there is no predetermined right course. No one knows. (275)

If that isn't parenthood on any subject, I really don't know what is. No one knows.

One of the most telling pieces of his narrative is the way in which Sheff is nearly always in motion (save for when he is himself hospitalized). Time and again, we see the frantic action of parent calling, praying, screaming, and the addict sleeps. Sleeps or is otherwise passive. We don't see much of Nic's activity because we are in David Sheff's world, not Nic's*. As a device to heighten the tension of the text, though--it works. Everything in Sheff's life becomes, for a time, about Nic's addictions:

Here's a note to the parents of addicted children: choose your music carefully. Avoid Louis Armstrong's "What a Wonderful World," from the Polaroid or Kodak or whichever commercial, and the songs "Turn Around" and "Sunrise, Sunset" and---there are thousands more. Avoid Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time," and this one, Eric Clapton's song about his son. Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" sneaked up on me one time. The music doesn't have to be sentimental. Springsteen can be dangerous. (192)

Even the most innocuous of sources (*cough*Springsteen*cough*) is cause for emotional upheaval that may come utterly without warning. Everything in Sheff's world comes to be defined by his son's addiction (this is also true for the addicts, of course--every bit of music, every sunset, birthday, vacation, workday or image may be defined by its relationship to the addiction).

Addiction stems from solitary actions; though some are performed quite publicly, they are nevertheless actions imbued with separation from the world. Sheff captures the solitary motions of his son's addiction in the spaces of loss and terror, ones Sheff himself cannot voice the story for (as he did not experience the stories). However, addiction recovers in shared space--Al-Anon, AA, NA, rehab, group and individual therapy, books, blogs, stories shared over coffee and during concerts and runs and myriad other events. Sheff's website speaks to this need and truth, as he offers a forum for people to share their stories in. Share there. Share here, but do share your stories, whether they be hopeful or horrific, funny or frightening (alliterative or reasonably normal, for that matter).

Would I recommend Beautiful Boy? I don't know, really. Probably--especially for parents, though not in the "you can learn from THIS!" sort of way. Parents of addicts and addict parents--yes, definitely, if for no other reason than to hear someone else telling your/their/our story.

So there you have it, the sum total of my recent forays into fiction and non-fiction. Up for tonight? A Christopher Pike novel. Sort of needed a mental download. I'll get back to real work tomorrow.

Up next? Zakes Mda's Cion and Richard Meltzer's The Aesthetics of Rock.

(and Gravity's Rainbow, in my annual attempt to finish the damn thing).

*Nic's story is available in Tweak: Growing Up on Methamphetamines, which I've not read and haven't decided whether or not I am going to yet.

Plagueless II: Scary Books

2009-05-05T13:31:00.000-07:00

Continuing on toward Beautiful Boy:

Before getting to one of the more serious jags in my recent readings, I want to share with you one of the most delightful bits of silliness that I have had the opportunity to read (using the term in a fairly loose sense, anyway). I read it before Lent--I can't recall when I bought it precisely--, but if you were remotely attached to any hair/glam band of the late eighties, you must check out Neil Zlozower's Fück Yöu: Rock and Roll Portraits, a glorious visual ode to perhaps the most ubiquitous of all rock poses:

the bird* (thank you, wireimage)

Ah, bliss.

Okay, back to the musing:

Wright’s Black Boy is likely the most disconnected of the various texts I’ve been reading of late, in so far as its themes are relatively divergent from the others, at least superficially. It is, however, one of the myriad books which I feel like I have put off reading for far too long (and how it never ended up on any of my undergraduate or graduate reading lists is beyond me), and I am glad to took the time to read it, as Wright is a favorite author of mine--I love his voices. Thematically, the book did, it turned out, fit in with many of my Lenten themes, not the least of which is his working out how to live in the world. In addition to Wright's discussions of the racial struggles of his childhood, teen, and young adult years, he encounters his own addiction and redemption story when he falls in with a crowd of adults who find the cursing of a young, drunken lad to be terribly entertaining. That scene was among many of the uncomfortable indictments included in the text regarding race and class (and it is so incredibly clear how the two are conflated throughout). Imagine this moment, if you will. A young boy, perhaps six years old, dirt poor, bored, and lonely is pulled into a saloon, where he is plied with drinks and taught the language of the drunken:

To beg drinks in the saloon became an obsession. Many evenings my mother would find me wandering in a daze and take me home and beat me; but the next morning, no sooner had she gone to her job than I would run to the saloon and wait for someone to take me in and buy me a drink....But the men--reluctant to surrender their sport--would buy me drinks anyway, letting me drink out of their flasks on the streets, urging me to repeat obscenities. (21)

The language of the saloon, which he learns by sound, if not by meaning, eventually catches up to him, when he flings them out at his Grandmother. This marks his first (and certainly not his last) encounter with the manipulation of language in the various places and spaces he will inhabit.

His narrative ends with the following remark: "I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of the hunger for life that gnaws in us all, to keep alive in our hearts a sense of the inexpressibly human" (384). Exactly. Throw them into the void for someone, anyone, to hear and resonate with. This is why we tell our stories--whatever they may be--isn't it?

Much of my recent reading swirled around bipolar disorder (BSD, or bipolar spectrum disorder). I read them because BSD (Bipolar Spectrum Disorder) is one of my most nagging fears, and part of my Lenten (and post-Lenten) reading disciplines is to face those "places that scare" me. I have worried about the genetic links to BSD since my mother's diagnosis (and, indeed, before her formal diagnosis, since most of us "knew" about her before we were told). She was misdiagnosed as clinically depressed for years and treated with Prozac (and self-medicated with alcohol, because, guess what...Prozac alone doesn't help the bipolar brain, and can trigger mania ). And it's not just idle paranoia** either, because of my own substance abuse troubles and the hypomanic experiences that have driven me to do little things like, well, become confident (ha!) enough to drink again. I generally describe these periods as "hyperactive." I prefer the term; it's relatively accurate in so far as my habits and actions, but I am also aware that I have several of the "manic" habits--rapid speech, lack of focus, uncontrolled anger, "expansive" moods (the "I believe I can do anything" routine), addiction...you name it. My mother's diagnosis is Bipolar II; she presents with significant depressive symptoms (and has had several episodes of major depression over the years) and hypomania, though I would argue that her suicide attempt of a few years ago was a result of a manic episode, not a depressive one, but I don't know how honest she's been with her doctor on the matter, either (such would likely pop her diagnosis over to Bipolar I).

So, in the course of that reading, I finished one of the most frightening books I have ever read. As most of you are aware, I'm a bit of a horror addict, so, as you might imagine, this was not a zombie tale (not that there are scores of those in print anyway), vampire story, or ghost tome. It was Marya Hornbacher's Madness. I can't say I would recommend it in general terms, but if you have ever wanted for insight into the bipolar mind, this book is it. Several pieces caught my attention in her book, not the least of which was her fluid interpretation of the manic mind--her narrative voice captures the speed (and, eventually, paranoia) associated with such episodes--I'm particularly fond of her overuse of the exclamation point, since in mania, so often, Everything is splendid! (Her digressions feel quite familiar. So familiar):

I report--and believe--that everything is going well, better than well, so he has no reason to think anything's wrong. I brush of his incessant questions about whether I'm doing too much...How could I be doing too much when everything is right? The meds are obviously working brilliantly, as anyone can see....(168)

Indeed, they are. Her use of dashes and the freeflow of superlatives heighten the effect of the mania--sweeping the reader into her madness.

Kay Redfield Jameson's An Unquiet Mind is likewise a personal account of biopolar disorder, though the narrative voice is considerably more staid and calm, even as Jameson delves into her manic psychosis, which befits her own characterization as the intellect drawn to study the very mood disorder that haunts her and her family. As a consequence, her voice is often reserved and, superficially at least, objective. Her insights (and I would argue that many of these insights ARE borne out of the objectivity she had to develop as a researcher) dance between the image of the bipolar patient has of him or herself and those held by others. She captures, at the outset of her chapter "Flights of Mind," the separation between the perceptions of the bipolar mind and those of the people who live with the bipolar patient:

It goes on and one, and finally there are only others' recollection of your behavior--your bizarre, frenetic, aimless behaviors--for mania has at least some grace in partially obliterating memories. (68)

One of the central arguments for each writer is mania is itself addictive--those behaviors that are read by others as frivolous, batty, or annoying, are products of a feeling of unconquerability and pleasure--at least until the paranoia becomes unmanageable. Both authors also discuss the heavy reliance on others for survival--that the ways in which the bipolar patient is treated by the world (family, friends, etc.) can make all the difference, but, as Hornbacher makes clear, such reliance takes a toll--the caregivers often suffer mightily in the face of the disorder, forced from superhero to sidekick and back again, over and over and over. She remarks of her husband

He doesn't know how to relate to me. He has grown used to my being sick. He gave up on getting me back and got used to playing savior. Now he is tired of that role; but at the same time, he has forgotten everything else. In some ways it is simpler to be married to someone who is all need and no give. It's an enormous drain. But there is a benefit too: you become the hero, the center of someone else's existence. You are the saint. You have, in this sense, a great deal of power. (222)

The remark, like hers about losing the ability to write to the darkness, struck me cold and familiar. I wonder just how often I left G in such a predicament. Being a functional sort, he was never pushed to exactly these lengths, but he certainly lost the ability to know what and how to deal with me in the first go around of sobriety. I pulled away--didn't know how to react to or with him, wrapped up as I was in surviving the everyday. He, in turn, locked himself away from me, through various means, and I often wondered if it was in part because I wasn't as weak as I had been...I don't know. The idea crossed my mind on more than one occasion, but it could have as easily been my own projections of my fears of being needy (which isn't the case. An attention whore, maybe, but I can damn well take care of everything else). And I struggle with that appearance of neediness; I deeply fear not being independent--to be beholden to another for my material or psychological well being is terrifying, which is why, I guess, I am so caught up in the fear of a genetic inheritance from my mother--because bipolar, if it does nothing else, forces the patient into the role of reliance...on drug therapy, talk therapy, and on friends and family.

Such reliance is the essence of what I avoided in Beautiful Boy, but I need to make a small digression before we get there. A nod toward an idol and his craft. And a thank you to a new person to my world, who happily provides me with intellectual fodder and teengirl gaiety.

*I am horrified, just horrified, that of all the pictures I have of Duff McKagan on my computer not one had him posing with the big bird. Not one. The picture you see above is courtesy of the Loaded site, where, thankfully, someone had the decency to post Duff in his natural habitat.

**I initially typed "idol paranoia." Given how often I've used the term idol in reference to Duff of late, I had to laugh at that phrase. How the hell would that look?

Plagueless Decameron

2009-05-04T06:29:00.000-07:00

That the last two weeks have been a "roller-coaster" would be a significant understatement. Here’s to a completely boring, uneventful, totally calm week.

Yeah, I’m laughing too. So not going to happen.

On the marathon front, ran 20 miles this weekend. Fifteen on Saturday and five on Sunday. Feeling a tad sore today, but good. Saturday was horrid—hot, humid, terrible running weather, but I did make it through. Was pleased to discover that I could still run on Sunday. Next week, 18 miles on Saturday and 5 or 6 on Sunday—can’t remember which. Discovered that my new jeans are too big, which is a damn fine discovery, all in all.

Sobriety, well, still sober, 86 days sober, to be exact [I wasn’t really sure how long it had been, as I wasn’t keeping count. I’m not even 100% certain that February 7th is the correct date, but I know I was not sober for this post (snort…not sober? I was freaking wasted. I had a friendly online exchange with a friend that I have evidence, but no memory, of that night), and I was sober at this one (two days later), but…I can’t recall much other than the decision to race, which gave me the something to hang onto for the first few weeks.] I’ve removed a few triggers—I don’t usually shop on Friday nights anymore, for one—and I am generally at peace with my addictions, in so far as I think I ever will be. Of course, I’m pretty sure that around 90 days was significant last time too (and in the midst of another church upheaval *shakes head,* come to think of it). I’m careful about what I take—even ibuprofen---checking labels on cough syrup, and so forth.

Several people, Duff included, have recommended David Sheff's Beautiful Boy either in general or to me directly. To say that I have avoided the book really doesn't capture the lengths I went through to avoid even looking at the book on the shelves. I suppose my avoidance could be compared to the pilgrims in Boccaccio's Decameron, who shut themselves away in a monastery garden to avoid the plague, which was ravaging the city, hence the title of this post.

During their time (14 days, minus the 2 set aside each week where no stories are told, thus 10 days), the 10 pilgrims (10 x 10 = 100, hence Decameron) share stories, some quite obviously fanciful, others ostensibly true, but always with a moral center of some variant. One might even accuse me of having avoided the book not only by shutting my eyes to it, but by telling, well, reading, stories. My own frame narrative is likewise complete with stories of great moral uplift and absolute debauchery. The frame? See above--sobriety and running. The novellas? Yeah, they follow.

By the time Duff included Sheff's book on his "Summer Reading List" assignment to readers, I was well into my avoidance mode. His remark, that the book scared him all the more as a father, didn’t really help, since I do fear what life holds in store for my boy. I've written about several of the books in these pages (? wow...WTF do I call these...ah, nevermind, got it:) musings, as I devoured several of them during Lent and wrote about them here. So, for the next post or two, I’m going to wander over the readings, until I reach the one I was heretofore avoiding:

The Lenten vat, about which I have already written at length were Pema Chödrön's When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times, her The Places that Scare You: A Guide to Fearlessness in Difficult Times, Karen Armstrong's Islam: A Short History and Holy War: The Crusades and their Impact on Today’s World, Brad Warner's Zen Wrapped in Karma Dipped in Chocolate, and Barbara Brown Taylor's An Altar in the World: A Geography of Faith.

In ~~addiction~~ (whoa, what a typo) addition to those, I’ve read:

Wright, Richard. Black Boy
Bock, Charles. Beautiful Children
Sixx, Nikki. Heroin Diaries: A Year in the Life of a Shattered Rock Star
Hornbacher, Marya. Madness: A Bipolar Life
Kay Redfield Jamison, An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness
Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith
Peter Manseau, Rag and Bone: A Journey Among the World’s Holy Dead

There’s a pattern (or several) here, of course. The Sixx book, which I mentioned here before, is another of the myriad addiction narratives I’ve devoured over the last few years, ostensibly as research material for that eventual-book-based-on-my-dissertation-project that ever PhD has in his or her mental back pocket. As I have mentioned, I found the book intriguing; it was…frightening…at times, when the addiction demons felt too close to the surface, but I think the narrative strategy employed here helps to distance the reader from the action, though I doubt that was what the meta-commentary was intended for. Such commentary does, though, force the reader out of the insanity captured by the journal entries themselves. In terms of the redemption strategies employed by the book, it’s not nearly as self-conscious an effort as, say, Slash’s, but at the same time employing journal entries would, I suspect, tend to limit the redemption narrative impulse. Realistically, both of the above mentioned bios tend to follow the redemption track, particularly in their final chapters, both of which are unquestionably spaces of confession and redemption seeking.

Bock’s Beautiful Children should have been better than it is, and the ending of the text, when we slide between the narrative voices of multiple urban nomads, showcases what the novel could have been. Unfortunately, those voices are crowded out by characters who feel listless and flat in their narcissistic-depressions, rather than engaging or sympathetic. I was intrigued by Cheri’s mapping of her life as a film script, until the convention went nowhere, and she was rendered just another stripper with a heart of gold (and nipple sparklers). I wanted to like this book; I was probably looking for something like What We Do is Secret,** which was far more arresting in the end. Hillsbery can certainly be credited with a far better narrative strategy, particularly in the utter lack of visual cues*, than Bock.

Manseau’s Rag and Bone is a bit of a departure thematically (though, anyone who knows my obsession with Roach's Stiff will be unsurprised by my selection and giddiness), but I highly recommend it to anyone with a curiosity about the ways and natures of relics, all medievalists, and the merely morbid. His travels through the political and religious worlds that seek to preserve something—anything—that confirms the power of the status quo—from foreskins to whiskers to entire bodies, make for a terrific and quick travel narrative. He depicts his encounters with the various characters associated with relic-keeping with humor and goodwill, which makes for a pleasant set of tales, even one wrapped in the horrific realities of Kashmir and Sri Lanka.

The path to Beautiful Boy continues...

*It also contains the single best description of a mosh pit ever, and he describes it without so much as a single visual identifier—purely sound, taste, touch, and hearing, which certainly befits a good pit.

**The websites associated with books are starting to drive me bonkers.

Seven Days

2009-04-27T10:14:00.000-07:00

It's difficult for me to believe that Monday was only 7 days ago, because there is no way that so much could have happened that quickly.

When last I completed a blog (another story altogether), I was riding high. Really high. Fabulous concert; met Duff. Riding high and even managed to garner a description as "cute" as a result of my overall giddiness from a fellow member of one of the online forums I hang out in. Cute, I have to say, is a word seldom applied to me, even by my husband, who finds in necessary to muster up a very serious face just to say it without hurting himself from the laughter.

Suffice to say: whatever I may be physically and emotionally and mentally and what-have-you, cute is generally not among the descriptors. Hence, I was really high on life as the week opened.

On Monday, I met with Rev. Dean on the subject of a book project and held court in the first of many search committee meetings. This one, as I recall, did not go particularly well and brought me down a few pegs, but, in general, all was well.

Then came Tuesday morning, when we received word that a beloved friend and colleague, who was due to have heart surgery that morning, would not have the life-salvaging surgery because his heart was just too damaged by the heart attack earlier in the semester. He was to be sent home and into hospice care. We'd been getting reports all along about his well-being, some hopeful, others quite depressing, but the surgery had been a point of possibility, even as much as it would be a difficult procedure. But on Tuesday morning, he was suddenly dying. For real. G. came home that night to report on the finance committee meeting that had been held at church. To say that I disagreed with the tactics of the committee regarding cutting the budget would be a significant understatement. I was angry, sad, hurt, and convinced that what we had fought so hard for--to protect the ministers and ministries against the tide of support for a building...yeah, wooden beams and stained glass over people and mission--that all of that was for naught. I went to bed furious and exhausted.

Wednesday bloomed a bit brighter than Tuesday ended, if only because there was a concert to look forward to. Early in the morning, still high off the morning run, I got the word that Loaded would be playing a free show in Augusta, in addition to the one I was planning to attend that night. So, G and I arranged to take off early and go to both. As I prepared to leave, there was one last search meeting for the day, and it went FAR better than I expected, in that we made a decision, something that seemed unlikely at the close of Monday. The concerts that night were indeed fantastic and took my mind off the events of Tuesday, just a bit.

I came into work on Thursday on 3 hours sleep (after some 21 awake). Tired, perhaps a bit cranky, but generally mellow, though notably unable to write either of the blog posts I had started. Read Duff's SW blog, which he swore on Wednesday was a poor one, written in exhaustion. As of today, said blog has generated more response (I think) than any of his prior ones. So much for a pathetic piece of prose, eh*? Posted a response that was likely longer than the original post (oops). Friday was more of the same; a bit rushed, but otherwise tame. The most contentious meeting of the day ended with a decision and I went to the other campus for a meeting, where we signed a poster for our colleague, who was home but trying to work out his affairs, and thus wanted no particular company.

Then Saturday. This one made national news. While we oriented and registered two hundred or so new students at our lovely semi-rural campus, a local professor shot and killed three people at a local theatre gathering near downtown. I live, as I have mentioned before, in a college town, and one of the (many) idiosyncrasies of college-townness is the incestuousness--everyone knows everyone, at least by degrees. And, indeed, as the news unfolded, we discovered that one of the victims was the husband of another beloved English professor. To say that shock washed over this campus would be a serious understatement; we held together, registered the new students and went home to our families, trying not to feel morbid as we saw "Professor on the loose" in the headlines.

Sunday was for grief. For my friend. For the families. For my community. Rev. Dean reminded us that life exists within all this death, when he dedicated two babies during Sunday's service. Fought tears during the service, then gave into them. What safer place to cry?

This morning, as I returned from class, I received an email regarding my friend Tom, who died this morning, simply and quietly, as befits his delightful and magical life. He died at home, as he wanted. He died with friends, as was needed. I gave more tears at the desk and turned toward getting the word out and making sure students and faculty knew there was counseling available. "We are here if you need us," I signed off. Morbid humor pervades the day--I find myself making cracks about the relative insanity of PhDs or listening to similar jokes about SWAT teams in camo...in the middle of the city.

Seven days of highs and lows**; an exhausting 7 days. A puny seven days. SEVEN. Life, death, music, terror, anger, sadness, and humor.

And we are still here, somehow or another, if a bit in a heartbroken daze. But, we are here, trudging ever onward and wondering if this week will bring peace or something we have not yet even begun to imagine.

*Of course, mentioning vinyl will tend to generate comments from the masses.

**And reading about bipolar disorder at the same time. Bipolar life would be more accurate at the moment.

A Loaded Evening

2009-04-19T17:14:00.000-07:00

I have a longer, serious post for later on the same subject, but for now, only celebration and sharing. After 18 years (either I am getting old, or I was ridiculously young the last time. Yes, that's it. I was 5 in 1991. At a GNR show. In the pit. Yeah.), I got to see Duff play live again and finally had the opportunity to see Loaded in action. I am delighted that I took the time to get up to Nashville to see them--the show was well worth the drive.

The pics included here attempt to document the inveterate silliness that occurs on the Loaded stage, as band members plot and harass and cajole each other and the audience into sharing in the good time. Readers, if you have the chance to see them (oh, look, a list of dates!), take the opportunity--make the opportunity, for few bands have the energy (even if Red Bull...ummm... "enhanced"), camaraderie, or excitement as this band. The segues in and out of band and fan favorites in the midst of "I Wanna Be Your Dog" (including a hint of Judas Priest, an appearance by ZZ Top, and scores of others) is alone worth the price of admission.

Gentlemen, should you ever see this, my hat is off to you. Thank you for such a fabulous show.

I also had the pleasure of meeting two women, duffdiver and rhyte (nicknames are theirs from the Loaded fan forum), who epitomize musical fandom and allowed me to share in a brief retreat back to 15-year-old girl concert craziness. Seriously groovy ladies, they are. Even managed to get a few excellent book recommendations from them (Loaded seems to draw in an awful lot of English degrees in the fanbase).

Now, as befits the geekiness of this blog, I do have to share one tiny thing. One infinitesimal detail about the evening, that, as you can imagine, I have mulled and pondered and tried REALLY, REALLY hard not to drive G crazy with.

I got to meet the band after the show, and after Duff's shout out to me in his SW blog, I thought I was prepared for the event. Squires, Jeff (a god of the stage, I must assure you--wow), and Geoff were terribly groovy and gentlemanly, even as I quite clearly geeked out over meeting Duff. Cause, you know, haven't idolized the man for 22 years or anything. Okay, truth be told, I managed to keep my cool--didn't geek out (completely) and even managed to introduce myself to Duff. The exchange when like this (remember, all of us were suffering post-traumatic-hearing-loss, so I'm editing a few "huh's?" out of the exchange):

K: Hi (shakes Duff's hand), I'm Kris (cool, ain't I?), from your SW blog.
D: (leaning in, hearing being what it is at this point in the evening). Hi. You're who?

This is the part where I would usually have died and walked away.

K: (louder, realizing he's as deaf as she is) Kris, from your SW blog.
D: (eyes wide & incredulous): You're fuckin' Kris?

I will never hear my name quite the same way again. (*grinning as she types*)

D: Okay, so you're not a professor? (not sure what I said in response to his blog that gave this impression, but it was the second time someone had asked me that during the evening. So for clarification, he was half-right in his blog: I am a professor, but I am not from Seattle. Unfortunately.)

And so on....

He was very cordial and complementary, even saying that he found my little blog inspirational.

At which point I fainted.

Kidding, kidding.

I maintained my cool (sort of), and thanked him, completely awestruck...even gobsmacked...again. Cause, like, you know...22 years. My hero--one of the coolest musicians I've ever had the pleasure to meet, certainly one whose life and work has provided much aural pleasure and, indeed, inspiration over the years--said that I (or at least what I write) am inspirational.

To him.

I am humbled once again.

My fuckin' hero.

Darby Crash Lives?

2009-04-15T18:59:00.000-07:00

WTF?

Okay, first one of those "pop culture FAIL" moments: I've never, until last night, watched American Idol. No interest. But, last night, as FOX has, in its wisdom, decided that TV schedules are made to be messed with, I caught the last few minutes, while waiting for Fringe (yes, geek here: wacky science, a daft scientist, poorly acted romantic interest, and, bonus, a cow in the lab. See, what's not to love there?) to start.

And, I saw this gentleman singing Steppenwolf's "Born to Be Wild." -->

The fellow's name is apparently Adam Lambert, but when I glanced at the TV screen, I yelled, to G's unutterable surprise and momentary discontent (he's accustomed to the outbursts, but I usually reign myself in before 9pm, because, well, I'm usually nearing unconsciousness by then due to that whole 5am wake-up routine):

"Holy Fuck, it's Darby Crash!"

When the hell was Darby reincarnated and why wasn't I informed? Worse, why is he on American Idol? This is clearly irrational.

I recognize that Lambert, like oh so many others, is adopting a look that is intended to convey rebelliousness; this particular manifestation of the leather look has been synonymous with such for decades. Sid and company did it with the Pistols; Duff and company...yep, them too (heck, Loaded is still doing it).

But....here?

What, exactly, in American Idol screams rebellion? The fact that the whole freaking show was apparently centered around film songs? Was it merely costuming to go along with the song's theme?

Image versus reality--Crash lived inside that sphere, manipulating it as he saw fit until it either (pick your poison here) spun out of his control or he acted on the most significant manipulation of his short life in commanding his own death (even if his timing was a bit, in the end, poor, what witch Lennon dying a few hours later). I'm vaguely troubled by the idea that Lambert deliberately mocks (as in makes a copy of, not ridicules) Crash here, but I'm even more disturbed by the very real possibility that he doesn't have any clue whatsoever.

Didn't anyone else look at him and shriek obscenities about Crash? Or was this a me thing?

G. votes that it was clearly a me thing, as the odds seem to be stacked against a horde of Germs fans watching American Idol, a suggestion I am inclined to support, as I clearly had no business doing so either. Is punk appropriated and controlled in this show on a regular basis or did I happen to run across one rather bizarre instance? Yeah, yeah, I know that the guy in My Chemical Romance* is equally likely to be the source of Lambert's inspiration, but I didn't yell anything about Gerard Way (yes, I did have to google that, *sigh*); I saw Darby writ small across my minuscule TV screen.

And why am I troubled by the vague, nagging sensation that Crash might have used this kind of pomp and preening to his own end, should he have lived in this era?

*WTF #347152372156396: The title of the book in that link is terrifying...*shudder*

Humoring the Professor

2009-04-09T09:26:00.000-07:00

I've come to the shocking conclusion that I have been taking myself too seriously. In fact, the level of seriousness with which I have been examining my case is so completely out of whack that the PMLA has gotten in on the gig of reminding me to chill out.

The PMLA, for the uninitiated, is the journal of the Modern Language Association (PMLA=Publications of the Modern Language Association*), which is one of the behemoths, er, major professional groups for literature and composition professors, grad students, and "unaffiliated" scholars. MLA is most infamous for it's ~~meat market~~ interview process, which--and I am not kidding with the next remark--most often take place in hotel rooms.

And you wondered why your English profs were so daft, didn't you? What would you be like if the major interview location afforded you a seat on a bed and a view of the toilet?**

As a result, we tend to take ourselves very seriously, since, well, no one else will do it for us.

But, PMLA was kind this month in reminding me of the humor of my situation in an article entitled "What's So Funny About Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder" by Paul Cefalu. As an OCD-type myself, I was immediately drawn to the article, and damn if he doesn't manage to pull off a relatively literary study of comedy and OCD.

For context, I should point out that my OCD (look! mine!) manifests in two very specific ways. First would be a focus on symmetry. If I touch one side of my neck, I am compelled to touch the other side with approximately the same amount of pressure for the same amount of time. If I am not careful about the matter, the process of scratching the left side of my neck can become an affair of considerable effort. On really bad days, I can't knit because the needles are held differently in the hands; I also shouldn't (but do) grade, as the paper touching my right wrist*** will inevitably stop the grading so that balance can be sought. Then there are the sidewalk cracks...oy.

The second manifestation appears as compulsive thoughts: I get stuck on ideas, people (um, Hi Duff!), images, songs, and I have to do something--usually write--to get the thoughts under control. Occasionally, I unwittingly scare people with this particular manifestation; I'm sure that more than one ~~object of my affection~~ (I hate the word object with reference to humans) of the people in question has considered me a candidate for stalkerdom. I'm not, though. Just occasionally stuck...like a broken record. (Yeah, that's it. Call me the Vinyl Queen. No, wait, don't.) One might argue that my parenthetical remark habit (my first thesis director certainly would have, had he thought about it in this way) is part of this particular quirk--I explain (and digress) to a rather, um, silly degree.

As I have suggested before, my drinking appears to be related as well, since I was nothing if not compulsive about it.

Cefalu's argument is pretty simple: the humor of OCD is born of irony: "If a master trope explains the uniquely disjunctive experience of OCD, it is irony. Not only is there something fundamentally ironic about the extent to which obsessives with OCD concentrate on tasks that they believe to be ridiculous, but compulsions, usually orchestrated to relieve underlying obsessions, tend to worsen the motivating obsession, and the victim gets caught in a ritualistic loop" (47).

I am so adding to the subtitle of this blog: "Occasional feakouts, Ritualistic loops..."

Humor, he suggests, is so often borne of incongruity, that OCD can't help (ha! It's compelled!) but to be a part of the humorus considerations of a culture awash with images of assorted neuroses. OCD is funny because it makes no sense (even to the obsessive), but the actions continue nevertheless--even after acknowledging the foolishness. He notes, following Alan Wilde, that there exists a difference between modernist and postmodernist irony insofar as "modernist irony recognizes but desperately tries to overcome incongruities, [while] postmodern irony unheroically and skeptically accepts them" (47). Quoting Wilde, he continues "Postmodern irony...is suspensive: an indecision about the meanings or relations of things is matched by a willingness to live in uncertainty" (qtd. in Cefalu 47). He concludes, however, that while the symptomology of OCD is indeed the very stuff of humor, the depictions that we have access to are, in the main, merely depictions of OCD-like symptoms, and not the underlying guilt and frustration that accompanies the clinical condition; thus, one might suggest, even in this logical and available source for humor, we tend to take the easy way out.

But for the last part of his argument, which is one of the most frequent complaints in literary studies-->that "they" aren't doing/showing/examining/whatevering something authentically****, I rather like the analysis because it pulls literature back into the real world, which it does, after all, attempt to reflect (however inauthentically it may do so). Too, the analysis takes theory, which has all but killed literary studies, and positions it within the familiar and concrete (well, OCD and concrete is probably not exactly accurate, is it?), which makes theory more functional--a good thing, says the comparatist who has watched her discipline all but abandon literature over the years.

In thinking about the remarks about postmodern irony, I see a correlation with my own world. Certainly, I recognize that my compulsions can be troublesome, but they are also, for the most part, really freaking funny and I'm willing to live with the oddities. The guilt is most often associated with wanting to talk about people and ideas that make others uncomfortable, and I have learned how to stop myself for the most part (usually--another way academia is a good place for me--few barriers to discussion).

So, back to making fun of myself and taking a lighter view of the world...which is way more fun that being serious in any event. Maybe I'll get back to that whole analysis of 80s glam videos...

What would I do without PMLA?

*How's that for creativity?
**I did not "do" MLA (nor vice versa); I was fortunate enough to be hired by the college I had been an adjunct for. So, no toilet view for me. Thankfully.
***Here's a gloriously odd example: initially, I typed "left"--then changed it to "right" because I had already written about the left side of my body. Someday I will write a post in which I strike through such changes rather than deleting them outright. That should be a fun one to read.
****Kindly bear in mind that I came of age during the height of 80's glam, so I tend to take a dim view of notions of "authentic." Art depicts and is understood through perception and judgement, two faculties that like to pretend they know and experience "the authentic," but do not, hence the ease with which I laugh at Romantic writers who searched for the voice of the "common man," whilst living in the country by the lake or adopting another image as needed to play the part. I could get started on rock-n-roll image on this, but I'll refrain for now.

Trippers and Askers Surround Me

2009-04-07T07:44:00.000-07:00

If you don't recognize the post title, it's from a Whitman poem, Song of Myself. Even as much as I make fun of Whitman at times, this really is one of my favorite poetic moments:

Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news, the fitful events;
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself. (4:1-9)

This resonated today insofar as this post is as much grab bag as analysis (and probably a good deal more). See, I am not the bits and pieces I collect; "I" am more than the sum of their parts, but they are no less a part of me. If I fail to give them voice, I reduce myself. At the same time, if I give them more attention than is their due--try to make them all of me, I reduce myself. So, this collection of randoms is not "me" but they are very much the expression, the clothing of my voice.

Marathon Training: 25 miles last week, the same and additional change for this week (27 total?). Time is, as ever, pokey, but speed is not the goal--dragging myself across the finish line is. We can worry over speed after the race. Not thrilled with the whole return to cold weather deal that we had this morning. In fact, it SUCKED.

The 10 mile loop I mapped out is an interesting beast; turns out that little country road behind my house is one very long hill. With bikers.*

10 miles--two of these uphill battles plus a 10K and I'm done, right?

The psychology of running is a beast with which to reckon--more on that in a later post, but I'm pretty sure I rewrote my will, sketched the first 74% of a novel, and re-centered my current research project in the course of Saturday morning. I did discover that it is a good thing that I don't carry my iPod along, as I am distracted enough without music.

Duff: A perennial favorite in these parts, yes?

For those who missed my über-freakouts last week, a brief update:

First, Loaded kindly consented to come to the Southeast on their tour, and while I can take no credit (though I did harass), I am very pleased and wish to say thank you to all four musicians in question. I look forward to seeing all of you this month. Thank you, gentlemen.

Second, Sick (Loaded's album--see the link at the bottom of the page) arrived yesterday. Good tunes. Good fun. Great humor. The joy in the music is palpable.

Third, Duff mentioned me in his blog. No really. See the quote below? "Kris" is me (I love, love, love the digression about newspapers and blogs that accompanies the remark about me...it's ridiculously fitting):

Of the readers that I deem to be local, a professor dubbed "Kris" has a blog of his/her own that is drenched with deep-thought and hyper-awareness. I am honored that people like this even give a guy like me the time of day to read the neophyte script that I turn in to the Weekly. (On this subject, I just watched CBS's Sunday Morning, and there was a segment on blogging and news otherwise obtained on the Web. Apparently, for the first 100 or so years of their existence—1680 to 1780—newspapers would leave a blank page at the end of an article so that readers could write their comments and then pass it along for someone else to cross-comment. By 1915 there were some 15,000 different newspapers and magazines circulating in the U.S. Radio, TV, and other media eventually diminished the high demand, but it appears now that with the Internet, we are back up to having the wide variety celebrated those 100 years ago. Back to the future, I guess.)

I grant that the pink daisy probably should have been a gender clue, but, I appreciate the gender-non-specificity nevertheless and, moreover, I really appreciate his kindness. When in the world did I become a "people like this"? I thought that was his role. He's my hero after all.

He's "people like this," not me.

Him.

Duff. The guy mentioned first in the blog's cast of characters. My hero thinks I'm a "people like this"!

I'm not though. He is.

"people like this"

...The last piece of Duffness came in an article that inspired a post that I will put up later this week on the subject of recovery. Because, damn, he is "people like this" and fuck all if he doesn't make me think time and again about where and how and who: this time, he made me remember something about recovery that I had rather suppressed.

On that note...

Recovery: Rather melancholy at the moment. I realized this week, happily, that while the first go-round at recovery was brutal for an extended period--the craving, the obsession with consumption, I haven't had much in the way of a pull toward alcohol at all this time, at least since the first month (which was a bitch--way worse than the first time). The...I can't think of the right word here...lackadaisical? ambivalent?...what? The (whatever word I am seeking--detached?) attitude is a bit baffling, and, at first, I thought it was a good thing. Then I remembered that this was about the same feeling that preceded the decision to drink again. At which point I began to pay more attention to my thoughts and rambles, and they are a bit darker than I realized. Not threatening, mind you--not going there, but definitely dark.

Or maybe it's the return to cold weather that's getting me down.

In all likelihood, it is some of all of the above--some of each of the bits and pieces reflected here. I was getting low last week, before I saw the remark quoted in Duff's blog above, which buoyed me more than I can readily articulate. My hero and his kindnesses. Great highs, such as the excitement of last week, inevitably precede precipitous lows, and I will simply have to weather those, as well as the snow flurries outside my window.

Snow flurries in Georgia in April should be verboten, dammit.

Maybe I should work harder at not hanging my hat on the kindnesses of heroes and strangers, but celebrate those moments and allow myself to revisit on tough days and hours, but buoy myself with my own service and work in the world. Touch upon the joy and savor it for a time, but rely on internal measures, rather than external ones.

And in thinking about the weeks to come, perhaps I should not worry so much about how I appear to others, that I may be over-excitable (why not be so, after all?) or risky or scary or whatever, but I do. I do worry over the trippers and askers, the dress and compliments, the depressions and exaltations.

My compulsions and ecstasies and smiles and encounters and addictions and stories and whatevers and whatnots are significant. Even my silliness.

Which makes me wonder...what makes you who you are? What are the events and ideas and behaviors that clothe your self? Who and what surrounds you?

*For those not in the know, this community is rife with cyclists (not bikers, I know...I couldn't resist). Scads of brightly colored, spandex-clad folks on minuscule tires cover the roadways each morning. They are, as a rule, a fun group of folks to watch, even if the occasional super-athlete feels it necessary to make an obnoxious remark at me. Heh...I'm usually too whipped to care by the time they come upon me. Fortunately, most of the cycling crowd is quite polite.

The Ethics of Storytelling

2009-03-31T06:30:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned a few weeks ago, one of Rev. Dean's Lenten sermons got me thinking about stories. Sad to say, but I have been mulling it ever since. His contention was that storytelling--he privileged the oral form (now that is an unusual feat for the average 70s-born American)--was both rapidly dying and critical to human existence. His text for the day was Genesis, specifically the story of Abraham and Sarah which, he noted, isn't really about them at all so much as it is about human experience and wonder. Sharing of story and experience is critical to our humanity: "At the very least," remarks Barbara Brown Taylor in her An Altar in the World (a book I highly recommend), "most of us need someone to tell our stories to" (91).

Rev. Dean contends that one of the most significant pieces of evangelism is telling our stories, and he framed his sermon on Genesis in this manner. We tell stories to preserve history, to teach ethics, to confirm, to entertain, and for a host of other reasons. I would suggest--*gentle poke in the ribs* that we write stories for similar reasons. Nevertheless, to tell our own stories in any capacity involves a certain amount of exposure; we cannot control, once the story begins, where it will go and who will attack. So, often, we do not tell out stories--about faith, life, fear, joy, nor anything else. We simply close ourselves off.

In later conversation, he also noted that I tell my story more than almost anyone he knows (which suggests to me that he's not reading many blogs for I am a mere amateur, and I am not worthy of such a description), but that the Internet does afford a certain amount of safety. I don't, for instance, have to watch my audience and gauge how the story needs to flow in order to keep their interest or ensure their understanding of my points. I simply write and hope. And obsess--you'd not believe how often I read and re-read posts in order to remedy flaws...invariably after I post them (bad English major, but typical English major, too).

Like Rev. Dean, I think that telling our stories--in whatever form we have access to--is important. In order to capture and understand the spirit of a person, one needs to know his or her story. Consider the number of times you may have changed your view of someone, based on coming to know "the rest of the story" (thank you, Paul Harvey). When we hear another person's story, we acknowledge the humanity of the storyteller--and ourselves. But, only if we truly listen.

Time and again in my Lenten readings*, authors have pointed to the need to listen to the stories of others, to connect with our fellow human beings without incorporating these people into our own storylines. Taylor describes it thus: "At a deeper level, most of us need someone to help us forget ourselves, a little or a lot. The great wisdom traditions of the world all recognize that the main impediment to living a life of meaning is being self-absorbed"(91). Chödrön says something similar in both books I read as a part of Lent, suggesting that we need to practice listening and to practice compassion as ways of getting outside our personal storylines (which differ from the stories themselves), which tend to be self-absorbed and prevent us from connecting with other humans. Even Warner got into the conversation, remarking that "I can't be happy if I make the people around me miserable under the mistaken impression that their misery is not intimately connected with mine" (208).

Practice: Listening without judgment, telling without judgment, and existing in the world as community, not individuals with little to no interconnection with one another.

Many of us will hedge when approached about our stories, claiming that we have no story or that the audience would merely be bored. Many of us assume failure with our stories and the connections that might be formed from them. I blog, but I seldom spoke up in AA (I've written about this before, but suffice to say that AA wasn't the space, place, or people I needed to survive sobriety--it does work, however, for a great many people and I strongly encourage anyone who is suffering the hell of addiction to find his or her way to one of the multitudinous AA, NA, etc meetings. Go online if you must, but find the space and share in the story). If you've never read the "Big Book," check it out though the link (used book stores often have copies, too); it is replete with stories of lives drunken and sober. Addicts are encouraged to share our stories (and the non-addicts around us are often baffled and annoyed by what appears to be a bizarre compulsion to talk about addiction, recovery, and sobriety). The telling of stories has a two-fold significance. One, it connects the addict to others by offering up a slice of humanity; other addicts may hear themselves in the story--or hear features that feel familiar.

"Sobriety was like living with a color TV with the volume turned all the way up at first, after having lived with a mute Black & White."

Yeah...totally got that metaphor when I heard it.

The second fundamental is a reminder. As Taylor remarks about the Desert Fathers, "The deeper reason they needed one another was to save them from the temptation of believing in their own self-sufficiency" (90). Check. Addiction is, in part, a violation of community, a fleeing from shared experience into a pseudo-protective shell of addictive experience (that shell would be an example of a storyline as Chödrön describes them--"I'm safe so long as I drink. I'm happy so long as I have my junk, and so forth). So, not telling ones story--not confessing it--can too easily result in forgetting or dismissing or getting involved in the false storylines again. Granted, quite frankly, how wonderful it would be sometimes to forget those stories, to not be reminded of what and who and how and why and where and how many. For all the ways in which forgetting would help the ego and help me buy into a storyline in which I am perfect (not addict, not forgetful, not compulsive, not me), there is a savage grace to recollection. It hurts L.A.M.F., but such recollection also points toward redemption, hope, and promise of better days to come.

Classic redemption motif: sin-->confession-->penance-->absolution**

Confession, public or private is significant in this process. I suppose blogging is something of a mixed bag in the world of confessions; some readers (most, I would think) know me in my non-kitsch life, but there is a certain amount of anonymity involved nonetheless. However, I am far more likely to confess here than verbally--Rikki, for instance, came to know of my addictions in these pages, rather than in a day-to-day exchange, though I if I were forced to identify a family-confessor, she would undoubtedly be the one. Of course, I've still not really talked about the matter with her--so she might very well have figured it out long before, for all I know.

Now, here's the question, bringing it back to Rev. Dean...why is it easier to tell the story of addiction than the story of faith? Heh.

* I did finish the original 5, so I started Richard Wright's Black Boy, in which I see thousands of interconnections to the other readings. Book 7 (should there be a need) will be another Armstrong book, this one about the Crusades and the effect of that history on contemporary activity. I opted not to use Gravity's Rainbow after all...I mean I am already training for a marathon...I shouldn't engage in too much self-abuse.

**Assuming your author was so kind, of course. I mean some Fausts still get ripped apart limb-from-limb, after all.

Taylor, Barbara Brown. An Altar in the World: A Geography of Faith. New York: HarperOne, 2009.

Warner, Brad. Zen Wrapped in Karma Dipped in Chocolate. Novato: New World Library, 2009.

Academics and Assorted Musings on Mental Health

2009-03-29T13:05:00.000-07:00

So, read this charming piece in the Chronicle today. It fairly well confirms one of my favorite descriptions of graduate school--that it isn't for the sane. Yes, indeed, studies indicate that graduate students are a mentally unhealthy bunch:

Social isolation, financial burdens, lack of structure, and the pressure to produce groundbreaking work can wear heavily on graduate students, especially those already vulnerable to mental-health disorders.
Studies have found that graduate school is not a particularly healthy place.

You think?

Before I left for graduate school, one of my profs sat gave me a piece of sage advice that I fear I took far too well. "Choose an addiction now," he said, "because every English professor has one, and usually at least three, of the following addictions: sugar, sex, alcohol, or narcotics. Pick your favorite and focus on it."

Now, I admit that I belonged to a fairly...um...unhealthy discipline. Comparatists are not known for their sanity, patience, nor humility. Generally, when I introduce myself as a comparatists, I get some form of the following reaction: Slow eye blink. "Oh. Wow." The remark is inevitably followed, depending on the relative experience of the speaker with either "That's a really demanding program," or "I'm sorry." The sorry, not incidentally, regards the atmosphere associated with most comp lit programs--we are often not exactly the most well-regarded department on campus. Troublemakers, every single one.

My fellow grad students and I observed (as grad students are wont to do) that most of us were given to depression, anxiety, and other forms of mental distress. In fact, academics in general seem to be drawn to academia precisely because it is one of the few places that tolerates our more unfortunate behavioral patterns. Take the classic "absent-minded professor" type; I've met several, and I can say with absolute seriousness that academia is the only place for them. I cannot imagine what happens to those who don't end up teaching. In any event, many of us are somewhat less than socially graceful, and as the article notes, a whole vat of us belong in therapy (as to whether we seek it or not...another story entirely). My dear former therapist, himself a retired prof, remarked once that he thought that a year of therapy should come with every PhD granting, seeing as how most of us are in dire mental straights by the time we finish.

Which suggests perhaps that the sane folks get the hell out of the program, right?

So, I'm wondering (thinking about Sixx' remark that I blogged on earlier this week), are we born academics? I don't mean anything regarding intelligence here (indeed, one might make an argument against the wisdom of those of us who choose, perfectly willingly, to submit to the whims and demands of other people who survived the whims and demands of their own professors and have chosen to take it out on students for the next 40 or so years); rather, I wonder about the type of personality that is driven into grad school...

What comes first: grad school or insanity?

Perhaps my prof was on to something about the nature of the addict, or, at least, of certain addictive personalities. Few career paths really celebrate the ability to obsess in great detail on a single subject that, quite potentially, no one else in the world really gives a damn about. Well...except at comp lit conferences, when minutiae become the stuff of the finest of cat fights. Seriously, though...could I function in an environment that wasn't friendly to odd behaviors and habits? An environment that was comfortable with the socially inept and the compulsive?

A for instance: one of the great complaints among faculty is that students don't read the course catalog and prepare themselves for advising. Leaving aside the fact that we no longer print catalogs, one of the images often used in such discussion is the "dog-eared" catalog that so many of us faculty carried around and read, highlighted, and memorized during our undergraduate years. It turns out, though, that the then proto-faculty were the weird ones, and we have a tough time seeing why normal folk don't obsess over which English track to follow or whether to take Milton or Advanced Grammar this semester, while we are taking that freaking Literary Criticism course. Our students aren't defective. Our students are normal.

We are obsessives.

So, are we born academics? Do we attract and protect the unstable...providing a sense of place for some and a sense of incredible stress and displacement for others? Other than the stresses of graduate programs, why is there a high incidence of mental illness in academia (because it doesn't magically disappear after grad school)?

You can tell I'm having one of those weekends, yes?

No Words

2009-03-27T12:49:00.001-07:00

I have none at all. Laughing too hard....

The Loaded boys are at it again, this time in their new video for "Flatline." (the link to the video is at the bottom of the article.)

Watch. Enjoy. Laugh your ass off.

Mötley Thoughts

2009-03-26T13:27:00.000-07:00

I've been struggling all week to settle on a topic; I've even written parts of two other posts. Maybe I'll get around to them later--at least one of them is still germinating right now, so I need to have the patience to let the ideas bear fruit, preferably before I ~~pulverize~~ write them down.

Training is back on track, which is delightful, if a bit daunting. Those voices--the ones that tell me I have no business running a marathon--are pretty loud this week. I mean, really, who am I to convince myself to fly clear across to the Pacific Northwest for the specific purpose of running 26.2 miles? Well, I suppose I'm me, and thus the only person qualified to make such a demand of myself, but...gads. 26.2 miles.

Running a 10K on Saturday (Rikki's joining for the 5K). Here's to completing the 6.2 portion of the marathon, right? Yee gads. Go Rikki (who apparently will be far better dressed than I at this shindig).

So the topic du jour comes from Nikki Sixx' Heroin Diaries, which I am reading for the purpose (ostensibly) of writing an article on the subject of contemporary redemption narratives in the vain hopes of someday turning the product of the last marathon adventure of my life into a book. Got to start somewhere--pitch the article at a conference...perhaps a journal. See what kind of traction is there in the academic community.

She giggles just slightly at the notion of traction and academics. Something doesn't quite fit there, eh?

Let me first confess some hesitation with this particular book. If you aren't aware already, the primary text is a diary Sixx kept during one of the heights of his heroin (et. al.) addiction in 1987, during the recording of and touring for Girls, Girls, Girls.* The primary text is overlaid by a metatext of interviews, where Sixx and others respond to the diary entries and, occasionally, to one anothers responses, pointing out inconsistencies or differing accounts to an instance recounted in the diary or in the interview (I suppose the technique is fairly akin to marginalia of old, though it is clearly part of the story, not simply commentary or clarification). Snippets of various lyrics by Sixx appear, sprinkled liberally throughout the book, along with photos and drawings.

I grant that I am inclined to question the veracity of some the the claims that this is a relatively untouched series of diary entries. Some of the entries ring true...glimpses into touring life, the incredibly exuberance that he experienced in May 1987, as he kicked heroin, however temporarily (that section was visceral for me--I could feel the exultation on the page. I know that kind of elation...that feeling of freedom and unconquerablilty. I also know how easily it presages the next month, when maybe just a little won't really hurt...and the months that inevitably follow). And some of the repetition of theme too...I guess the part that makes it ring hollow is that he had read the diary before writing the commentary and tended to mimic the vocabulary and flow (which is quite lucid for the most part) of the entries in the metatext...which makes it feel a bit unreal, as if he were writing the entries from the point of view of 2007. The stories--about drugs, about peed in beds, about girls and music and boredom and a host of other complaints---none of those strike me as out of the ordinary for his context. 80s rockers did their finest to debuach the world--"lock up your daughters!". Just the phrasing.

At any rate, at one point he remarks (not that I can find the fucking remark right now) that he was born an addict...and perhaps that is why he never really fit in with the world, why he was always railing against it. I was quite struck by the remark...and I wonder how many addicts have seen genetic tendencies toward addiction in such a light-->not as a trigger waiting to be pulled (and which event will actually pull it?) but as a fact of existence that governed every action, even before the first foray into substance abuse. Maybe it was in light of Duff's last two SW blogs that I mulled this remark more than I might otherwise have. But, perhaps he is onto something--how does addiction make itself manifest before the initial intoxicating event? Is the best metaphor for such addiction a trigger (addiction could happen any time, but might not) or an avalanche (eventually the weight of the snow passes a point of no return...could be the first flake, could be the 9000th)? Or are both equally problematic?

In any case, it is an intriguing text. I'm getting to the part where GNR will join...so I know where the story goes from here. Straight on to OD.

*Look! I managed not to digress...sort of. Girls is an odd little album, which is understandable, given the predilections of it's primary composer and lyricist, Sixx himself. It has some of the most "Mötley" songs--the title track, "Wild Side," and "You're All I Need," but some of the most unlistenable and...corporate (?) as well. I always liked the album...it's more listenable than much of Theatre of Pain, for the most part...but it doesn't touch Too Fast, Shout, or Dr. Feelgood (I refuse to even discuss the releases of the 1990s).

Seriously Useless Emotions

2009-03-18T09:05:00.000-07:00

I think the title fairly well sums me up right now; I should have recognized that my rather manic energy toward writing last week was the precursor to...well...this week, when I am too Sullen, Angry, and /or Depressed ™ to even muster up gratitudes for my list.

Something I would do well to return to, I imagine. Fake it 'til you make it and all that.

I finished Book Three in the Lenten Discipline readings--Karen Armstrong's Islam. Fabulous overview of Islamic history--a tad...preachy?...toward the end, but given her audience, I can see why she leaned in that direction. Finishing Islam means I got to start the Brad Warner book last night, which I've been looking forward to.

Mostly because I enjoy being insulted.

Kidding, of course. I do enjoy Warner's books and blog and various commentaries on life, punk, Zen, etc.

Reading his blog this morning, I ran across this rather wonderful description of the uselessness of anger:

Anger is energy. But it's not very useful. It squanders your resources and makes you behave stupidly. So it's best to avoid. It's energy the way eating Pixie Sticks or shooting speed is energy. If you're right and the other guy is wrong, you need to deal with that situation without anger -- if you're truly interested in resolving it and not just interested in proving yourself right. It's no good to be complacent in the face of a situation that calls for change. But it's no good to scream and yell because that just builds up the other person's anger and exacerbates the situation.

Call this a "terribly obvious point that needed to be made" or what you will, but I think he nails the problem with stewing in ones own juices....such as I am doing this week. As with an addiction to, oh lets go with alcohol, shall we?, an addiction to anger is an energy hog. Addictions of all variants sap the addict of strength for engaging in life. For me, this most often manifests as a malaise that stops me from writing and planning (did not get so far as not reading, thankfully). The addiction to stewing, to anger, to self-pity is at least as harmful as any substance addiction, at least psychologically, because it manifests similar problems: self-centeredness, feelings of isolation from the human enterprise surrounding us, contempt for humanity, and so forth. This addiction, like those to substances, can trigger depression in some people--even a suicidal or homicidal one (and, yes, I am speculating here; I have no hard evidence in support). And, as Warner observes, lashing out in anger only serves to make the world a more aggressive place. Of course, he also rightly points out--good punk that he is--that changes that we wish to see in the world must be confronted. Sitting ~~on my duff~~ (boy did that sound weird in the context of this blog!)...sitting around and stewing not being active in change is equally problematic.

Ah...it's that balance thing again, isn't it?

As to why I'm struggling with anger and energy releases: I can't run right now because I've injured my calf (mildly--it should be okay in a few days, I think--then back to action), so I've extra energy, all of which is being consumed by irritations: not being able to run, not being able to get the tickets to Seattle--or even be able to say I can go with confidence (situation out of my control and I lack the confidence that my wants and needs will be protected-->my temper tantrum self says "Dammit, I am going anyway"; my conciliatory side dictates that I will patiently await the decisions that must be made), and so forth...thus, anxiety and anger. And, rather than stewing in the anger, I need to redirect the energy to something useful. I'm not blowing my top thus far, but I don't want to end up in a rage caused by suppression, either.

And as I type this, a co-worker makes me laugh hysterically. Two blessings of thought in a single day. I do indeed have much to be grateful for....really need to work on giving voice to those.

Addictions

2009-03-12T06:22:00.001-07:00

Duff said it better than me: Have a read.

Heart Hard- Hearted, Nasty Bitch

2009-03-11T05:04:00.000-07:00

Shocking though it may seem to some of my intrepid readers, there are a few subjects about which I do not blog (CD is currently trying to think of any, yes? Poor man is subjected to far too many of my neuroses.) One of those topics is steplife. Now, I do have places in which I can vent and find advice, but normally I don't blog about it because of the levels of complexity involved and because it includes people other than me who may not wish to appear in these musings.

That said, I am going to blog about it today, simply because I was provided with a gift last night in the form of a learning moment, where several strands of my Lenten discipline and my week's musings ran aground of one another. I had mentioned before that I had thought of writing a post with this title, but later abandoned it. Last night, however, brought the title back screaming.*

So, here we go.

As I mentioned earlier this week, Rev. Dean's sermon got me thinking about stories this week, and we discussed how telling our own stories in any capacity involves a certain amount of exposure; we cannot control, once the story begins, where it will go and who will attack. So, often, we do not tell out stories--about faith, life, fear, joy, nor anything else. We simply close ourselves off. Such a tendency is a hallmark of my steplife existence; rather than wade into the conflict between G. and his ex-wife, I try very hard to avoid it.

On the same day as the sermon, I read a few chapters in The Places that Scare You in which Chödrön discusses the need to "drop our storylines." Storylines are necessarily different than our "stories," thought they bear out some significant common features. Our storylines often temporarily (and falsely) protect us from suffering (at least when we aren't engaging in self-denigration) and they are more often than not simply internal (though, I'm sure you have met folks who insist on narrating their own lives...she says as she writes this *sigh*) monologues that we use to excuse and blame and otherwise fail to be compassionate, joyful, and balanced, rather than our history and ideas, which is the stuff of Rev's "stories."

When I started reading Chödrön's texts, I wondered how in the world I could possibly live up to the aims she lays out--particularly concerning compassion, forgiveness, and equanimity in certain areas of my life. I recalled a moment from many years ago in which a dear friend was talking to me about the relationship I was then in and the paralyzing depression I was then navigating. He remarked, sad and a bit angry, "What happened to the bitch I knew?" Without wandering through the world of "bitch" too much, suffice to say that I knew what he meant. Once upon a time I had been fairly demanding and uncompromising; while I was not, accordingly, the nicest person to deal with in many instances, I protected myself and I protected people I cared about. I often used aggressive techniques, including a rather sharp tongue, but I was disinclined to be trod upon.

That bitch had faded into the depression and she was not protecting me or anyone else. She's returned over the years, a softer, gentler bitch, who recognized the need for peace and consensus, rather than angry and aggressive tactics. This is not to say that I'm not capable of being an absolute nightmare--I am imminently so even in my awareness that I need to mitigate the bitchiness, but, as students and TG would probably attest, I have a line and it's pretty clear when it gets crossed. So, I wondered how I could use Chödrön's methods, because even in my "adult life"...I am rather hard-hearted on some matters and I do not forgive easily, both traits that might lead some to label me as "bitch."

Yeah, fine, whatever. Such labeling doesn't bother me, unless I really am being unnecessarily aggressive. One of the places I see my most "heart-hearted" moments is in steplife, where I find myself wildly unforgiving and anxious.

Now, I have told stories about steplife. I've blogged about my experiences as a stepchild, and Lord knows I've whined and complained and bragged and otherwise storied my life as a stepmother. Many of the stories are humorous, and more often than not, they have a central experiential kernel: the "truisms" of steplife. While our stories may have different characters and events, we can find common structures in the life of the American stepfamily.

I also have storylines that govern my participation in steplife (one of which is the above mentioned bitchiness). First and foremost is anxiety, unfortunately. I do not, for various reasons, get along particularly well with G.'s ex-wife, though it started out okay (then again, if you had asked me 7 years ago about steplife, I think the story would have been akin to those stick-sweet children's stories where princesses and princes and sweet little children frolic in meadows singing songs and gazing at fluffy clouds through rosy glasses and other such ilk). For several years now, I have simply tried to avoid confrontation of any variant, but especially the face-to-face variety. I detest the anxiety associated with every public event that demands that all of us be present; I make myself as scarce as possible as quickly as possible. Why? Because I am a coward. The storyline associated with my cowardice: I don't like confrontation; I can't trust them not to argue; I need to get out of this.

So, last night was one of those events and I tried something different; following Chödrön's suggestions, I tried to live within the anxiety, rather than escaping it. I noted that I was feeling anxious, but I tried not to associate any storylines with the anxiety (such a strange feeling, too)...I just let it be. This seemed to go well enough that I did not make my quick exit at the end of the evening, per normal habits. I did not engage in small talk (that not being one of my strong points in the best of days), but I did stay put. When moments for potential upheaval arose, I did not acknowledge them. Now, when I was in the car driving home, those little upheavals tried mightily to hang around and confirm the standard storyline. I did two things with the drive. One, since I was alone in the car, I turned up the music to drown out my thoughts (thank you Guns N' Roses, this was a most useful engagement of the tracks of Spaghetti Incident I chose to listen to). Now, I realize that drowning ones thoughts is not necessarily a positive thing to do, but it helped. The other thing I did was to use a meditation practice of labeling such thoughts as "thinking" and then letting them go without dwelling.

I have to say that it made for a far more relaxing evening in the long run, not mulling over the events and rehashing what might have been meant by this or that. I'm sure I could still be labeled "bitch" or "cold," based on the interactions, but I'm at peace with that--I cannot control the labels put on my by others, only my own actions and reactions. My favorite sign off--peace--is, after all, not about life without confrontation and strife, but a life that exists within confrontation and strife and still strives for balance. What will this mean for the hard-hearted, nasty bitch? I'm not sure...such attributes are useful at times...

I mulled this more as I ran this morning (4.5 miles--woohoo!), and I'm pretty comfortable with the outcome. So, we'll see where this can go from here.

ETA: *well, sort of. I apparently mistyped that. It was to be "Hard-Hearted"...now I can't decided which version is more apt.

Open Letter to Loaded

2009-03-10T07:42:00.000-07:00

Gentlemen:

I am so very excited about your forthcoming full-length album, Sick, and your upcoming tour plans. Please be advised that I am dragging my butt to a marathon in your lovely Seattle in June and would be ever so delighted to discover that you are playing there that weekend. This would be the last weekend in June, if you need more specificity--for the Rock N' Roll Seattle Marathon.

See, it's perfect, no?

But, I know you have aspirations to hit the UK again and that you're planning to play at Download in mid-June (Faith No More?! Be still my heart!). Totally understandable, wish I could join. So, in case you won't be hanging around Seattle that weekend, you are more than welcome to, say, join Crüefest (since you have mentioned this tour as well) on the late August dates, where they will swing through the South (hey--you know, Atlanta would be fabulous!).

So, please, feel free to take any of the above suggestions. I won't mind. Really. I'd be grateful, thankful, eternally in your debt...whatever.

Begging aside (sort of...please?), best wishes to you. You guys totally rock.

Peace,
Kitsch

Addiction Sources

2009-03-09T07:24:00.000-07:00

Running update: Ran the 5K yesterday...did not reach my speed goal (yes, those hills on Saturday apparently did kick my butt significantly), but I did learn some valuable pieces, not the least of which is the hills in my neighborhood aren't so much hills as sweet little rises out of the earth and therefore unacceptable for "hill training." Also, wear sunscreen. I have brilliantly red arms right now, courtesy of that minor omission. But, I did finish and TG cheered me on in the end (he, of course, finished about 7 minutes before me), which was very dear of him. TG ran very well--finished 11th overall. Way to go, TG! We'll follow-up with a 5K at the end of the month which my cousin and partner-in-musical-crime, we'll call her Rikki (and she'll know why) has selected for our running adventuring.

Rikki also found out that Mötley Crüe is heading this way in the summer, so many kudos to her for finding race dates and for plotting summer music madness for us to attend to.

Now, on to the rest of the story*.

I read Pema Chödrön's When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times as part of my Lenten spiritual discipline**. I chose Chödrön's book because 1) I've been meaning to read it for some time now and haven't set aside the time to do so and 2) because the notions about which she writes, seeking to engage self and the world compassionately--even in times of strife--appeal to me.

In the margin of one of the early chapters, I found myself scrawling that I didn't quite buy her assessment of addiction and noting that I should blog on the comment, to see if I could work out my hesitations and concerns. So, here we are. I should note that by the time I finished the book last week, I had come around to what she was getting at, and I can see where the source of my hesitation was, too.

Interesting trick for me--finish the book BEFORE shooting my mouth (fingers?) off about it. I wonder if I could finish Gravity's Rainbow that way....Perhaps I'm finally listening to those Romantics I teach all the time--"spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings," recollected in tranquility (Wordsworth). Yes, I know I'm not writing poetry here, but isn't blogging fundamentally similar? I mean, when I dash off whatever is vexing me, without careful consideration (or, often, editing), I often find that the post is less than satisfying...and difficult to read.

In fact, that was true of the original version of this post. Fortunately, I had the sense to stop and reflect and...yes...finish the book.

Unfortunately, I don't have Fall Apart in front of me at the moment, so I'll paraphrase now and update with the specific quote later. She remarks that in her mind the source of addiction is an unwillingness to remain in places that are at the edge and undefined and to deal with the world as it is. Now, part of my initial reaction was, I think, resistance to her overall premise about the world and its impermanence (which was a bit odd, as I do agree with it--at least intellectually). I've written before about what drove my addiction, sort of, and I've written about the relationship between fear and recovery. The other part of the response was precisely the topic about which she writes--the human tendency to avoid painful feelings and put up walls.

In reading further (and in reading another book of hers--mentioned in the notes below), I came closer to being able to face her intent. She considers addiction in a pretty wide range, including an addiction to avoiding pain and seeking pleasure (another way of stating her source, I think); for all addictions though, she cites the source as an unwillingness to experience the pain (or, in the end, pleasure) of real life. Initially, as I mentioned, I resisted this suggestion, thinking that this was not at all why I drank. Surely it wasn't avoidance. Upon reflection, and reading the posts from last year as I first publicly discussed my addiction, I realized that the terminology I used--"flattening" and "deadening" were not altogether different from what Chödrön was writing about.

I also recalled a remark made in Carolyn Knapp's Drinking: A Love Story, wherein Knapp realized that she was considering her problem backwards: rather than assuming that we drink because we are unhappy, what if we are unhappy because we drink (186)? I cannot articulate precisely the effect this remark had on me two years ago--it was like the cabinet slid open for the first time, allowing me to see that I was looking into a mirror and not into a dark void. Bang! I think I even said something profound like--"Holy shit." It seemed so obvious.

But, in all of this pondering, I never really examined the first part of the remark--why I drank. Nothing in the twelve steps, at least in my mind, really forced me to account for this. I suppose that Step 4 might have led me there, if handled differently, but it did not at the time. I tended to stick with the blame game in my lists--all of what I had done wrong, rather than including what had triggered the alcoholism in the first place.

So, Chödrön got me on task with such an inventory, so that I could examine my experiences against her assessments regarding the roots of addiction. While it is true that I have a genetic predisposition to alcoholism, I was absolutely aware of that when I began drinking, so I tend to discount that as a "why," even if it perhaps made the situation more threatening. As I have mentioned before, I drank in high school--though not terribly often, as I was often the designated driver, so I didn't abuse that trust. I did tend to get wasted if I did drink--both in my teens and in my twenties. I can't really say why that was--I know I enjoyed the feeling of losing control because that remained a constant throughout (ah, the plight of the control freak). Certainly, as I have observed before, I was trying to slow my racing thoughts. I know that alcohol tended to become an obsession--when I wasn't drinking I was often thinking about alcohol, though I tended to imagine I was being intellectual about the whole thing, rather than craving (this, not incidentally, is a pattern for me. My pseudo-intellectual pursuits are often outlets for my various obsessions--imagine that, eh?).

What I came up with, in searching for what I was avoiding (now, that was a weird sentence) was the following. The words in bold are the main ideas of each:

I tend to crave control, but I also crave being freed from responsibility, and alcohol provided the license to do so;

I tend to be emotionally walled-in, often by choice and habit as much as anything else, and alcohol provided the means to pretend I was escaping those walls. In reality, of course, I was simply making the walls higher and stronger through deception. While I might appear to be more in touch with my emotional side when drinking, I was not. I was more likely whining or pretending to intellectualize some particular obsession; I was certainly not capable of making better emotional connections with other people. Indeed, alcohol exacerbated the problems I have to that end normally;

When I was bored, I drank. Boredom is serious problem for me because I can't easily redirect the mental monologue when I am bored. This doesn't mean I can't relax, by the way, I just have to have fairly directed relaxation--which is one of the reasons I read so much. Thus, the fact that my reading, writing, and musical pursuits taper off when drinking should be no surprise. Getting wasted is so much easier than learning and thinking--far less energy required (though, in the end, drinking takes up far more emotional, physical, and spiritual energy than anything else I engage in);

When I was manic, I drank. I'll use that term because I do think it fits best when describing the crescendo of my excitement levels, though the term is actually quite terrifying to me, as my mother is bi-polar, as was at least one of her siblings. Uncontrollable moods are my greatest fear, so I tend to make them worse by worrying.

When I was scared, I drank. Scared of the dissertation, scared of graduation, scared of gainful employment, scared of...well, you name it. So, in short, I was doing precisely what Chödrön discusses--I was avoiding the source of the fear by drowning it in false pleasure.

I often made conscious decisions, especially when angry (and, as we know, the root of anger is fear), to drink to excess. I would specifically purchase more wine than necessary for a single night in order to ensure access and become annoyed if the access was limited in some way. Outwardly, I lied about why I bought so much--oh, it's for the whole week/weekend/trip/party--whatever, but I always knew exactly what the plan was. Self-destruction 101.

The roots of the fears (and, anger) appear to be responsibility/control (even the mania...maybe boredom) and emotion (probably a fear of, what, exposure?--perhaps this is also a responsibility/control thing). It seems to me that having processed this list, the next stage is to figure out how to avoid repeating those steps--even when sober (because, as we have seen, I am imminently able to substitute addiction and obsession***), in order to live outside the fear...no, that's the wrong phrase. Live with the fear? Of course, knowing what the fear is/fears are would me helpful, so that will constitute the next phase. Fortunately, Chödrön has a number of meditative methods in her books to help that process.

Since I have more free time this week, I'll try to catch up on the Learning to Write posts a bit (need to clean up my tags too). I've got at least two more rolling about the brain right now--one on storytelling and one on some of Chödrön's other notions--including one post that I will likely title "Hard-Hearted Bitch," because it really was exactly what popped into my head when I considered my own responses to her suggestions.

*Homage to the late Paul Harvey and to Rev. Dean, whose sermon yesterday set me to thinking about storytelling. Perhaps later this week. It's Spring Break, so I have far more time than is healthy.

**As many of you know, I read very quickly, so I have five books in this list (I'm hoping those will take up the whole of Lent--if not, I'll need to find a pinch hitter for the last week). The others are Chödrön's The Places that Scare You: A Guide to Fearlessness in Difficult Times, Karen Armstrong's Islam: A Short History, Brad Warner's Zen Wrapped in Karma Dipped in Chocolate, and Barbara Brown Taylor's An Altar in the World: A Geography of Faith. Places is for the same reason as the other Chödrön book, Armstrong is for intellectual expansion, and Warner is for two reasons: a) I really get a kick out of his books (not terribly in keeping with discipline, I realize), and b) reality check--I spend at least half the time arguing with him in the margins of the pages and I really like that experience, especially when I disagree with a particular premise but can accept that and keep moving, rather than rejecting his notions outright. He's linked at right--Hardcore Zen. The last book, Taylor's, is a follow up to her Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith, which I read two years ago in the first sobriety gig and at Rev. Dean's suggestion. He was correct that the book (by an Episcopalian priest/professor) would speak to me--it did. I look forward to seeing how she maps her faith journey in this account, and I am especially intrigued by the sub-title to this one.

BTW, the sixth book would be the beast, GR, because, while it lacks the ideals of spiritual development, I do place a great deal of emphasis on intellectual development in the spiritual process and, dammit, I need to finish that book...it keeps popping up in the most nefarious of places in my mind. Must exorcise the Pynchon.

***And, as I have mentioned, I don't think that such substitutions are necessarily a bad thing. If I can accept--without judgment-- that I tend towards obsessive and compulsive behaviors, then this acceptance of myself is compassionate, and such compassion (I totally agree with Chödrön here) will help me to be more compassionate toward others. I don't see a need to change that trait, so long as it can be directed toward healthy endeavors--running, reading, writing, learning, etc., but I do have to be disciplined in staying directed, lest I get bored or anxious or overconfident in sobriety and do something foolish. Compassion and discipline must come hand in hand for me, and, I would have to say--for all of us.

Uphill Both Ways

2009-03-07T09:54:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure how I managed, but I think I created a route that was indeed uphill both ways. Holy cow, this morning kicked my ass. Incidentally, I'm not kidding about the uphill part--a quirk of the particular route is that I spent the majority of my time gaining elevation.

I'll take today as a reminder from the marathon gods that I have 16 more weeks of training for a reason.

I'm fortunate that both my runs and TG's participation in NJROTC provide me with the opportunity to see the less expected sides of life around me. Running, for instance, introduced me to my occasional-buddy, the Three-Legged Dog. NJROTC, on the other hand, leads me into the terminally weird.

For reasons I have not yet been able to discern, all of TG's meets--Drill Team and Raiders, are held in far flung parts of the state, generally accessible by two-lane (and, in one memorable instance, dirt) highways. I have passed a "fly-in" neighborhood outside Griffin, GA, driven, as I mentioned, on dirt roads, and assorted other joys. Today's adventure took me to the North Georgia Mountains, where I passed this sign:

I had to stop to take a picture...I mean....WTF? All manner of possibilities occurred to me in my drive, so I did look the sucker up (I felt like going into the florist to ask would have been rude--because I'm sure I would have been both laughing and incredulous). But, the truth of the matter, it's a solar-powered (I guess) marker "opened" to the 23rd Psalm. A fine bit o'kitsch, I suppose.

Tomorrow's the 5K race--wish us well, please.

Peace,
kitsch

Tough Guy, Training, and Bonding

2009-03-06T12:11:00.000-08:00

I'm really terrible about posting regularly on this...or, at least, I feel like I am.

Anyway, this week is 16.5 miles total--6 of which will be tomorrow (same as last Saturday); the big swings in Saturday runs begin next week. I'm almost looking forward to it, but I'm trying to be good and stick to the schedule, rather than trying to play superstar-suck-up student and get way ahead of the training...

...which would likely result in self-injury, so it's for the best.

So, 6 miles tomorrow. TG has a Drill Team Event for which he has to be at school at 6:30 am (so much for sleeping in). Getting up and leaving the house that early does present me with the option of different scenery for the morning run, which is good--and I may use that opportunity to scout out the places I have mapped for the really long runs in a few weeks.

I'm pretty excited about the training thus far (I'm in week 4, if anyone other than me is counting). I'm buying the tickets to Seattle this weekend, which makes it all kind of official...and very groovy.

TG and I are running in a 5K this weekend; he fully plans to leave me in the dust, having asked if he has to stay with me or if he can "just go." But, I think it will be a good experience for both of us--I have to say, though, I never thought I would bond with my son over running. Ever.

But, it is cool that we have. He's planning to run in a 50mile race next Spring (assuming he can at age 16--he's looking into it)--has to outdo Mom's marathon, I suppose; he's also thinking an Ironman Triathlon by the time he's 18.

Bless him, how did I raise such a one?

Snowblogging!

2009-03-02T14:16:00.000-08:00

Greetings from the frozen South. Snow being a novel concept ‘round these parts, I thought I would share our fortune. (As you can see from the note at the bottom, this turned into a multi-day blogging effort.) Northerners, don’t laugh, this is a hell of a lot of snow down here. We are both excited and nervous. We are expecting between 2 & 4 inches by midnight and…honestly…I think we’ve already got that. And it’s only 5 pm. G. contends that we've gotten at least 1.5 inches in the last hour or so.

<--That was a Rosemary bush. Once upon a yesterday. Behind it are gardenias that were once 6 feet tall and remain about as high as the poor Rosemary bush in this picture. Plants are not happy right now. In all honesty, our adventure begins with TG, who has fashioned a snowboard from an ancient skateboard and built his own snow ramp. He is having a blast in the muck and is thoroughly convinced he will have a day off tomorrow (he was correct--will also have Tuesday off). Note that in this particular picture, the "snowboard" has gotten away from our intrepid teenboy, who was forced to repeatedly chase after it on foot. He commenced with the same this morning (Monday) and even built a ramp of sorts out of snow. Also skiied off over the retaining wall. Must have a word with TG, preferably prior to him breaking one of his limbs.

The adventure continued with yours truly, who had wisely decided that after running 6 miles in the rain Saturday and knowing Sunday was to be cold, to give myself a break by hitting the Y and the treadmill to continue training today, But, being in the South and being, in consequence, adversely affected in the areas of intellect when it comes to the wet white precipitation, I was overwhelmed (and also convinced the Y would be closed due to weather) and ran 2.5 miles in the 2.5 inches of accumulated road slush. Check out the hat afterward:

Yes, it is a Ravenclaw hat. Shut up.

Remember, I was RUNNING and this was the accumulation. Oddly, though it felt like my legs were moving through ice flows (which, in fact, they were—or at least my feet were), my time was not adversely affected which suggests that either the trudging wasn’t as difficult as I felt that it was or that I am so slow anyway that even slush can’t really slow me down further. I do believe I’ll go with the first of those. The power is intermittent*, so I’ll leave this post. More soon.

Peace,
Kitsch

*shortly after I typed that fateful sentence, the power went out and remained out for 26 hours. Oi. So, the posting of this is a tad late...We ended up with almost 7 inches of snow. Wet snow + pine trees=bad news for power lines.

Rant then Run

2009-02-27T15:53:00.000-08:00

I have yet to update the training, as I am supposed to be doing regularly, but I need to interrupt this particular training update for a rant. See, I'm particularly annoyed today by a local politician. This being a particularly ~~conservative~~* politically-anti-regard-for-thinking-ability state, my annoyance with such folk is not especially unusual. I freely admit this. But this morning, I was faced with the gem of an article wherein Rep. Ralph Hudgens has authored a bill to limit the number of embryos that can be used in single in-vitro procedure. He'd like it kept to two, except for women 40 or above, for whom he would allow three embryos.

Isn't that sweet of him?

I'm sure you've already guessed where this piece of ridiculousness is coming from (especially if you read the article linked above)--Nadya Suleman, one CA mother of (now) 14.

Embedded in this piece of legislation is a ban on "destroying the embryos" that remain unimplanted in the womb. This clause, I imagine that Hudgens would claim, is necessary due to the claim that Suleman had the multiple embryos implanted because they were about to be destroyed. He remarks that the embryos are "a person" (actually, the quote is kind of funny, as he's clearly used to the rhetoric of "in the womb" and is forced to backtrack/clarify).

I have two bones of contention here. One, the American Society for Reproductive Medicine already HAS guidelines. Yes, yes, I know guidelines aren't rules and people don't always obey them...but that's okay. Really. Truly. We do not need a law. I even recognize that this is a voluntary society. That's okay too...because grey areas really aren't dangerous.

Look, I recognize that Suleman's case is an uncomfortable one--mostly because of the class issues associated with it. But, it doesn't necessitate legal intervention.

Here's but one of the reasons why, in addition to it's functional purposelessness; see, in Georgia, you may have heard, the Powers that Be have been trying to craft legal restrictions on reproductive rights for some time now. Granted, most of these get shot down--no matter which other piece of legislation the verbiage is buried in. The embryo remarks, though, reveal the game.

Don't destroy embryos. How will this be worded? Will this negate the ability to selectively abort when medically necessary? And, as much as I detest slippery slope logic, I feel the need to write one of those awful, pitch-increasing sentences that I discourage in students: How many steps removed from banning abortion are we after such legislation, Roe v. Wade be damned? And, it's not like Hudgens is attempting to pretend otherwise, either. He's laid his cards on the table.

How will the state react? Will it champion the rights of sperm over the rights of women?

Here's my cards: back off. Please. The state needs to stay out of my reproductive decisions. Even if I decide to birth 8 babies at one fell swoop (*shudder*). This is not a decision for the state.

*sigh*

On less ranty news--training is going reasonably well. 6 miles tomorrow, probably in the rain. Woohoo!

Back soon--maybe not ranting.

Peace,
kitsch

*Truth be told, I don't appreciate the co-opting of "conservative" by stupidity. Conservatism, at the core principles I learned, was a respectable, thoughtful set of ideas where exchange was appreciated. I am frequently annoyed with the liberal set of ignoramuses too...failure to THINK is the most significant failing that I can see in politics and it tends to not limit itself to a single side of the aisle (an image, by the way, that I also despise).

You know, I am beginning to suspect that I am in a bad mood. I'll have to work on a better name (and shorter) for the style of politics here. "Conservative" simply doesn't suit.

Lent: A Primer

2009-02-25T05:45:00.001-08:00

How odd that I spent so much of my professional life dealing with religious fasting. I've written several papers either specifically dealing with fasting or that in some ways touched upon it; even the Dissertation-from-Hell™ touches on it tangentially, as fasting is a form of penance and penance is one of the steps on the "Redemption Path" in nearly ever variation of it.

Incidentally, if you even want to really fear or appreciate (depending on your mood) the nature of humanity--read some medieval penitentials, the books that housed the catalogs of sins and the various means of penance* associated with each sin. Such penance ranged from mere public confession (this example is a later one--not medieval) to permanent wandering exile (hence part of the significance of the Wandering Jew stories)--and some assorted oddities (heck the sins listed are at least half the fun).

So, today is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of one of the major penetential seasons--Lent (Advent being the other)**. Check out this Time article from 1946 on the subject of Lent; I am really intrigued by the remark about the contemporary European Christians: "large parts of the Continent have been fasting, wearing sackcloth, and living amid ashes for several years." This in the years after WWII, of course-a haunting image of the events that laid waste to so much of Europe.

Contemporary Americans tend to see the day before Ash Wednesday through the lens of Carnival and Mardi Gras (Fat Tuesday!)***, rather than Shrove Tuesday. Mardi Gras is celebatory excess before the penance of Lent; Shrove Tuesday signified confessions before the penance (which was a tad closer to traditional Penetential Rites, which are to be preceeded by confession).

Sin-->Confession-->Penance-->Salvation.

Depending on your worldview, Grace should probably be part of the step between penance and salvation, as not all sinners who follow the track (if we look at literature, anyway) achieve "salvation," as in a number of Faust texts--that is one of Christopher Marlowe's major themes, indeed: why act in good faith if the deck is stacked against you?

So, today begins one of the major penitential seasons. Many will begin the season by receiving a mark--usually a cross in ash (made from the palms from the previous Palm Sunday). The mark signifies the perceived "otherness" of the christian wearing it--beyond the world. Marked as different; marked as one of Christ's own. Others, just as true of faith, will not begin the season in this fashion, often because the worldly demands of their lives prevent them from so doing. My church has the Ash Wednesday service at 12:00, for instance. Of the years I have lived here, I've been able to attend precisely once. Could I alter my professional life in order to more fully participate in my spiritual one in this instance--perhaps. But, I also know that part of my work here in the world is to assist students and this week (Advising and Midterm) demands my presence here with them--and I think that demand is an equally important part of my faith. To say nothing of the exciting information that gets dropped in my lap from time to time...yeee gads.

Many of you will give up something for Lent. Usually it is a vice that we surrender--real or perceived. Cigarettes, alcohol, meat (possibly the origin of the word Carnival: carne vale--"farewell to meat"), chocolate...anything that we can deem or isolate as "sin," "sinful," or "worldly." I even have a friend who pondered giving up Facebook. Her rationale is solid--she wants for more time with her family, so she'll give up one of her distractions and learn to live without it. After Lent, then, she could enjoy it in more balance.

Lent as a teaching moment. Now that's a good use of penance (one is supposed to learn during penance, after all).

Another school of thought, oft championed by our own Rev. Dean Smith, is "taking on" something for Lent, rather than giving something up. Again, the theory is sound--many old penances involved taking something on in order to--again, learn (and also to signify--as with the ash cross, though for different reasons--otherness). One might take on a hair shirt or a cross or chains or self-flagellation...you'll notice a pattern here. Most of the things "taken on" were painful or uncomfortable. One can do this intellectually, too--take on something you've not ever read or something you've rejected in order to learn and understand it better. I've often heard people decide to "read the whole Bible" for Lent, or to take on the major religious text of another religion for study (I'm particularly fond of that).

And, no, I am not going to read Gravity's Rainbow for Lent. That would constitute cruel and unusual punishment...well, maybe it could be a hair shirt kind of deal.

Anyway, I thought about this on my runs recently; I don't have much in the way of vices these days, what with the whole sobriety thing. Already I don't smoke, drink alcohol, take illicit drugs (heck, I don't even take Advil), consume vast quantities of sugar (marathon training, after all), have illicit sex (*snort*), cheat on my taxes, nor anything else especially nefarious, save for the swearing (and I am not giving that up, thank you) and caffeine (hands off!). I could probably be safely accused of other bad habits, but I can't think of any right now. Not going to forgo meat because I fare better with it on the training schedule than without it (though, note-to-self: Cajun sausage produces nausea the next morning at about mile 1.36. Avoid.).

My major vice'o concern™ is anger...and it's a fairly sizable one. But, it is also just a tad difficult to "give it up" wholesale, much as I would like to. So, I think that for this Lent, I am going to take on means of stemming the anger response--meditation (daily--since I rather got away from it last fall), reading books that address anger and fear, and making a gratitude list every day for the next 6 weeks (until the first Sunday after the first full moon after the first day of Spring, or Easter Sunday, for you mortals<--I didn't even have to look that up--that's some geekdom right there). Running will probably serve this well, as I'm usually too tired to bother getting angry at night. The objective is to "negotiate" situations that frighten me (fear being the source of anger) in more productive ways, so that during Lent I can learn and after Lent I can continue the process and maybe, just maybe, give more of my life to God and family than to fear and anger, which sounds like a pretty good deal. Best wishes today, all. Peace, Your Occasionally Intrepid Runner

*Holy Mother of...wow...a website devoted to Tertullian. And to think I spent months digging around in the library to read the same stuff. That is what I get for not googling Tertullian....which sounds vaguely nasty, come to think of it.

**Yes, Rev. Smith, even this recovering Episcopalian sees Advent as penitential. I do understand your concerns about "rushing to the manger."

***My family included. We have red beans & rice, sausage, veggies, and King Cake every Mardi Gras. MB came home wearing beads yesterday, which seemed...I don't know...an odd thing to be distributing at school, no?

On Living in College Towns

2009-02-23T17:45:00.000-08:00

Confession: I live in a college town.

I won't go so far as to say that the town lives and breathes education in the way it does, say, football, but it is definitely a college town.

Where else can the remark: "I drink to release my inner orange," following a long discussion about research practice and millennials, possibly make sense?

If you've ever lived in one of these fine semi-urban establishments, then you too have seen the college-student theory of partying: get wasted on Thursday and sober up (maybe) on Sunday. I can't count how many students have come to class inebriated or confessing their various vices of nights past. Indeed, one of the primary distinctions between my former job, where I taught at a residential college, and my present one, at a commuter school, is that students come in (or don't) complaining of hangovers...the residential students were still drunk. It is a matter of degree, I grant.

Anyway, I started mulling this in the grocery store on Friday night. I hate going on Friday nights because I am often so exhausted from the week that having to make a decision in the store becomes a chore. Too, as any fellow alcoholic knows, tired is not good. And tired is particularly bad when faced with availability of alcohol.

There is this trait among alcoholics where we begin purchasing our drink of choice at various locations, lest any one catch on to how much we consume. I was never very good at this, owing in part to the relatively small community I live in, but also because I didn't really have to be concerned...because I live in a college town with a serious drinking problem; I was merely one of the faces in a crowd.

Of course, at my worst I was still paranoid about being shoved out of the closet, as it were. I did purchase at various grocery stores (mostly out of convenience, though), and that was another way to hide, I suspect, because who looks askance at the wine in the grocery cart? Could be for any reason. Even if buying in large quantities, one remains anonymous--merely that person who must be giving a party.

And, being in a college town, this makes perfect sense. Have party (especially during football season)? Will drink.

So, weekends remain the most difficult for me; I'm tired and often frustrated. I often find myself shopping on Friday evenings to stave us over until Sunday, so that the three teenboys aren't forced to eat the countertop. And as I wander through my grocery store, I will inevitably be near "the aisle" and I will consequently have "the argument" with myself.

So far, logic prevails. The joy of waking up without hangovers prevails--hell, the joy of sleeping through the night (mostly) prevails. And I muddle through.

And I worry about the kids I teach, when they miss Fridays and/or Mondays. I worry about my colleagues who come in with the glazed expressions of hangovers. I worry about me and my arguments and what I will need to do to remain sober. And I worry that I live in a college town as an alcoholic with Tough Guy, who has the genetic equivalent of an IED waiting to be tripped...who asks me about marijuana and Amsterdam and alcohol and heroin. And I am grateful that he asks. Every day, I am grateful that he asks and doesn't slink off silently.

Perhaps I need to work on another grateful list--and reread my old one. Recreate my shame list and reread my old one. Stay thankful and stay realistic.

While I worry in this beautiful, tired, cranky, struggling, brilliant college town.

Still Playing

2009-02-22T18:38:00.000-08:00

Eh...the previous layout wasn't feeling the love, so I'm experimenting again.

I'll settle down soon. Maybe.

~~We'll call this merely an obnoxious interlude.~~

Okay...settling on the daisy for a spell. I'll leave it a few weeks to see if it drives me batty at all.

Marathons and Academia

2009-02-19T07:51:00.000-08:00

I keep finding myself joking that I will be happy if I so much as crawl across the finish line in June. And that is probably pretty close to the truth, even if the "just finish" spirit sort of bothers me.

So, yesterday, I was doing a mental blog (brilliant one. Brilliant. Goat ate it, though...so sorry) while wandering across campus. During my foray, I had the opportunity to talk with one of my favorite people in the world, D., who somehow managed to tap into my wandering thoughts about marathons and academics.

See, I figured out what this marathon is to me; it's the physical version of a dissertation, which, as with the "crawling" comments above, I was convinced that merely finishing the damn thing would be enough. Brilliance being overrated and all. But, in the years since completion, I have returned to the beast time and again, wondering if I could have approached it differently...I've certainly found other ways to look at my topic (Redemption, for those who never had any portion of it inflicted on them) since completion.

Then again, there is something to be said for just being done and then revisiting under less pressure. Could I have realized the connections between addiction literature and my theories of redemption sooner, maybe...but I was fairly disconnected (denial) from my own ongoing addiction struggles at the time, so it is highly unlikely I would have recognized such a connection during the writing phase.

Well, that and it took reading Slash's bio, for whatever reason, for said connections to sink in. I think it was about the time he opens a chapter by talking about the addicts impulse to know more about his or her intoxicant o' choice. After that book, I started reading (and in some cases re-reading) addiction narratives voraciously.

So a marathon, like a dissertation, is perhaps something that I need to complete--and then refine, if I so choose. But, I first have to know and to prove to myself that I can finish it. Crawl if necessary; upright would be best, but we'll see.

I suppose that this could all be summarized by simply noting that I probably left "Glutton for Punishment" behind some years ago and am currently heading up "Masochist Way."

They posted the course this morning...well, they were supposed to. I guess I need to account for "morning" in Seattle is getting toward afternoon here. Sigh. I'll look again later and share as it appears. Duff didn't post today either, so maybe Seattle has just gone on a collective hiatus today....or perhaps they are just celebrating because Junior went back to the Mariners. Seems that there is hope for Seattle sports after all. Okay, so I jumped the gun on both counts: Duff posted (finally) and the course info goes up tomorrow, not today. But I stand by my theories regarding Griffey, Jr. and Seattle sports. So there.

Running for the Bears

2009-02-17T14:01:00.000-08:00

Registered for Race--check
Requested time off--check
Began hotel research (always the most fun)--check
Figuring out why anyone would recommend gummy bears to consume during a run...okay, well they are more portable than your average banana...but....eeek. I like 'em, but I'm pretty sure that would be a bad combo for me. *shudder*

Holy cow...we may make it to Seattle after all. Sans gummies, of course.

Three lovely miles this morning in 35-ish degree weather. My northern friends are hereby invited to keep their laughter over my wimpiness to themselves. Please remember that I've lived in the Deep South for 10 years now, so my blood is very thin. Yeah. That's it.

My friend the three-legged dog, who normally barks and threatens to chase me, ignored me on the first pass and almost, kind of looked happy to see me on the second. Almost. Of course, it could have been the shadows. What does it mean when you are accepted into the clan of the curmudgeonly three-legged dog?

I still owe the site a punk update...but it will get here one of these days.

Cheers, all.

Off and (not) Running

2009-02-16T09:17:00.000-08:00

Today's a rest day, so mild yoga (ha!) only (keeping those limbs...er, limber). Back to the grind tomorrow.

Completed about 15 miles last week. Gee, only need 11.2 more to be able to complete a marathon in 7 days! Now, if I can get that down to 5 hours....

Official news to report: I'll be running the Seattle Rock-N-Roll Marathon on June 27, 2009. Anyone care to join? *Snort* -->even includes a "finisher's medal." This will likely be the only time in my life I don't giggle about that.

All of which is to say that all is well right now; I'll report in with more good details soon.

BTW--just gave an interview on Punk. OMG...my life is good.

Speaking of Punk and marathons and such...so, Loaded will be playing in Seattle in June, yes? Yes????

Peace!

Bits and Pieces

2009-02-12T06:13:00.001-08:00

How funny to open Seattle Weekly's site this morning and see this: Athens Pop-Fest Canceled. Not funny because of the cancellation, of course, just...surprising.

I'll work on the Punk Post (post punk??? ack!) today, but it probably won't be up until tomorrow....In the meantime, there is Krist Novoselic's piece on the miracle that is music. Enjoy. Or this funny as hell slideshow on "unromantic album covers"--number 14 rocks. And, if you are feeling really punchy, here's Duff's thoughts on dating. Number 6 is my favorite.

Sea Gals??? Oi.

Pain, angst.

Anyway, so, I think I've got G on board with a Seattle Marathon in June. Confirmation will come this weekend. Went to a 5:30 am spin class (motto: "real spinners do it at 5:30." This simply does not live up to the thespian motto of "thespians do it on stage" or Duff circa 1989 "rockers do it. (pause) Ya know?")...said class was good--tough, I'll grant--but good.

So, all is well. Hope the weekend is kind to all of you.

<--ETA: OMG...the cover of Seattle Weekly

Punk Notes, Round Two

2009-02-11T07:49:00.000-08:00

Another collection of Videos to be used in the Punk series. I'll add my notes tomorrow.

Minor Threat and the ecstasy of punk

Kit and the Outlaws--Garage Punk: I love that we sit here and watch the record spin. Dude.

And the boys themselves

Note the decided differences in style from, say, Loud Fart.

Iggy and the Stooges--American Punk, Bowie style. I love this..especially the guy talking to begin with. Please make note of his gloves; I beg you.

Sex Pistols: Brit Punk with Glen Matlock! And the pants....the pink pants

and again, after Sid joins

And, the Angelic Upstarts...just because

Clouded Vision

2009-02-10T07:00:00.000-08:00

One of the most annoying elements of alcohol consumption, for me, at least, is the insomnia. I recall vividly the first morning two years ago that I awoke at a totally normal time, rather than the then-standard 2:35am. Now, those who know me well are likely already aware that I have struggled with insomnia for eons anyway, but alcohol certainly made it more predictable. Pretty much irrespective of how much I drank (even on the "good"--single glass--nights), I would wake up around 2:35 and stay awake for about two hours.

Thinking...or something approximating thinking at any rate.

So, sobriety brought with it this really cool thing where most nights, anxiety-riddled ones not withstanding, I would sleep from 11:30 or so (falling asleep tends to take a good while) until at least 5:30. This is a Good Thing.

Last night, however, was not Good, in so far as even without alcohol, I was awake...more or less...for hours last night. So, I am a bit more befogged today than I would prefer, but the serial jumps my brain was taking indicates that Ms. Hyperactivity is awakening at home, which is Good. I wasn't worrying or thinking especially clearly, but I was in that unfortunate space between asleep and awake, and I was completely aware of that the whole time. I can only assume that the caffeine intake late in the day did me in.

Or, perhaps that I went to bed irritated. I know better, of course, than to do so, because trying to sleep while annoyed is even more difficult than sleeping while intoxicated.

Here's what got me riled: As I mentioned, I have decided to run the Seattle marathon. Why Seattle? Well, mostly just because, but also because (go ahead, laugh at me) my running shirt says "City of Seattle Marathon," and it just seems right. Other positives? I've never been there, and I've long wanted to visit, but I recognize that I won't necessarily be in the mood to traipse around the natural sites that G and I would normally visit on such a quest (like, wandering up a mountain). And the city offers plenty of non-hiking things to do in the time we would be there. Confession: I did not discuss with G my goal before setting it, a stupid mistake, so I know I need to be flexible on the matter.

G, on the other hand, wants me either to run locally or he wants to go to Kona, HI. Now, I'd like to go to Kona someday as well, but I'd really rather not do it when I probably will want to do anything other than, say, climb a volcano. I really want to climb the volcano, I do; I just realize that will probably not exactly go hand-in-hand with 26.2 miles or 13.1, for that matter.

I'm not really sure what the opposition to Seattle is...and I didn't ask. Nope, I just got peevish because he's mucking with my goal. So, the task for tonight is to fess up and work with G to find a place of mutual amusement for next November. You know, together and stuff. I am so terrible about this.

Maybe I'll sleep better afterward.

Training is going reasonably well-->did 40 minute runs yesterday (remember, we're in week one--give me time) and today in the neighborhood between 5:20 & 6:00 am. Fortunately, the weather is cooperating and it is quite warm (hooray!), and the switch to a white sweatshirt does seem to make me substantially more visible (hey, a Yeti!) Did yoga last night to stretch the limbs before bed, since I am clearly starting to head toward that field of old I've heard so much about. Will run again tomorrow and spin on Thursday morning, then rest on Friday.

So, all is well, generally. And, as for the goal-setting, even if November has to change, there is this other marathon in Seattle in June....

Learning to Write

2009-02-08T14:08:00.000-08:00

I'm starting a new series today, Learning to Write, which will chronicle a return to sobriety. I started penning this in my head while I was running this morning, so please forgive the kind of runner-ramble tendency.

I made a choice during the summer to experiment--to see if I could learn to be a "good drinker." I called it, at the time, learning to have an adult relationship with alcohol. My hypothesis (quite frankly) for the pseudo-experimental indulgence was that I would not be able to teach myself to drink normally (whatever that means), but I wanted to try to overcome the fear that was associated with alcohol and me.

The context: Last year, I had the best two semesters ever....fantastic classes. Even met a student who challenged me intellectually every single day--I could not go to class and wing it. I had to be not just on my game, but reaching beyond it. Which rocked. I remember, vividly, the first moment I realized that he was pushing me and, better, I didn't have to be afraid of my brain, that I could run with it in class and that relying on material of the preceding 10 years was not necessary (I'd been clinging to the familiar in sobriety). For the first time in years, I felt fully awake and energized. I started researching again; writing again; thinking and dreaming and hoping, instead of being afraid. (R., should you ever read this--this is what I was talking about when I said thank you.)

I don't like being afraid; fear makes me angry, but it also has some significant benefits, whether I like it or not, because the moment I decided that I also didn't like being afraid of alcohol...well, you can see from the rest of the post where that lead.

I've only told one person about this, though several friends have borne witness and cheered me on. To all of you, and especially to CD, who really is my sanity-checker more often than he probably imagines, I must say thank you. To those for whom this constitutes a disappointment, either to discover the experiment or to discover the alcoholism--I am sorry. To the students of those classes last year, thank you. I LOVED the breathlessness that you provided me with--the engagement, and I want to keep feeling it. And, since drinking tends to preclude such excitement...

...the experiment is at an end, and it should have come to an end before this. I am frustrated with myself for an inability to "drink normal," and I am irritated with myself for failing (even if it was more or less what I expected to happen in the first place). Irritation or no, I would be far more upset with myself if I failed to act on the years of accumulated knowledge and just knock this shit off. The oddest part of the last few months has been the self-awareness that accompanied the drinking. I knew with some incredible precision what I was up to and often pondered my actions and choices.

Know when I knew I was in trouble? I stopped listening to a couple of my favorite songs, including the one that this blog is titled after, because I felt guilty. Now that, my friends, is weird.

A couple of positives did come out of this, and I need to figure out how to replicate them in healthy ways. First, the obsessions were under better control (really, they were). Second, I was more likely to say what I was thinking, rather than hiding my opinions from G. Both of these are good things.

I have to confess though, the "mellow" that comes along with drinking is probably what stemmed the obsessing, and that is not a good thing. I stopped the active research, had to force myself to read and knit, and my poor bass sits dormant in the case. I actually prefer being wound-up, obsessive, and hyperactive to being mellowed. I really miss that nutcase; I hope to find her again quickly and put her to good use. I know she's around, because she's been hanging around at work (thank goodness) and finding the tasks that needed completion and invention there. At home, on the other hand, she's been noticeably absent.

I did not preserve the electronic posts from the first time I sobered up, though I have all of the print diaries, but I intend to preserve them here this time. Why? So I can share and confess (proper like, you know?) and so I can be faced with it every single day. And, so I can mark progress on the white knuckle days. I won't cross-post this particular series (as I do with most of my other rambles and kvetsches), but this is not an anonymous blog--many people know who I am, and I don't mind if my colleagues and students see these posts, so don't feel as if you've tripped into something I am ashamed of.

I am an alcoholic. I know this, and I have no intention of pretending otherwise to anyone. So, please, pull up a chair and share with me. We can put out demons out to pasture (aw, poor cows) and have a good time in the process.

The series will chronicle the return to sobriety, which, I'm sure, will have a few entertaining moments (like when the hyperactivity kicks back into high gear--watch out world!) no doubt, and the gifts that my particular Beautiful Disease--both alcoholism and OCD-- provide...compassion, insight, and a peculiar ability to celebrate my hyperactivity--because it really is far more beautiful than it is annoying. I'd like to be able to show that to people.

At the same time, I am aware that boredom is what most often gets me into trouble, so I am setting two non-work related goals (got oodles of the work-related ones I am already working on--wanna hear??? *bounce, bounce*). First, I will write on this subject at least twice a week here and at least once a week on the research project at hand. Second (and far crazier), I'm training for a marathon. The Seattle Marathon is held on November 29, 2009 this year, and I'm going. So, I'll also use the space to update the training (and bleg for good wishes).

Now, if only I could be assured that Loaded would be playing in Seattle then. Hey, Duff...any hope for me???

So, I hope you will join me as I Learn to Write Me again with honesty and humor and hyperactivity. Oh, and since you got the sobriety part already--here's a training update: I ran/walked a 5K this morning (and met the sweetest Black Lab named Poodle during it!) in my neighborhood. I really need to find other routes. Locals--any suggestions?

God, Yes: Lux Interior

2009-02-06T18:38:00.000-08:00

I could not possibly have said it better than this

He was just that something.

Punk Chautauqua

2009-02-05T05:39:00.000-08:00

As I was writing this, I saw that Lux Interior died last night. Sympathy and Prayers to his friends and family. Wow. Must have a Cramps fest this weekend in memorium.

*sigh*

I was invited by colleague Sam to lead the inaugural lecture in his new Chautauqua series here at work. The link will give you a good overview, but for those who want an even smaller summary, the Chautauqua is a fairly interactive adult-education format. Because he loves to harass me about my musical quirks (and because he is a genuinely nice and supportive fellow), Sam asked if I would speak on one of my favorite rambling subjects--punk.

We had a small, happy group. And we had fun. Well, I know I did.

I used the clips in yesterday's post, and what follows here are a version of the notes that I used and during the talk. When I can, I will link to the songs referenced (there were myriad others that I can't link to). Bonus--he asked that I continue the conversation next week, focusing on the Britpunk influences on American Culture and one of my pet subjects, Punk as a 20th century Romantic movement. I'll share notes on that next week.

So, here's some of what I did yesterday:

I’m doing a bit of a test run here, both for this series and for my own research quirks, so I need to lay out some ground rules.

First, I am a bit of a Westie on this matter; most of my research follows Seattle and Los Angeles bands. This is not a rejection of MidWestern or Eastern Punk—Akron and NJ and DC Hardcore (among others) have some excellent examples, but more of a sound preference that I am not quite sure I can articulate. So, if it feels a bit West-leaning, there you go. Blame the Californian birth; my mother has always attributed my "damn liberal notions" to breathing my first breaths in CA.

Too, I come at this from an odd angle—I’m a literature prof by trade, so I often look at written records. That said, my Masters thesis was on opera and politics, so this study is really an outgrowth of that (or, rather, the thesis was an outgrowth of this—I could get away with writing an academic treatise about Wagner. Darby Crash? Jello Biafra? Loud Fart? Yeah, not so much).

Other general notes: defining punk is akin to nailing Jello to a tree—and not our friend Biafra, if you are wondering. I have discussed hereabouts the original definitions of the word, though I later discovered that Lester Bangs used punk in reference to music in a Creem article at least a year before the Rolling Stone citation I mentioned. Likely, it was already becoming common when Bangs used it. Too, I realized (rather belatedly) that the connection between the second definition ("a boy or young man kept by an older man as a (typically passive) sexual partner...now chiefly prison slang") and the current musical culture usage.

In Philosophy of Punk, O'Hara reminds us that many of the origins of punk image lie in the Skinheads of 1960's Britian and the violence wrought on Pakistani immigrants. The general notions of "hoodlums" is also relevant here...and I've no idea if "punk" was a term applied to or claimed by the groups in question, but the connection between the definition and Bangs’ use is deceptively simple: as the class of disaffected young (primarily) men of the cities of England were imprisoned for the violence inflicted on the Pakistani neighbors and (presumably) fans of other football clubs were imprisoned with older men, they were, to turn a phrase away from the current use—Punked. Whether they chose to appropriate the name (with both the sexual overtones and the “person of no account” ones) or it was thrust upon them is somewhat less clear, but the propensity for three pieces of the original uses remain throughout American punk:

Sex and sex trades: consider the stories about the Go-Gos, many of which are highly specious but also highly sexualized (to say nothing of the Joan Jett stories). Too, sexuality and the politics of gender identity and sexuality were incredibly important in American punk. One need think only of Darby Crash’s reaction to Don Bolles showing up in a dress—and his concerns that the HB bands would discover that he was gay—and what they might do to that end. The fights between the Stims and Bad Brains, Steven Blush reminds us, often devolved into dismissive accusations: “The Stims accused Bad Brains of being rip-offs; the Bad Brains accused them of being homosexuals. All of the sudden, the singer’s gayness became an issue” (American Hardcore 175). Interesting, isn’t it, that charges that were leveled against one another—rip-off versus gay.
“no accountness”/hoodlum—see Dr. Quincy’s nefarious punks below—burning holes, taking drugs, “there’s no one innocent here.” Notice the white makeup (“look how different those punks are,” the episode practically shouts) and the chaos of the punk scenes.
Drunkenness—there is no point in pretending that addiction/use/abuse and the attendant Straight Edge movement aren’t significant to punk’s history. Remarkably, two of the earliest known uses of the word punk references drunkenness (probably more for rhyme than anything else, but the early correlation is awfully interesting to me): the first, from 1575 merely remarks that drunkenness and punking are sinful: “1575 Old Simon the Kinge in J. W. Hales & F. J. Furnival Bp. Percy's Folio Ms.: Loose & Humorous Songs (1867) 127 Soe fellowes, if you be drunke, of ffrailtye itt is a sinne, as itt is to keepe a puncke.” The second, from 1698, explicitly ties punk and drunk: 1698 Womens Complaint to Venus (MS Rawl. 159) f. 32, The Beaus..At night make a Punk of him that's first drunk.”

O’Hara further remarks that “there is a current feeling in modern society of an alienation so powerful and widespread that it has become commonplace and accepted” (21). He goes on to contextualize this remark, situating the beginnings of this “feeling” with the Industrial Revolution. As does Fredrich Engles in his “the Great Cities”, O’Hara suggests that the creation of the city—the space in which we can live so close, but utterly separated (O’Hara puts it: “people think that they have nothing in common with each other” (22) is the foundation for our alienation—especially from one another.

And from this pervasive alienation, disaffected youth, and assorted other bits of interest—along with a good bit of attention paid by Malcolm McLaren and other “Svengalis,” punk is born, in and around 1968, alongside the philosophical arm—the Situationists.

The Sex Pistols are often heralded as the “first,” but doing so leaves out so many bands and influences, not the least of which is David Bowie, Iggy Pop, etc.

So, How do I know punk? Some of the basics of identifying punk rock:

self-identification as such: This will necessarily lead to various charges of “posing” as punk or “playing at” punk, versus real punks. Such recriminations will remain true in the most bizarre ways as LA claims glam rock in the 80s and the Aquanet boys volley similar charges at one another. Alex reminded me in the course of the talk that they were, at least around here, known as “Quincy Punks.”—they looked the part, but perhaps didn’t live it. See Steve’s remarks in the case study below.
At least for hardcore punk, a very fast tempo——something like 160-200bpm. Rock is often 110-150. Overlaps and exceptions abound. There does tend to be a dismissiveness toward ability. Sid Vicious, for instance, was a terrible bassist, technically—and Steve Jones began unable to play [he remarks in Lydon’s autobiography, Rotten, that “I didn’t know how to play, but once we got John in the band, I had to learn seriously” (79)]; the Germs reveled in the stories that they couldn’t play their instruments (such stories are largely apocryphal. Pat Smear, Don Bolles, and Lorna Doom all seemed to practice fairly regularly.) But, amateurism was highly regarded---part of an ethic that championed DIY---not relying on the “majors” (major labels).
Stage presence: the relationship between musician and audience is fairly unique to punk. Duff McKagan (you knew he’d get here, didn’t you?) recounted an early punk rock experience for him was at a Clash show prior to the release of “London Calling.” At said show, Strummer forced security away from the stage, insisting on the reciprocal relationship between audience and band. He recounts “During the show, a big yellow-shirted security guy up front punched a fan and broke his nose. Blood was everywhere. The Clash stopped the show. Bassist Paul Simonen appeared from the wings of stage right wielding a firefighter’s axe that he must have plucked from the wall. He jumped down in the pit and proceeded to chop down the wooden barrier separating the fans from the band while guitarist Joe Strummer dressed down the security gorilla and went on further to say that there was no difference between the fans and the bands…"we are all in this together! There is no such thing as a Rock Star, just musicians and listeners!" We have, by turns, stage diving, slam and circle dancing, and the like. Examine Sid Vicious and my man Steve Jones here, to say nothing of the incredible shirt on Johnny Rotten. Sid is the very image of ideal punk—blood covered, doing poorly wrought Pete Townsend-style Windmills. Sam wondered if he realized that he was parodying the Who with that; I suspect not—I’d sooner believe that Rotten was actively satirizing. Rotten is bears out the antagonism that necessarily occurs between close sets—audience and band—in his disdainful looks and the mock insanity between stanzas. And Jones, well, Steve Jones is just the man. Always.
Humor: there is a fair bit of satire apparent in the lyrics and actions of the American punk crew. Dead Kennedys “Night of the Living Rednecks,” for instance. This is one area that I think needs greater attention; satire lives and breathes in punk.

So, the Fartz: A Case Study
Seattle was in a significant recession at this point; the youth were unemployed and largely unemployable. The punk scene here sprang, as it did in England, from the unemployed working class. The Fartz certainly play on this. In an interview in Ripper # 7 from 1982, Steve and Loud discuss their politics:

HOW DID YOU FIRST GET INTO ANARCHIST POLITICS?
STEVE: Just by what's going on around you. After three and a half years in the service I realized that something was wrong. Somebody always wants control and to be able to tell people what to do. It's about to the point in life where everybody's pretty much sick of being told what to do. They want to find out for themselves what they should do, and not just fall into a role in society.
LOUD: Mine was Abbie Hoffman, '69. He was really big in the news, and he was bizarre, so I just clicked right into that. I just read whatever he put out and whatever was put out about him.
STEVE: Paul and Blaine are a little younger, so they really haven't had a chance to get really badly fucked over enough to jar out a view or to have a view on it. It's to an advantage for them because they got to learn about getting fucked over before it happened to them, and now they know how to avoid it.

The “typical” tendencies appear to be present—the little guy fighting against “the Man.” Even the notion that here, and in the remarks that follow, that the older must protect the younger from the system and from being fucked over. We have here an insistence on a certain kind of relationship between musician and audience-->reciprocal of sorts, but certainly a responsibility of musician to audience. The interview continues with the following remarks:

IS THAT WHAT YOU TRY TO DO AS A BAND, FOR YOUR AUDIENCE?
STEVE: Yeah. We feel that it's great that there are kids coming out to the shows who are only 15 or 16 and still live with their parents and haven't had to be on their own yet, and really had the chance to live out in the gutter and have nothing to eat. [Notice here the assumptions of working class—not suburban—participation, which is not quite what we see borne out in American punk]. It just shows them pretty much that if you just keep playing your role, you're just gonna fall into a category and you're never gonna be able to control your own mind. You gotta figure out the problems you're gonna face and deal with them before it happens. Just learn young. That's something we'd like to accomplish.

Further, and I adore this one:

STEVE:We don't want to try and come across like some real politicals or anything like that, because it's really not that much of a thing as - we're more after the apathy. It really pisses us off to see people just sit back and sing about destroying this and destroying that, cuz that's stupid.

See, conceptually, this is interesting. The lyrics tend toward the highly political and active, not the apathetic. Clearly being “pissed off” suggests something other than apathy. Finally, the classic “the corporation” remarks, which make perfect sense in light of their politics and the economic period in Seattle:

STEVE:It's not so much that we want to criticize the corporations, I feel more pissed toward the middle class people who can just ignore everything else. The low class people like us who are starving or whatever, we're the ones suffering, they're making money, they're happy, cuz they adjusted to that way of life, they can put up with silly rules and whatever they have to face to make that money.

And the suburban/working class bit works itself out here, too. Quincy Punks, I imagine were largely suburban, and how many of the reviews mention that a band was “okay, but clearly suburban” (as happens with Genocide)?

Compare this with the remarks made by Gregg & Duff, after Fartz reformed as Ten Minute Warning. Much of the language here is what is cited as “the death of punk”:

On the difference between the Fartz and TMW, musically and the attendant—“I thought you were hardcore” comments:

Duff:We're still a hardcore group; hardcore to me means just hardcore. Getting intense on that music, slammin' on them guitars and believing in what you're doing. That's hardcore to me. Hardcore is not raw smash, stage dive and shit. Hardcore is more a way of thinking and playing.

I’m intrigued by the next set of remarks, as they recount one of the reasons behind a “death” of punk culture, if not of punk music. Punk became, well…like everything else:

O. K., what kind of spiritual message are you trying to relate with your music? Haha. . .
Gregg:Love in the light. No, we're not trying to blaze any particular path or any political 'do this' or 'do that,' just, uh, having fun and not being. . .
Duff: Begin[sp] caught up in certain cliques or peer pressure. Basically what the whole quote-unquote 'punk scene' was about was getting away from the cliques and the peer pressure. Now it's just regressed back into. . . Gregg: It's turned into what it was trying to get away from.
Duff: Yeah, it's just kind of gone around in a big circle, to right back to what I was trying to get out of. So we're just trying to say, hey you guys, let's unite; let's not worry about what you're wearing or what the guy behind you thinks about you. Just have a good time, have fun, don't go around hittin' people and shit.'
Gregg: I think, in a way without having to say much, we're an example of that happening because we're not a punk rock band and there's a lot of punk rockers who get into what we're doing. And we don't always necessarily look like punk rockers when we're on stage. Yeah, we're just an example of that working.

Ten Minute Warning, however, rejects the overt politics of the Fartz:

So you're not an anarchy band?
Duff:Definitely not an anarchy band! Some people might say, 'Oh well, these guys serve no purpose,' 'cause we've had interviews where the first question was, 'What are your political views?' We're a rock 'n' roll band, not Governor Spellman. And people might look down on us 'cause we don't have political views, but then you gotta look at it, why should we? You guys are getting dragged down by peer pressure because somebody says you gotta have political views. That's the cool thing right now, to be a political band. Well fuck that shit; we're not political.

On the amueturism that became a totem of punk; the last remark is my favorite. It is sooooo Duff. I’ve said time and again he’s gone on the “I’m not a RockStar” bit forever—he even does it here, sort of, in 1983. I love the remark here.

Gregg:It's a fact that we come across a lot more professional than a lot of the other local bands and alot of people interpret that wrong.
Duff: They think we're stuck up or trying to sell out. I don't know where they're getting this: do we have a record contract? We just want to be good, we don't want to be just five wankers up on stage.
Gregg:To practice once a week and jerk off is not where it's at.
Duff: We are serious musicians, but I want to make the point that we're not stuck up, no matter what people think, not that we care what people think.

Even in the desire for inspiring apathy, the Fartz dealt in parody. With Ronald Reagan as the center of their ire, songs such as “Battle Hymn of Ronnie Reagan” (lyrics here) use the familiar sounds of “Songs of Patriotism” and satirize them and the messages.

As I mentioned, this was great fun, and I’ll keep adding to the thoughts begun here in the coming weeks.

Punk Notes

2009-02-04T07:34:00.000-08:00

I'm doing a talk on Punk today--looking forward to it, but also suffering a bit of fear and trepidation about getting up and out there. Last fall, I had planned to work through a series on punk history here, and I intend to get around to it...eventually. Maybe this will be the proper kick in the ass.

Anyway, I'm sharing some clips with the folks who are kind enough to join, and I need an easy way to organize and access them all, so I'll share them here, along with some notes on the matters at hand.

First, everyone needs a bit of punk via Quincy, yes? Note here the references to the Germs burn, drug addiction, and general malfeasance. Also, the abundance of white makeup. Love this line: "There's no one innocent here."

So, a bit of the Pistols, 4 days before Rotten would leave the band, after the Winterland show. I love this clip for the "punk how-tos" from Rotten's dear-god-awful shirt and practiced sneers to Vicious' bloodied chest. And then there is Steve. The Man. I adore Steve Jones. I'll resist the temptation to share some Neurotic Outsiders. Just trust me. He is the man.

Penelope Spheeris and her cooking scenes. Darby in Decline I. Notice the Sex Pistols poster and the appearance of the "beard" in the form of Michelle Ghaffari.

More to follow after the talk.

Duffonomics

2009-02-03T08:19:00.000-08:00

Here it is: Duff's Newest Blog. If you missed the previous thread on the subject, the blog is at Playboy.com, so it is decidedly NSFW.

Haven't opened it, being at work and all, but I thought I would share. Apparently, he went with a play on "Freakonomics" for the title. The post appears to be titled "Appetite for Investment."

He is, as I have pointed out before, a pretty savvy businessman; he's certainly done well for himself. I've read (though not verified) that he invested in Starbucks and Microsoft back in the late 80s, because a brother-in-law (could have been brother, for that matter), suggested it.

Too, for whatever poor choices he made on his way into addiction, he also made some damn good ones, not the least of which was that little project out of L.A.

Screwing Around

2009-02-03T07:32:00.000-08:00

It's been more than a year since I last changed my poor blog's clothes, and it needed an update. I am not sure I am sold on this one yet, but we'll see how it wears for a while.

Duff and the Nudie Mag

2009-01-29T14:06:00.000-08:00

So, didn't know Playboy still used the "great articles" shtick (though, honestly, the Shel Silverstein pieces really were incredible--try "Hamlet as Told on the Street" and "The Great Smoke Off"). But, here they go again:

Duff's writing a column for Playboy

on finance.

I have no words.

No, I lie.

Simple pefection, this are.

I've used his story with students before; non-traditionals really dig it. They'll LOVE this.

Fourteen Years

2009-01-21T00:01:00.000-08:00

This posts marks the second time in less than a year that I've had cause to use this particular title; last time regarded Sir Duff's continuing sobriety. This post is about my father; another male figure of some importance, one might imagine, in my life.

That both anniversaries would call to mind the same title and, as it happens, song, is unsurprising, given that we are dealing in anniversaries, one from a life (though not mine)-changing event in May of 1994, and the other was life-ending event from January of 1995.

On the 21st of January, 1995, I was 19 years old, a mother of a 9 month-old son, a nanny for three boys, and a full-time college student, though I can no longer recall what courses I was taking...possible this was the General Psych, Child Psych, Marriage & Family, American History Semester, but I don't really recall. It may have been American Lit, Advanced Comp, and assorted other courses. None of that is particularly important, save that I dutifully attended all of my classes in the week after the 21st, a fact that has occasionally made me irritable with students who disappear after local deaths. Just keep moving.

Anyway, by the time that Saturday rolled around, my father had been dying to one degree or another for at least 4 years. He was diagnosed with a nasty, slow-growing brain cancer, Astrocytoma (grade II, I think--but it may have been Anaplastic even from the get-go of his awareness) when I was about 15; he had surgery to remove what they could and radiation to retard further growth. His chances for long-term survival were never particularly good, though I wasn't completely aware of that at the time, I think. The first surgery and rounds of radiation did the job, and, to his oncologist's great surprise, the damn tumor began to shrink. Doc planned to write this one up of a journal, according to my father, because the shrinkage was out of left field. As it happens, we can better understand what the tumor was doing as a temporary retreat, because two and a half or so years later, while I was pregnant with Tough Guy, the bastard came back fast, massive, and lethal.

We had not had a good relationship in years, owing to my bitchy teengirl antics, his own discomfort with fatherhood (realizing this 11 years into fatherhood is a bit problematic; later telling his 13 year old, high strung daughter that he didn't want to be a father? Seriously bad news), and some classically bad divorce politics. Let me put it this way: you know how when people mention the death of a parent, many folks respond with "I can't imagine what that must be like"? Well, I still have that response even now, largely because he'd not been around for so long before then; I have to remind myself that I do have some insight into the matter. Anyway, he had seen Tough Guy when kiddo was 6 weeks old, and Dad was already looking rough and having serious balance problems by then, but I don't think I saw him again until 1995, when he asked me to join him and my stepmother for New Years Day 1995 and to bring Tough Guy along; I was a bit fearful of the encounter--what might transpire, but I did join them.

When she extended the invitation, Peggy was quite matter-of-fact. Dad was dying and this was a last opportunity to spend time with him. He had asked her to contact me as a matter of a final request of sorts. The end was nigh, and he had a few things he wanted to say (none of which do I remember--other images having become the most poignant from that day), an item to bequeath, and photos he wanted taken with me and with Tough Guy, who was now walking and beginning to yammer.

Dad looked awful. My Navy Officer father, never a great dresser when let loose from his uniform, looked sallow in the long-sleeved, stained white shirt, the brownish corduroys, and the awful mustard yellow suspenders, which have remained a focal point for me for my last memories of him. He was slow, weak, barely able to hold Tough Guy or to move across the room. His only moments of absolute clarity were in showing me the new trash compactor and the in-ceiling Bose speakers in their newly finished house.

I heir my geekdom honestly.

He died on the 21st of that month, after apparently lapsing into a coma about a week before. My stepmother, perhaps fearing an outburst or some histrionic behavior, did not contact me. I found out only because my grandmother happened to call my father's house, and his mother-in-law spilled the beans. I saw him on the 21st, there in the VA Hospice, hours before he died. I said my goodbyes, cried while holding his hand, tried to at least maintain a modicum of composure in the face of Peggy's anger at me and his impending death, and then went home. I wasn't in the house more than five minutes, when Tough Guy's paternal grandfather ushered me to the study to answer the phone. It was my grandmother; Dad died while I was driving home on I-64, a road that has tied together so many peculiar moments in my life. I even wrote a poem about the damn thing once upon a time.

I left Tough Guy with his grandparents and returned to Hampton, where I was afforded the opportunity to see my father's body before the cremation. I had already said my goodbyes, so this was merely a weird moment, not nearly so significant as the yellow suspenders in my memories of him.

Like many people with poor relationships with parents, I have wondered over the years whether we would have been able to come to terms with our mutual disappointments or if he would have been proud of me. I was too young and too disconnected from him to even hazard a guess, and, I suppose, it doesn't really matter in the end, what he would have thought. Is that just my teenage angst rearing, though--to remain dismissive of his opinions?

In the throes of my teengirl years, I used to write letters to him, including lyrics from various songs that seemed especially meaningful--most of them were about abandonment and anger. As I've mentioned before, I spent a great many years in dark places, and those letters, which I hope he burned in order to purge them from his existence, exemplified that darkness. I did not trust my own words to convey my emotions properly, so I relied on the music and lyrics of the bands I had plastered all over my room. I might have even made him a mix tape of some of them; in fact, I am almost positive that I did.

So, Dad,

It's been a good ride so far; I hope you have had an opportunity to see the grandson who looks so much like you. He's every bit my son--headstrong and obnoxious, and every bit your grandson, for the same reasons. I have less of a clue now on how to address you than I did then, though I believe I've managed to accumulate a bit more insight. I hope I have, at any rate.

If you ever have the chance and feel like crossing the mortal veil or what have you, I do have several questions for you. Would like a bit of insight into the photo album with the pictures of Bahrain, which your sister tells me you adored. I never knew that when you were alive; if you ever mentioned it in my presence, I don't recall what you said. Would have been great if you had labelled any of the pictures, but it does make for an interesting mystery to solve someday, should I ever make it to Bahrain. It's definitely changed since you were there...I imagine you would be gobstruck by just how much.

I thought you hated travel; how in the world did I get that impression? And Slaughterhouse-5 was your favorite book? I adore Vonnegut...I'd love to know what your take was, exactly. What drew you in?

Anyway, I hope that this note doesn't constitute some sort of awful post-mortality interruption to whatever. I sincerely hope that where/what/however you are that "well" is a good descriptor. I'd leave with "hang in there," but I am a child of Hellraiser, and the variety of mental images available to me with that remark tend toward the unpleasant, so let's just leave with a "stay well," okay?

Much love. Miss you...can't believe it's been 14 years already.

Peace,
k

Good Morning, America. How are ya?

2009-01-20T04:58:00.000-08:00

"...Don't you know me/I'm your native son./ I'm the train they call/ the City of New Orleans..."

Ah, thank you Arlo, for getting into my head this morning. Have a listen if it's been a while for you:

As melancholy as Goodman's song is, it has always reminded me of the hope and promise of America--growth and ingenuity, occasionally at our personal expense. The railway was once the showpiece of American promise--the laying of rail across the continent was a feat of engineering and wealth, even as wrapped up as the act was in social politics (race and class, most strikingly).

Today, Barack Obama will take the Oath of Office of the President of the United States of America; he has, for many, become a symbol of hope and promise similar to the rails of yesteryear. Enduring ingenuity and a craving for wisdom (a polar bear mentality, you might recall), rather than fear and punishment. I hold hope for reconciliation among American voices; we need not bear the same opinions; indeed, we should not, but I do hope for increased civility in our discourse.

Obama, Biden, and their families began the Inauguration events on Saturday, when they took a train into Washington D.C..

"And the sons of pullman porters/And the sons of engineers/Ride their father's magic carpets made of steel."

So today, the son of a used car salesman who had found himself down on his luck, and the son of students of the 60's--an American and a Kenyan in Hawaii, will take Oaths in promise of leading the U.S. of A. Though Obama, born in 1961, is by some accounts, a member of the Baby Boom generation (albeit at the tail end), on the cusp with the advent of Generation X. Some have identified this group--born roughly between 1954 & 1965 as Generation Jones.

I'm going to simply with with Boomers and Xers...because it makes the most sense to me, false though the distinctions will ever remain (generalizations being what they are). Obama will be the first president elected since Kennedy to have no memory of J. Kennedy's assassination, and to have memories of the assassinations of King and R. Kennedy gilded in childhood, though he no doubt grew up in the shadows of these deaths. This is a major distinction between Boomers and Xers...the signifying moments. Xers were too young (even the upper end) to experience the "Summer of Love" directly, having it instead translated by pop culture; our friends did not die in Vietnam, though our older siblings might have. But we grew in it's shadow.

We grew in a shadow of Nixon, of Ford, Carter, Reagan, a military that watched events in Iran and Iraq with trepidation, an energy crisis (which would be oft symbolized in the orange stickers on switch plates in our schools, reminding us to Turn the Lights Off!). Fourteen years younger than Obama, I was even more in shadow for many of these events than he would have been, but in the umbra we were, nevertheless. Boomers were, at that time (at least in the late seventies and eighties), beginning their ascent to power in their ever memorable power suits.

As one who sits on the cusp, he embodies the shifts in the mindsets of generations. Railroads have been on the brink of failure for his entire existence (well, Amtrak did have a fine year this year), and we have been abandoning the rails--or transforming them to trails--by degrees throughout his years. Perhaps the rails still hold promise for us--a greener America, a more civil and connected America, not rooted in the individual car, but in the shared transport of train. Not in the skies that lift us above the fray, but in the train cars that pull us beside it.

Best wishes to you, Mr. President. I'm rooting for you.

Cows on Mars!

2009-01-16T12:51:00.000-08:00

Interesting news from the Mars frontier--> methane has been detected on Mars, without any apparent geological activity to explain it. Which could, of course, be a signal of life on the Red Planet.

And for your above-average geek, it's a rather groovy notion. Of course, when G. was telling me this last night, what should pop out of my mouth in response? "Oh, so there are cows on Mars, then?*"

The remark was rewarded with a look of adoring concern for my sanity, before the joke finally arrived at the intended destination.

Silly fart humor aside, I think I have arrived at the proper name for the punk band of my dreams: cows on Mars.

Sort of a Ziggy-Stardust-cum-Dead-Milkmen kind of vibe, you know?

*Please note the remark included in the CNN article. I love techies; I really do:

"To date no viable method has been devised to capture this gas as it erupts from either end of the cow."

Seeking, Polar Bear Style

2009-01-15T07:29:00.000-08:00

On my typical morning, I read the newspaper (bless the poor local one, it doesn't take very long), a couple of web-papers, and several blogs, just to see what might be out there. On Thursdays, I read Duff's notes on the world, and when fate is with me, slacktivist posts on the same day.

Today is one of those fine days; much reading enjoyment. I'm also listening to People of the Book whilst driving between campuses, so just be aware that somehow this is all creating an odd confluence in my mind.

So...polar bears. Fred (slacktivist) remarks that

Grandin also discussed another case of compulsive animal behavior -- a polar bear named Gus who had taken to pacing back and forth in his zoo habitat. Gus' behavior, Grandin said, was motivated by "seeking." Being both very intelligent and a predator, Gus was simply going out of his mind with boredom.
That term "seeking" was new to me in this context. Dr. Grandin explained that she was using the terminology of Panksepp's core emotions -- fear, rage, separation anxiety and seeking.

Read the article, it is worth the time; good thoughts on our "gerbil" habits, versus our "polar bear" ones. The seeking bear simply wanted stimulation of some sort, rather than a closed, predictable environment. Oh, how I do identify with that bear.

Duff wrote about mountain climbing today, and in the course of his notes, he remarked upon the obsessive habits of the alcoholic---something rather familiar hereabouts--and noted that he could feel the pull to the summit when he was a mere 300ft away, but had to turn back; he did listen to his climbing partner and descended safely, a remarkable change from the Duff of 15 years ago who not only would not have been climbing any icy mountain safely, but who almost certainly wouldn't have put safety and wisdom over opportunity.

What Duff is describing, I think--and what I've written about as well--is a matter of seeking. Some alcoholics are motivated by fear, and many sober alcoholics are. I can't tell you how many books I have come across that simply work to manipulate the fear instinct in alcoholics--fear the drink. And that is not necessarily a bad thing, by the way...a bit of fear of what you were willing to do while drunk is a healthy thing indeed. Step 5 in AA--"Admitted to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs" is precisely about this--reminding yourself (and at least one other person) what you did. What you were willing to do. Who you hurt.

But, for a certain set of us, the need to, as Duff remarks, "fill the void," requires something other than just fear. We require activity--outlets for energy that had previously been spent consuming. The energy (which while an active drunk has many different expressions), doesn't disappear. Either we begin the polar bear pace, which leads to boredom and, unfortunately also leads, too often, back to the bottle, or we fill that space--we seek. We seek physical stimulation (climbing mountains, running, etc.), and we seek, as is used in Fred's article above, because we are curious. That curiosity was always resident, but alcohol may have masked it. Alcoholics often turn to the church, not just out of fear, but out of this desire to know, to understand. Others, like myself, turn to just wanting to know the answers--as the book I'm listening to puts it-- "to move the ball forward, even a millimeter" in the scope of human knowledge.

Alcohol had the effect of creating the "safe space" of the artificial Arctic environment; drunk might look good, might even feel good for a time, but it is self-limiting and only falsely-safe. We begin to pace, which leads to drinking more until we hit a wall or otherwise arrest ourselves from the perpetual back-and-forth. Drunk and guilty. Drunk and sad. As I've said before, I often drank to just stop the thoughts for a little while. Get everything to slow down.

I don't worry over that anymore; I let my thoughts race where they take me....sort of like in this post. My perusals into the relationship between, say, punk and Romanticism may not be life-changing, but they move the ball forward with each connection that becomes apparent. Staying sane appears to require embracing the seeker (DO NOT read any Harry Potter connotations here!) resident in me...and in most of us..I guess. Am I being overly optimistic about the human race again?

Sadly, much of this makes me think of Gravity's Rainbow, a fact that is disturbing as hell. More on that later.

Off to ponder. And to avoid reading Pynchon.

Ziggy Stardust Wonder Shoes

2009-01-10T15:10:00.000-08:00

First, allow me to thank my faithful and ever-patient husband, G, here. He braved the mall with me today. Moreover, he braved the shoe department in three different department stores.

He is a good and fearless man, clearly.

I was tentatively seeking red shoes, more or less because I don't have a pair, and they just seem like something I should own. I had an excellent pair of red heels once upon a time, but they are long since buried...worn to shreds. And G is quite fond of red heels, so I am happy to oblige. Unfortunately, I was not successful in that particular quest.

BUT, I found something even better: Ziggy Stardust shoes. Platinum Doc Martens.

20 eye platinum Docs.

On clearance no less (imagine that).

Eons ago I had black and white paisley Docs, which I adored to their grave. I have looked on occasion for boots that would equal their level of kitsch, but until today, I found none. I'm just not a purple, sparkly Doc kind of girl. Platinum, on the other hand, is right up my alley.

G also spied a pair of silver docs, the 8 eye variety, which I tried on as well, and while fabulous, they lacked that certain something that the silver on black (what I am calling platinum) have. I am proud of my Ziggy boots, and I fully intend to play Bowie in the office when I wear them, though Diamanda Galas has been the most oft-played artist of late. She seems to both amuse and disturb most people, which is rather what I am aiming for. Try her The Sporting Life (the link takes you to a video for "Do You Take this Man") if you love John Paul Jones, by the way--the CD is amazing. Truthfully, there is nothing of hers that I wouldn't recommend, but that CD is pretty accessible and filled with bass wonderfulness.

But, as usual, I digress, but please do take this as proof that my listening habits do occasionally manage to encompass artists in addition to Duff. Shocking, I realize.

So, here's to great boots and a fabulous husband who buys great boots just because his wife loves kitsch. You rock, love.

I'm considering wearing them tomorrow when I am installed as an Elder in the church, lest I begin to take myself too seriously. Perhaps with a black velvet dress.

Day One: Don Quixote in Academia

2009-01-01T18:30:00.000-08:00

Well, theoretically, I began my new administrative job today, but, being Jan 1 and the college being closed, I've had little to do with the job-life, save for a few emails regarding new carpet installation.

Woohoo, man.

Usually,I identify with Candide and his learning curves--absolute idealism to pessimism to balance. Most days, I find myself hanging out in idealism, and that is, quite seriously, why I found myself teaching in a community college. A fine place to advocate for change. Today, I'm feeling a bit more like Don Quixote, as I am presented with problems that appear DESPERATELY IMPORTANT, but are often incidental to the more significant issues or not really problems at all. But, I tend to have to play as if, "yes, yes, that is a big scary monster," even when I see the windmill clearly, lest I belittle the fears of the person I am talking to. Sometimes, I think it is a big, scary monster too, until I have a chance to step back from the speaker's fear and see the picture more clearly.

Consequently, I find myself tilting at windmills frequently, and I think that is probably what I am meant to do. Sometimes there are dragons in those windmills, you know? And sometimes, people just need the damn monsters slain, whether they are windmills or dragons or carpet fumes.

I've been an administrator since 2007; this job represents a step up the rung--and the title certainly doesn't suck. But, one little thing has been bothering me for a while, and all the more as recently the transition begin...for a system that prides itself in talking about eliminating false hierarchy, we surely on them. The walls that divide staff, faculty, and administrator are, of course, entirely fabricated, often by imagined power and, more frequently, elitism. We are all there in support of education; we merely have different roles in that support structure. So, sometimes Plant Ops directs how and when changes will occur; sometimes Academic Affairs takes leadership, and often Student Affairs leads our way, but always, we work in service to education.

So, what does this mean in practice? All too often, I hear my fellow faculty demeaning the role of administration or of staff; I've heard time and again that we are becoming a "staff-run" school (I need to find out what the fear that drives this remark is, precisely) and that Plant Ops, for instance shouldn't dictate scheduling for moving, painting, etc. (who else is going to, as they are charged with doing the work??). And, in truth, none of the decisions faculty are discussing in these remarks were made without conversation among each of the constituents and/or their representatives.

But, if you are one of the folks who are not the representatives, it may not feel like your thoughts were heard or considered.

I'm wondering if keeping an Academic blog would be useful--one that conveyed current conversations and offered a place for opinions to be voiced; I am not a fan of anonymous comments (we academics can be such a vicious lot), but I also understand the fear of retribution. I don't think such retribution will occur in our particular climate, but we are undergoing a fair amount of change. I'd like to see those divides drop, especially ones fueled by anything smacking of elitism.

So, I guess I'm still trying to save the world; I'm just starting in a microcosm of my campus. First grocery parking lots, now...THE WORLD!

Or something like that. Point me toward the windmills, er, monsters...tilting I must go!

The Ethics of Paradise

2008-12-12T08:00:00.000-08:00

Sounds like one of those deeply etho-philosophical posts, doesn't it?

Eh, not so much.

R. and I were chatting the other day (poor man made the mistake of asking me what I thought of Chinese Democracy (the album)*--I don't, whenever possible), which led me on to the merry path of the wonders of AFD. During said ramble, I began to wax philosophical about the treatment of GNR in the "Paradise City" video, wherein the boys are featured in front of a cast of thousands of screaming fans--at Castle Donnington and at Giants Stadium. We're talking over 100,000 fans in total. Now, bear in mind that GNR was the OPENING ACT in each case, but the video treatment is masterful. Our leather-bound heroes cavort

**Drift: TG just called me on the telephone. He's in the basement....of the same house in which I sit, typing. Is this a case for justifiable homicide?**

ANYWAY, our leather-clad heroes cavort on the stages, framed to demonstrate their absolute control over the legions of fans at their mercy. R., who was one of the reasons my film class rocked last year, notes as I describe the way in which the video works as a kind of propaganda on the band's behalf, lifting them from opening act to commanders of thousands, that the film, then, seems to follow Riefenstahl's model in Triumph des Willens (which I had inflicted on the class). And, you know what? He's dead on.

If you've never seen Triumph, you should. It is a masterpiece of propaganda, and film students, in particular, have no excuse for never having seen it. While her film is certainly one of the most frightening I have ever seen, Riefenstahl's manipulation of the audience is nothing short of masterful. Take this scene, for instance, of the funeral for Reichspräsident Paul von Hindenburg in 1934. The high, long shots capture the sheer number of people surrounding Hitler and represent a piece of cinematic mastery that has been copied time and again, including in the final scene of Star Wars IV, where we see three figures, again surrounded by lines of evenly spaced figures in vaguely militaristic garb, parading toward a distant dais. Riefenstahl's images are nothing if not imposing here. The scope of power held by the growing Nazi Socialist Party is, according to the image, immense. These shots, along with those of the adoring crowds that line the streets for the various parades included, are far more terrifying than the words of the speeches, in large measure because we have history to tell us exactly what such adulation would allow the Nazi Socialist Party to achieve and destroy.

Nigel Dick uses similar techniques in the video for "Paradise City" to demonstrate the relationship between stage presence of Guns N' Roses and the crowd, who are, of course, not nearly as well-organized or controlled. And that, of course, was part of the point. Look at the frenzied madness this band generates! Now, unlike the scene in Triumph above, the band is never featured as the "small figures" in the center that grow ever larger until we are forced to look up at the podium in hero worship, as happens in Riefenstahl. Dick generally allows us to be level with the band, often participating from their point of view toward the crowd. The lore of this video is significant as the video was shot over two days, one day at Giants Stadium and the other (complete with footage of the band getting on a Concorde flight) at Castle Donnington for the Monsters of Rock Festival, where, during the concert and video shoot on August 20th, 1988, two fans were killed in the muddy melee of the festival, during Guns N' Roses' set. The story goes that the band decided to include the Donnington footage as a tribute to the two dead fans.

Consider that choice though in a different light. Some 107,000 people were said to have participated in that festival--an absolutely enormous number of folks moshing about in the muddy flats and pushing toward the stage. Two kids slip, go under, and are crushed. The band then includes footage of the event. Yes, it does work as a tribute, in so far as one might expect that the dead fans would have been mightily proud to have been included (however incidentally), but, if one takes a more cynical approach--the footage goes to show the bands' power in the situation. So much energy is generated--instead of the ranks of controlled German militaristic columns, we have barely controlled chaos generated by one group--and the deaths of two fans serve to emphasize the chaos and the danger of "the world's most dangerous band." Mayhem, destruction, and death, the very stuff of rock-n-roll legend; in the lore of this video, those legends become quite real in the figures of Guns N' Roses.

Dick's footage (all of which, he notes on his website, was "directed entirely by phone and headset,") further pays homage--and I've no idea if it was intentional or not, or if Dick studied Triumph directly or merely it's myriad followers--to Triumph in the shots of the empty Giant's stadium, which he then shows filling up, much as Riefenstahl does with her focus on the massive structures that were filled with or surrounded by the people involved in the shoot. Look, the images encourage, look at what we can fill with people. The empty-to-filled arena symbolizes power through the ability to call the masses forward. Riefenstahl has similar footage; take the one at right here, for instance; the crowd fills in a mammoth structure--notice how the long shot (here and in Dick's video footage at left) dwarf the structure, which is clearly quite large, and that serve to illuminate (again) the massive number of people involved in both cases, though even here Triumph illuminates the control over chaos, where "Paradise City" encourages, exposes, and revels in the chaos. And that make sense, of course, as in the first case, the government entity would desire to demonstrate their absolute authority through the images of marching rows and columns of people and flags, just as the film underscores the party's support of the German worker in the utterly bizarre (yet wholly regimented and controlled) chant sequence. Guns N' Roses, on the other hand, has no such need; in fact, it does a rock-n-roll band, particularly one that had already made its name synonymous with danger and madness through the stories of fights and drug/alcohol use and abuse (those stories would likewise be part of the Monsters of Rock legend), great good to whip chaos into frenzy. This demonstrates a form of control, but the control is not manifest here in lines, but as throngs of moshing fans who worship at the stage and threaten to break lose at any moment. "Look what we can do. Look what excitement and danger we generate."

The film and video both use air travel, interestingly enough, to underscore their themes. One of the first scenes in Triumph is an extended one shot from an airplane, showing the city below. While we are fairly used to such in 2008, imagine the power conveyed in those shots in 1934. These are ways of seeing that humans had never had ready access too; the paradigm shift involved with seeing a city from above is similar to that of the ability to see the Earth from space after 1946. And the group able to display that shift has great power. GNR, on the other hand, is working in 1988, long after such images are available, so the video instead shows the Concorde Jet, preparing to whisk the band off to Europe after the Giants Stadium show. How does this demonstrate power? The jet itself is pretty impressive, what with being both supersonic and supremely expensive to travel on, but bear in mind this little nugget: in August 1988, Appetite for Destruction had been out for only a year and a month. The first album. The opening band. Thirteen months. Follow the lore: 13 months from the streets of L.A., these guys are commanding thousands and flying the fucking Concorde. That's an estimation of significant power in a materialist world. The way in which Dick conveys this story is a masterpiece of subtlety. The Concorde shots are crosscut with flashier, color shots of Slash's solo. We see first the very recognizable nose of the plane in Black and White (pictured at left) and then we return to Slash on stage. We cut back to the side of the British Airways jet and pan along the length of it, until we see the nose again, here centered, and, in the right front of the shot, members of the band walking toward the plane (we later see them boarding). Dick doesn't need to tell us who we are watching. Look at the picture at right; Steven, Duff, and Slash walking toward the Concorde. Slash's omnipresent top hat is visible against the white truck behind him. 6'3" Duff, easy to pick out in most cases, is made more visible by the white cowboy hat he wears throughout the Giants Stadium scenes; by this point in the video, we are entirely familiar with the garb. No need to zoom in on the band here, we are simply given the opportunity to watch the exodus to the Concorde. Quiet power here.

That Axl shows up late in the video with symbols associated with the Third Reich is, I suspect, coincidental to my premise, but not to the band's consideration of its power. Propaganda, after all, drives the legends of Guns N' Roses and the Third Reich, doesn't it? And Axl is hardly the first rock musician to play in Nazi garb; Darby Crash, anyone? The chemistry of crowd control is similar in these situations; the personalities on parade, combined with a message that speaks to a working class (the GNR lore often posits the band as working-class heroes of a sort, though, according to Duff and Slash, they were the only two to hold "legitimate**" jobs during the band's formative years). We are one of you, screams the propaganda from both the film and the video, and, more importantly, we can provide control or chaos...whatever you desire.

So, what are we suggesting in this video? Certainly, one cannot credibly claim that GNR aspired to Nazi Power or were somehow influenced in that vein. The power of a stage presence that Triumph presents for Hitler and a score of GNR videos present for Axl--those are undoubtedly similar, and Dick uses a number of Riefenstahl's techniques in order to convey such.

So what is the ethic "Paradise City"? The melee and power over chaos, themes that would continue throughout much of GNR's oeuvre--consider the Wedding Party in "November Rain." The excess, then, is a part of the power and control. Huh. What that says for the 17 year wait for a certain CD (the album) and the excess and control exacted there, is anybody's guess, but, clearly, the video here serves to predict it.

*CD (the co-conspirator) wins for best review of "CD" (the song) (oh my):

As for the GNR...my first thought was, holy crap this song blows goats. I listened some more and reassessed my view on it. My first assessment was insulting to goats. There isn't a creature that deserves such treatment. So, my final judgment on the song is that it sucks more than a black hole.

** I feel it necessary to point out that my use of "legitimate" may be problematic. Even Slash called Duff's L.A. job "phone theft," but that's, again, part of the lore just as much as the "Izzy the Heroin Dealer" is.

Serious 80s Kitsch

2008-12-08T06:11:00.000-08:00

I've got a real post full of ponderment, but this bit of viral goodness came across my radar, and I had to share.

Take a few moments and watch this video, which will surpass just about any fit of excess you can imagine. And this remark comes from the Guns N' Roses fan, so, dammit, I know excess when I see it. Sadly, no dolphins were sighted in this particular video, so it doesn't *quite* live up to the bizarre world of "Estranged."**

After watching the video, I was curious enough to wonder a) who in the hell this guy was and 2) how the holy hell he affords a fleet of Gretsch guitars. Yes, yes, I am petty and jealous. I admit it. When I googled him, I discovered that there is no Wikipedia entry as of today (itself a bit of wonderment); that I am not alone in this quest--others are just as baffled as I; and, my favorite, a page that asks who Chris Dane Owens is, and answers with Great Dane worship: "My Dane is 3 years old. A total baby at home. The friendliest dog ever." Now that, my friends, is good comedy.

Here is some information about the dude--may or may not be specious. Is definitely self-congratulatory.

So, why did this warrant a post, other than the goodness of sharing? It struck me as I watched the video (in mild horror), that it's a pretty good example of the kind of 80's kitsch that I adore. The song even reminds me of 80s radio--there is a specific song rolling about my head, but I can't put my finger on it at the moment (go malaprop chick! Sheesh); reminds me of a Chris Issak song a bit--and the worshippy 80's videos of the Robert Palmer variety. Beautiful but largely expressionless women cavorting with the ostensible hero...you know the drill.

Why do adore such vapid peaons to excess and the silenced female? I'm a self-described feminist who struggles with the limits of sexuality and power in her studies of and participation in "raunch culture"; my favorite band, as I have noted before, is hardly a place to find positive female images--the lyrics are replete with degredation, derision, and dismissiveness. Yet, they are appealing (the tunes, not necessarily the images). Perhaps the possibility of being adored--for how ever silenced the women are and how ever objectified, the camera practically worships them, often viewing from a low-angle shot, rather than at eye-level or from above. Such angles, of course, generate the sense of looking up onto a pedestal.

Now, pedestals are not all they are cracked up to be. The angel typology for women is limiting; it denies women (or anyone put on a pedestal) their humanity. If I may use my favorite pedestal-perched whipping boy for a moment-->Duff openly struggles against this tendency in his fan-base and the media. His long-running" don't call me a rockstar" bit (seriously, he's been saying this since 1988) speaks very much to the denial of his humanity (aka "normal dudeness") by celebrating the image he projected (or was projected for him) at any given moment. He often uses grocery stores, as I have noted before, as his touchstone--"See, here I am. Normal."

But, I think many of us, myself included, yearn for the pedestal--to be idolized, worshipped, or somehow marked as different/better/more worthy/whatever. For instance, when a teacher finds a student who "gets it"--who isn't just sucking up, but is really engaging the material and us, we tend to get much more energetic. The notion that someone out there is genuinely interested in what we have to say affirms why were were called to the classroom in the first place. The excitement generated by such a student has carried me through several semesters, though he was last in one of my classes in late Spring.

We (not just teachers) want for someone to point out our worth, particularly when we are unable to see it clearly. And, I would argue that there is nothing necessarily wrong with wanting recognition from time to time or from desiring acknowledgement (or even the pedestal). And these videos, I think, are a kind of logical end for pedestal-desire: they are acts of fantasy, acts of excess where we can imagine ourselves as the witch or hero to be worshipped. They are also, ultimately, safe and controlled spaces, where the pedestal does not show its negative face particularly readily. If, though, the only images we see are the silenced/the perfect--if the image has only one face, that is where we get into a more pointed sociological problem. If the images refuse to accept the possibility of imperfection...that both reflects and shapes the global conversation and the incomplete image can then be damaging.

Escapist fantasies, when treated and viewed as such? Not such a bad way to spend 5 minutes. Especially if it involves laughter.

The best part of all of this is that I keep misreading the guy's name, because it is so similar to CD's. I half expected to find CD in the video, reveling in some glam-glory. Alas, no such luck.

**ETA: Realized in talking to K. earlier that this video is "November Rain" taken to it's logical conclusion. Seriously. I grant that no one jumps through a wedding cake, but it's the whole fantasy writ large.

Badassery

2008-11-20T09:38:00.001-08:00

And this, my friends, is how you do self-effacing humor:

So here I stand…the figure of pure bad-assyness, for the rest of you to admire and fear. I am the MAN of my house and I can do as I please. I can come and go as I want, no matter the hour (one day a week- and as long as get home by 11pm- and bring back a half-gallon of milk). My little girls look at me now with awe-struck admiration. My wife looks at me with a strange new lust that I can’t quite put my finger on, but never the less, it IS lust. I’m a biker mofos, and no Johnny Law can keep me down.

Lesson: Never get between a boy and his bike; more importantly, however, don't get in the way of his wife and hers.

The original title--which was just Duff McKagan: BADASS, was better.

Whole Foods Revolver

2008-11-17T09:07:00.000-08:00

I'm a tad slap happy today, oweing to novel-writing induced sleep deprivation, but I saw this on Flea's blog, and it reminded me of something barely related and, thus, a posting.

From Flea:

When Chris and I went to the new store last week, we noticed that due to the wretched economy, Whole Foods is now trying to compete on price a little bit, which is adorable. It's like Queen Elizabeth trying to slide herself into a Ford Fiesta and pretending like it was her idea and she's not utterly miserable about what she's been reduced to.

Whole Foods and their various relations (ours being Earthfare) are an entertaining side project of mine. That is, I love to go into the stores and slink around a bit, trying to appear as if I fit in. Now, in Athens, this is damn hard to do. In comparision to my student shoppers, I ooze yuppie-dom-->from the suit (grey, today, if you are interested, no Converses, however, since I have to interview someone later. Do have on a tre' cool Jimi T-shirt with the suit, so not too upper crust) to the Hybrid Escape.

See, folks like me, with three teenagers, cannot possibly fit the whole famdamily into a Prius. We tried; it was rather like watching the old jokes about clowns and VW bugs in action. As such, we follow our natural instincts toward the SUV (read: glorified station wagon) and get the hybrid varient of the Escape. We pat ourselves on the back because we at least didn't go so far as to buy the behemoth: the Hybrid Escalade. Not that we could have afforded it, even had we wanted to. Also, I don't think my levels of rationalization are up to the task of that beast.

So, I drive into the parking lot in my "little" Escape, hop out, and go into the store on a stealth mission, usually for Garlic Vinagrette, which no one else in town seems to want to carry. They usually spot me immediately, since 9.4672 times out of 10 I manage to gawk uncomfortably over at least one price. Also, I tend to hunt for carob-coated peanuts and raisins, which seems to upset people greatly. Carob is wonderfood for the milk allergic, dammit. I am not stuck in the 70's.

It nevertheless seems to bother the folks there.

So, I'm reading Flea and laughing because I love, love, love my little Earthfare, and Flea's Queen Elizabeth analogy was just too perfect for them too.

Then, for reasons I can only begin to imagine, I recalled the stories about the formation of Velvet Revolver, some of which involve a Whole Foods Market encounter between Duff McKagan and Scott Wieland. I make no claims about the veracity of these accounts, but the image is terribly amusing, isn't it? Consider this, Duff, who has an affinity for all things grocery store, wheeling his cart/buggy/call it what you will around the store, either chasing Weiland down (quick, he's on the organic teas aisle!) or bumping into him in front of the kale, wherein they discuss the formation of a band.

This is what happens when rockers grow up, my friends. No more Canter's Deli, complete with beer, chains, and tomfoolery. Rock N' Roll really looks aged when you ponder the possibilities here, doesn't it? I'm not knocking this--dude has to eat. Can you imagine how that conversation would go?

And why the hell does it amuse me so much to imagine the setting in the Whole Foods Market? Oh, right, I remember--the yuppie thing. It feels so short story, so fan fiction, so whimiscal. Maybe that's the thing for me here; there is a certain whimsy to shopping in the "healthy store" as opposed to the big, bad chain (even if one can't possibly afford to do all of one's shopping there). It's a health food boutique; a place to jazz up the normal fare by buying "organic" and "gluten-free"*! Or maybe just pick up your new lead vocalist!

Wait...maybe this all explains the Duff LeBon look he's been sporting of late?-->

He's giving into his aristocratic desires...you know, the ones eschewed in "Punk Rock Song" and "Greed."** Whole Foods Market is no longer enough to satiate, he needs to become the New Romantic faux-Percy Shelley- faux-aristocrat!

Or not.

I think I need to get some sleep.

*Truth be told, I am delighted to see the expansion of gluten-free products in the last few years. It's about damn time. But, you've bought them just for the kitsch value, haven't you? Admit it. Like the organic wine. Or the tofu ice cream (which has also, blessedly, improved over the years). Just to say you've tried it. It's okay, I won't tell.

**I laughed when I heard this song; it revisits the themes of "Punk Rock Song" without the snarl. I've often wondered how Duff feels about some of that song--he still does it live, though in the version I have he did not sing the part I wonder most about, regarding daughters and their pink panties. I'm thinking having daughters might make that section of the song a tad more uncomfortable, in that "someone ever says that to my girls and I'll kick his ass" sort of way.

Dirty Laundry: Anarchy, Misanthropy, Ethics and Other Fears

2008-11-13T08:57:00.000-08:00

I have a fleet of thoughts rolling about in the ole noggin right now; I hope I can attempt to make sense of them. Many of them are personal and directly related to a particular theological struggle within my church, but I think most of them are about power.

My church is conflicted over it's mission--are we a building or are we our missions? Where does "church" exist? G. (poor man needs a better pseudonym than that) and I were discussing such after a particularly stressful board meeting, and I posited that the older members of our church cannot delegate leadership because they do not trust the successive generations to "get it done." In general, we do get the various "its" done, but we do it entirely differently that the "Greatest Generation" and we are therefore perceived as wrong or as suggesting that they were somehow wrong.

Not wrong--just different.

Then, another pseudonymless person sent me this link, wherein Bill T-B discusses the realities of church conversations; I think he's right--it's about power, not about discussion. So, let me put my cards on the table: a church that chooses a structure (no matter how beautiful it is) over human capital--and make no mistake about it, that is what this discussion comes down to--is a church that has already failed, irrespective of how many people attend each Sunday.

Speaking of which, church attendance is not limited to Sunday at 11; good, generous and worthy people show up at other times to worship in other ways and that is a Good Thing. Different is not wrong and it is certainly not divisive. It's just different.

Were I to be able to corner the building faction of the church for a moment and rant, I might say something like the following:

Look, we aren't making comment about you; we are simply trying to create a space for ourselves and our lives, which do not fit within the paradigm that has operated here for so long. I prefer an early worship with a focus on discussion; you prefer the traditional service at 11. That is not divisive; it's just different. We have college students worshiping here on Wednesday nights; they may not come to church on Sunday. So what? Good for them for finding their own spiritual paths and fulfilling their own needs. What we need is not an elevator--we can have a "church" in a tent; we need to work within our community. We have a mission and that mission is about people, not wooden beams and stained glass. Why the subterfuge? Why the insistence that we do it your way? Why the assumption that if you cannot afford to give more that no one else can either? We know you can't give any more than you do, and we aren't asking you to. We are asking you to listen to us. We are asking you to support the mission by supporting our people. We are asking you to trust us. Trust us to be good and joyful people who do the right thing, even if it looks different.

Different isn't wrong. Different is just different.

I was called (and it isn't formalized yet, so perhaps this is the shotgun to the foot approach) recently to serve as an Elder in our church, and, for several reasons, I feel simultaneously called to and unworthy of the task. So, I find myself (following the pseudonymless blog sender above) wondering: Why do we need leaders? To whom do we grant authority, and what ends do we provide to that authority?

Were this an ideal world, I'd be an anarchist. I strongly believe that were we inherently responsible folks, government oversight would be irrelevant. But, while I am a self-confessed idealist, I am also a bit more realistic than open advocacy of anarchy would allow. I believe, as Craig O'Hara suggests, that "anarchists must become 'teachers' to others without, of course, becoming leaders" (84).*

First of all, I work for the state, and, as such, absolute advocacy of anarchy would amount to shooting myself in the foot (Houston, we have a theme). Second, I don't believe that there is anything inherently wrong with a government system, except for the whole human factor. Yes, I am indeed an idealist misanthrope. Third, with respect to say, my church, leadership is needed, because there are people who, whatever their reasons may be, are willing to make choices that are not Good Things and often for very Bad Reasons.

One of the first lessons one learns in AA (or any of the other 12-step programs) is that one cannot face addiction on his or her own. Now, this does provide a delightful self-perpetuity to the whole cause, but I am not so cynical as to believe that is why such remarks exist in the AA canon. As befits a person who is a professor and college administrator and therefore must speak to strangers all the time, I am extraordinarily shy. Making a phone call is a serious production for me, often involving far more time than you might care to imagine. This would include, by the way, calling church ladies about communion bread (though, if you'd ever met some of the church ladies I mean...Ah, see remarks above). Nevertheless, I try to do at least one thing every day that scares me (you'd think I would have run out by now), so I do manage to get through most calls and meetings.

For the record, I took almost 30 days into sobriety to go to AA, because of the whole stranger-anxiety thing. Also, I failed with the AA-sponsor bit. I can mentor people (and have, with some success), but asking that of someone else? When I finally got up the gumption to ask someone, she was too busy, which happens with sponsors who are worth their salt.

Sort of like major professors, now that I think about it. Grad School as the 12-step program intended to cause addictions. I rather like that analogy.

That said, I do understand the philosophy about not going-it-alone, a difficult prospect for many situations, and a nearly untenable one for sobriety (especially in the early days). My personality being how it is, I struggled with this tenet, but I do get it. See, teachers of all stripes are significant, and not necessarily because of the subject-information they impart. The best teachers are guides, not just information banks (though, reams of information are terribly cool too and often come packaged in leader-types, such as Dr. Bill Carroll, my American Lit prof at NSU, who was one of those incredible people who had clearly forgotten far more than most of us will ever hope to learn...gads he was great). Brad, over at Hardcore Zen, has wrestled with the importance of teachers in the context of religion:

In my case, I'm absolute certain that had my teacher not told me how utterly dorkified my little "spiritual awakenings" had been, and how I was hardly unusual, let alone unique, for having had such and experience, I could have easily decided that I was the latest incarnation of God. (Warner 55)

We need leaders and guides, especially when we are stuck, scared, or beginning again. With respect to sobriety, several recent events have made it clear to me that having a local guide or touchstone is a very Good Thing, and that having a teacher is also a Good Thing in all things--someone who can point out, gently one's dork moments. So, I am a teacher-guide of literature, but what of becoming a spiritual teacher--guide (I'm struggling with the right words here--leader? Who am I to lead? Insight--sure; guidance, maybe--but I see my role within the church as one of support staff for the professional we hired--they who teach and guide me). Clearly, this is a scary time--the economy has tanked; I am hopeful about our president-elect, but I recognize that there are many who are not. So be it.

But scary times are not the times to make the easy choices; scary times are not the times to cut missions and to fail to protect people through those missions and through our choices. We must make hard choices and they need to be creative ones. They must be creative. They must be thoughtful and they must look toward a future that is not ours but that of successive generations. That creativity will demand change and demand difference--and that's okay.

Different isn't bad; it's just different.

And it isn't just my church, which is merely a microcosm, it's the whole freaking shebang. Scary times call for creative, ethical spirit and hope for the future, not retreating into the building and hoping it will all be okay.

*Currently have students writing on anarchy; I'm very excited about their opinions on the matter. Very astute thinkers, my group.

**I'll say it now, before you read the works cited list: yes, I am a dork.

Works Cited

O'Hara, Craig. The Philosophy of Punk. San Francisco: AK Press, 1999.

Warner, Brad. Sit Down and Shut Up: Punk Rock Commentaries on Buddha, God, Truth, Sex, Death, & Dogen's Treasury of the Right Dharma Eye. Novato: New World Library, 2007.

Veteran's Day

2008-11-11T11:19:00.000-08:00

Happy Veteran's Day seems an awfully odd phrase--we invoke happiness here?

Taddyporter captures Vet's Day far better than I. Read well:

The dubya regime of chickenhawks and warmongers has exploited veterans' love of this country and pride in their service for a program of propaganda and coercion. We are told we must support the occupation of Iraq to honor the service of those who have fallen there.The country has rejected this lie. We have issued orders to our new leaders to end the occupation and get us the fuck out of Iraq. How that is done, we leave to them. We require only that it be done speedily and without further damage to our strategic position. The right will resist. They will wave the bloody shirt. They will invoke the memory of our sacred dead. Once again, its down to the triarii. Veterans can stand against this blasphemy the same way they have stood against our enemies. They can tell the story; how our mighty Armed Forces are the Shield of the Republic and must not be wasted on adventurism and buccaneering.Soldiers and sailors of the Republic! We salute you! Now, once more, veterans Up Front!

Post-English Major Concerns

2008-11-10T09:35:00.000-08:00

As every English and Literature major knows, the most fun one can possibly have is reading the titles and subjects of conference panels, with MLA often providing the best bits of hilarity. Over the past few years, talks on alien sex have been prominent there and also food theory (one of my colleagues submitted a proposal to one such panel and was informed that her paper lacked sufficient "theoretical basis."* On food in literature. Seriously.)

Indeed, this is occasionally the only fun we are provided with.

But, my choice for Best Panel Title this year comes not from the realm of the truly weird, but merely the concisely put. So, from College Language Association's Call for Papers for 2009, I give you this:

“Free Your Mind and Your Ass Will Follow”: Black Men’s Political Writings"

Now, my friends...quoting Funkadelic in an Academic forum...that is true beauty.

Of course, it also makes me wonder about our political and social climate--might we FINALLY see this in action?

* I mock only because I can. Great and worthy things can be said about food and, by extension, hunger in literature. Read Kafka's "Hunger Artist" because you should if you haven't and because it is a text that begs for explorations of hunger (duh). BUT, as with so many of our small stakes in literary theory, the dismissiveness regarding theory was out of line with the significance of the subject.

Dreams, redux

2008-11-07T09:39:00.000-08:00

Melissa Etheridge is pissed and folks are assuming that she won't pay taxes now (not exactly what she said). What she said is:

Okay. So Prop 8 passed. Alright, I get it. 51% of you think that I am a second class citizen. Alright then. So my wife, uh I mean, roommate? Girlfriend? Special lady friend? You are gonna have to help me here because I am not sure what to call her now. Anyways, she and I are not allowed the same right under the state constitution as any other citizen. Okay, so I am taking that to mean I do not have to pay my state taxes because I am not a full citizen. I mean that would just be wrong, to make someone pay taxes and not give them the same rights, sounds sort of like that taxation without representation thing from the history books.

And she goes on to imagine not paying them, sort of. It's a rant; what she will do is up to her and, good grief, focusing on the taxes part rather misses the point of the rant: civil rights and equal treatment.

Go, Melissa. You are at your best when you are angry, woman. Get 'em.

For the rest of you, particularly if you haven't considered the realities of the "yes" vote in CA to Proposition 8, please take a few minutes to read Ding's take on the matter.

Now, I don't live in Cali and haven't for, oh, 31.5 years or so, but it is where I was born, and I am rather fond of it. Breathing my first breaths in California, my mother has occasionally told people, is the primary reason behind my liberal notions. She can't begin to imagine where else such ideas would have come from. *shaking head*

So, I tend to pay a good bit of attention to California politics (and Virginia as well, since I spent my formative years there--proud of the Old Dominion right now). As happy as I am about the outcome of the national election, I am troubled by this Proposition's outcome, for many of the same reasons Ding cites, and the following one in particular:

IF SOCIETY WORKS ONE WAY FOR ONE PARTICULAR GROUP OF PEOPLE, TO THEIR BENEFIT, THEN IT BETTER WORK THE EXACT SAME WAY FOR EVERYONE ELSE.

I couldn't possibly say it any better than this.

Also, the ease with which amendments can be made to state constitutions (and the frequency with which they show up--we had some real oddities regarding tax law even here)...yikes.

So, go read, my friends.

Beautiful Dreams

2008-11-04T20:17:00.001-08:00

I cried tonight, watching the election returns come in, mostly when I saw the kids at Morehouse College celebrating. I wish I could see Norfolk State right now; I'm with you in spirit Spartans.

This is indeed a day of magic. Tomorrow, the work begins anew.

Never forget the work we must do in support of equality and justice. Never quiet the call; never shrink from the difficult choices. Never forget who came before us; never forget who stood beside us and who turned away afraid--we must reach out to them all. We cannot remain a nation divided. Most of all, never forget the ones who will come long after we are gone. We build our dreams for them.