balding angrily

This morning, my newly opened antiperspirant greeted me with a daily affirmation. Carved into its unspoiled, white head was “LIVE LIFE.” The letters were slanted like they had just come back from a gig as the opening credits of Speed Racer.

It was a really good feeling to be given a hearty slap on the back from my odor-reducing product, and I see an opportunity for other day-starting hihowaryas. Maybe voice chips could be put in my socks that said, “Go get ‘em, tiger!” when I put them on. Maybe there could be a laser sight installed in my underwear, and it could transmit a message to my iPod. Then my iPod would say to me, “Hey there, big guy! Looks like you’re the cock-of-the-walk!”

It amuses to me to give my personal effects the voice of a 50s Brylcreem announcer.

Edited to add:

I just realized that “LIVE LIFE” was more than likely stamped into the head of the antiperspirant, not carved. But then the first verb brings up the delightful image of a ten year-old Guatemalan sitting on his dirt floor, one basket on his right full of uncarved antiperspirants and another empty basket on his left. He’s concentrating on the antiperspirant stick in front of him about to cut with his rusty x-acto knife. Under his breath he mutters, “Goddamn, fucking NAFTA.”

Post additional suggestions in the comments.

From Tim & Eric’s Awesome Show! Great Job! ( I wish I could be sure of the correct punctuation.) on Adult Swim

Aside from trying to stay focused at work, there has been a brewing development in the household over the last 6 months. Most of my thoughts have been aimed toward it, but I can’t yet let it out of the bag.

But I can share two news items, one minor and the other a little more major than the midpoint between minor and major. The minor item is that my literature class is over. I can start reading whatever I want again.

The item that is a little more major than the midpoint between minor and major is that I’ve been selected to be the YAF (Young Architects Forum) Communications Editor for the AIA. I haven’t been given the complete details of what will be expected of me. What I do know is I’ll be responsible for producing 6 bi-monthly issues of a newsletter and on-line content. Or editing content that’s given to me. I’m not sure. It’s a paid gig, and in a way I can say I’m in journalism now…I think.

To apply for the position, I had to send in some writing samples and collect some letters of recommendation. The fact that I was chosen gives me a sense that I might be able to make a living with this writing thing. Or it gives me a big boost of confidence. Or both. I’m looking at journalism schools right now, but I can’t talk too much more about that because of the aforementioned gag rule currently in effect.

I’m dying to know if I was the only applicant. That would suck.

Saturday night Jerry and I had ice cream shakes because of this review. My favorite part:

Grilled Jalapeño Relish: Hey, Pickle Relish!

Pickle Relish: Yeah?

Grilled Jalapeño Relish: Fuck you.

Verdict: Great shakes. Jerry had a cake batter shake and I had a brownie/dulce de leche shake. His was better.

Hot Dog Server: Made with real cake batter.

Jerry: Mmmm. Wait. It doesn’t have raw eggs in it right?

Hot Dog Server: No raw eggs.

Jerry: (Laughing though no one else is): Good! Hate to get the salmonella!

Hot Dog Server:…

Me: Your transformation into your dad is almost complete. When you start wearing the belt line of your Wranglers around the midpoint of your butt cheeks, you’ll have crossed over.

This is my third attempt at Moby Dick. The last time I got to page 150 and put it down. The problem I had in the past is no matter how much I tried to convince myself that it was going to be an adventure story, I couldn’t get past the feeling that I was pursuing an esoteric exercise.

This weekend I came across a passage I want to share. For background, Queequeg is Ishmael’s, the narrator’s, bed-mate. As Ishmael describes him, he is a huge, unrefined “cannibal” with a barrel chest. Contrast this with Ishmael, who comes off as refined to the point that he struck me as a prig in the first ten chapters. Ishmael calls them bosom friends, and while sleeping, Queequeg inadvertently hugs him like a wife. I’m not going to get hung-up on whether Queequeg and Ishmael are lovers because that’s not interesting to me. It’s better for me to picture a skinny guy being nightly, affectionately assaulted by a lunk.

Upon opening my eyes then, and coming out of my own pleasant and self-created darkness into the imposed and coarse outer gloom of the unilluminated twelve-o’clock-at-night, I experienced a disagreeable revulsion. Nor did I at all object to the hint from Queequeg that perhaps it were best to strike a light…

I read the passage to Jerry, and he didn’t believe that Queequeg farted. He thought (and still thinks) I’m projecting.

I read this passage to my teacher after class and said, “Queequg farted, didn’t he?” He gave me an uncomfortable smile. I told him by explaining what I just told you why this was funny to me. “I can just imagine the kinds of foods they’re eating…half-rotted fish, lots of fat, no clean fiber…that must’ve been one really smelly fart.”

He smiled uncomfortably again and said, “Melville’s wanting you to see how these two cultures are mixing. These two guys are literally in bed together. One can barely speak English and has no problem letting one fly in bed where Ishmael would never think of it…isn’t even comfortable sleeping with another man, let alone one that farts and worships idols. What comment might Melville be making about cultural differences?”

The question that’s been bugging me the last couple of days is this. If you read Moby Dick in high school or college, wouldn’t it increase your enjoyment of this dry classic if the teacher read this passage and opened up a discussion to the class of whether or not Queequeg farted? Yes, we can discuss the symbolism of two people from different cultures sleeping in the same bed. But wouldn’t it be more relatable if these literary figures became more human by tooting every once in a while? I know I would have read a lot more Melville if my teacher in high school had highlighted like passages in Billy Budd.

Yesterday I saw a bumper sticker:

Elect Hillary so that Bill has to be the First lady.

The Republican elephant stood beside it. I re-read it wondering why first was capitalized while lady wasn’t. I wondered if that had something to do with why I was missing the attempted snap.

I started looking for the truth that underlies most jokes. I thought, “How could this statement possibly be true from a Republican perspective? On some level is it more important to the Republican to imagine Bill in a dress than to win the election? Is a man in a dress really that degrading in the Republican mind?”

Then I thought, “Maybe it’s a call back to the Monica thing. Maybe the sticker is implying that Hillary will fool around with an intern while in office. That could be almost funny, in an Earlian karma kind of way.” But then I came back to, “So this sticker would prefer to see cosmic justice served than win the election? I’m still not getting it.”

I finally came to the conclusion that Republicans are born without mirth. Their attempts are precious but slightly depressing.

Or maybe I expect too much from a bumper sticker.

With thanks to Michelle

Five Jobs I’ve Had in My Life:

1. Lifter and seller of heavy-ass swap meet mirrors
2. Dog & cat washer
3. Sam Goody salesman
4. Pizza deliveryman
5. J. Crew salesman

Five Places I’ve Lived:

1. Hurst, TX
2. Huntington Beach, CA
3. College Station, TX
4. Castiglion Fiorentino, Italy
5. Dallas, TX

Five TV Shows I Like to Watch:

1. The Office
2. 30 Rock
3. Top Chef
4. Project Runway
5. Pushing Daisies

Five Places I’ve Been on Vacation:

1. South Padre Island, TX (Worst. Vacation. Ever.)
2. Steamboat Springs, CO
3. Bellagio, Italy
4. Vancouver, British Columbia
5. Chicago, IL

Five of My Favorite Foods:

1. Tiramisù
2. Gnocchi with tomato-vodka sauce
3. Pork ribs with a hot pepper dry rub
4. Bacon avocado blue cheese burger
5. Chubby Hubby

Five Places I Would Rather Be Right Now:

1. Greece
2. Italy
3. Portland
4. The mountains
5. Napping on the couch with my cats

Five Places I Like to Shop:

1. Nordstrom
2. Lucky Brand Jeans
3. Apple Store
4. Best Buy
5. Williams-Sonoma (No, I don’t like to cook, but I love cooking gadgets.)

So, now it’s your turn Crump, unless you already done this and I missed it.

Let me tell you something about the past, about bringing high school into the present. The past doesn’t change, and when we look at it too hard, we revert back. We assume the roles we played in it.

I was in a group that rewarded cleverness. We tried to out-do each other with our vocabularies. We talked about our favorite words like others talked about TV. We stressed words like eschew as a way to both let the others know we knew the word and let each other know how silly (but not really) we were for using it in conversation. Back then it made us insufferable, but that bent or weakness for cleverness or self-conscious irony continues in my writing and conversation. I’ve given up trying to not be clever or ironic. I love clever.

I was also not as smart as the other people in our group. This didn’t matter to them, but it mattered to me. I’m sickly competitive that way. I always felt like I had to prove to my friends that I could be as literate as them. When passing notes between classes, I felt inferior to them - that I didn’t put my words together as well as them - that I hadn’t been simple enough.

More than that, I yearned for their approval and seethed when I felt I didn’t get it. That also continues. Hopefully, I successfully masquerade that as shtick.

Getting in contact with those people has brought all that back, and I’m once again paranoid that the English major, the author, the one of us who read 5 books a week is judging me. Yes, I know she isn’t. Yes, I know she’s way moved on, that she has a life divorced from the past.

Fucking high school. I loved it, and it did a number on me - in a good way.

I tried to track down an old high school friend last week, and last night she called me back. We chitty-chatted for 2 hours, laughing mostly. Her voice was good to hear. It hasn’t changed in the fifteen or so years since the last time I talked to her, and we cracked the same dumb jokes.

Unlike most of my other friends who went to mainstream schools after high school, she went to Humboldt State University, way the fuck in the northernmost part of California. It’s in Arcata, which is supposedly the pot capital of California. (I didn’t ask her if she was a pot-head, but I wanted to.) I visited her there a long time ago, and it’s beautiful country. And it suits her. She’s an outdoors-y type. She has a couple of horses, and she rides them on the beach. She’d been the one in our group to hate new technology, so it wasn’t a surprise when she told me she doesn’t have a computer.

As you know, I have a deep attachment to my past, especially my high school years, so it was great talking to her. Also, she told me about two other friends, siblings, with whom we went to high school. The one can be found here, and her brother can be found here. Give them some web-love by clicking. Thems is good people.