My father and I have always been close. He, as I am now, studied English in college and we have always shared a great love of literature and of writing. It is my father's well-used copy of e. e. cummings' collected poems that sits on my shelf today, and my favorite brand of pen was first demonstrated to me by him. Though he is almost forty, he bears the appearance of someone in their late twenties. His hair is as black and thick as it has ever been; his eyes as deep blue and smiling. His youthful demeanor is perhaps one of the last remaining pieces of the long-haired, skateboarding child of the sun and sand that he was compelled to abandon upon his induction into the Marine Corps. My father is a firm believer in hard work, discipline, and respect of authority (another lingering military tendency), but he also has a deep appreciation for the finer things: wooden pipes and wool sweaters, romantic poetry, and fine wine. (The best time in his life, he says, were the seven months during which he afforded himself a subscription to The Easton Press' collection of classic books, with which a gilded, leather-bound copy of one of those eternal favorites was mailed directly to our house each month.)
My father's charisma and way with words have lent him a very amiable story-telling ability, and he filled my childhood with stories of his own, particularly the misadventures of himself and his younger brother, whom he affectionately refers to as "The Breeze." He would often take a break from the meal he was preparing and settle at the counter across from where I was watching, swirling a glass of red wine in his hand, smiling fondly as he began,
"Scooter, I remember a time with your uncle Breeze -- we had just moved into this house on the island, this weird green house on Indigo Street - a cull-de-sac, actually. I think I was five at the time, which would have made your uncle Breeze four... anyway, the very first day we moved in, this little girl from the end of the cull-de-sac comes rolling up to our front door with an invitation to her birthday party that weekend. Her mom made her bring it. Her name was Holly, and she wore her hair in the springiest of blond pigtails. The Breeze and I hated girls, but Grammy made us go, and she made them a pumpkin pie, too. It wasn't even close to Thanksgiving, more like the deadliest, hottest part of summer, but you know how Grammy is. Who ever knows what goes on her head? The birthday party was all right. I ate more cake... more cake than I ever had at that age. There was purple frosting all down the front of my collared shirt, I remember. Grammy was furious. But anyway. Everything was totally ace until Holly got her present -- a glittery pink bike with ice blue streamers hanging from the handlebars. It was the nicest bike any of us had ever seen.
"Now your uncle Breeze -- he loved bikes. Loved 'em. And he was totally fascinated by Holly's new bike. And for the rest of the party, he was waddling after her, begging her to let him ride it. And of course, it was a brand new bike and she was excited about it, so she wouldn't let him. He begged and he begged, but she straight up refused. He was so broken up about it. He went home and pouted all day. But I could see the wheels turning in his head. I could tell he was about to do something about it, but hey -- I was staying out of it, you know.
"Anyway, around that same time my old man had gotten The Breeze a play tool set, because he was really into taking things apart and fixing things. It was a pretty legitimate tool belt -- all the right parts were there, and they actually worked, they were just miniature. The Breeze and our old man used to spend hours working on things together in the garage. You could have filmed them and made a touching family movie with it. And right next to the garage, on the side of our new house, there was also this sandbox, stuck right in there between the house and this tall fence that was the neighbor's yard. The Breeze and I used to play out there quite a lot.
"So finally the party's over, and the Breeze is huffing and puffing all the way back to our house, kicking rocks, stomping, the whole deal. He was so pissed about that bike. Our mom pretty much just gave him a light scolding, told him to get over it, and that was about it. I'm sure she didn't really think much of how he pissed he was, because man...the Breeze used to get pretty amped up when we were kids about a lot of stuff.
"The very next day, though, the day after the party, your uncle Breeze rolled on down to Holly's garage, which was totally wide open -- it was the seventies, you know -- and took her bike right out of it. And he took that bike and he took his tool belt and he took the entire bike apart, buried the pieces in the sandbox, and threw the nuts and bolts over the fence into the neighbor's yard.
"Of course, it wasn't long before Holly's mom came to the door, wanting to know if we'd seen the bike. And Pappy came up to me and The Breeze and asked us if we knew anything. I had no idea what Breeze had done, of course, so I denied everything, but so did he. Then Pappy told us to come with him, and we walked around the side of the house, and right there -- right in front of us -- sticking right up out of the sandbox was a glittery pink handlebar with blue streamers hanging down. And Pappy gets this look on his face of just -- I don't even know -- just the purest rage. And he reaches down and yanks it up. But of course, the bike was taken apart so only the handlebars came up. And the Breeze just kept denying and denying that he had done anything, but I mean, I knew it wasn't me! And Pappy just goes, 'Boys, you tell me who did this or you'll both get a spanking you'll never forget.' So immediately I start yelling and pointing at The Breeze, who kept on denying it, but I think eventually he could tell he was about to get whooped by our old man and by me, so he 'fessed up. And Pappy had to buy brand new nuts and bolts for that bike and put it back together for Molly.
"That was the last time your Uncle Breeze ever got to use his toolset."
Friday, September 24, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Dan Deacon at The Big Top, October 7, 2009
The first time I saw Dan Deacon was also the first time I had ever heard of Dan Deacon. I had caught faint snippets of conversation regarding the show in the weeks preceding its happening, but had paid them no mind, the way most unknown things are dismissed as inconsequential by most people. What little details I had of the show held no appeal for me: it had been booked by my boss from the university library, cost seven dollars, and was taking place not at a bar or other usual venue but instead in...an art gallery.
It was mere hours before the show before I finally had a serious conversation about attending. More like an argument. My friend was insisting to me that we go, and I, for reasons unknown to myself, was belligerently refusing. Eventually, though, I came to the agreement with him that I had no real reason to say no.
It was raining and there was huddle of bodies under black umbrellas surrounding the entrance. The streets glowed with that particular golden phosphorescence of wet asphalt under streetlights, like oil slick about to burn. We were there even before they had opened the doors, and the crowd had gathered in a scattered clump around the entrance rather than anything that suggested a line. As soon as word came from the front that they were about to start taking our money, the clump compressed in semi urgent forward manner.
One by one, we filed in. Inside, low green lights fell across a stage that had been erected in the center of the gallery. Piled upon it were all manner of strange props and set pieces, clearly handmade. They were painted in fluorescent paint that emitted a garishly bright reflection of the dim light within the place.
The first two bands were great, I'll say that. They were freaky psychedelic folk types, with masks on and and a habit of growling and screaming throughout their songs, marching their legs in place emphatically and with flawless rhythm, like some hallucinated army. People responded to them with the usual enthusiasm of concert goers, but there wasn't much depth beyond that. While impressed with them, I still hadn't been led with the two openers to believe that I was about to witness anything particularly spectacular.
There was a lull of darkness between sets, and the conversation around me grew steadily more tense and excited. A commotion up front caused me to crane my neck in curiosity, and I saw that there were towers of light being set up not on the stage, but in front of it. Over the lights were more masks, and immediately before them had been placed a regular variety wooden folding table, against which the crowd was pressing anxiously.
Somehow, in the confusion, I found myself thrown up at the very front of the crowd, among those who were having their thighs dug into by the table. Every face around me had an ecstatic look on it, whereas I'm sure the look on mine was closer to bewilderment, still having no idea what was about to befall me.
Suddenly the crowd went quiet, and shifted inexplicably backward. From my periphery a large man in a dirty t shirt and rhinestoned hat started pushing his way towards the center and the table. I stepped back to allow him through, and he came to settle in a spot immediately next to me. I wasn't sure who he was, I didn't believe that he could be the hotly anticipated Dan Deacon himself, but then he picked up the microphone and started to speak to the crowd.
He spoke to us so familiarly, and instantly the air seemed to change in that room. There was a mysticism of sorts hanging over his head, as though his bald fatness gave him some sort of eerie power over people. He stood with his back to us, working on the equipment at his table, bobbing in time to the beat while the crowd pulsed wildly around him, dancing under the flashing lights, sweating and laughing.
His music was only the superficial layer of his performance, though. I found myself taking part in an enormous game after some time, with this bizarre man as our puppet master. He was telling us, as a crowd, to do things and, magically, they happened. I was surprised when I became part of a dance contest, with the crowd divided and rooting in halves for whatever dancer happened to be on the floor in front of them. Dan Deacon had us holding hands, touching each other's heads, breathing, swaying in unison; we participated without question. At each moment, I wondered to myself how he had possessed us so. He had, in the matter of minutes, turned us into a giant family, a fortuitous gathering of all our favorite strangers.
For grand finale, he constructed something so grand and wonderful that is never should have worked. He sent all of us in that gallery back to the third grade. "Link your hands together above your head," he said, "like a London bridge." Pair by pair, we swooped into position, forming into a great snake that ran all around the room and, in a shocking twist, out the door and down the block. Somewhere down the street the beast looped back on itself, pointing its tail end back down the street. "Now," he instructed, "run through." single file, we broke free from the chain and ran through the tunnel of arms constructed after us, falling out at the other end and linking back up at the end to keep the train going. The music kept playing, and he himself ran through, flailing his arms and spinning, a wild child. We were jovial and energetic, caught in some dream world where adults could play like children, in the most grownup fashion.
When we were all set back in the gallery, he was gone.
It was like some spirit had visited us, and we weren't exactly clear on how to handle it. I stood in an awkward group of acquaintances outside, and we made conversation about small things that didn't include the show. It seemed none of us had much we felt we could say. Nothing seemed appropriate or correct. The feeling he had left with us was impossible to articulate. To this day, I say that that show was the best I ever saw, but find myself stuck in a rather speechless place when asked to explain what it was that made it so great. Even times I saw Dan Deacon after that night didn't compare. I suppose it was the incidental collision of circumstances, the way it so often is when wonderful things happen.
It was mere hours before the show before I finally had a serious conversation about attending. More like an argument. My friend was insisting to me that we go, and I, for reasons unknown to myself, was belligerently refusing. Eventually, though, I came to the agreement with him that I had no real reason to say no.
It was raining and there was huddle of bodies under black umbrellas surrounding the entrance. The streets glowed with that particular golden phosphorescence of wet asphalt under streetlights, like oil slick about to burn. We were there even before they had opened the doors, and the crowd had gathered in a scattered clump around the entrance rather than anything that suggested a line. As soon as word came from the front that they were about to start taking our money, the clump compressed in semi urgent forward manner.
One by one, we filed in. Inside, low green lights fell across a stage that had been erected in the center of the gallery. Piled upon it were all manner of strange props and set pieces, clearly handmade. They were painted in fluorescent paint that emitted a garishly bright reflection of the dim light within the place.
The first two bands were great, I'll say that. They were freaky psychedelic folk types, with masks on and and a habit of growling and screaming throughout their songs, marching their legs in place emphatically and with flawless rhythm, like some hallucinated army. People responded to them with the usual enthusiasm of concert goers, but there wasn't much depth beyond that. While impressed with them, I still hadn't been led with the two openers to believe that I was about to witness anything particularly spectacular.
There was a lull of darkness between sets, and the conversation around me grew steadily more tense and excited. A commotion up front caused me to crane my neck in curiosity, and I saw that there were towers of light being set up not on the stage, but in front of it. Over the lights were more masks, and immediately before them had been placed a regular variety wooden folding table, against which the crowd was pressing anxiously.
Somehow, in the confusion, I found myself thrown up at the very front of the crowd, among those who were having their thighs dug into by the table. Every face around me had an ecstatic look on it, whereas I'm sure the look on mine was closer to bewilderment, still having no idea what was about to befall me.
Suddenly the crowd went quiet, and shifted inexplicably backward. From my periphery a large man in a dirty t shirt and rhinestoned hat started pushing his way towards the center and the table. I stepped back to allow him through, and he came to settle in a spot immediately next to me. I wasn't sure who he was, I didn't believe that he could be the hotly anticipated Dan Deacon himself, but then he picked up the microphone and started to speak to the crowd.
He spoke to us so familiarly, and instantly the air seemed to change in that room. There was a mysticism of sorts hanging over his head, as though his bald fatness gave him some sort of eerie power over people. He stood with his back to us, working on the equipment at his table, bobbing in time to the beat while the crowd pulsed wildly around him, dancing under the flashing lights, sweating and laughing.
His music was only the superficial layer of his performance, though. I found myself taking part in an enormous game after some time, with this bizarre man as our puppet master. He was telling us, as a crowd, to do things and, magically, they happened. I was surprised when I became part of a dance contest, with the crowd divided and rooting in halves for whatever dancer happened to be on the floor in front of them. Dan Deacon had us holding hands, touching each other's heads, breathing, swaying in unison; we participated without question. At each moment, I wondered to myself how he had possessed us so. He had, in the matter of minutes, turned us into a giant family, a fortuitous gathering of all our favorite strangers.
For grand finale, he constructed something so grand and wonderful that is never should have worked. He sent all of us in that gallery back to the third grade. "Link your hands together above your head," he said, "like a London bridge." Pair by pair, we swooped into position, forming into a great snake that ran all around the room and, in a shocking twist, out the door and down the block. Somewhere down the street the beast looped back on itself, pointing its tail end back down the street. "Now," he instructed, "run through." single file, we broke free from the chain and ran through the tunnel of arms constructed after us, falling out at the other end and linking back up at the end to keep the train going. The music kept playing, and he himself ran through, flailing his arms and spinning, a wild child. We were jovial and energetic, caught in some dream world where adults could play like children, in the most grownup fashion.
When we were all set back in the gallery, he was gone.
It was like some spirit had visited us, and we weren't exactly clear on how to handle it. I stood in an awkward group of acquaintances outside, and we made conversation about small things that didn't include the show. It seemed none of us had much we felt we could say. Nothing seemed appropriate or correct. The feeling he had left with us was impossible to articulate. To this day, I say that that show was the best I ever saw, but find myself stuck in a rather speechless place when asked to explain what it was that made it so great. Even times I saw Dan Deacon after that night didn't compare. I suppose it was the incidental collision of circumstances, the way it so often is when wonderful things happen.
Monday, September 13, 2010
FOUR TYPES OF CARS AND HOW TO DRIVE THEM
1. THE REVVER
Slick back your hair. Place your aviators delicately on your nose, and worry slightly the the gold of your wristwatch will clash with the silver paint job. Don’t allow anyone to eat on the leather seats. Vacuum the floor mats weekly and pay for the top-grade wash. Believe emphatically that two seats is all you’ll ever need. Find beauty in machinery. Relish the crisp contrast of your dashboard lights in the dark against the horizon of night beyond the clean, white headlamps. Feel the tingle of adrenaline of speed in your blood, visualize the asphalt racing past beneath you. Take pride in numbers and figures nobody else understands. Tint your windows past the legal limit. Honk at a beautiful lady. If she doesn’t respond, rev up and roar past her. Know that a good car will take you much further than a woman ever could.
2. THE ’85
Lay low. Cruise. Find the best tapes you can at some forgotten heavy metal records shop and pretend you’ve always had them. Know that your car will always be filled with people and rarely will you know them all. Smile, and move your litter out of the back seat for them. Save the front seat for a short list of people you trust who have good taste in music. Never paint over the chipped brown-gold coat, and never clean your seats. Let the smell of old pizza and tobacco hang thick over them. Let your friends smoke inside. Only go for maintenance when it’s absolutely necessary and drive your car into the ground, but never admit anything but undying love and devotion for her. Get offended when remarks are made about her condition, even though you know it’s all true. Always offer to drive, especially if your car’s the one most likely to die on the way. Drive with one hand on the wheel and your left elbow hanging out the window. Never, ever drive with the windows up. Always be in pursuit of eternal summer.
3. THE MOTORCYCLE
Be tough. Know that whether you like it or not, you’re representing all others like you. Scare the shit out of practical citizens. Be fearless. Know that you are closer to death than anyone around you. Embrace it. Feel closer to the birds above than to the sad humans on the ground. Be ready to answer a lot of questions. Don’t yell at the kids who touch and play on your bike while you’re in the grocery store. Travel alone or in a pack, and feel just as free either way. Realize that your parents will disapprove. Accept that “reckless” is an adjective that will be permanently stuck to you. Dream of the Wild, Wild West and Wide Open Spaces. Learn to play pool. Figure out a different way to get your groceries home. And for god’s sake, wear a helmet.
4. THE MINIVAN
Buy a warehouse club membership. Hang a dry erase weekly calendar on the fridge. Have a silver dish for your keys on a dark wooden side table by the door. Drive distracted. Listen to the radio because you forgot to bring a CD again. Do you even own CDs anymore? Anyway, those morning DJs can be pretty funny. Spend your free time running errands. Be the first in line at 3:15. Let coffee be your worst habit. Give up on keeping the car clean. Become interested in things like below-seat storage. Do yard work on Sundays. Pay attention to safety ratings. Be active in the HOA and PTA. Walk slowly. Be patient. Find splendor in sentimentality, in typicality, in normalcy. Know that your life is exactly like everyone else’s and be eternally grateful for it.
Slick back your hair. Place your aviators delicately on your nose, and worry slightly the the gold of your wristwatch will clash with the silver paint job. Don’t allow anyone to eat on the leather seats. Vacuum the floor mats weekly and pay for the top-grade wash. Believe emphatically that two seats is all you’ll ever need. Find beauty in machinery. Relish the crisp contrast of your dashboard lights in the dark against the horizon of night beyond the clean, white headlamps. Feel the tingle of adrenaline of speed in your blood, visualize the asphalt racing past beneath you. Take pride in numbers and figures nobody else understands. Tint your windows past the legal limit. Honk at a beautiful lady. If she doesn’t respond, rev up and roar past her. Know that a good car will take you much further than a woman ever could.
2. THE ’85
Lay low. Cruise. Find the best tapes you can at some forgotten heavy metal records shop and pretend you’ve always had them. Know that your car will always be filled with people and rarely will you know them all. Smile, and move your litter out of the back seat for them. Save the front seat for a short list of people you trust who have good taste in music. Never paint over the chipped brown-gold coat, and never clean your seats. Let the smell of old pizza and tobacco hang thick over them. Let your friends smoke inside. Only go for maintenance when it’s absolutely necessary and drive your car into the ground, but never admit anything but undying love and devotion for her. Get offended when remarks are made about her condition, even though you know it’s all true. Always offer to drive, especially if your car’s the one most likely to die on the way. Drive with one hand on the wheel and your left elbow hanging out the window. Never, ever drive with the windows up. Always be in pursuit of eternal summer.
3. THE MOTORCYCLE
Be tough. Know that whether you like it or not, you’re representing all others like you. Scare the shit out of practical citizens. Be fearless. Know that you are closer to death than anyone around you. Embrace it. Feel closer to the birds above than to the sad humans on the ground. Be ready to answer a lot of questions. Don’t yell at the kids who touch and play on your bike while you’re in the grocery store. Travel alone or in a pack, and feel just as free either way. Realize that your parents will disapprove. Accept that “reckless” is an adjective that will be permanently stuck to you. Dream of the Wild, Wild West and Wide Open Spaces. Learn to play pool. Figure out a different way to get your groceries home. And for god’s sake, wear a helmet.
4. THE MINIVAN
Buy a warehouse club membership. Hang a dry erase weekly calendar on the fridge. Have a silver dish for your keys on a dark wooden side table by the door. Drive distracted. Listen to the radio because you forgot to bring a CD again. Do you even own CDs anymore? Anyway, those morning DJs can be pretty funny. Spend your free time running errands. Be the first in line at 3:15. Let coffee be your worst habit. Give up on keeping the car clean. Become interested in things like below-seat storage. Do yard work on Sundays. Pay attention to safety ratings. Be active in the HOA and PTA. Walk slowly. Be patient. Find splendor in sentimentality, in typicality, in normalcy. Know that your life is exactly like everyone else’s and be eternally grateful for it.
Friday, September 3, 2010
“Old” is not really a word that can capture the essence of that truck. In the grand scheme of the world, of course, it was but a zygote, the freshest addition to the ever-growing pile of human trash. Even through the lens of my relatively brief life, it wasn’t so ancient. Younger even then my teenage self, so young that if it had been a person it wouldn’t have had anything but the vaguest infant memories of the 90s. And yet. It had that character of frailty and brittleness about it that is common to the very elderly. Riding in it was a noisy and frightening affair, it rattling around on its rickety axles, the stick shift responding to a certain brand of coercion that few had ever mastered. Most of the time I spent in it involved my right hand curled so tightly around the door handle that my fingers lost feeling, while my foot pressed urgently against the passenger side floor as though if something went wrong I might magically gain control of the brakes there.
Even from the outside, it exuded a distinctly expired atmosphere. The tires were near-bald, the once gleaming red paint faded to a glum brick color reminiscent of some austere civic building. The stature of the thing, though it qualified technically as a pickup truck, was laughable. I, a girl caught somewhere between average and tall, towered above it. The cab barely left room for my boyfriend’s and my legs after cramming our torsos in.
Only once did I say something to him about the truck, and it was the last time I dared. He, for some inexplicable reason, was deeply proud of the thing; he talked at length about the numerous memories it held for him, it being a gift from his father that had (somehow) carried him through his college days. I realized quickly that any attempts at getting him to replace it were entirely fruitless.
The interior of the truck was so saturated with the scent of him that I still sometimes wake up feeling as though I’ve just lifted my head from the washed-out seat of it. I used to nap often there. The rumbling of the engine soothed me, rocking me like a child until I couldn’t resist drifting off any longer. Much rearranging of my body had to be done in order to lie down, knees digging into the door of the glovebox, seatbelt buckle punching into my ribs. Once I achieved the position, though, my head more often than not having no place to go but onto the warmth of my boyfriend’s thigh, a peculiar contentment and comfort smoothed over me like an old and familiar quilt. From that place I could look up through the windshield like it was a skylight, tree branches whizzing by, hovering in the foreground of the massive expanse of stars and sky above. My boyfriend’s arm rested snugly against my shoulder, having been forced around me since it was the only way he could reach the stick shift.
Almost a year has passed since I’ve had a ride like that. Last time I rode in that truck was the last time I ever cared to see it or what it stands for, and opening its whining door that day felt like escaping a trap. The smell of it still hangs thick in the air around me, I don’t think it could ever go away, but the mustiness of it is no longer hospitable and loving but sickly, more a stench than a scent. It makes my stomach fold into itself, my eyes water with its rancidity, and it creeps into me like an infirmity. I can say almost certainly that by now, its engine has failed for the final time, and I pray that that truck and all its parts stay rotting where they belong.
Even from the outside, it exuded a distinctly expired atmosphere. The tires were near-bald, the once gleaming red paint faded to a glum brick color reminiscent of some austere civic building. The stature of the thing, though it qualified technically as a pickup truck, was laughable. I, a girl caught somewhere between average and tall, towered above it. The cab barely left room for my boyfriend’s and my legs after cramming our torsos in.
Only once did I say something to him about the truck, and it was the last time I dared. He, for some inexplicable reason, was deeply proud of the thing; he talked at length about the numerous memories it held for him, it being a gift from his father that had (somehow) carried him through his college days. I realized quickly that any attempts at getting him to replace it were entirely fruitless.
The interior of the truck was so saturated with the scent of him that I still sometimes wake up feeling as though I’ve just lifted my head from the washed-out seat of it. I used to nap often there. The rumbling of the engine soothed me, rocking me like a child until I couldn’t resist drifting off any longer. Much rearranging of my body had to be done in order to lie down, knees digging into the door of the glovebox, seatbelt buckle punching into my ribs. Once I achieved the position, though, my head more often than not having no place to go but onto the warmth of my boyfriend’s thigh, a peculiar contentment and comfort smoothed over me like an old and familiar quilt. From that place I could look up through the windshield like it was a skylight, tree branches whizzing by, hovering in the foreground of the massive expanse of stars and sky above. My boyfriend’s arm rested snugly against my shoulder, having been forced around me since it was the only way he could reach the stick shift.
Almost a year has passed since I’ve had a ride like that. Last time I rode in that truck was the last time I ever cared to see it or what it stands for, and opening its whining door that day felt like escaping a trap. The smell of it still hangs thick in the air around me, I don’t think it could ever go away, but the mustiness of it is no longer hospitable and loving but sickly, more a stench than a scent. It makes my stomach fold into itself, my eyes water with its rancidity, and it creeps into me like an infirmity. I can say almost certainly that by now, its engine has failed for the final time, and I pray that that truck and all its parts stay rotting where they belong.
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