...Miss Head, if You're Nasty

Thursday, August 28, 2008

The One in the Middle had Horns

I almost hit a deer last night.

There were three of them, traipsing through the business park that runs alongside my neighborhood. I usually scream through there at night, taking the turns too close with the windows rolled down, feeding my dreams of race car driving stardom.

Fact: I saw a special on the fastest truck driver in the world on "That's Incredible" as a kid and, when I found out she was a woman whose handle was "Yo-yo"? My career path was decided. Luckily, I outgrew the 70's.

Anyway, three deer stood smack dab in the middle of the road, looking at me like, well, frankly? They were like deer in the headlights.

I've hit a deer before. It was on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, east of Pittsburg somewhere. A pack of deer--are they packs? No, herds. A herd of deer were in the highway, running along. Traffic was passing them at about 30 mph. One zigged when they should have zagged and bounced right off the hood of my skateboard of a CRX. Scared the shit out of me. I drove to the next exit, which happened to be a rest stop, so I could call my parents and tell them I had a bloody dent in the hood of my car and may have just killed Bambi. I think I shook the entire drive to Ohio.

I slowed down and turned down "Girlfriend" by Matthew Sweet so I wouldn't scare them into running into my path.

"What the heck are you guys doing?" I whispered loudly in their direction.

"Just out for a stroll," they seemed to say with their eyes. "Why are you out so late?"

"None of your business, nosy."

"Don't mind us, we're just heading over to the dumpster at Burger King across the street."

"Hey," I yelled at their retreating white flag tails. "Don't cross that street! You'll get creamed."

They ignored me, tipping off into the darkness.

I drove slowly home, windows rolled down, radio off, just in case. No more Bambi killing for me.

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Livin' in a Powderkeg...

Do you have those songs? Those songs that, when you hear them, they take you back to a specific place? A specific time in your life? Where you can see a scene spread out before you, like you are really there, right then, living it all over again?



"Free Fallin'" When I was a senior in high school, Tom Petty came out with this one. I can see the video, I can hear the words. When I listen to the song, I immediately think of Beth Walsh and my physics class. I can't remember the name of my teacher but I do remember that Beth was the only person in that class I was really friends with. That's what happens when you are in advanced classes your entire school career and then, for your senior year? You realize that you don't have to kill yourself anymore, that you already got into your safety school and that the likelihood of getting off the waitlist at the big school probably isn't going to happen. So no AP Physics for me! We studied free fall in class. This song was in heavy rotation at WMMS and now, every time I hear it, I think of being in a sweaty classroom, surrounded by the smell of chalk and broken eggs, all while demonstrating the art of free fall.



"Smokin' in the Boys Room" 8th Grade. Algebra. Mr...something with a Z. Hated him. Hated Algebra. I was in there with a bunch of 9th graders who seemed sooooo much older than me. One girl had peroxided hair and bright blue eyeshadow. She looked like the blonde sister on "Too Close for Comfort." She'd go up to the teacher and ask for a hall pass to the bathroom every day. And every time, the guys would start singing "Smokin' in the Boys Room." Because that's what she was going to go do. I never said they were creative.



"Ohio" When I was in college, we had a bar. And we went to the bar every Friday eveninig. I would get there first, because I worked across the street. We would sit in the same booth every time and always had the same waitress. She loved us, mainly because we didn't realize that those tips we'd put on our charge cards were going to haunt us for the next 10 years. There was a great jukebox, filled with all kinds of stuff and we each had our favorites. I had a playlist: "Come to My Window," "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down," "Mr. Jones," and "Ohio." Four for a dollar. I'd play "Ohio" when Bo and Markus were there and we'd yell out the chorus as loud as we could. I can smell the smell of that place every time I hear the song.



"Come On, Come On" I don't even remember how I first heard this song, or bought the Mary Chapin Carpenter cd. But I remember listening to this album over and over when I was in college, particularly when sitting out on the deck of the house I lived in senior year. I'd sit out there with a beer, waiting for people to come over so we could walk to the bar together, watching people walk through the pools of light thrown by the street lamps in the cool blue of the falling night, the fireflies just starting to wink on and off.



"Bookends" When I was a kid, I was in a fairly prestigious children's choir in the South. We'd travel in the summer. And I remember being on a bus and listening to Simon and Garfunkle's Greatest Hits. And, in particular, listening to this song, over and over. I can smell the bus, right now, just thinking about it. Oh yeah, that was the trip when I got food poisoning. I'm going to stop smelling the bus now.



"Jealous" Oh my God. Is there anything worse than an infatuated teenage girl? A guy with whom I was obsessed put this song on a tape he made for me and I was convinced, convinced, he was using it to tell me, in apparent musical code, that he really loved me and would totally tell me all about it if he wasn't so...jealous? I don't know. It made sense at the time. And the thing I think of? When I hear this song? Is telling my best friend at the time all about my delusion. She must have thought I was batshit crazy. And she wasn't wrong.



"Dancing Queen" I worked at a bar where this was on the jukebox. I heard it seven times a night, easily. The song makes me want to kill people. I hear it is on John McCain's top ten. There you go.



"Big Log" I heard this song when driving through the desert southwest. I was walking through an empty town filled with white adobe buildings. I think I wore turquoise. With big silver hoop earrings. I met a man there. A man with long, curly hair. He looks like Robert Plant. He is Robert Plant. Oh, wait, that's the video. Nevermind. However, I do recall "Ship of Fools" with fondness because of my horrible crush on one of the dumber guys I've ever met while I was a junior in high school. Oh, Mr. Plant, why do you make me feel so foolish?



"Total Eclipse of the Heart" I went to school in Vermont but interned in D.C. for a semester. I remember driving back to the northlands for a visit with my roommate. We'd surf radio channels for good stations. And then we lit upon this masterpiece. And WAILED! Nothing better than the windows rolled down, the radio turned all the way up and two girls with a good sense of pitch riding down the highway.



If you'll excuse me, I have to go visit iTunes.







Monday, August 25, 2008

Know-It-All

I have a paralyzing fear of looking dumb. I cannot, for one second, look like I don't know what I'm doing. Unless it involves hooking rugs, plaster of paris or die with more than six sides.

I think I can trace this back to elementary school. You know, they tell you there is no such thing as a stupid question. That's a lie. Anyone who has ever sat in a classroom longer than an hour knows that is a vicious, festering lie. The third time someone asks for a repeat of the rules of a game? Stupid question. Someone asking what time recess is, more than once? Stupid question. They start early. They get worse, the older you get.

So you stop asking questions. Because you don't want to look like the person you make fun of...the person asking the stupid question. Then you become the person who has all the answers. You become the information person...the one who tells people the answers to their questions. And when you don't know the answer? You make one up.

I once told someone that, absolutely, dinosaurs lived at the same time as people. This, despite being about 6 years old and having no idea of any historical support for such a position. Why did I say this? Because I watched The Flintstones. God forbid I just answer, "I don't know."

"I don't know." It is hard to say. It is easier to say, "I'll find that out for you." But that still contains a tacit admission that you don't know what the hell is going on, what the answer might be. In fact, with an answer like that, you might not even really understand what the heck the question is even about.

Now I work in a job where looking like you know what you're doing is not only required, it is demanded. If you don't have that aura of knowledge, you are dead in the water. With a big pool of blood floating around you. To attract the sharks.

I wish I'd taken another road when I was younger. I wish I'd learned to say, "I don't know," more often. I wish I'd been able to allow myself to look at something with wonder and amazement, rather than with dry-eyed cynicism. If I had, I might be somewhere totally different. And be somewhere totally different.

Random

Some thoughts...

I was walking into my office building the other day and saw the FedEx guy talking to the UPS guy. They were chatting and laughing, using lots of arm gestures and elevated eyebrows. They said goodbye and waved at each other just as I reached the door. UPS left and FedEx came in. I had to wonder if there is an entire subculture of delivery people who all know each other, hang out, talk about their deliveries, catagorize their customers based on the weight of their packages, not to mention whom they receive packages from. Is this going on?
***
I drove past Resurrection Cemetary the other day. And then I thought, that's a bit Pet Semetary-esque, isn't it? I want to end up in "Gone for Good Pastures" or "Extinguished Light Acres."
***
Behind a very odd guy at the grocery store yesterday. He had on a wedding ring, which is something I always look at there, for some reason. But he wasn't buying married person groceries. He was buying just-kicked-out-of-the-house groceries. Or I'm-living-at-the-Residence-Inn-while-my family-lives-in-another-state-because-we-can't-sell-our-house-groceries. Two six-packs of good beer. Yogurt. Vitamins. Jeans. Outdoor shoes. Five bags of assorted nuts. Deoderant. Body Wash. Four cases of soda, including Fresca. Very odd.
***
I totally judge people on the groceries they buy. I can tell if someone is married or single. I can tell if they exercise. I can tell if they can cook. I can tell if they are lonely or bored or sad or throwing a party I'd really like to go to. If I am behind you in the lane, then, yes, I am secretly judging you. And not only because you didn't put the plastic stick down after you unloaded your order onto the belt, you selfish bastard.
***
The guy whose office is next door cuts his fingernails at the office. It makes me want to beat my head against my desk.
***
If you have a 75-25% female to male ratio for your friends on Facebook, I'm not ever calling you again, jerkface.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Living Dolls

There's something a little strange about women gymnasts, don't you think?

I mean, they're amazing. They are incredibly fit. They do things with their bodies that are absolutely outrageous. They work through incredible pain. They make the miraculous seem mundane. And they do it all with hairpins and hairspray and body glitter and bad blue eyeliner. Thank God they seem to have moved past that look this year.

I mean no disrespect to gymnasts. They are my second-favorite event to watch during the Olympics. And swimming was always my favorite--even before Phelps Mania swept the land. I love the floor routine and the uneven parallel bars are stunning to watch.

But I always get a feeling that I'm watching...I don't know. Animatronic dolls. And it is only the women that I feel this way about. I mean, when they win, they smile. When they lose, they smile. And they hug each other after every routine. And those hugs? They give me the chills.

I know the hugs are supposed to represent good sportsmanship. I know they are supposed to demonstrate that we are higher beings that can put things behind us. That we can be happy with someone else's accomplishments even while mourning our own failures. Or can comfort someone while exulting in our success.

But those hugs are creepy.

There is absolutely no feeling there. The gesture that should seem really warm? Seems cold. It should seem caring. It looks fake. If those hugs were people? They would be the popular middle school girls who look at you like dirt but smile at you when adults are present. The ones who are only nice to you for long enough to get you to switch lockers with them, so they can have one in the cool hallway, while you are regulated to the back hall by the gym.

When you watch male gymnasts? They hug with gusto. Swimmers? They really have to mean it to swim under the lane ropes after an 800 meter race and embrace a competitor. May-Treanor and Walsh could set up their own school to teach people how to celebrate a win with appropriate vigor, although I suspect men would only attend if the teachers continued wearing those white bikini suits.

We watch the Olympics to see the competition. Absolutely. But we also watch to see the human story. To see the excitement and joy, as well as the sorrow and disappointment. When we watch women's gymnastics, it seems like we miss a part of that. And, while I know these girls are drilled on looking good for the cameras, I wish they were also allowed to be just a bit more human.

Monday, August 04, 2008

Almost perfect

Do you remember, as a child, leaving with your family for a trip? Getting up incredibly early in the morning, putting the suitcases in the back of the car, settling in with a blanket and watching the colors come alive in the morning sky? Driving through the mist and fog, seeing the sun glitter off the net of dew thrown across the grass?

I had one of those mornings today. One of those mornings that seems filled with possibilities. A morning where you can start on a country road and end up just about anywhere.

You could end up driving up through eastern Pennsylvania, over the hills and dales filled with corn and apple trees and the Pennsylvania Dutch folk. You could see horse and buggies driving along busy country roads, heading to and fro, hither and yon. You could end up driving up to a hotel in a town by the interstate, a hotel that seems nothing but boring. But turn around and you can see miles and miles of rolling hills, filled with mist and the ghosts of nearby Gettysburg.

Or you might end up driving in the dark in Texas, slowly past a slaughterhouse. You can hear the sounds of the cattle lowing for what they might know is the last time. You pull up to the local store, intending to get a container of orange juice, but when you step out of the car? The smell of cattle, and death, is so thick in the air that you clamber back in the driver's seat, start the car and drive away without looking back.

You could drive through south Georgia, past one pork barbeque joint after another, all of them with signs consisting of cartoon pigs dressed in overalls, making exclamations like "Hooo, doggies!" or "Come on in!" And when you pass by that particular crossroads, the one with "Boy's Bar-B-Q" and head toward the next one, with "Auntie's Pork BBQ" located on the southeast corner, you'll drive through miles and miles of farmland, with stands selling peaches for warm summer cobbler with cream.

Or you might end up driving through the Green Mountains, with the leaves of the trees still a magically uniform green color, no hint of the reds, yellows, oranges and browns that will pop up in the next few weeks. You could drive for miles and miles without seeing a single person, just acres and acres of green, spinkled with black and white cows, just like the ice cream label.

You could find yourself in north Florida in a driving rainstorm, four other people shoved into a tiny Japanese import with luggage falling out of the trunk. Passing by yet another Waffle House at 4 a.m. when your windshield wiper, flinging itself so viciously back and forth across the glass, finally gets fed up and simply flings itself...off...into the night, leaving the driver's side covered and recovered with big saucers of rainwater.

And you might end up on midwestern backroads, the windows open and the wind in your hair. A new cd in the player. Still early enough to skip out of work if only you can find someone to play hookey with. The temperature under 80 still, just a bit before noon. Blowing past blueberry farms and produce stands, slowing down a bit for towns made up of five houses and a church at the crossroads. The moisture in the air crinkling up the ends of your hair. The rest of the day before you, unraveling in unknown splendor.