Setting: Baltimore backyard, seen through a second-story window. Surrounded by rust-red wood-slat fence, shoulder level. Orange tree sole installation of yard visible above fence, bears tiny fruit. Sky has that distinctive look where it will hang on the edge of raining all afternoon but in the end will not.
A man, early to mid 50s, with patchy, gray hair, wearing an ironed lavender shirt, enters from the house to the left, beyond the edges of the window. Stands in front of the tree and looks at it seriously for a long minute. Only his head and shoulders are visible. Man walks halfway around tree and back, occasionally pausing and stooping to inspect something unseen in the soil.
Modest Mouse's "Cowboy Dan" plays.
[Man, I need to get out of here.]
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
Please Excuse Me But I've Got To Ask
Finally have my new room set up, more or less. Monica was kind enough to drive me up to IKEA Saturday to get a desk and clothes rack (this room has no closet). The long wall, against the windows, is exactly long enough for my bed and desk to be placed end-to-end. I'm quite proud of what I've made of this relatively small chamber.
Friday night I wandered over to see Scout at the Golden West again. Returned home with two completely unexpected things (if Craig Finn were here, he might quip "Will got caught up in some complicated things"). One of them was a discussion with Colin, who is now roommates with ex-Trafalgar singer Lisa--forgot to ask him if she still hates me--and whom I hadn't seen in months, about mental disorders. This mostly consisted of a very drunk and incensed Colin raving that "bipolar disorder is bullshit" and me trying to explain, in the calmest voice I could muster, that some people can't simply "get their shit together" and they don't deserve to be hated for it. Guy's got his reasons--soon-to-be ex-wife's bipolar disorder apparently disintegrated their terribly brief marriage, and he mentioned something about having a family history of mental illness, I don't know what the story is there--but it was still shocking when he slammed his hands on the bar, bolted out of his stool and left me in the middle of my sentence. He later returned and apologized.
The whole encounter reminded me yet again that, whatever upsets other people, probably the thing that upsets me the most is when good people get hurt and fill up with hate.
Friday night I wandered over to see Scout at the Golden West again. Returned home with two completely unexpected things (if Craig Finn were here, he might quip "Will got caught up in some complicated things"). One of them was a discussion with Colin, who is now roommates with ex-Trafalgar singer Lisa--forgot to ask him if she still hates me--and whom I hadn't seen in months, about mental disorders. This mostly consisted of a very drunk and incensed Colin raving that "bipolar disorder is bullshit" and me trying to explain, in the calmest voice I could muster, that some people can't simply "get their shit together" and they don't deserve to be hated for it. Guy's got his reasons--soon-to-be ex-wife's bipolar disorder apparently disintegrated their terribly brief marriage, and he mentioned something about having a family history of mental illness, I don't know what the story is there--but it was still shocking when he slammed his hands on the bar, bolted out of his stool and left me in the middle of my sentence. He later returned and apologized.
The whole encounter reminded me yet again that, whatever upsets other people, probably the thing that upsets me the most is when good people get hurt and fill up with hate.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Chicago Seemed [ ] Last Night
I've been away, but now I'm returned. First to answer a question regarding the last entry: "What good is a non-existent friend?" I usually answer questions personally, but since the question was anonymous, I'll have to answer with another, similarly public, question: is a non-existent friend worse than a friend who makes one feel not like oneself? In other words: is having company but being shunted into a deterministic role, one which I've no desire to play and every desire to revolt against, really preferable to having no company at all?
Anyway.
Thing 1.
I've moved. This is not some kind of metaphor. I left the University Parkway apartment a week and a half ago with most of my belongings. Nothing of mine left at that place now except dust, garbage, and furniture I have to sell. (And whatever Esteban has.) Moving made me realize I have too many things: too many CDs, too many binders of notes from college (fully two crates full), too many pens and Altoids tins full of coins and paperclips. Just too much, too much, and too little that I can bring (my desk was too big for my new room), and even less that serves me. I think when I finally leave this town--whenever that ends up being--I'm going to make a list of everything I actually need, which will probably begin with my laptop and end with my guitar and include two weeks' worth of clothing in the middle, and ditch everything else.
But the new place is nice. Recently renovated with washer, dryer, and central A/C. I've got a nice little room with west-facing windows that get a lot of sun in the afternoon. Mike and I had an adventure hauling our box springs up to the second story ledge with ropes. It's quiet out here, this far from the thoroughfares of Charles Village. This is what I had in mind: serenity, sunlight, space for contemplation; but I've unexpectedly begun to miss some of the elements of apartment living. Geri who was nice and lived with her boyfriend (?) upstairs, with their adorable beagle Oscar who barked day in and day out. The kid upstairs on the other side of 106 West University with the violin. The girl on the third floor across the who played showtunes on a cheap Yamaha keyboard by the window. She wasn't a great pianist, but a couple times last semester I took a break from studying for a cell bio exam to sit at the window and listen to her play, and when I looked out I saw people from around the building, and the Carolina next to us, looking out their windows, trying to find the source for the synthesized Phantom of the Opera coming down the alley. Once I wrote "Encore!" on an orange Post-It and left it on her door. The next day it appeared in her window, stuck to the music stand. A few weeks later I left another Post-It saying the people in the Carolina were listening. The day after that there were two orange Post-Its in the window.
Another issue is my newfound home security paranoia. Sometime this week I was sitting in my living room downstairs and looked out the window, and realized that mere inches of concrete separated us from whoever wanted to walk off the street and up the steps and on to our front porch. All they had to do to see Bex's nice TV was to press up to the first story windows. One front door, that's all there was, no need to break through a second apartment door upstairs, no other apartments to distract attention from ours, no downstairs foyer with the leasing lady watching everyone pass by on working hours during the weekdays. I've been careful to not leave my laptop on the couch with the blinds up. I'm considering putting a deadbolt on the basement door.
Maybe that's the flip side of moving to a quieter neighborhood: feeling more exposed. Especially since there aren't many other students around.
Thing 2.
Last weekend I went to Chicago for the Pitchfork Music Festival. I was there with John and Mike last year, but this year we brought a posse: Diamond, Maura, Bailey, and Diamond's friend Lauren. Lauren and I arrived ahead of everyone else on Friday; we met up with Rachie and her friend Jason from Northwestern, hit up Millenium Park and wandered along Lake Michigan. Lauren traveled with a Galaxie 500 CD, hinted at a history of substances up in New Brunswick, and liked Slowdive. Missed out on seeing Dena and her family again, but I couldn't really find time to head 40 minutes out into the suburbs.
The music was great, of course; I missed a few of Mission of Burma's songs, but Sebadoh's performance convinced me that Bubble & Scrape, which I'd not paid particular attention to before (except "Soul and Fire" and "Think (Let Tomorrow Bee)"), was a flawless album. The bands I saw with very little prior knowledge of all put on good shows (except HEALTH, who impressed me as being more concerned with having good hair than making interesting noise rock)--Fuck Buttons, High Places--but the bands I liked the most were the bands I knew I would like, for the most part. I jumped and shouted along to Hold Steady and charged headlong into Dinosaur Jr's moshpit. Caribou, The Apples in Stereo, and Spiritualized were great as well, but I saw them from a lazy distance.
We found the Marina City towers, as seen on the cover of Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. I drank lots of water. I was armed with an (legit) over-21 driver's license this year, but I only bought one beer on Saturday and Sunday each; I didn't want to risk dehydration, or zoning out at the wrong moment and missing something cool. Hanging out in hotel rooms and bars at night was a different story. I shot pool with Bailey in a bar while "Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots pt. 1" played on the jukebox, and met the wife of The Apples in Stereo's drummer on the roof of the Bottom Lounge. Lauren and I played shuffleboard against some irritated-looking girls and won ourselves some new Sauconys, which should arrive in the mail sometime. Speaking of shoes, my sneakers aged 4 years in as many days. Somewhere along the line down from half a bottle of wine I got into a discussion with Bailey, who reminds me in every way of a more cosmopolitan Fiona, about what it meant to fall in love, and to my great surprise we agreed. At night Diamond, Lauren and I shared a king-sized bed in a very drama-free way.
Really, on top of everything, Chicago is simply a beautiful city. I first passed through Chicago in the early winter of 2002 and since then it's been at the top of my list of favorite American cities I've visited. (We'll find out in a couple months where Boston stands.) I arrived this year with a new appreciation for this city: after an hour or two of wandering the Loop with Rachie and Lauren I started to notice the huge number of bikes locked up on every corner, people walking hybrids along the sidewalk, and track-bike courier types weaving between cars under the elevated rails. Then I realized how amazing it would be to race down one of the flat, straight, smoothly-paved downtown roads, swing onto Wacker by the river, cross a bridge, and maybe eventually glide past the shores of Lake Michigan. Turns out Chicago's the biking capitol of the United States. Just another reason I want to live there at some point. That and the pizza. But really, visiting's never enough; I wish I could live in several major cities simultaneously.
Which is another interesting point: besides the party in one of JJ's friends' ridiculously posh parent-owned condo, which could've happened in any other city with a similar crowd, I felt at home in Chicago, despite having maintained a staunch small-town Baltimore mentality for the past few years, and believing that I simply didn't move fast enough for a big-city lifestyle. It's almost misleading to refer to Baltimore and Chicago both as "cities": I wonder what it would be like to live there and know that the city infrastructure actually supports you in some way, that the place actually looks nice, that you can walk ten blocks in one direction without wandering into the ghetto, that you can go places without driving, and so on. Seems almost too easy, from a Baltimore perspective.
One way or the other, I'm back now, still a bit stupefied from the trip, but ready for things to happen soon. I finished The Summer of Naked Swim Parties, a novel written by one of the writing instructors at my school; I wonder if it's strange that I feel deeply sympathetic toward a book about a 14-year-old girl's summer of sexual awakening in 1976.
Anyway.
Thing 1.
I've moved. This is not some kind of metaphor. I left the University Parkway apartment a week and a half ago with most of my belongings. Nothing of mine left at that place now except dust, garbage, and furniture I have to sell. (And whatever Esteban has.) Moving made me realize I have too many things: too many CDs, too many binders of notes from college (fully two crates full), too many pens and Altoids tins full of coins and paperclips. Just too much, too much, and too little that I can bring (my desk was too big for my new room), and even less that serves me. I think when I finally leave this town--whenever that ends up being--I'm going to make a list of everything I actually need, which will probably begin with my laptop and end with my guitar and include two weeks' worth of clothing in the middle, and ditch everything else.
But the new place is nice. Recently renovated with washer, dryer, and central A/C. I've got a nice little room with west-facing windows that get a lot of sun in the afternoon. Mike and I had an adventure hauling our box springs up to the second story ledge with ropes. It's quiet out here, this far from the thoroughfares of Charles Village. This is what I had in mind: serenity, sunlight, space for contemplation; but I've unexpectedly begun to miss some of the elements of apartment living. Geri who was nice and lived with her boyfriend (?) upstairs, with their adorable beagle Oscar who barked day in and day out. The kid upstairs on the other side of 106 West University with the violin. The girl on the third floor across the who played showtunes on a cheap Yamaha keyboard by the window. She wasn't a great pianist, but a couple times last semester I took a break from studying for a cell bio exam to sit at the window and listen to her play, and when I looked out I saw people from around the building, and the Carolina next to us, looking out their windows, trying to find the source for the synthesized Phantom of the Opera coming down the alley. Once I wrote "Encore!" on an orange Post-It and left it on her door. The next day it appeared in her window, stuck to the music stand. A few weeks later I left another Post-It saying the people in the Carolina were listening. The day after that there were two orange Post-Its in the window.
Another issue is my newfound home security paranoia. Sometime this week I was sitting in my living room downstairs and looked out the window, and realized that mere inches of concrete separated us from whoever wanted to walk off the street and up the steps and on to our front porch. All they had to do to see Bex's nice TV was to press up to the first story windows. One front door, that's all there was, no need to break through a second apartment door upstairs, no other apartments to distract attention from ours, no downstairs foyer with the leasing lady watching everyone pass by on working hours during the weekdays. I've been careful to not leave my laptop on the couch with the blinds up. I'm considering putting a deadbolt on the basement door.
Maybe that's the flip side of moving to a quieter neighborhood: feeling more exposed. Especially since there aren't many other students around.
Thing 2.
Last weekend I went to Chicago for the Pitchfork Music Festival. I was there with John and Mike last year, but this year we brought a posse: Diamond, Maura, Bailey, and Diamond's friend Lauren. Lauren and I arrived ahead of everyone else on Friday; we met up with Rachie and her friend Jason from Northwestern, hit up Millenium Park and wandered along Lake Michigan. Lauren traveled with a Galaxie 500 CD, hinted at a history of substances up in New Brunswick, and liked Slowdive. Missed out on seeing Dena and her family again, but I couldn't really find time to head 40 minutes out into the suburbs.
The music was great, of course; I missed a few of Mission of Burma's songs, but Sebadoh's performance convinced me that Bubble & Scrape, which I'd not paid particular attention to before (except "Soul and Fire" and "Think (Let Tomorrow Bee)"), was a flawless album. The bands I saw with very little prior knowledge of all put on good shows (except HEALTH, who impressed me as being more concerned with having good hair than making interesting noise rock)--Fuck Buttons, High Places--but the bands I liked the most were the bands I knew I would like, for the most part. I jumped and shouted along to Hold Steady and charged headlong into Dinosaur Jr's moshpit. Caribou, The Apples in Stereo, and Spiritualized were great as well, but I saw them from a lazy distance.
We found the Marina City towers, as seen on the cover of Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. I drank lots of water. I was armed with an (legit) over-21 driver's license this year, but I only bought one beer on Saturday and Sunday each; I didn't want to risk dehydration, or zoning out at the wrong moment and missing something cool. Hanging out in hotel rooms and bars at night was a different story. I shot pool with Bailey in a bar while "Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots pt. 1" played on the jukebox, and met the wife of The Apples in Stereo's drummer on the roof of the Bottom Lounge. Lauren and I played shuffleboard against some irritated-looking girls and won ourselves some new Sauconys, which should arrive in the mail sometime. Speaking of shoes, my sneakers aged 4 years in as many days. Somewhere along the line down from half a bottle of wine I got into a discussion with Bailey, who reminds me in every way of a more cosmopolitan Fiona, about what it meant to fall in love, and to my great surprise we agreed. At night Diamond, Lauren and I shared a king-sized bed in a very drama-free way.
Really, on top of everything, Chicago is simply a beautiful city. I first passed through Chicago in the early winter of 2002 and since then it's been at the top of my list of favorite American cities I've visited. (We'll find out in a couple months where Boston stands.) I arrived this year with a new appreciation for this city: after an hour or two of wandering the Loop with Rachie and Lauren I started to notice the huge number of bikes locked up on every corner, people walking hybrids along the sidewalk, and track-bike courier types weaving between cars under the elevated rails. Then I realized how amazing it would be to race down one of the flat, straight, smoothly-paved downtown roads, swing onto Wacker by the river, cross a bridge, and maybe eventually glide past the shores of Lake Michigan. Turns out Chicago's the biking capitol of the United States. Just another reason I want to live there at some point. That and the pizza. But really, visiting's never enough; I wish I could live in several major cities simultaneously.
Which is another interesting point: besides the party in one of JJ's friends' ridiculously posh parent-owned condo, which could've happened in any other city with a similar crowd, I felt at home in Chicago, despite having maintained a staunch small-town Baltimore mentality for the past few years, and believing that I simply didn't move fast enough for a big-city lifestyle. It's almost misleading to refer to Baltimore and Chicago both as "cities": I wonder what it would be like to live there and know that the city infrastructure actually supports you in some way, that the place actually looks nice, that you can walk ten blocks in one direction without wandering into the ghetto, that you can go places without driving, and so on. Seems almost too easy, from a Baltimore perspective.
One way or the other, I'm back now, still a bit stupefied from the trip, but ready for things to happen soon. I finished The Summer of Naked Swim Parties, a novel written by one of the writing instructors at my school; I wonder if it's strange that I feel deeply sympathetic toward a book about a 14-year-old girl's summer of sexual awakening in 1976.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Mixed Metaphors, or: Pas Plus
I have this friend. He's a hedgehog. His hide is full of knives and he doesn't even know it. I've introduced people to him and they've walked away with fresh gouges. I'm starting to think I should stop doing that.
Trees evolve to grow taller because in the forest only the tallest trees, the ones which reach the canopy, ever see sunlight. The smaller ones go parasitic or die out. I'm more like a willow. Halfway through the race I decided it was a stupid arrangement and called quits, yet did not surrender my will to live. Because I loathe fighting. I don't like talking in loud places because I loathe raising my voice. And thus am out of practice.
But I can't live like this. I need a land to call my own, even if it is a wasteland. I need a light to call my own, even if it is cold and harsh and strange. I need a friend to call my own even if it is no one. I need a voice even if it is dead silence.
Trees evolve to grow taller because in the forest only the tallest trees, the ones which reach the canopy, ever see sunlight. The smaller ones go parasitic or die out. I'm more like a willow. Halfway through the race I decided it was a stupid arrangement and called quits, yet did not surrender my will to live. Because I loathe fighting. I don't like talking in loud places because I loathe raising my voice. And thus am out of practice.
But I can't live like this. I need a land to call my own, even if it is a wasteland. I need a light to call my own, even if it is cold and harsh and strange. I need a friend to call my own even if it is no one. I need a voice even if it is dead silence.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Rare Instance of Hero Worship
Recent research suggests that I:
Want to be Christian Fennesz (right):
Really, really bad. Even the guitars and the computers match.
Probably no guitar player has wanted so much to be another since Thom wanted to be J Mascis. Now I just need to make an album and name it after the coordinates of my new house in Hampden. Which I should be moving into right about now. Shit.
Want to be Christian Fennesz (right):
Really, really bad. Even the guitars and the computers match.
Probably no guitar player has wanted so much to be another since Thom wanted to be J Mascis. Now I just need to make an album and name it after the coordinates of my new house in Hampden. Which I should be moving into right about now. Shit.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Boys Can Tell
It's 3:30AM, and I'm listening to Spoon's Girls Can Tell. Came back less than an hour ago and felt that this was the only album that would do. Hard to believe this album is 7 years old. Spoon have gotten a lot bigger in recent years, but Girls Can Tell was the first album of theirs I came into possession of, and the one that hit the hardest; I sort of listened to Kill the Moonlight and liked "The Way We Get By" from that record, but after that I drifted away entirely. Two reasons for my preference for this album, I think: one, the starkness, and two, the darkness. I remember fall of 2003, when I heard this album, and it clicked: I remember being stunned by this record that was simultaneously sonically raw and technically precise, all reverb-less guitars and every single instrumental track distinguishable from the others, the faintest slapback echo on Britt Daniels' hoarse voice. The word "krautrock" wasn't in my vocabulary yet, but something about the way lines like "I go to sleep but think that you're next to me" and "I'll bring you cover when you're cold, you'll bring me youth when I grow old" were delivered in such an unflinching, deadpan manner connected. It's ballads for an abandoned room.
Much like this room I'm sitting in right now. The posters are already off the walls. The small chest of drawers next to the desk has been cleaned out. I'm moving on Tuesday, technically--we'll see if I can actually finish hauling ass that day. I'm leaving a lot of stuff behind to dispose of before my lease here expires at the end of the month. Among them is my current desk, which is far too wide to fit into my new room--so much for the luxurious speakers-and-computer-to-the-front, interface-and-mixer-to-the-left control-center setup I've had for the last two years. Whatever, I waste too much space as is, anyway.
I had a gig at the Lo-Fi tonight with Diamond. We decided to call our "band" Parity; we ruled out "Hezbollocks" after deciding that might not be the best dirt for the INS to dig up about me in the future. It was improvised, as usual, with some more pre-rendered loops on my part and pre-set synth tones on his, and it was pretty good and loud. We set up a small square table on the floor in front of the stage, turned the monitors behind us to face the audience, and made everyone get as up close as possible. (They later backed away.) Everything sounds much lusher live, but that also means sound piles up really quickly, and even the most discrete of tones blur into a buzzing wall of noise. Which we can work with, but still, definitely none of the nuances or balance a studio--I use the term loosely--recording can have.
It strikes me that the Parity "project" is sort of the artistic equivalent of a no-strings-attached relationship. Diamond and I never really "formed a band"; we just played what was supposed to be a one-off "gig," then we played again, and then again, and finally realized that we were basically a "band" and slapped a moniker on it. We never rehearsed; all we would do was meet up for an hour before the performance to make sure everything was running smoothly. We never write songs; if we ever record anything, it will be another improvised session. We're both more interested in working on solo material, and neither of us is particularly committed to doing stuff as Parity, especially since Diamond is moving back to NJ...and yet we keep playing shows. Surely that can't last long, if the analogy holds?
The audience was almost entirely comprised of people I knew. John and Maura came up from DC, Mitra and Naiara were there, Steve L. came because Steve L. never has anything important to do, Monica and Steve (of that other "band" I'm "in") and Jason were there, and so were Sarahs K. and M. Sarah T. with Kyle F. in tow brought the number of Sarahs at the Lo-Fi to a grand total of 3, which is probably more Sarahs than I should be allowed in a room with at a time. (Something about Sarahs. Maybe I should start interpreting that "sarah" tag I made more generally?)
Afterwards, Sarah T. drove Kyle, John, and I back to our pads. She assured us she could drive even though she'd had some beer, and then proceeded to run over a median just before hitting 83. No one was hurt, and neither was the car, as far as we could tell. Without the prejudices of college, she's actually a very kind person. If only I were content with things like that and didn't hear things in the half-second of silence before someone speaks.
Apparently when I was drunk in DC on Friday night I loudly proclaimed to all present my favorite Sonic Youth lyric was, "I can't get laid 'cause everyone is dead" from "Stereo Sanctity." It's up there.
Much like this room I'm sitting in right now. The posters are already off the walls. The small chest of drawers next to the desk has been cleaned out. I'm moving on Tuesday, technically--we'll see if I can actually finish hauling ass that day. I'm leaving a lot of stuff behind to dispose of before my lease here expires at the end of the month. Among them is my current desk, which is far too wide to fit into my new room--so much for the luxurious speakers-and-computer-to-the-front, interface-and-mixer-to-the-left control-center setup I've had for the last two years. Whatever, I waste too much space as is, anyway.
I had a gig at the Lo-Fi tonight with Diamond. We decided to call our "band" Parity; we ruled out "Hezbollocks" after deciding that might not be the best dirt for the INS to dig up about me in the future. It was improvised, as usual, with some more pre-rendered loops on my part and pre-set synth tones on his, and it was pretty good and loud. We set up a small square table on the floor in front of the stage, turned the monitors behind us to face the audience, and made everyone get as up close as possible. (They later backed away.) Everything sounds much lusher live, but that also means sound piles up really quickly, and even the most discrete of tones blur into a buzzing wall of noise. Which we can work with, but still, definitely none of the nuances or balance a studio--I use the term loosely--recording can have.
It strikes me that the Parity "project" is sort of the artistic equivalent of a no-strings-attached relationship. Diamond and I never really "formed a band"; we just played what was supposed to be a one-off "gig," then we played again, and then again, and finally realized that we were basically a "band" and slapped a moniker on it. We never rehearsed; all we would do was meet up for an hour before the performance to make sure everything was running smoothly. We never write songs; if we ever record anything, it will be another improvised session. We're both more interested in working on solo material, and neither of us is particularly committed to doing stuff as Parity, especially since Diamond is moving back to NJ...and yet we keep playing shows. Surely that can't last long, if the analogy holds?
The audience was almost entirely comprised of people I knew. John and Maura came up from DC, Mitra and Naiara were there, Steve L. came because Steve L. never has anything important to do, Monica and Steve (of that other "band" I'm "in") and Jason were there, and so were Sarahs K. and M. Sarah T. with Kyle F. in tow brought the number of Sarahs at the Lo-Fi to a grand total of 3, which is probably more Sarahs than I should be allowed in a room with at a time. (Something about Sarahs. Maybe I should start interpreting that "sarah" tag I made more generally?)
Afterwards, Sarah T. drove Kyle, John, and I back to our pads. She assured us she could drive even though she'd had some beer, and then proceeded to run over a median just before hitting 83. No one was hurt, and neither was the car, as far as we could tell. Without the prejudices of college, she's actually a very kind person. If only I were content with things like that and didn't hear things in the half-second of silence before someone speaks.
Apparently when I was drunk in DC on Friday night I loudly proclaimed to all present my favorite Sonic Youth lyric was, "I can't get laid 'cause everyone is dead" from "Stereo Sanctity." It's up there.
Sometimes I Drink And Read Depressing News
Heaven help me for making even more irrational statements, but things like this
make me think cultural imperialism isn't so bad. What good is cultural diversity if this is the product?
I don't know why, but I seem to only ever see the destructive face of culture, the one that causes pain and suffering, the one that is not worth any celebration whatsoever.
make me think cultural imperialism isn't so bad. What good is cultural diversity if this is the product?
I don't know why, but I seem to only ever see the destructive face of culture, the one that causes pain and suffering, the one that is not worth any celebration whatsoever.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Alarm City
A year ago when I first met Anna D., she told me two stories. The first was about a pregnant CVP waitress who was shot dead by her boyfriend. This was before I was old enough to go to bars, so I didn't know that waitress personally, but a few of my older friends did and they were all shocked. The second story was about a bicyclist who got run off the one-lane road right in front of my school, in the middle of the afternoon, by the driver behind him who proceeded to drive away, simply because he was there.
Two nights ago as I was biking down Howard a woman in a passing van leaned out the window and yelled something at me. I couldn't quite tell what she said, but it was something along the lines of "stay the fuck off the street." Never mind that state law insists that's where bikes belong.
Last night I was at the Lo-Fi again with around 15 other kids, watching a band play which consisted of 3 hyperactive vocalists and an iPod. "Don't you love this town?" I asked Sterling. Minutes later a tense Miguel came in from the other room and dragged Sterling off to talk in the back; they came back and stopped the music. Someone had gotten shot outside, a mere dozen feet and a wall away from the stage where the band played. The people inside didn't even hear anything. Miguel locked the front door and told everyone to get back to the backyard. One guy was on the phone with the police, telling them the assailants had run off south down Charles. Soon after, Karl, who had been outside and closest to the attack when it happened, ran over, said he'd seen the three guys with the gun run into the alley behind the club, herded everyone back inside and locked the back door.
The cops had the place locked down within five minutes; they taped off the sidewalk out front and nobody was allowed in or out of the club. Suddenly, the Lo-Fi had become a virtual fallout shelter for kids. We huddled at the front wall of the club and peered through the windows, wide-eyed and slack-jawed like a bunch of goldfish who'd just seen something monstrous and fleshy rush past at too fast a velocity to comprehend. The flashing red and blue lights, and the bloodstain on the sidewalk, were blurred through the murky Plexiglas. Black-clad policemen darted back and forth like vague underwater silhouettes.
The victim, later said to have been a drug dealer, had gotten lucky; the bullet went in one cheek and out the other, miraculously without hitting any of the vital parts of his head. They later found him hiding in an alley somewhere, afraid to come out because he would get arrested. Miguel, Sterling, and Josh decided to continue the show since nobody could leave, but the mood was over, and as soon as the cops allowed people to leave, everyone who wasn't associated with a band or the club--except me--did. The DC band, True Womanhood, were playing Baltimore for the first time last night, and seemed truly freaked by what had happened; in comparison, a troop of 16-year-olds from New York on their way to California, Plastiq Passion, were relatively unfazed.
I climbed the ladder to the roof and looked out over North Ave. as a an ambulance appeared a couple blocks to the east, crossed my field of vision, and disappeared around the corner of Charles. Except for the fire engine parked at the intersection, nothing was distinguishable from normal; cars headed north and east and west, people milled through the crosswalks, some more aimlessly than others.
It's not like any of us who were from in-town didn't know this kind of thing happened. It just always felt like the fights always happened at Club Choices down the block, and that we were somehow removed from it in our warehouses and basements, somehow sheltered from it by our racket. Last night the Other Baltimore rolled in, foaming and seething, and broke against our doorstep in a splatter of red. The two extremes of Baltimore met at a thin wall and all we could do was watch.
I've lived here for four years and sometimes I don't know this city at all.
Two nights ago as I was biking down Howard a woman in a passing van leaned out the window and yelled something at me. I couldn't quite tell what she said, but it was something along the lines of "stay the fuck off the street." Never mind that state law insists that's where bikes belong.
Last night I was at the Lo-Fi again with around 15 other kids, watching a band play which consisted of 3 hyperactive vocalists and an iPod. "Don't you love this town?" I asked Sterling. Minutes later a tense Miguel came in from the other room and dragged Sterling off to talk in the back; they came back and stopped the music. Someone had gotten shot outside, a mere dozen feet and a wall away from the stage where the band played. The people inside didn't even hear anything. Miguel locked the front door and told everyone to get back to the backyard. One guy was on the phone with the police, telling them the assailants had run off south down Charles. Soon after, Karl, who had been outside and closest to the attack when it happened, ran over, said he'd seen the three guys with the gun run into the alley behind the club, herded everyone back inside and locked the back door.
The cops had the place locked down within five minutes; they taped off the sidewalk out front and nobody was allowed in or out of the club. Suddenly, the Lo-Fi had become a virtual fallout shelter for kids. We huddled at the front wall of the club and peered through the windows, wide-eyed and slack-jawed like a bunch of goldfish who'd just seen something monstrous and fleshy rush past at too fast a velocity to comprehend. The flashing red and blue lights, and the bloodstain on the sidewalk, were blurred through the murky Plexiglas. Black-clad policemen darted back and forth like vague underwater silhouettes.
The victim, later said to have been a drug dealer, had gotten lucky; the bullet went in one cheek and out the other, miraculously without hitting any of the vital parts of his head. They later found him hiding in an alley somewhere, afraid to come out because he would get arrested. Miguel, Sterling, and Josh decided to continue the show since nobody could leave, but the mood was over, and as soon as the cops allowed people to leave, everyone who wasn't associated with a band or the club--except me--did. The DC band, True Womanhood, were playing Baltimore for the first time last night, and seemed truly freaked by what had happened; in comparison, a troop of 16-year-olds from New York on their way to California, Plastiq Passion, were relatively unfazed.
I climbed the ladder to the roof and looked out over North Ave. as a an ambulance appeared a couple blocks to the east, crossed my field of vision, and disappeared around the corner of Charles. Except for the fire engine parked at the intersection, nothing was distinguishable from normal; cars headed north and east and west, people milled through the crosswalks, some more aimlessly than others.
It's not like any of us who were from in-town didn't know this kind of thing happened. It just always felt like the fights always happened at Club Choices down the block, and that we were somehow removed from it in our warehouses and basements, somehow sheltered from it by our racket. Last night the Other Baltimore rolled in, foaming and seething, and broke against our doorstep in a splatter of red. The two extremes of Baltimore met at a thin wall and all we could do was watch.
I've lived here for four years and sometimes I don't know this city at all.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Materialism
Recently I have made two significant purchases.
This is a 20" Trek Soho S single-speed bicycle. I bought it from a guy in Hampden who'd ridden it twice in the 3 months he'd owned it for 28% off retail. It's the lightest bike I've ever seen; the elevator was out the day I brought it home and I carried it over my shoulder up the stairs to the 4th floor without much difficulty. It's fast, although it could be faster; I might try to get drop bars and a higher gear ratio in the future. (I've learned a lot about bikes in the past week.) Between this and the fact that mtamaryland.com now has Google Trip Planner, I feel exhilaratingly free; I can go anywhere I want in this city, anytime (at the cost of sweat and muscle fatigue--my legs have been sore for a few days). I rode down to the Lo-Fi a couple nights ago to see a show and rode right back up Charles when it was done. Coasting down San Martin at night is a very soothing experience. Eat my pants, OPEC!
Of course, as I have incredible talent for breaking things, I blew out the rear tire within the first 24 hours of owning the bike, on the way back from the Mt. Washington bike shop, no less. Sterling had to drive me and my bum wheel back to the bike shop to get the inner tube replaced. But I did get to meet these nice Hampdenites whose house I broke down in front of. One of them had a collection of Vespas in his garage--I think he was going for a retro-mod British Invasion thing--and another was a Canadian professor at MICA.
The other thing is the MacBook Pro "NoBook" (left) which is phasing out my trusty old Lenovo Thinkpad R52 "Thrushpad" (right) as word processor, Internet terminal, noisemaker, and instrument of general mischief. Drastic as the Windows-OS X migration is, I think the things I enjoy most about the new computer are how quiet, light, and non-waste heat-generating it is compared to the Thrushpad. It's kind of scary how easy this thing makes everything, e.g. installing applications and the like.
Mac and bike within the span of a week...the only thing saving me from descending completely into pretentious hipster hell is that "forbidden" sticker over the light-up Apple logo. That and the fact I haven't flipped the Trek's rear wheel to the fixie side. Yet.
This is a 20" Trek Soho S single-speed bicycle. I bought it from a guy in Hampden who'd ridden it twice in the 3 months he'd owned it for 28% off retail. It's the lightest bike I've ever seen; the elevator was out the day I brought it home and I carried it over my shoulder up the stairs to the 4th floor without much difficulty. It's fast, although it could be faster; I might try to get drop bars and a higher gear ratio in the future. (I've learned a lot about bikes in the past week.) Between this and the fact that mtamaryland.com now has Google Trip Planner, I feel exhilaratingly free; I can go anywhere I want in this city, anytime (at the cost of sweat and muscle fatigue--my legs have been sore for a few days). I rode down to the Lo-Fi a couple nights ago to see a show and rode right back up Charles when it was done. Coasting down San Martin at night is a very soothing experience. Eat my pants, OPEC!
Of course, as I have incredible talent for breaking things, I blew out the rear tire within the first 24 hours of owning the bike, on the way back from the Mt. Washington bike shop, no less. Sterling had to drive me and my bum wheel back to the bike shop to get the inner tube replaced. But I did get to meet these nice Hampdenites whose house I broke down in front of. One of them had a collection of Vespas in his garage--I think he was going for a retro-mod British Invasion thing--and another was a Canadian professor at MICA.
The other thing is the MacBook Pro "NoBook" (left) which is phasing out my trusty old Lenovo Thinkpad R52 "Thrushpad" (right) as word processor, Internet terminal, noisemaker, and instrument of general mischief. Drastic as the Windows-OS X migration is, I think the things I enjoy most about the new computer are how quiet, light, and non-waste heat-generating it is compared to the Thrushpad. It's kind of scary how easy this thing makes everything, e.g. installing applications and the like.
Mac and bike within the span of a week...the only thing saving me from descending completely into pretentious hipster hell is that "forbidden" sticker over the light-up Apple logo. That and the fact I haven't flipped the Trek's rear wheel to the fixie side. Yet.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
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