[Cont.] On to my first important point, which is actually just an extended (bizarre, incongruous) story: On Friday the 13th, my aunt and uncle were in town for the approximate 10-year anniversary of my paternal grandma's death. My Aunt Jane had called my dad several months ago, informing him that she had their father's ashes (he died in 1988) and was incapable of disposing of them by herself. At the time, we had my grandma's ashes in our house (my dad didn't remember where exactly, which appalled my mom). It was decided that this 16-year lapse in filial duty should end over the summer, in the DC area, after dinner at my house and copious wine. The adults agreed upon American University as the final resting site, since my Grandma Muriel was head of the Sociology Department and apparently my Grandpa Joel obtained an Anthropology degree there. (I have no idea what he did with it, since I think he was a Psychology Ph.D.)
Anyway, the adults wanted to do this on Saturday, but I pointed out (joking) that illegal acts like ash-scattering are better done under cover of darkness. There was the added draw that they would be tipsy at the time (with the exception of my dad); this happy confluence of bravado and natural concealment was unlikely to be repeated at midday. As we got our jackets and filed into the car, my father reminded us that we didn't know ash-scattering was illegal. There had been some talk of trying to obtain permission: "Hey, do you remember Professor C.?" my dad had said, mock-enthusiastically. "Well, we've got her remains here, and we think it would be a great idea to scatter them somewhere on campus." (Beat.) "Oh, by the way, she won't be in class on Monday." Now, in the car, my Uncle Murray announced that he didn't believe what we planned to do - namely, evade campus security long enough to shadily dispose of human remains in a flower bed - was illegal, anyway.
"It doesn't matter whether you believe it," my dad said, thoughtfully. "This is not some existential question about whether God is alive."
My mom and aunt, both lawyers (and sharing the backseat with me), quickly chimed in that they were certain it was illegal, but willing to pretend otherwise; they had learned about it in law school.
"In cremation class?" my uncle said.
On River Road, we approached the turnoff to my grandparents' old house. The adults were suddenly overcome by this promising new opportunity to expedite the ash-scattering. It was even, apparently, not technically trespassing to do so - as long as we stayed in the grassy strip at the periphery of the lawn, which was public property. As a sober person, I felt it was my moral obligation to object stridently. "Think of the Golden Rule!" I said. "Would you want strangers coming to your house at night to do such a thing? Would you want your children to dispose of you in a drainage ditch?" The others claimed they wouldn't mind, but, grudgingly, we continued on the route to AU. After about 15 minutes of attempted parking (God, acting through the construction patterns on campus, apparently did not smile on our task), we found a small lot in walking distance of the Sociology building. Carrying our two small parcels (one was in a cardboard box, and the other looked like simulated wood?), we self-consciously traversed the remaining distance; my dad and uncle talked about what a terrible postmodern story this would make, and how some further zany misadventures must inevitably befall us.
I said, "What would really be appropriate is if we had all gotten in a car accident on the way and died."
Outside the Sociology building was a bed of black-eyed susans and a path extending, eventually, to a main road; an AU bus parked ominously across the street. The two men opened their parcels to reveal plastic bags. I had been waiting the entire time to see whether the ashes would really look like kitty litter (as in A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, which was over-referenced that night), and I was disappointed to discover they were too fine and not gritty enough, more like dusty sand. Well, my dad and uncle punctured the bags and upended them over the flower bed, where the white ashes fell in wide swirls, in jarring contrast to the dirt. Everyone noticed this discrepancy and wasn't sure what to do. My grandma and grandpa were both at the very least agnostic, and their children were the same; nothing had been said to consecrate the act, and I don't think anyone knew of a decorous way to obscure the ashes. My father, matter-of-factly, began to kick dirt over them.
I felt a little sick. "Dad, you're stepping on your parents."
He said, "I think a good ending to the story would be if we realized the ashes were too conspicuous, so we peed on them."
My mom and aunt decried that as a terribly inappropriate joke, and we all walked back to the car (with a brief stop to discard the bags and boxes in a dumpster). I don't remember my grandpa much, but I used to participate in AU academic life a little with my grandma. I remember sitting in on a class, being babysat, when I was eight; I tried to keep still and look attentive so the other students might think I was a precocious college student, and I was surprised to find I understood most of the lecture. Another time, I handed out hors d'oeuvres at a cocktail party for her graduate students, feeling grown-up and self-satisfied. The second to last time I was at AU was for my grandma's memorial service (the last time was for those As You Like It hijinks), but the campus seemed surprisingly familiar. I walked up ahead with my dad, wearing my blue windbreaker, and he put his arm around me; I told him that his peeing ending idea lacked verisimilitude. [I think my second important point will wait until later, because I'd like to post before I go out this evening.]
Friday, August 20, 2004
Okay, a quick summary so I can get on to two more pressing points: Seth and I saw Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle in early August, which is the most convincing peer pressure I've ever seen to smoke pot. I have never smoked pot, and I can't imagine I would write about it online if I did - but Harold and Kumar is populated with nerdy, otherwise upstanding, externally successful potheads, and I have to admit the idea of drug use and people like my friends coexisting is compelling. I had actually gotten over this temptation (it was around August 5 that I saw the movie) until I watched The Breakfast Club, something I hadn't seen since childhood, at Seth's house the other day. In an expression of inter-caste unity, the prom queen, jock, geek, and two varieties of troubled teen smoke up together and laughingly or tearfully tell their secrets. I want the transcendent comradery that only illicit substances can bring.
Also, Seth was sick the other day, so I kept him company watching the Olympics. We commentated like during the DNC, and Seth transcribed ridiculous forced/mixed metaphors and awkward turns of phrase from the former-gymnast pundit. Unlike during the DNC, Seth was wearing a ratty bathrobe and made periodic moans or spasmodic contortions to indicate sickness. "I feel like death," he said.
"What are your other symptoms, besides feeling like death?" I said, trying to be helpful.
He felt better the following day, and I've continued to watch the Olympics, sometimes with him and sometimes alone. More than anything else, the gymnastics reminds me of an unfortunate period in my childhood when a neighbor family "watched" my sister and me before school and left us essentially unattended. Along with their two daughters, we decided to teach ourselves to do flips - which we accomplished by standing on their parents' bureau, across from the double bed, and launching ourselves in the air between the pieces of furniture, ideally landing on our feet or backs on the bed (versus the carpet, or the footboard, or whatever). I spent a long time teaching myself to do flips off the diving board at the public pool, with less consistent success (which is okay, because failure on the bed might have paralyzed me), but there's really nothing like the sensation of turning head-over-heels in open air. I did gymnastics for five or six years, and I miss that ease and motility. My sedentary body feels like such a burden now.
Anyway, Dave P. came back to town from Russian immersion at Middlebury, and a gathering was held in his honor on Wednesday. He had a basement full of Duplos and other exciting toys. I think if my social interaction never matures beyond this point (which it presumably will), I can be content - participating when I'm able to do so authoritatively, and otherwise finding sinister Duplos like the frowny face block and what looked like a guardtower and a microwave. I wasn't alone in my immaturity: GPaul composed a kinky limerick on Tara's behalf, she did his hair and attempted to draw various anatomical features on his leg (the boys are distressingly better at that than we are), and a contingent disappeared for a long time looking for popsicles. Yesterday, I experienced far more bombastic crassness when my family saw The Producers at the Kennedy Center. Some of the jokes I could have done without, but it was well worth it to see chorus girls and boys cheerfully dancing in a swastika formation (with gay-Hitler somewhere therein). [Broken into two posts for your scanning convenience.]
Also, Seth was sick the other day, so I kept him company watching the Olympics. We commentated like during the DNC, and Seth transcribed ridiculous forced/mixed metaphors and awkward turns of phrase from the former-gymnast pundit. Unlike during the DNC, Seth was wearing a ratty bathrobe and made periodic moans or spasmodic contortions to indicate sickness. "I feel like death," he said.
"What are your other symptoms, besides feeling like death?" I said, trying to be helpful.
He felt better the following day, and I've continued to watch the Olympics, sometimes with him and sometimes alone. More than anything else, the gymnastics reminds me of an unfortunate period in my childhood when a neighbor family "watched" my sister and me before school and left us essentially unattended. Along with their two daughters, we decided to teach ourselves to do flips - which we accomplished by standing on their parents' bureau, across from the double bed, and launching ourselves in the air between the pieces of furniture, ideally landing on our feet or backs on the bed (versus the carpet, or the footboard, or whatever). I spent a long time teaching myself to do flips off the diving board at the public pool, with less consistent success (which is okay, because failure on the bed might have paralyzed me), but there's really nothing like the sensation of turning head-over-heels in open air. I did gymnastics for five or six years, and I miss that ease and motility. My sedentary body feels like such a burden now.
Anyway, Dave P. came back to town from Russian immersion at Middlebury, and a gathering was held in his honor on Wednesday. He had a basement full of Duplos and other exciting toys. I think if my social interaction never matures beyond this point (which it presumably will), I can be content - participating when I'm able to do so authoritatively, and otherwise finding sinister Duplos like the frowny face block and what looked like a guardtower and a microwave. I wasn't alone in my immaturity: GPaul composed a kinky limerick on Tara's behalf, she did his hair and attempted to draw various anatomical features on his leg (the boys are distressingly better at that than we are), and a contingent disappeared for a long time looking for popsicles. Yesterday, I experienced far more bombastic crassness when my family saw The Producers at the Kennedy Center. Some of the jokes I could have done without, but it was well worth it to see chorus girls and boys cheerfully dancing in a swastika formation (with gay-Hitler somewhere therein). [Broken into two posts for your scanning convenience.]
Monday, August 2, 2004
And love is not a victory march
Conveniently, I didn't do very much that was interesting from late June to mid-July. I hung out with various combinations of Hank, Alison, Natalies D. and G., Seth, and Tara. I also read two or three books, overplayed XO and my new Smiths' Greatest Hits CDs, and watched such important cultural documents as Fahrenheit 9/11 and "I Love the 90s." One noteworthy exception (to tedium) took place on June 28, when Ben Folds/Guster/Rufus Wainwright played at Wolf Trap. I really hate Rufus Wainwright; I found his act obnoxious and simpering, especially when he brought his famous mother onstage to play piano during "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." Guster was adorable and very catchy, though - three nice Jewish boys covering "The Boy With the Arab Strap," which I happily appended from my seat on the upper balcony. Apparently the band also covers "Come On Eileen" sometimes, albeit not that well!
Ben himself was in top form, though he played for only 40 minutes. I got my money's worth: I was a member of the "Army" horn section, something I've been practicing since Fall 2002 (grin). After the concert, my next significant life event took place on Saturday, July 17, when I awkwardly attempted clubbing for a second time. Tara and I fussed over our clothing and pre-gamed at Natalie G.'s, using daiquiri-flavored wine coolers and homemade tequila sunrises. Natalie's friend Rachel, who is poised and wise, stopped by in time to teach us about eye makeup and cleavage. Then, we Metroed to DC and pretended dignity while walking several blocks in the dark, in the rain, in high heels and shielding our hair with community newspapers. There was a restaurant in the basement of the venue (the Hawk & Dove), where I sat for a while puzzling over the new code of social ethics governing at whom to glance and for how long.
On Thursday, July 22, Dyanne, Tara, Seth, and I went to Ted Leo/The Pharmacists at the Black Cat. For reasons that were never fully explained to me, Dyanne and Tara wore formal gowns. [I wore my Indie Kid costume and a rain slicker, and Seth wore his everyday-indie clothes.] In the club, it was hot, dark, smoky, and crowded, so the girls attracted only occasional incredulous notice. Ted executed his set on speed (everything was 4x the pace it should have been), and made occasional plodding, useless remarks on the "punk rock community" and feminism. Last year after Tara, Nick S., Seth, and I saw the New Pornographers at Black Cat, we encountered shadiness on the way to the Georgia Ave. bus stop in the form of a motorcycle gang (I suppose? a rumble in the distance climaxing in a stream of motorcycles on the highway). This year, our post-show sketch factor was more personally tailored to Misses Dyanne and Tara. A homeless man on the road shouted at Seth, "How come you can get three beautiful women, and I can't get no woman?"
Another passerby insisted (well, it was an empty threat) on shaking Seth's hand. "I gotta get your autograph - I gotta meet the guy who's got three such beautiful queens," he said. I guess I should always travel at night with girls in prom dresses, if I want to be accosted by strange, probably unemployable men. Anyway, the next evening I saw my sister as Lady Macbeth in the BAPA summer show. Two years ago, some friends and I made a really ill-fated trip to see Seth in the same company production (As You Like It, apparently). I was suddenly struck by how young we must have been; Seth, as a rising junior, was only one year older than my sister. And, when I was his age, I was a BAPA stagehand, uncomfortably tongue-tied around the other CITs whenever they discussed their love-lives. I suppose I'm lucky to have a younger sister to make high school seem darling and poignant.
On Saturday, July 24, I attended Live on Penn with a quorum of Bivalves. Fountains of Wayne was the opening act, followed by my beloved They Might Be Giants. It was actually a pleasure to see both groups (hearing "Denise" live was unexpectedly fun), but TMBG alone delivered hardcore bliss. I stood near Dyanne and Tara in the second row, in reach of the guardrail delineating Us and Them, and at ground zero for the confetti explosion during the second song. I know I hopelessly, continuously compare the present with the past, particularly for recurrent events - always gauging differences in atmosphere and impression, asking myself whether I'm happier now. The experience of watching TMBG last year from behind a tall fence was incomparable. I stopped for a moment, amid bouncing and belting song lyrics and shyly forcing eye contact with John Linnell, to realize that I was honestly very happy. There are things in my life that I dislike, but I'm separate and content - and if I'm smart (and blessed), I will keep that.
The final thing I want to mention is how much I enjoyed the Democratic National Convention. Seth and I had a date to watch Kerry on the 29th, sitting rapt in the basement and occasionally cheering or commentating. I feel impelled to do something useful with my time, maybe actively join Penn for Choice or the Queer Straight Alliance. I think/hope (?) there's no shame in being maneuvered in the direction of social consciousness.
Conveniently, I didn't do very much that was interesting from late June to mid-July. I hung out with various combinations of Hank, Alison, Natalies D. and G., Seth, and Tara. I also read two or three books, overplayed XO and my new Smiths' Greatest Hits CDs, and watched such important cultural documents as Fahrenheit 9/11 and "I Love the 90s." One noteworthy exception (to tedium) took place on June 28, when Ben Folds/Guster/Rufus Wainwright played at Wolf Trap. I really hate Rufus Wainwright; I found his act obnoxious and simpering, especially when he brought his famous mother onstage to play piano during "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." Guster was adorable and very catchy, though - three nice Jewish boys covering "The Boy With the Arab Strap," which I happily appended from my seat on the upper balcony. Apparently the band also covers "Come On Eileen" sometimes, albeit not that well!
Ben himself was in top form, though he played for only 40 minutes. I got my money's worth: I was a member of the "Army" horn section, something I've been practicing since Fall 2002 (grin). After the concert, my next significant life event took place on Saturday, July 17, when I awkwardly attempted clubbing for a second time. Tara and I fussed over our clothing and pre-gamed at Natalie G.'s, using daiquiri-flavored wine coolers and homemade tequila sunrises. Natalie's friend Rachel, who is poised and wise, stopped by in time to teach us about eye makeup and cleavage. Then, we Metroed to DC and pretended dignity while walking several blocks in the dark, in the rain, in high heels and shielding our hair with community newspapers. There was a restaurant in the basement of the venue (the Hawk & Dove), where I sat for a while puzzling over the new code of social ethics governing at whom to glance and for how long.
On Thursday, July 22, Dyanne, Tara, Seth, and I went to Ted Leo/The Pharmacists at the Black Cat. For reasons that were never fully explained to me, Dyanne and Tara wore formal gowns. [I wore my Indie Kid costume and a rain slicker, and Seth wore his everyday-indie clothes.] In the club, it was hot, dark, smoky, and crowded, so the girls attracted only occasional incredulous notice. Ted executed his set on speed (everything was 4x the pace it should have been), and made occasional plodding, useless remarks on the "punk rock community" and feminism. Last year after Tara, Nick S., Seth, and I saw the New Pornographers at Black Cat, we encountered shadiness on the way to the Georgia Ave. bus stop in the form of a motorcycle gang (I suppose? a rumble in the distance climaxing in a stream of motorcycles on the highway). This year, our post-show sketch factor was more personally tailored to Misses Dyanne and Tara. A homeless man on the road shouted at Seth, "How come you can get three beautiful women, and I can't get no woman?"
Another passerby insisted (well, it was an empty threat) on shaking Seth's hand. "I gotta get your autograph - I gotta meet the guy who's got three such beautiful queens," he said. I guess I should always travel at night with girls in prom dresses, if I want to be accosted by strange, probably unemployable men. Anyway, the next evening I saw my sister as Lady Macbeth in the BAPA summer show. Two years ago, some friends and I made a really ill-fated trip to see Seth in the same company production (As You Like It, apparently). I was suddenly struck by how young we must have been; Seth, as a rising junior, was only one year older than my sister. And, when I was his age, I was a BAPA stagehand, uncomfortably tongue-tied around the other CITs whenever they discussed their love-lives. I suppose I'm lucky to have a younger sister to make high school seem darling and poignant.
On Saturday, July 24, I attended Live on Penn with a quorum of Bivalves. Fountains of Wayne was the opening act, followed by my beloved They Might Be Giants. It was actually a pleasure to see both groups (hearing "Denise" live was unexpectedly fun), but TMBG alone delivered hardcore bliss. I stood near Dyanne and Tara in the second row, in reach of the guardrail delineating Us and Them, and at ground zero for the confetti explosion during the second song. I know I hopelessly, continuously compare the present with the past, particularly for recurrent events - always gauging differences in atmosphere and impression, asking myself whether I'm happier now. The experience of watching TMBG last year from behind a tall fence was incomparable. I stopped for a moment, amid bouncing and belting song lyrics and shyly forcing eye contact with John Linnell, to realize that I was honestly very happy. There are things in my life that I dislike, but I'm separate and content - and if I'm smart (and blessed), I will keep that.
The final thing I want to mention is how much I enjoyed the Democratic National Convention. Seth and I had a date to watch Kerry on the 29th, sitting rapt in the basement and occasionally cheering or commentating. I feel impelled to do something useful with my time, maybe actively join Penn for Choice or the Queer Straight Alliance. I think/hope (?) there's no shame in being maneuvered in the direction of social consciousness.
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