Day 0
Disclaimers... and Letting go of a little New York Anger
A few years ago I read a quote in a self-help book (shut up) claiming that depression is just anger without enthusiasm. I don’t know if this is true or not, but I do remember that it reminded me of Los Angeleans, and they way they complain. Of course, everyone in America complains. We complain about being fat, being poor, not being popular enough, the man pushing us down, Obama existing, etc. However a good number of our problems are what is known as White People Problems (WPPs). I don’t even need to explain this to you as I’m sure you are bogged down by your own WPP’s and are thus fully aware of their tendency to wreak fake-havoc on your life. Los Angeleans, in my unqualified and uneducated opinion, have a higher ratio of WPP’s per capita than other place in the country. If you ever want to hear someone in Los Angeles launch into a full WPP rant, I suggest doing only one thing: Ask them to pick you up from LAX. Here you will see your SoCal peer launch into a fake tirade about the trials and tribulations of traffic, and the inconvenience you will inevitably cause should your pickup time be delayed by more than 5 minutes, thus causing the dreaded “circling the airport” scenario. Yes sir, if complaining is anger, Los Angeleans are indeed depressed.
How do I know this? A decade of living there. How did I come to notice? Easy, I moved to New York. See, the people of New York do not possess the cognitive ability to decipher problems in terms of magnitude. Any inconvenience, be it minor (“we’re out of hummus today, sir”) to major (“yeah, we’re gonna need to cut the leg off”) is treated with equal outrage. However, if you screw with New Yorkers and their air travel, they will quite simply just kill you. Indeed, if you ever want to see real anger – the type that could perhaps facilitate a riot or result in multiple crime scenes, I would have suggested little more than standing on the platform of the A train at rush hour tonight at 5pm. For reasons known only to the sadistic and megalomaniacal Metropolitan Transit Authority, the A train to JFK (which should come every 7 to 10 minutes) was delayed by 45 minutes. Further, every tunnel and bridge leading off the island of Manhattan was backed up with Friday traffic, so a cab alternate was simply not an option. I watched as New Yorkers peppered the underground with filthy words that made even my devil ears blush. Fortunately, my flight didn’t take off until 8:35 PM, so I had plenty of time and thus my stress level was still safely in the orange (where it remains about 90% of the time). Needless to say, the A Train eventually did make it, and so long as one doesn’t view the stifling claustrophobia resulting from the ungodly delay a bad thing, no real harm was caused.
Now despite what the media tells you about 3 and 4 day delays at JFK, I will say that I have yet to have any real problems there. In fact, I was so early, that I managed to get myself an upgrade to business class. Huzzah! Before I go on, I should disclaim about 9 things. First off, you can’t upgrade just by being early (although it probably doesn’t hurt. I wouldn’t know though because I have a unique propensity for being on the holy shitballs-late side of virtually every flight I’ve ever taken). You can, however, use a sob story and a cancelled 2nd ticket, that you ate nearly every goddamn penny for, to score you sympathy points with the awkward British fella at the ticket counter (turns out non-refundable/non-transferable truly means just that. Stubborn bastards). It’s sort of like your parting gift when a relationship, during the earlier parts of which you over-optimistically bought the tickets in the first place, ends. Like pop-culture references in political speeches, it turns out that long-distance relationships make sense for about 14 minutes after you realize there is no ‘end date’, regardless of the utmost good intentions of the parties involved. We tried, it failed, our PR people released a joint statement and life moves forward. The kids will split their time. The amicability will make Demi and Bruce look like a 2am domestic abuse complaint.
However, despite the warm and fuzziness of it all, I had absolutely no shame in exploiting the living piss out of it in order to score four additional inches of sweet, sweet seating space.
After my successful little demonstration, it was off to the bar. I met two Danish guys who immediately knew I was at least part Scandinavian (it still weirds me out that they can do that). However, I became bored after I realized that all they wanted to talk about was how badly they want to drive up the PCH for 10 days straight. I think they wanted to go back and forth or something. I don’t know.
Before long, it was time to board the flight. I decided against Xanax-ing myself into a comatose oblivion this time so as to prevent the half-day necessary recovery, a decision I immediately regretted once the guy in the chair next to me stumbled over with that tell-tale twinkle in his eye and lazy jowl. He passed out as soon as his white ass hit the chair and 5 hours later, as I write this, he still hasn’t moved. I’m jealous. I’m also thinking about checking his pulse but I don’t want to leave finger prints.
The plane lands in an hour, which is upsetting because there is at least 90 minutes to go in this Harry Potter movie (god I love Snape). At that point I will land in the smelly land of Heathrow before transferring to Rome. Should you ever fly somewhere it Europe that requires a transfer, I cannot recommend Frankfurt enough. I wasn’t fortunate enough to score that route this time.
My Ma is meeting me at the Rome airport where she will no doubt look like the crazy homeless lady from Home Alone 2 (complete with pigeons). This will be due entirely to the fact that she, under no circumstances, can sleep on an airplane. You can drug her, knock her on the head, unplug some wires, etc. She’s staying awake. Alas, regardless her state of delirium, once I see her, the vacation will have officially begun. Get ready…
Monday, November 21, 2011
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
6 Month Check-Up
You know if I had a shred of maturity, the following thoughts would have probably crossed my noodle upon realizing that I have, in fact, been living in Manhattan for 6 whole months: 1) I should probably find a doctor 2) I should probably find a dentist 3) I should totally let the DMV and/or the government know I'm not in CA anymore.
Nope.
Instead, I realized today that this little milestone would be best celebrated with a nice, fat blog post and an accompanying link on my Facebook wall. After all, you're nobody until somebody on Facebook loves you, right?
Anyway, here is how 90% of my conversations have been going since I moved here:
Me: Hi, I'm Danielle. I just moved here.
Stranger: Really? Where from?
Me: California
Stranger: San Francisco? Oh, I'm Blah-Blah by the way.
Me: Nice to meet you Blah-Blah. Los Angeles actually.
Blah-Blah: Oh I hate LA. What brought you here though?
Me: Work. My firm acquired a smaller firm and they didn't have a person that does what I do so I asked and then came.
Blah-Blah: Wow. That was stupid. You know it gets, like, really cold right?
Me: No I didn't know that. Please, tell me more....
My sister came about a month after I did. She was fortunate enough to secure gainful employment rather quickly, which makes me happy because doing this alone would be really hard. Moving here is, in many ways, exactly what you think it will be, but also different that you could possibly imagine.
The other day I saw that one of our execs has a small, decade-old tattoo on his calf of the Flaming Lips lyric, "Somebody please tell this machine I'm not a machine." This is a particularly ironic thing to see on a New Yorker because in contrast, this city is a machine and to survive here, you have to become a machine within it. There's no time to shit your pants with wonder and bewilderment, you just need to get your ass on the subway and get to work. Just start living here. The neat thing though is that's really all there is to it. The little things fill themselves in as you go.
New Yorkers don't necessarily work longer or harder hours (although some certainly do). It's more that they move and work with a sense of purpose that, well, just gets shit done. Once I figured out what I was doing (a process that consists mainly of figuring out how to get around), and invested in a badass pair of headphones (I call them my Quiet Goggles. Don't ask), I found New York can actually be a very calm place to function in. Of course let's not forget that I've had 26 years of 'hella-good' Northern California training on how to stay calm in the face of inconvenience. While I am certainly the most high strung among people I know back home, I am positively Zen-like compared to some of the characters I've come across out here. To these guys (angry bankers, angry Italians), freaking out is an art form. Marbles are lost right before your very eyes on an hourly basis.
Living here is indeed like living on another planet. For starters, everything I visually knew about the world around me was blown to smithereens in a matter of days. Beautiful brownstones with fire escapes line the streets of some areas while highrises seem to grow out of the ground (and out of eachother) in others. There are no parking lots or gas stations anywhere and I haven't seen stucco yet. Of course there is no time to question this madness because again, you sort of just have to trust it and jump right in without hesitation. Transportation, feeding yourself, and doing your laundry all require complete trust that the Machine will operate on schedule. With the exception of businesses in Chinatown closing one day in the middle of the week for no damn reason at all, it pretty much always does.
10 Things I Noticed in the Early Days:
1) New Yorkers' bark is louder than their bite. The big guy behind the pizza counter will tell you to 'move-your-friggin-ass-I-gotta-business-to-run-here!' but then hug you on your way out and thank you for buying a 'pie.'
2) New Yorkers love San Francisco and hate LA. Especially if they've never been to LA, then they really hate it.
3) Everyone wants to know where you 'summer.'This means they're asking you where you go on the weekends when the weather is sweltering and the whole island smells like hot trash. Fire Island, Shelter Island, Hamptons, Jersey Shore, The Roof of Your Apartment with a Bottle of Champagne, etc.
4) Walk-ups blow. 6 stories, no elevator. Horseshit.
5) There are as many people from Michigan in New York as there are in LA. And because I attract Michigan friends like the Europeans once attracted the plague, I've collected a few already. I even know how to hold my hand out like a map and tell you where they're all from.
6) I meet alot of people who have never been to California and it blows my head off everytime.
7) Within a month or so you can start identifying what area people are from by their accent. 6 months in I can spot New Jersey walking up behind me.
8) New York is a bad place to be in a bad mood. When you're ragin'...the whole world rages with you. Not a damn thing gets done and you really don't feel any better.
9) GrubHub is proof that god loves New Yorkers and wants them to go to bed with warm, full bellies.
10) I miss Mexican food more than you know.
I love New York very dearly. My attitude and business style agrees with it here. I find the lack of bullshit refreshing. The thing is though, you imagine a certain ideal during the process of moving here (lest you'd never have the motivation to go). Once you get here, however, you realize it's a massive city just like any other (except, you know, really massive), and its going to take awhile to build a life here and feel at home. In the meantime though, I put myself at the mercy of the machine everyday and hope to sweet baby jesus it turns out alright. So far I have not been disappointed. I am about 15 times stronger and more resourceful than I thought I was, and I have many newfound talents that include but are not limited to knowing the perfect corners on which to best score cabs, instinctively knowing just when the bus comes so I head downstairs at just the right time, and being able to tell just from the location and awning of a place if the food is going to be any good. Moving to a new place that is so far away is unbelievably hard. I still wonder how my sister and I were able to have the good fortune to just up and do this. Now that we have, I'm beginning to find that diving in headfirst really is the best approach. After all, this city and magical and I have really nothing to lose except everything, right?
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Oh, the Places I'll Go Too...
I have a bone to pick with travel snobs.
I've come across too many people both during and since college with an attitude that seems to suggest that they possess a sense of elevated intelligence, or perhaps a self-created worldliness, owed entirely to the fact that they have traveled great distances. Forget the med student who forfeited the opportunity to backpack across Europe and instead chose to study for the MCAT, as surely he could never obtain the inner-peace afforded only to those who have clutched a Eurorail pass.
Do not misunderstand. I fully agree that few life experiences can be as rich and rewarding as the opportunity to travel. Setting foot on new soil, hearing unfamiliar words, meeting people you will both never forget, and likely never see again. These are the experiences young adulthood is made of. That being said, I have found that I have little patience for pretentiousness from those whose good fortune has carried them to distant lands sooner than others. Travel, like winning the lottery or maintaining profitable self-employment, is a gift. It should be appreciated, humbly shared, and most importantly...earned.
Time and again I have witnessed (as well as experienced) the pain of 9-to-5 adjustment. Finding out that our ideological college days give rise to jobs where our opinion is not sought and our feelings don't matter is one of the greatest let-downs we are likely to experience, save for broken hearts and loss of loved ones. Selfish as it seems, there is nothing more genuine than the fear that settles in as you wonder, "Is this as good as it gets?"
Of course not. It just takes patience and a willingness to earn it. I think once you climb out of the sand, working becomes something you take pride in and actually begin to enjoy, not to mention profit from. It always gives me a chuckle when I hear a young, well-traveled soul express their discontent with their full time desk job, instead pleading to return to their wandering ways, exploring the globe as perhaps only other seasoned travelers could understand.
So, what you're telling me is you want another extended, all expense-paid vacation? Well, I'll be damned. Why didn't I think of that?
We all long to discover new ideas, people, and ways of life. Its part of the human condition. One of the hardest things we ever have to do is build a life for ourselves with our bare hands. It is initially unrewarding, indescribably exhausting, and frightening enough to stun you into silence. But, if and when we pull it off, the rewards are endless.
I can't wait to travel. I can't wait to see Italy again and eat pasta and gelato until I burst. I can't wait to take pictures and write about it.
Travel. Travel as far and as long as your willingness, your wallet, and your vacation time allow. If you must, get a job that allows you to travel even more (but don't be disappointed when it's not all museums and wineries). Travel alone and travel with others. Learn other languages and see old art. But do it when you're ready and able. Don't ever let anyone make you feel like you know less than they do because they had an opportunity you haven't had yet. You have all the time in the world.
"You have brains in your head, you have feet in your shoes, you can steer yourself any direction you choose..." - Dr Suess, "Oh, the Places You'll Go"
Photo courtesy of Ryan M. Vickers>
Birthday Presence
Silly bike, I wonder why it’s been sitting there alone for so long. What random consequences of the universe have allowed it to remain there, day after day, when it is so clearly immobile? I imagine countless pre-occupied New Yorkers passing by wondering the same thing, or possibly assuming someone else will surely take care of it eventually, or if they’re like me, nearly tripping over it because their head is up in the clouds somewhere.
In reality, of course, I’ve never seen this bike. Ryan Vickers took this picture and I actually have no idea where he was at the time (he wanders with his camera. Arts and farts and crafts. Things type-A stress cases like me fear above all else). I do, however, know myself well enough to be certain that I would never have noticed it had I been passing by, unless of course I face-planted into it.
They say New Yorkers never look up. I disagree. I don’t think they look anywhere, and I also don’t think this characteristic is limited to any geographic region. I think it has to do with presence, and the general lack of it we feel in our day-to-day lives. When we are present, we tend to think of how nice it is that we are being present and how we should really make an effort to do this more often (“Look at that beautiful sunset. I really should pay more attention to the sun going down instead of planning the verbal thrashing I will later give to DirectTV over yet another failed DVR recording”). It’s as though a sense of control is always just out of our reach. As soon as we pay off our debt, or catch up on emails, or return that DVD, or lose 10 lbs. As soon as we get everything in order, we can be more appreciative of things around us, feel better about ourselves, fall in love, travel, or have the presence of mind to see that beautiful broken bike on the side of the road. Not notice that we noticed it, but to see it for what it really is. A broken bike. I wonder why it’s been sitting there alone for so long.
You know, you’d have to move that bike if you wanted to fix it. I wonder if we moved first, what things we could fix as we headed along?
Posted July 11, 2011 at 3:13pm via MeandHerBlog.com.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
The Deflowering of a Virgin Virginian
Well...sort of. I wasn't technically a virgin Virginian. Virginia and I had fooled around before in the sense I've been to DC a few times. Those who are familiar with the area know that you can walk out of a DC pub, trip, fall on your face and land in Virginia. Not to mention the airport is in Virginia.
Alas, this was the first time I went all the way...into Virginia. Yes indeed: another work trip (yay insurance!), another cynical opinion rendered (yay neuroses!) and another lesson learned.
Place: Newport News and Norfolk, VA. Home of some ungodly humidity, a freakish amount of Quizno's (I don't need my lunchmeat toasted, thanks), and a bunch of military ships.
Nearby Attractions: Jamestown, site of the first successful European settlement in North America, if you conventiently ignore the Vikings (Unrelated: My Dad is an actual Viking). Not much has really changed except there is now electricity, paved roads, a government independent of Great Britain, and a lack of an entire population of natives. Oh, and the ships no longer carry people brought over for the sole purpose of being forced to work for no wages (unless you count the local Walmart. Hooah!)
"C'mon fellers, freedom ain't free, so let's round up some slaves!"
Cynical Opinion: Lovely places, but I just have one bone to pick. Both Norfolk and Newport News have airports smaller than your average aging Sears building (though remarkably similar in 1960s-style tackiness), yet both proudly carry the word "international" in their name. Bullsh-t. A military helicopter flying in from a carrier that recently floated in from an island 100 mi. of the coast does not an international airport make. Fly me somewhere far enough where the writing looks like Wingdings and local time is last tuesday, and then we can start talkin' international. Those airport-namers went right to the top-shelf with their words. Put the Johnnie Walker Blue back and stick with the EarlyTimes.
Norfolk International Airport
Old-ass Sears Building
Lesson Learned: It was on this trip that I found out Newport News is actually a place, and not just a mail order clothing catalog for middle-aged women (and young wives pressured by their controlling husbands to dress like middle aged women). Yes sir, I just put another wrinkle in the ol' noodle with that revelation.
Check it out. Totally cute floral cardigan sets and, you know, clogs.
Alas, this was the first time I went all the way...into Virginia. Yes indeed: another work trip (yay insurance!), another cynical opinion rendered (yay neuroses!) and another lesson learned.
Place: Newport News and Norfolk, VA. Home of some ungodly humidity, a freakish amount of Quizno's (I don't need my lunchmeat toasted, thanks), and a bunch of military ships.
Nearby Attractions: Jamestown, site of the first successful European settlement in North America, if you conventiently ignore the Vikings (Unrelated: My Dad is an actual Viking). Not much has really changed except there is now electricity, paved roads, a government independent of Great Britain, and a lack of an entire population of natives. Oh, and the ships no longer carry people brought over for the sole purpose of being forced to work for no wages (unless you count the local Walmart. Hooah!)
Cynical Opinion: Lovely places, but I just have one bone to pick. Both Norfolk and Newport News have airports smaller than your average aging Sears building (though remarkably similar in 1960s-style tackiness), yet both proudly carry the word "international" in their name. Bullsh-t. A military helicopter flying in from a carrier that recently floated in from an island 100 mi. of the coast does not an international airport make. Fly me somewhere far enough where the writing looks like Wingdings and local time is last tuesday, and then we can start talkin' international. Those airport-namers went right to the top-shelf with their words. Put the Johnnie Walker Blue back and stick with the EarlyTimes.
Lesson Learned: It was on this trip that I found out Newport News is actually a place, and not just a mail order clothing catalog for middle-aged women (and young wives pressured by their controlling husbands to dress like middle aged women). Yes sir, I just put another wrinkle in the ol' noodle with that revelation.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
...On Finding God at the Bowling Alley
I've been pretending to be a grown up now for a little over 5 years. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but frankly, I think I'm going a pretty darn good job. I mean, people I meet usually dont find out for at least a few weeks that I'm really a confused, severly ADHD child who still hopes to become an Olympic gymnast when she grows up. In order to appear grown up, there's a couple of things I have to do. One of them is selling insurance. I have to sell alot of insurance to people in alot of different places, and in order to get those people to let me sell them insurance, I have to feed them and socialize with them and get them to think that I am a functioning adult. It's a vicious cycle really.
Anyway, one ofthe best ways to socialize with people who might let you sell them insurance is by attending an insurance industry event. Yes indeed, an all you-can-eat schmorgasbord of networking and fake-adulting. You can kill about 37 birds with one stone and still make it home in time for a lean cuisine and a good 20 minutes of self loathing before passing out. It's a brokers dream (and an expense account's nightmare).
A few days ago, I found myself in Boston for one such event. This one was a charity function, which usually requires you to sponsor something, wear a goofy team shirt, and perform some sort of activity. Needless to say, at 6:45pm Monday night I arrived at the bowling alley wearing a homemade (not by me) tie-dyed shirt, ready to toss a 9lb ball down someone's over-polished hardwood floor in an effort to knock shit over (really, are we cavemen?). First thing I noticed was a table full of trophies for the first and second place team. At once, the competitive child in me (the same one who you will someday see smirking at you from the top podium at the Olympic medal ceremony, accepting her all-around gold), decided that I must leave that nacho-cheese scented building with a 1st place trophy in my fist (I would indeed accomplish this, but more on that later).
30 minutes and 3 bud-lights later I realized a few things: one - I am a crappy bowler. I start off okay, but it all goes downhill after my BAC hits .03. Two - I hate bowling. I don't mind the bowling alley itself. Give me free beer and the ability to make a bunch of new business connections and I'm happy as a clam. The act of bowling, however, pisses me right off. I hate sticking my fingers in those filthy holes (wow, that last sentence sounds wildly inappropriate on it's own) and I loathe that awkward moment where you have to turn around and face your teammates after hurling the ball down the gutter. Most of all, I despise the weird memories of high school that pop into my head the whole time.
I realize that last connection might seem to have come from left field. Well, remember my earlier comment about my attention-span...or lack thereof. In all seriousness though, I always think of high school whenever I find myself at a bowling alley, minature golf course, or a movie theater. Even worse, I think of high school church youth groups I was guilted into becoming a part of from time-to-time, and having to do these very uninteresting things with them. Call it weird, but stick a bowling ball in my hand and I immediately think of Blah-blah-blah Christian Center's 3rd Annual Say No To Drugs and Fun Bowling Extravaganza. I may be a little foggy on the actual event name, but I know I've been to a few of them. You remember them too. They were the events set up by the over-eager youth pastor (white, male, too young to be married with kids but was, too young to be teaching spiritual wisdom to confused young adults but was) in an effort to keep high school kids from drinking, having sex, or doing anything else that our bodies are designed to do at that age. If you went to any of these, I bet you found yourself no closer to the divine, but rather alot closer to the place you go when your self esteem is at it's lowest because you realize that church youth groups are the same evil cliques that plague every other social aspect of your life at that age. That judgemental, overweight girl with the homemade bookbag who always cried during those "worship" songs and relentlessly kissed the ass of the youth pastor (that she was in probably in love with) is exactly the same as the abercrombie-clad bitch that sat behind you in homeroom: she's the queen bee. High on Jesus and drunk on power. I can fake being an adult better than those kids can fake spiritual selflessness anyday.
You know, it wasn't until I got close to graduating college that I was able to make my peace with the religious zealots that plagued my life throughout my childhood and adolescence. I have horrible memories of weird white people telling me that they were going to pray for me, or friends who knew nothing about the mysteries of the universe or our purpose for being here telling me that Jesus was disappointed because I did who-knows-what. Never once in my life have I ever felt any light, or joy, or inspiration as a result of my coming in contact with those who sell fear and repression. There is no spirituality in coercion. There is no light in being so by-the-book that you'll vote for truly unqualified, horrible people simply because they say they're Christian and don't want gay people to get married. I don't know, but something tells me spirituality, not to mention the running of the country, is a little more complicated than that.
I'm cool with Jesus though. In fact I think he was one of the few that actually got it. I will say that I'm surprised that white people made him white, but kept his hair long. I would expect that in changing his race for the sake of their own personal comfort, they'd have given him a shave and a haircut. Nothing freaks people out like hippies.
I'm cool with God too. I've been working on my relationship with him for awhile now, actually. I think he's okay that I'm still trying to work out for myself as to who or what he is. Sometimes I sense it in the universe, and sometimes I sense it within. I often get the feeling that changing the world I live in often involves changing myself for the better. Like there's light in selflessness or correcting the soul, or something. Bear with me, I'm working out the kinks. I do not, however, believe that God is dogmatic. I give him alot more credit than that.
Finally, I don't even have a problem with Christianity either. I've met alot of Christians and Catholics who seem to have an understanding that it's about them and God only. Spirituality is personal. It's a mountain, and there are 500 ways to climb it. It's not your job to lecture the people on the terrace below you and then huff and puff when they don't listen. Turn around and get your ass up that mountain. People will watch you, and follow your example.
I think our team finished dead last in the bowling tournament. Further, I don't even think I knocked a single pin over during my last four turns. Instead, I focused on chatting with new friends, and figuring out what I was going to take from the whole experience. You know, I'm glad that my bowling that night reminded me of high school awkwardness. I actually thought about it for a few minutes and realized: I'm alot more grown-up than I give myself credit for. Hell, tossing a marble ball seems not to big a deal if there's a little life pondering to be gained. Unless of course, I am just an ADHD child.
Oh, and about the trophy. I stole the 1st place statue from the table at the end of the night. It was one of 3 extras, and the lady said I could. Business is just about appearances anyway, right?
Anyway, one ofthe best ways to socialize with people who might let you sell them insurance is by attending an insurance industry event. Yes indeed, an all you-can-eat schmorgasbord of networking and fake-adulting. You can kill about 37 birds with one stone and still make it home in time for a lean cuisine and a good 20 minutes of self loathing before passing out. It's a brokers dream (and an expense account's nightmare).
A few days ago, I found myself in Boston for one such event. This one was a charity function, which usually requires you to sponsor something, wear a goofy team shirt, and perform some sort of activity. Needless to say, at 6:45pm Monday night I arrived at the bowling alley wearing a homemade (not by me) tie-dyed shirt, ready to toss a 9lb ball down someone's over-polished hardwood floor in an effort to knock shit over (really, are we cavemen?). First thing I noticed was a table full of trophies for the first and second place team. At once, the competitive child in me (the same one who you will someday see smirking at you from the top podium at the Olympic medal ceremony, accepting her all-around gold), decided that I must leave that nacho-cheese scented building with a 1st place trophy in my fist (I would indeed accomplish this, but more on that later).
30 minutes and 3 bud-lights later I realized a few things: one - I am a crappy bowler. I start off okay, but it all goes downhill after my BAC hits .03. Two - I hate bowling. I don't mind the bowling alley itself. Give me free beer and the ability to make a bunch of new business connections and I'm happy as a clam. The act of bowling, however, pisses me right off. I hate sticking my fingers in those filthy holes (wow, that last sentence sounds wildly inappropriate on it's own) and I loathe that awkward moment where you have to turn around and face your teammates after hurling the ball down the gutter. Most of all, I despise the weird memories of high school that pop into my head the whole time.
I realize that last connection might seem to have come from left field. Well, remember my earlier comment about my attention-span...or lack thereof. In all seriousness though, I always think of high school whenever I find myself at a bowling alley, minature golf course, or a movie theater. Even worse, I think of high school church youth groups I was guilted into becoming a part of from time-to-time, and having to do these very uninteresting things with them. Call it weird, but stick a bowling ball in my hand and I immediately think of Blah-blah-blah Christian Center's 3rd Annual Say No To Drugs and Fun Bowling Extravaganza. I may be a little foggy on the actual event name, but I know I've been to a few of them. You remember them too. They were the events set up by the over-eager youth pastor (white, male, too young to be married with kids but was, too young to be teaching spiritual wisdom to confused young adults but was) in an effort to keep high school kids from drinking, having sex, or doing anything else that our bodies are designed to do at that age. If you went to any of these, I bet you found yourself no closer to the divine, but rather alot closer to the place you go when your self esteem is at it's lowest because you realize that church youth groups are the same evil cliques that plague every other social aspect of your life at that age. That judgemental, overweight girl with the homemade bookbag who always cried during those "worship" songs and relentlessly kissed the ass of the youth pastor (that she was in probably in love with) is exactly the same as the abercrombie-clad bitch that sat behind you in homeroom: she's the queen bee. High on Jesus and drunk on power. I can fake being an adult better than those kids can fake spiritual selflessness anyday.
You know, it wasn't until I got close to graduating college that I was able to make my peace with the religious zealots that plagued my life throughout my childhood and adolescence. I have horrible memories of weird white people telling me that they were going to pray for me, or friends who knew nothing about the mysteries of the universe or our purpose for being here telling me that Jesus was disappointed because I did who-knows-what. Never once in my life have I ever felt any light, or joy, or inspiration as a result of my coming in contact with those who sell fear and repression. There is no spirituality in coercion. There is no light in being so by-the-book that you'll vote for truly unqualified, horrible people simply because they say they're Christian and don't want gay people to get married. I don't know, but something tells me spirituality, not to mention the running of the country, is a little more complicated than that.
I'm cool with Jesus though. In fact I think he was one of the few that actually got it. I will say that I'm surprised that white people made him white, but kept his hair long. I would expect that in changing his race for the sake of their own personal comfort, they'd have given him a shave and a haircut. Nothing freaks people out like hippies.
I'm cool with God too. I've been working on my relationship with him for awhile now, actually. I think he's okay that I'm still trying to work out for myself as to who or what he is. Sometimes I sense it in the universe, and sometimes I sense it within. I often get the feeling that changing the world I live in often involves changing myself for the better. Like there's light in selflessness or correcting the soul, or something. Bear with me, I'm working out the kinks. I do not, however, believe that God is dogmatic. I give him alot more credit than that.
Finally, I don't even have a problem with Christianity either. I've met alot of Christians and Catholics who seem to have an understanding that it's about them and God only. Spirituality is personal. It's a mountain, and there are 500 ways to climb it. It's not your job to lecture the people on the terrace below you and then huff and puff when they don't listen. Turn around and get your ass up that mountain. People will watch you, and follow your example.
I think our team finished dead last in the bowling tournament. Further, I don't even think I knocked a single pin over during my last four turns. Instead, I focused on chatting with new friends, and figuring out what I was going to take from the whole experience. You know, I'm glad that my bowling that night reminded me of high school awkwardness. I actually thought about it for a few minutes and realized: I'm alot more grown-up than I give myself credit for. Hell, tossing a marble ball seems not to big a deal if there's a little life pondering to be gained. Unless of course, I am just an ADHD child.
Oh, and about the trophy. I stole the 1st place statue from the table at the end of the night. It was one of 3 extras, and the lady said I could. Business is just about appearances anyway, right?
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Would It Be More Accurate if I Compared Glenn Beck to Hitler?
Sometimes when people do and say insane things I often wonder what their real intention is. Call me naive, but in most cases, I don't believe people are just inexplicably "crazy" or behave like assholes for sport. They want something. Everyone wants something. When it comes to public figures, this desire for reason increases ten-fold.
Perhaps this is why I got such an unbelievable kick out of studying history in college. No matter what redundant war or what fantastically unenforceable treaty I had to read about, I always had good, clean, anti-social fun trying to find out why people did what they did, why others allowed it, and when everyone realized it had gotten out of hand. For the record, I haven't come across a PhD yet who has been able to really tell me what Hitler's deal was. I don't know what he really wanted, but I think I know how he rose to power.
Anyway, my sister told me yesterday that Conservative commentator and all-around destructive blowhard Glenn Beck casually threw out a sidenote while commenting on the tragic attack at a Labor Party-sponsored youth camp in Norway. Beck said, "There was a shooting at a political camp, which sounds a little like, you know, the Hitler Youth or whatever. I mean, who does a camp for kids that's all about politics? Disturbing."
Note this guy's subliminal style. he just slipped that right in there. Doesn't matter if it's true, he got you to think about it. I think trial lawyers use this kind of crap on juries they wish to confuse: "Say there, where were you on the night of your brother's murder? Oh, the movies? Oh, you have a ticket stub? Oh, well technically those can be faked, right?" Just like that, the friggin' mistress is off the hook. I digress.
If I may be so bold, I am actually going to compare Beck himself to Hitler for a moment. Do I think Beck has a realistic desire to conquer Europe/Earth, exterminate a population the size of Manhattan, and enforce his own ideologies? No, no I don't. He lacks the focus. But I do believe this guy is going to influence alot of people who do. There was a political group awhile back called the Aufbau Vereinigung (Reconstruction Organization). They sought to overthrow Germany's post-WWI government and replace it with some FAR right-wing craziness (stay with me here). The name was derived from a newspaper that helped bring it out (you will be interested to note that it was not owned by Mr. Murdoch). These guys didn't do much, and sort of faded out after Hitler's unsuccessful attempt to overthrow the government in a beer hall (for which he was of course arrested, allowing him to chill out on the government's dime and scribble out Mein Kamph). What the Vereinigung can be credited with, however, is injecting a young Hitler's anti-semitism with angry steroids of the worst kind. They arguably pushed Hitler to The Final Solution.
Reverting back to earlier where I discuss a person's intent: I am of the opinion that the Glenn Becks of the world (along with the Malkins, Bachmanns, Coulters, Limbaughs, Palins etc.) feed off the energy, money, and fame thrown at them by their supporters. This is made evident by their tendancy to not fact-check and grow increasingly emotional and/or belligerent depending on audience response. Meanwhile, their bosses and advertisers care primarily about the money and thus allow the show to go on. Do I think Beck truly believes his own BS? Sometimes. Do I think he'll go for the far-reaching controversial splash rather than the more tame-but-accurate analysis? Everytime.
Hitler got a lot of followers after the Beer Hall Putsch trial, where he was allowed to speak for an unlimited amount of time in his own defense (I would like to applaud the Norwegians for denying Anders Behring Breivik this opportunity). He got even more after Mein Kamph, and it snowballed from there. He got alot of followers because Germany's was on the verge of complete and total economic collapse and the German people were humiliated by the Treaty of Versailles. This meth-head got on a soapbox at precisely the right time. He blamed the Jews for (among other things) instigating the arms industry strikes that weakened the German forces and supposedly lost them the war. German's were pissed, and this guy was on fire.
Conditions are no where near like that here. But they are still frightening. Conservative commentators "talk Christ but walk Corporate," if I may quote the brilliant historian Thomas Frank. These guys are big business. The media is big business. No matter how destructive and selfish big business is, it is the one thing that has always been immune to criticism from social conservatives because they know better than to bite the hand that feeds them.
Conservative commentators use "God-talk" to create an hysterical backlash: anger over abortion and gay marriage flows seamlessly into anger over welfare and the size of government (even though they're are totally unrelated). These people hijack Christian exuberence and use it to fear-monger their way into the minds of alot of suseptable people. Meanwhile people like Glenn Beck feed on the attention and wealth and will do anything to generate that continuously. Even if it means irrationally comparing a youth camp sponsored by the left-wing Labor Party to the far, holy-hell-thats-far, right-wing Hitler Youth.
Glenn Beck just wants attention, and he's getting it. Screw it, let him. What we cannot do is start nodding our heads because we feel pissed off one day. Or because we found God and Glenn Beck says he's a man of God so we have to follow whatever he says (Don't Christians fear the false prophet?). Glenn Beck is going to get someone killed. He wont pull the trigger, but he'll whisper in the ear of the guy that will.
For the record, the shooter in Norway was a radical conservative.
Perhaps this is why I got such an unbelievable kick out of studying history in college. No matter what redundant war or what fantastically unenforceable treaty I had to read about, I always had good, clean, anti-social fun trying to find out why people did what they did, why others allowed it, and when everyone realized it had gotten out of hand. For the record, I haven't come across a PhD yet who has been able to really tell me what Hitler's deal was. I don't know what he really wanted, but I think I know how he rose to power.
Anyway, my sister told me yesterday that Conservative commentator and all-around destructive blowhard Glenn Beck casually threw out a sidenote while commenting on the tragic attack at a Labor Party-sponsored youth camp in Norway. Beck said, "There was a shooting at a political camp, which sounds a little like, you know, the Hitler Youth or whatever. I mean, who does a camp for kids that's all about politics? Disturbing."
Note this guy's subliminal style. he just slipped that right in there. Doesn't matter if it's true, he got you to think about it. I think trial lawyers use this kind of crap on juries they wish to confuse: "Say there, where were you on the night of your brother's murder? Oh, the movies? Oh, you have a ticket stub? Oh, well technically those can be faked, right?" Just like that, the friggin' mistress is off the hook. I digress.
If I may be so bold, I am actually going to compare Beck himself to Hitler for a moment. Do I think Beck has a realistic desire to conquer Europe/Earth, exterminate a population the size of Manhattan, and enforce his own ideologies? No, no I don't. He lacks the focus. But I do believe this guy is going to influence alot of people who do. There was a political group awhile back called the Aufbau Vereinigung (Reconstruction Organization). They sought to overthrow Germany's post-WWI government and replace it with some FAR right-wing craziness (stay with me here). The name was derived from a newspaper that helped bring it out (you will be interested to note that it was not owned by Mr. Murdoch). These guys didn't do much, and sort of faded out after Hitler's unsuccessful attempt to overthrow the government in a beer hall (for which he was of course arrested, allowing him to chill out on the government's dime and scribble out Mein Kamph). What the Vereinigung can be credited with, however, is injecting a young Hitler's anti-semitism with angry steroids of the worst kind. They arguably pushed Hitler to The Final Solution.
Reverting back to earlier where I discuss a person's intent: I am of the opinion that the Glenn Becks of the world (along with the Malkins, Bachmanns, Coulters, Limbaughs, Palins etc.) feed off the energy, money, and fame thrown at them by their supporters. This is made evident by their tendancy to not fact-check and grow increasingly emotional and/or belligerent depending on audience response. Meanwhile, their bosses and advertisers care primarily about the money and thus allow the show to go on. Do I think Beck truly believes his own BS? Sometimes. Do I think he'll go for the far-reaching controversial splash rather than the more tame-but-accurate analysis? Everytime.
Hitler got a lot of followers after the Beer Hall Putsch trial, where he was allowed to speak for an unlimited amount of time in his own defense (I would like to applaud the Norwegians for denying Anders Behring Breivik this opportunity). He got even more after Mein Kamph, and it snowballed from there. He got alot of followers because Germany's was on the verge of complete and total economic collapse and the German people were humiliated by the Treaty of Versailles. This meth-head got on a soapbox at precisely the right time. He blamed the Jews for (among other things) instigating the arms industry strikes that weakened the German forces and supposedly lost them the war. German's were pissed, and this guy was on fire.
Conditions are no where near like that here. But they are still frightening. Conservative commentators "talk Christ but walk Corporate," if I may quote the brilliant historian Thomas Frank. These guys are big business. The media is big business. No matter how destructive and selfish big business is, it is the one thing that has always been immune to criticism from social conservatives because they know better than to bite the hand that feeds them.
Conservative commentators use "God-talk" to create an hysterical backlash: anger over abortion and gay marriage flows seamlessly into anger over welfare and the size of government (even though they're are totally unrelated). These people hijack Christian exuberence and use it to fear-monger their way into the minds of alot of suseptable people. Meanwhile people like Glenn Beck feed on the attention and wealth and will do anything to generate that continuously. Even if it means irrationally comparing a youth camp sponsored by the left-wing Labor Party to the far, holy-hell-thats-far, right-wing Hitler Youth.
Glenn Beck just wants attention, and he's getting it. Screw it, let him. What we cannot do is start nodding our heads because we feel pissed off one day. Or because we found God and Glenn Beck says he's a man of God so we have to follow whatever he says (Don't Christians fear the false prophet?). Glenn Beck is going to get someone killed. He wont pull the trigger, but he'll whisper in the ear of the guy that will.
For the record, the shooter in Norway was a radical conservative.
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