I'll Never Sink When You're With Me (A Tribute)

Cat and I have a shared history of rough surfaces.

We’ve picked our way across the black basalt of the Spiral Jetty, dusty shoes in hands that are flung out for balance while our bare feet wriggle and grasp the irregular surfaces, slipping every other step into the shallow Salt Lake. Eyes squinting against the glare of the August sun and the gusts of hot, dry wind that work to push us off our precarious perches, we still felt welcomed by the hostile landscape after driving through two hours of desolation to get there. Cat was already married and moved away, I was consumed with my own life changes, but that day as we made silly poses with Rosemary we were giants, explorers, elemental pilgrims responding to the simple geometry of the site with equal reverence and humor.

We’ve been crammed into the back of an economy car, limbs tangled and wedged into corners, heads thrown back and eyes closed as the third hour of us singing along with the radio came to a close. Chests heaved and muscles strained as we wailed along to “Oh, Darlin’,” and “She’s So Heavy.” Pitch is abandoned in favor of raw, ragged emotion. Swimsuits already on, our skin stickily adhered to the door jam, to the upholstery, to each other with warm familiarity as we turned the final bend to Bear Lake, parked, and then leaned back for one more howling chorus. We were dying for the soft sand, we had fantasized all week about thick, melty raspberry shakes after a long swim, but we clung to the journey with equal fervor. We sank into the comfort of shared skin and space, the smell of sunscreen and sound of Ringo's indefatigable beat enough for now.

We’ve sat on threadbare, fraying, greying carpet and silently passed a 2-liter of Diet Coke between us while we soaked in every drop of SLC Punk on an old VHS. The carpet did nothing to belie the floorboards beneath, but with only one chair in the room we unanimously decided that our sore tailbones made the experience more “authentic.” Our faces may have reflected the carpet’s same greyness from the dim, slightly warped images on the screen, but flat Diet Coke and antitotalitarian angst has never been so vividly consumed than in that living room.

We’ve lounged on metal bleachers that looked over an abandoned high school parking lot, swigging from chilly glass Coke bottles while the ridges of the seats dug into our thin jackets and jeans late on a March evening. High on the lingering scent of fireworks, we belted out Depeche Mode and Green Day lyrics between dirty jokes about what Cat would be up to the next day. Overly aware that we were creating a picturesque memory on the last night of Cat’s single life, we aggressively policed our mood and conversation. We were determined to crystallize every misty streetlight and tragically faulty cigarette lighter into multifaceted symbols that could be proudly dangled for display in the future. The three of us were, in that moment, in a perfect friendship, and we sipped on that singularity with the same relish we gave the almost-empty bottles.

We’ve lain for two straight sleepless nights in a bare, echoing New York City apartment, windows open to the sweltering July air. All the contents of my two suitcases had been desperately molded into a mattress for us on the bare parquet floors, and we pretended that such efforts were sufficient; we stayed up talking until 4 and woke up at 7 out of desire, not necessity. Cat had spent five hours on a bus from Boston and another hour on the subway to be with me on my first weekend in my new home. If she was nonplussed by my lack of furniture and broken ankle, she hid it well.  She gushed about my new space and theorized on my coming adventures while I nervously leaned against the dirty walls and avoided eye contact with the cockroaches. She pounced on the opportunity to help me set up when the first of my furniture arrived. They were two entirely useless Tiffany lamps, sans lightbulbs, resented for the lack of cushioning they would bring that night. But the packaging that disintegrated into fragments of white Styrofoam so light and small they didn’t actually land on the floor exasperated and amused us, skating all weekend just above the surface, evading all efforts to be swept up, gracefully looping around and over the path of the pests that skittered by.

Our rough surfaces aren’t just environmental, they’re the landscape of our temperament and relationship. There have been pitfalls and landslides, blocked passages and gaping canyons in our almost seven years of friendship. I stand in awe of how Cat has made herself within and around her landscape. She wins and gives love to people and subjects in a way that looks effortless, but actually takes care and passion directly from her in an exhausting way. My acts of friendship, my presence, my attention, my patience have been imperfect throughout, but Cat has shone through despite all of the personal debris I’ve thrown about. She is a remarkable woman who is going to populate everyone around her with epic and sweet memories without ever growing trite or tired.  Happy Birthday, Cat.

Hold Tight and Pretend It’s A Plan!

Wow, it has literally been years since I made a post. This is not necessarily the dawn of a revivalism of this blog—you’d be much better off checking out what Rosemary, Cat and I are doing at Lightbox Heroes(shameless plug) if you miss my ramblings. However, this last weekend was a situation that lent itself particularly well to the written word, so I break my silence in the name of epic adventure. 

And by adventure I mean mostly ridiculousness.

The Epic Tale, or, And You Thought You Were a Fan of Doctor Who . . .

It was Saturday night. I had already had a tumultuous day of nothingness: my brand of coping in the face of looming deadlines, job searches, and a vague sense of academic inadequacy is to do absolutely nothing useful. The idea was that I would devote the evening to my studies, but having twilight come at four thirty in the afternoon was enough of a bummer that I had reopened negotiations with my anxiety for another extension of slackerness. The perfect excuse for another night of nothing had already presented itself: the 50^th anniversary episode of Doctor Who had aired today, and my slow internet was just minutes away from completing the download of those 76 precious minutes of joy and escapism.

In preparation for my “study break,” I had decided to get comfortable. In the spirit of consistency, I had been putting off doing my laundry as well as my grading and final papers, which left my selection of comfortable loungewear a little lacking. Luckily, for my last birthday my mother had given me a present that demonstrated how tuned in she is to her grown daughter’s stunted sense of whimsy: a pair of bright yellow pajamas, liberally decorated with the characters of Dr. Seuss’s classic aquatic tale “One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish.” Did I mention this pair of pajamas were in fact onesie footie pajamas? With one long zipper bulging erratically from naval to chin, these pajamas are the picture of efficiency, simultaneously keeping me warm in my drafty Milwaukee apartment and providing a big blaring sign of “VIRGIN” to anyone who chances by. I would have preferred if the signal from the pajamas could have loudly signaled “VIRGIN BY CHOICE,” but there’s really only so much one can ask from a single measure of unapologetically yellow fleece.

It was now seven thirty at night (yes, I had already donned pajamas at seven thirty on a Saturday, keep your 

judgments to yourself). I was pretending to skim articles on Skopas, while in fact clicking over to the status of my downloading Doctor Who episode approximately every 2.68 seconds. A low, mechanical drone started to sound. It was coming from the hallway, and it was certainly loud enough for me to hear, but I couldn’t identify exactly what the sound was accomplishing. Living in an apartment building that has over thirty units, you get relatively used to strange noises that never get explained. When that building was also built over a hundred years ago, and has fixtures and radiators that were probably installed by an employee of the WPA, every day there are a number of auditory oddities that I just shove into the periphery of my awareness. In essence, while the almost moaning sound was persisting unabated, I was not terribly concerned.

I’ll be perfectly honest: it did cross my mind that the sound I was hearing could be some antique approximation of a fire alarm.  My doorbell sounds like a buzzer used in a 1950s game show when the contestant gets a question wrong, so it would make sense that the building’s fire alarm sounds equally bizarre. I contemplated this possibility, sniffed the air for smoke, and went back to watching my Doctor Who episode finish downloading. In my hierarchy of needs watching this Doctor Who episode was in slot number one, tied only with my desire to not get up from my armchair.

I started to hear a fair amount of running and pounding from the apartment and hallway directly above me. I was unperturbed. Ten minutes went by, all the previous noises were still continuing in the larger building, and I remained a fixture in the corner of my living room, cursing utorrent for teasing me with its “Downloading: 98.9% complete” message. There was a heavy pounding, this time no longer above me, but actually at my own door. I half stood up, and then became very conscious of the virginity-affirming pajamas. I remained there for a few moments, waffling between being seen in such getup and ignoring the knock. I finally stood all the way up (begrudgingly), padded over to the door, and carefully stuck my head out the door. There was no one in the hallway, just a magnified version of the same mechanical droning and more hurried, stomping feet coming from the hallway upstairs, with the occasional muffled shout added to the cacophany.

Here’s where I’m going to lose most of you: I then went back inside, sat back down on my armchair, and kept on waiting for Doctor Who to download. I had concluded at this point that there was most likely a fire somewhere in the building. But I was quite willing for the people directly affected by the situation to handle it. I had a plan for how my evening was going to go, and not enough outside stimuli had been introduced to prod me toward giving up that plan. It’s a big building. I still couldn’t smell (much) smoke. As far as I was concerned, they could come get me if it was that big a deal. Oh, if wishes were horses.

About five minutes later (utorrent now read as “99.4% complete”), there was a second pounding on the door, followed by a booming “Fire Department! Open up!” This kicked me into a slightly higher gear, meaning I didn’t pause when rising from my chair, and I somewhat hurriedly threw my green plaid robe over the unabashedly chaste pajamas. Answering the door, the (obnoxiously handsome) pair of firemen barked at me that there was a fire, and that I needed to be out of the building. It was only at this point that I got a little flustered. Why I got flustered then, I couldn’t tell you. I had had fifteen minutes of preparation, where I had actively acknowledged the almost certainty of a fire, and chose to make like inertia and not act until acted upon by an opposing and irritatingly attractive force.

With the two offensively hunky firemen looking on, I scrambled for my keys and started to put on boots to protect the soles of my footie pajamas. It would be great if I could muse here over how basic motor skills often get compromised with a rush of adrenaline, but that would incorrectly lead you to assume that in times when rugged men aren’t watching me I am fairly competent at putting on my shoes. No. Even at the best of times, shoe-putting-on is not a strength of mine. Normally, I at least know that I have to sit down on any available surface to be successful. I suppose it was that command center of the brain that failed me in that moment, letting me blithely try to achieve what I can’t do even at the best of times.

I tried to hop on one foot while yanking the boot onto the other, ignoring the added challenge of mashing in extra fabric from the pajamas into the same space. The yanking motion completely threw off my precarious balance, and I abruptly transitioned from being upright and balancing on one leg to my rear making violent contact with my hardwood floor, my legs splayed out at crazy angles and the cinch of my robe coming loose so that the robe parted in the front. The two fetching firemen cooling observed the tableau, patiently waiting for me to stop being an irritation in their work as other equally brawny men started to use the back of their axes to get through the door across the hall from me.

I crammed my toes into both boots, my heels not even close to being in the right place, and awkwardly pranced out of my apartment. I then carefully closed the door behind me, and pulled my keys out of the pocket of my robe so that I could secure the lock. Halfway through that motion, with my two virile companions incredulously looking on, I started to process how me locking my door might be a) slightly not helpful in the context of firemen actively knocking down the door right across the hall, b) certainly caused my two assigned firemen to doubt my sanity, since I didn’t seem in any hurry to get out of the building. I quickly put the keys back in my pocket while avoiding eye contact with the pitying paragons of masculinity in front of me.

Muttering something incoherent, I did an about-face and headed toward the stairwell so that I could get out of the building. There were multiple hoses crisscrossing the hallway and stairs, demonstrating that I was definitely late to the evacuation party, and was most likely the only one who had needed a hand-delivered invitation. I pushed the swinging door that was at the head of the stairs, and smacked the fireman standing on the other side of the door right in the face. Luckily his helmet took most of the blow. It should be noted that this door has a fair-sized window in it, and that I had seen the fireman before pushing the door forward. And yet, I was still quite surprised with how that situation unfolded.

Tripping across multiple hoses as I descended the stairs (remember, I’m still basically walking on my toes, since my heels are uselessly jammed into the ankle part of my boots), I navigate my way out of the stairwell and around the outside of the building to the front entrance, successfully avoiding getting smacked in the face by all but one of the fire hoses. I got over to where all of the other less avid Doctor Who fans (or perhaps people with a stronger survival instinct) were gathered to watch the impressive flames in the window of a third-floor apartment. More firemen were hauling a long ladder across the lawn to set up underneath the window closest to the most violent area of the fire, armed with axes so they could smash through the window and directly address the fire with their prepped hoses.

I should mention here how quickly watching the heroic struggle between man and fire gets tedious when it is fifteen degrees outside, and you’re standing there in fleece footie pajamas and a robe. Any romantic symbolism that might be seen in this battle with the elements that makes or break man’s progress freezes in the air along with your breath, and you just start to look at the flames with a certain degree of longing.

I started to notice how the other tenants of my low-rent building—all of them types that I would probably cross the street to avoid directly passing on a dark street—are edging away from me, the crazy lady dressed in an adult version of pajamas a two-year old should be wearing. This also dimmed any interest I had with how the firefight is going. I blessed my brain for at least remembering to grab my keys (even if they were grabbed with the intent to lock the apartment door and impede the progress of the firefighters, I was still going to latch on to any small victory), and retreated to my car that was parked on the street, completely locked in by the four fire trucks and eight fire department SUVs that lined my no-outlet street.

I squeezed myself into the front seat in the small opening I could manage between my door and the SUVs, started the engine, and let the heaters do their work. I leaned back, surveyed the chaotic scene in front of me, tracking how the swiveling red lights threw into dramatic relief different areas of the trauma. As the vents started to warm up I leaned back, closed my eyes, and mourned the fact that my laptop was still in my apartment, probably with a fully downloaded Doctor Who episode on its hard drive. The universe can be so harsh sometimes.

I spent the next four hours in my car, calling old friends to keep myself entertained as I waited to find out the fate of my apartment. At around eleven thirty we were informed that no one was permitted to return to their residence for the night, but we could be escorted to our apartments to pick up anything we might need for a few days away. I returned to my apartment to find a hole the size of my face kicked into the lower part of my kitchen wall. Apparently the firemen had needed to transport some equipment to the apartment across the hall (the one directly below where the fire had originated, both of which had a great deal of fire and water damage), and the hall wasn’t wide enough.

My kitchen floor was covered with splintered wood and paint, but I still consider myself remarkably lucky, especially considering how idiotic my initial response to the crisis was. My landlord was waiting for me to finish packing up my things (you better bet my laptop with the precious episode was the first thing put into my shoulder bag), so I grabbed the necessities and shoved them all together, doing such an excellent job at packing that it was impossible to zip up the top of the bag due to the bulging hodgepodge of clothes and hair products. I deemed it good enough and picked my way back through the darkened, smoky hallways.

Considering the . . . “iffy” nature of my neighborhood, I decided driving another ten miles to find a hotel near the airport would probably result in much safer and cleaner accommodations.  Nearing midnight now, I walked to the front desk of the Clarion Hotel with my bag in one hand and a 24-pack of Diet Coke in the other (it had already been in the trunk of my car, I figured it was worth bringing along). I politely asked if there were any vacancies. The woman at the front desk seemed a little flustered and said she would check, but her eyes darted between me and the screen at an alarmingly rapid rate.

She told me there was an opening, and hesitantly told me it would be 95 dollars for the night. I considered her demeanor to be a little odd, even jumpy, and didn’t understand why she seemed surprised when I said I would take it. It was only when I went to retrieve my wallet from the pocket of my robe that I really took stock of my appearance: I looked like a crazed homeless woman, wandering the cold streets of Milwaukee in infantile pajamas, a bathrobe, and an inexplicable supply of diet soda. I was the definition of a potential unpleasant incident for a night clerk.

The clerk was relieved when I explained my situation. Not relieved that people were out of their homes, but relieved that I was now a known entity, one that would probably not start screaming hysterically in the lobby or striking up conversations with the potted plants.  I was happy for her peace of mind, and chose not to tell her how far my love of Doctor Who had led me away from rational behavior. I don’t think she would have processed that information in a way that painted me in a kind (or sane) light.

Things I Learned

1)      I suffer from the most pervasive malady of my generation: obliviousness. I always knew my connection to reality was a bit tenuous in general, but this certainly hit that home in a new way. I am obviously an idiot for how I behaved before exiting the building, but I would argue that I am not that far outside of the norm for my generation. Sure, most wouldn’t avoid a fire because a Doctor Who episode was on the cusp of downloading, but there is definitely a generational disconnect with the unavoidable cause and effect of choices. This is easiest to see online, when narcissists post every detail of their personal life in their facebook status, or passive-aggressively attack family members and roommates through the well-placed tweet or blog post. Ideas of keeping public and private spheres separate, of addressing conflicts in person and not dragging issues through the digital sphere, of consciously decided not to permit evidence of passing anger or malaise to endure forever is something my generation doesn’t understand. Yes, I am definitely harping on a common problem in order to distract you all from the fact that I’m such a media junkie I almost achieved a nice toffee-colored complexion from an even roasting. It’s all about misdirection, folks.  

        

      2) My mother is awesome. My initial response to the crisis was “oh, I really hope my parents don’t find out about this.” With them living twelve hundred miles away, I didn’t want them to be stressed about my situation, or somehow find a way to interpret the problems with an apartment I chose to be the sign of deeper trends toward irresponsibility. This is left over from the much more combative relationship I used to have with my parents during the first half of my twenties, and is an attitude that is actually unworthy of the reality of my parental unit. I quashed my initial response, and instead called my mother the next day at around noon. I briefed her on what had happened (ok, ok, I skipped all the Mary-made-like-an-ostrich-and-buried-her-head-in-the-sand-for-fifteen-minutes-before-getting-kicked-out-by-firemen part of the tale). I told her the condition of my belongings and my apartment, told her where I was currently staying, and that I was still waiting to find out when I could move back in. She listened, asked a couple follow-up questions, told me she was very glad I was ok, and we swapped goodbyes and I-love-yous before hanging up. The whole call took six minutes in total.

       Darling mothers and fathers out there: This is how you need to parent your adult children. It was awesome. There was no hysterics, no incessant peppering of questions, no doomsday speeches or blame or micromanaging of my behavior. Any of those would have driven me right up the wall with both frustration and anxiety. Instead, there was respect and affection, and a trust that I would keep her updated if anything came up that I needed help with. Otherwise, it was my own business. I can’t stress how nice it feels to not be infantilized by your parents when you’re 27 years old. I’ve observed enough to know my parents are exceptional in that regard, and I couldn’t be more grateful for my luck in scoring these guys. 

      

      3) My friends and sister are da bomb diggity. I called and texted more than a few individuals while I was forced into a Who-less stasis for the majority of that Saturday night. I wasn’t traumatized by what had happened—I think the word trauma gets thrown around too imprecisely. No one was hurt, and I was fairly sure my apartment wasn’t burning down. I was mildly inconvenienced and shocked out of my normal routine, not staring down the fragility of my existence. As such, I was calling and texting people just to kill time and share a fun story, and there’s something magical about how many kindred souls I’ve collected over the years that knew how to respond. Connected with how much of a nightmare it would have been if my mother had had a meltdown from the news, it’s a real sign of friendship and connection that no one I talked to tried to whip me into hysterics. They settled into jokes and their own stories, filling the time as I watched the fire engines slowly return to the station in my rear view mirror.

      These are the kind of people everyone should actively seek out and cultivate in their life—friends and family that contribute to you keeping your life balanced and manageable. I can be proud that over the past five years I have weeded out people who are only interested in highlighting drama, fixating on unfairness, and ramping up discord. Those people would have loved a phone call that night; they could have vicariously feasted on the chaos, and victimized my circumstances stretch out the drama, but I wouldn’t have gotten anything positive out of that interaction.

      4) I have a complicated relationship with my own independence and letting others help me. But I don’t necessarily think I’m the one that needs to change. Here’s a truth: despite the fact that I’ve technically been responsible for my own education and living expenses since I was 18, I’ve only gotten a good handle on it in the last couple years. Imagine my impressive ability to deny the danger of fire in the face of Doctor Who, and you have a good idea of the financial quagmire that was the majority of my twenties. I was raised by parents who were not only incredibly responsible with their own finances, they went out of their way to train me in good habits and warn me of the pitfalls that could arise from not keeping a handle on spending and budgeting. Apparently I don’t learn through excellent guidance, I learn by drowning for years in my own denial and not even being able to communicate how much trouble I’m in because I’m incapable of admitting to weakness and mistakes in judgment.

      Why am I sharing this information that seems embarrassing and uncomfortable? Context. All told, I now have a line of credit of about $2,000, and it took a complete turnaround in my attitudes toward money and my general problem-solving habits to be eligible for that much. I pay off my credit cards every month, which means late on a Saturday night when I need a place to stay, I can hand over my Vis and charge my room without any problems. You need to understand: I am so proud that I was able to financially and emotionally handle this, it’s been all I’ve wanted to talk about. This felt like an incredible proof that I have progressed exponentially in areas that I know to be weaknesses in my character and a danger to my long-term goals.

      So, when I told people at my church and school about what had happened, and I was scolded for not calling them up at midnight on a Saturday for a place to stay, I didn’t know how to process their conviction that I was doing it all wrong. I was met with almost universal disbelief that I would check into a hotel rather than find someone to take me in. Here’s the thing: I never doubted the generosity of spirit the people in this area have toward their fellow man, including me. But I, to my complete delight, was capable of taking care of myself in an emergency, and so I did. I derive so much more peace of mind and general comfort in that knowledge than I would have from accepting the kindness of acquaintances.

      I’m no solider of Ayn Rand. I don’t hold to an insane level of self-sufficiency that removes compassion for others from the equation. I’ve certainly had to avail myself of the kindness of family, friends, and strangers in the past. But in this circumstance, I was able to prove to myself that I will be able to handle both the emotional and financial fallout in the face of an unanticipated hurdle. Do you have any idea how empowering that is? Especially for someone who is coming up on the daunting task of job hunting once I finish my degree this May? Basically, there’s something to be said for doing all you can before seeking out the help of others. It doesn’t mean asking for help is shameful—not at all. It means that you get to carry around with you the knowledge that you are capable, and able to master many situations on your own, including the situation where asking for help from the right quarter is what the circumstance demands.

      Huzzah for independence, for self-reliance! I could really get excited about this. You’ll see me punching the air jubilantly every time I’m able to pay an unexpectedly high water bill, or roll with the additional challenge of a disruptive student. Sure, I’ll look like a crazy person, giving an empty room an enthusiastic round of high-fives and doing a one-person wave, but I’ve looked stupider. I’ve checked into a hotel wearing yellow footie pajamas, for crying out loud. I can do anything.

            . . . Except put on shoes without some sort of support structure

I Wanna Publish Zines and Rage Against Machines

 I liiiive! And I made this zine as a sample for my graduate seminar--too many of them have never even seen one, and don't know a thing about punk, so I thought it would make my 45 minute presentations on the details of punk scholarship to give them as reference. Peace be unto my lieblings. Enjoy.

I've Got No Time I Wanna Lose To People With Something To Prove

But good golly sweet Moses in the name of
all carbonation that just shouldn't be allowed.

I have the sneaking suspicion that my entire personality has been slowly eroding from the obsessive waters of
Symposium
GradSchool
Symposium
GradSchool
HeyLookShiny

boringness. I'm attempting to counter this very real trend with a blog post, but I understand if my efforts are less than perfect. Please allow some room for error.

A note: I've noticed that my recent blog habit has been to mostly post about small things that annoy me. I'm not actually that big of a sourpuss, I just find that fixating on small irritants helps me shrug off the potentially debilitating stuff. Well, that and obsessing about how unlawfully attractive Richard Dean Anderson is during my nightly Stargate episodes, but my Richard time is just for me, and you'll probably thank me for not sharing too much about that one.

So, who doesn't love Weezer? I maintain that their Blue Album shies away from the Platonic ideal form of a debut album only because they failed to write "Perfect Situation" for another eleven years. Well, that and the fact that Weezer arbitrarily decides to take a pretty offensive attitude towards women in their song "No One Else." Now, the song is obviously about a girl who has issues with fidelity, but I still take umbrage with the extremely catchy chorus:

"I want a girl who will laugh for no one else.

When I'm away, she puts her makeup on the shelf.


When I'm away, she never leaves the house.


I want a girl who laughs for no one else."

Seriously, guys? Have you been holed up in your garage planning for the day when your music makes you attractive for so long that you've completely warped your idea about what you want? I talked to Wes about my frustration with the sentiment in this song and he said (without endorsing the behavior) that it was catering to a very fundamental need/want/desire/insistence that men feel desired by their partner. All I gotta say is, this instinctive need of men is rather vomit-inducing. I would never want to be with someone who keeps their personality carefully pressed and in the bureau, only to be pulled out for special occasions when their main squeeze is around. I would want to be with someone who has wide-ranging interests, acquaintances, and things to laugh at. Regardless of who is present. The whole possessive quality of the chorus, wanting someone who doesn't even have enough self worth to look good just for herself when no one else is around, makes me want to smash birdhouses. Maybe even with the birds inside.

Yes, I realize I just flipped out about a Weezer song that was written when I was seven years old and was probably intended to be rather tongue-in-cheek. But, dude. It bugs.

Speaking of bugs, let's tackle something completely different. I just realized that that sentence was a perfect setup for me to start a discourse on insects. I am now scrabbling, trying to work up some righteous indignation about any many-legged creepster. I'm coming up empty. Ah, the torture of imperfect moments! Anyways, back to the subject on hand, which you are no doubt on tenterhooks to discover:

Art. I know, big surprise, Mary wants to talk about art. As if co-hosting a podcast wasn't enough time for me to nerd out. But this topic doesn't really lend itself to a podcast discussion. Scenario: I either a) mention I'm going to pursue graduate work in art history, b) reference any work of art,  regardless of time period, in a common conversation, or c) look at interest at any piece of modern sculpture that is in front of my face. The reaction to any of those behaviors has been almost singularly unchanging as of late. Whenever any of these apparently 'trigger actions' occur, I feel like I'm constantly on the receiving end of a lecture masking as a benign comment from near strangers and pass acquaintances alike. The formula continues, with my unwanted conversational partner passionately rambling about how they saw X exhibit in Y respected gallery/museum/public area where all it was was just a jumble of mutilated Peeps at the foot of a grandfather clock whose face has been colored in or whatever. They then pause, look at me significantly, with a challenging gleam in their eye, and say "Can you believe anybody would show that? I don't care who you are, that's not art." It's at this point when I smile politely, nod, and consider all the different ways I could jerryrig the Tootsie Roll Pops and assorted bobby pins in my backpack into a weapon that can put me and/or them out of my misery.

Here's the nutshell: it's doesn't matter if you think it's art. No, that's not me being snotty and saying that my opinion is higher than yours, because the truth is it doesn't matter if I think it's art, either. What matter is that somebody, some curator, some group, some social sub-group, assigned it the label of art. That's what I study. I study what people see as art, and I study the why behind it's creation, the reaction it receives. What everybody is responding to when they see an exhibit that they don't enjoy is personal taste, which is something I will always respect. Personal taste is by handy coincidence with it's moniker, not very applicable on a wide scale. But while I will always be interested in your personal taste, and in fact part of what I study is the taste of individuals and how that influences the cycle of art being put out there, I will never feel pressured by your personal taste to excuse or dismiss or ever yield to your definitions of what art is.

Because it doesn't matter, not one bit, if we differ on what is art. So stop thinking you're scoring some deep insight when you get hung up on it. Also, putting down pieces you don't consider valuable is a deeply negative and straight-up boring subject. It sorta just pushes itself into a corner and festers on it's own outraged sensibilities. There's way too much good art out there to get your panties in such a twist over the ones that don't speak to you. Now, if you want to talk about how an artist who has gained some recognition and reverence is in your opinion lacking in some areas, be it skill or thematic material, that could also be interesting. But it always needs to be based on the understanding that while you don't like it. you respect the personal taste of others that dictates them to disagree with you. So, can it. You bug me.

Now, back to the recurring theme of Little Boys Who Spend Their Time Writing Music Instead of Talking To Girls Have Creepy Misconceptions. Who here loves Death Cab for Cutie? I would do quite a bit to have Ben Gibbard's babies, personally. Going to their concert with Becca was an ace in the hole for me having a good time. And before I tear apart Death Cab, it should be admitted that the first song I'll be criticizing was the band's opening number, and it has one of the top three sexiest bass riffs in it, and I cheered and danced and got excited along with everyone else. That said, based on these songs, Ben Gibbard's courting style leaves something to be desired.* Allow me to demonstrate with a selection from "I Will Possess Your Heart:

"You reject my advances and desperate pleas.


I won't let you let me down so easily.


You gotta spend some time, Love.


You gotta spend some time with me.


And I know that you'll find, love


I will possess your heart."

So. Not. Ok. First off, the persistent tone of the chorus makes you wonder if Ben Gibbard is completely married to the metaphorical meaning of the phrase "possess your heart." If you resist his affections long enough, is he just gonna settle for an "I told you so" when he rips the vital organ out of your chest? I listen to these lyrics and just start vehemently shaking my head in the negatory.

And if you think this guy would at least be sensitive to the imbalance of affection, and how it feels to be the one who cares more, think again. Allow me to introduce you to the tender message behind "Someday You Will Be Loved:"

"I once knew a girl in the years of my youth with eyes like the summer, all beauty and truth. In the morning I fled, left a note and it read: "someday you will be loved." I cannot pretend that I felt any regret, cause each broken heart will eventually mend. As the blood runs red down the needle and thread, someday you will be loved. You may feel alone when you're falling asleep, and everytime tears roll down your cheeks. But I know your heart belongs to someone you've yet to meet, someday you will be loved. You'll be loved, like you never have known. The memories of me will seem more like bad dreams, just a series of blurs like I never occurred. Someday you will be loved."

Translation: We hooked up, I wasn't feeling it, instead of breaking up with you I left you a note with vague promises of future of happiness that of course I have no control over. I then proceeded to feel really deep and justified about the fact that my actions really have no impact on you, because . . . well, I didn't love you. That's like home base in tag, right? Freebie?

Yeah, Ben Gibbard, you sorta suck. Stop being so good at making your general cadness so catchy.

Ok, I feel rather cleansed after this exercise. Tune in next time, when I plan to air my feelings about sundry issues like Ron Paul fanatics.

In the meantime, I'm going to listen to Billy Joel's "Vienna Waits For You," cause it tends to calm me down a bit when all I want to do is sprint for the nearest puke receptacle. Which is occuring on multiple occasions per diem, with the symposium looming closer by the second. But don't you worry, Billy makes it all better.

*It should be noted that I consider "Summer Skin," "We Will Become Silhouettes," "Transatlanticism," and "Twin-Sized Bed" to be great examples of Ben Gibbard using his rhetorical powers for good rather than evil.

Instead of Actually Completing My Grad School Applications . . .

List of Things That Are Going To Be a Tough Sell To Strangers When I Move to A Strange City for Grad School (which I currently obsess over):

-Yes, that's my real sneeze. No, really.

-Yes, I love Star Trek. And Stargate. And Battlestar Galactica. And The X-Files. And Buffy. You like video games? Dude, you're such a dweeb.

-Yes, I'm wearing this American flag kerchief. Unironically.

-No, I don't see a problem with having "Tearing Up My Heart" by *NSync and "Institutionalized" by Suicidal Tendencies on the same mixed CD.

-Yeah, I said mixed CD. As in still not on board with the mp3 shindig.

-And by not on board I mean deeply terrified of electronics and other storage/computing systems whose brains I can't see.

-Yes, I went on a thorough grocery shopping trip and returned with 3 tubs of Greek yogurt and 64 cans of Diet Coke. No, I don't see the problem with that.

-I swear I'm going to stop talking about my past achievements once I get more comfortable and no longer think I need to persuade you to like me. Should happen any month now.

-Yes, that's my real cough. Yes, I've heard the Zoolander "black lung" joke before. No, sadly, while that's enough incentive for me to want to change my cough, I'm afraid I'm not the one in charge here.

-Yes, I'm politically conservative. It's because I hate poor people. And bunnies. And myself, cause I'm a woman. Gross.

-No, you can't have any of my barbeque chips. Step off.

-I am currently working on a plot to destroy Oprah.

-Yes, I'm always going to think I'm smarter than you. I'm well aware of how unattractive this is. Nothing has helped so far.

-No, you may not  talk to me while the Olympics is on.

-I find talk about settling down and buying the dream house to be alienating from women and a turnoff from men.

-If you get all 'sharey' and dump your completely legitimate and complicated emotions on me I'm going to smile sympathetically, pat you gingerly on the elbow, and run for the hills.

-Yes, I really do like Bill Pullman that much.

-I totally use the fact that I can make my eyes imitate Bambi in immediate danger of being decapitated by evil smoke monsters to my advantage.

-Yes, I'm that nostalgic about entire sections of the past that I didn't live through and don't necessarily agree with.

-Yes, I'm typically this hostile and dismissive of all women in my program until you prove yourself. And by prove yourself I mean cold-fusion level prove yourself. As in, you better be an art history genius who has also literally discovered cold fusion, because otherwise I'll remain unimpressed.

-Yes, again, that's my real sneeze. Yes, I have noticed that I sneeze after every meal. No, you are not living with or associating with a cartoon character. Don't believe all the hype.

-Yes, I really do watch Reality Bites this often.

-Yes, I'm secretly a prude. You just have to dig real deep to get to it. No, that in of itself was not a dirty invitation.

-I bawled through the entire last ten minutes of Voyage of the Dawn Treader. I will hit you very, very hard if you make fun of me about this.

-Oh yeah, but the way, I hit people. Pretty frequently. And keep on thinking it's a term of endearment, despite the vehement protest of peers.

-If you ask me to go fishing I'll wonder what plot is afoot to destroy me.

-Yes, that's a bottle of spf 105 sunscreen. Apply liberally.

-All those jokes about how paranoid I am--yeah, they're not actually jokes. That humor there is what we call a Coping Mechanism.

-Yes, I understand that my punkish influenced clothing and my abject fear/respect/obeisance to authority figures is a wee bit of a contradiction.

-Yes, I'm a complete fraud. Anything funny I say was stolen from a movie, TV show, or a funnier friends' facebook status.

-Yes, that's my idea of fashion. I'm so sorry.

-I've had an ongoing sneaking suspicion since I was eleven that I am actually not smart/liked at all, and that I'm living in an elaborate Truman Show-esque world where my parents bribe actors to carry on the delusion. No, your jokes about how you're still waiting for their check in the mail are not funny.

-Yes, that was my attempt to flirt. No, there's nothing I can do about the toe-twisty-head-tilty thing. Any efforts to control it can only be sustained for about a five minute conversation, in which I won't say anything coherent, because my attention will be so fixed on the toes and the head angles.

-No, our budding friendship will not recover if you  negatively go off about Peter Pan, Mary Poppins, or Disneyland.

-I'm only .05% joking about my animosity towards whales.

-Yes, I love Katy Perry. Why would that surprise you?

-I genuinely have the hots for David Bowie. In Labyrinth specifically, but also in general. I listen to "As the World Falls Down" alone and pretend he's trying to seduce me by hiding from me in a magical bubble.

-Yes, I'm that avid of a supporter of Turkey, our oft-maligned friend.

-No, I never actually recover from missteps in common repartee. If I once misidentified a piece of art and was corrected in the conversation, I will carry that shame to the grave.

-Yes, I really do take myself this seriously. Don't let the self-deprecating laughter fool you. The fact that I can explain most of my likes and dislikes with a four-point analysis reveals the lie of the laugh.

-I understand that my chances of being a rock star, buddies with Velvet Underground, present at a Toy Dolls concert, an agent of an intelligence agency, or a protege of Joey Ramone are dwindling by the millisecond, if they aren't already impossible. That is a handful of many, many reasons why I will truly be less than satisfied with my life.

I Stumble and I Sway

An hour into my shift I was asked to stay late at work. I don't mind staying late--I love helping out overworked peers and I don't object to money--but I unfortunately have a streak of non adaptive throwback genes that wants to sit down and cry every time I'm not giving my preferred twelve hour notice that helps me wrap my head around the extension. Turns out I'm not remotely evolved or sophisticated, I hate breaks from patterns just as much as the most backwoods Ozark yokel.

In the spirit of making as many distractions for myself in this time of cushy paid hardships, I have crafted a list of:

The Top 15 Best TV Dads

I figure musing over father figures that would respond to my whining over extra work by telling me to rub some dirt in it will be the best possible coping mechanism.

Methodology

The types of fathers being highlighted here are very specific in nature. First off, let's establish that I myself have an awesome dad. He sang me Irish lullabies and songs about girls named Mary every night when I was little, switched that out for nightly readings from books like Huckleberry Finn, The Chosen, and Last of the Mohicans after I got too old for songs, and patiently waited out my tendency from age twelve to twenty to hate his guts while in his house and avoid any visits from him in college. Nowadays he just reads my term papers and tells me I'm brilliant, politely declines to read my blog or be friends with me on facebook so that I don't have to censor myself, and doesn't give me any grief for being single other than occasionally abusing the general male gender on my behalf. He's not my friend, he's my dad, and I appreciate the attention to the distinction.

Like I said, great dad. So in the spirit of respect for fatherhood, there will be no representations of clueless dads who are roundly abused by spouse, neighbors, and children alike, such as Tim Taylor in Home Improvement. Also, any TV show where I have the "oh, yeah, he's a dad" moment is sort of an automatic disqualifier, like Ricky Ricardo in I Love Lucy. TV characters who are beloved and eccentric and truly terrible fathers also did not make this list--I'm looking at you, Red from That 70s Show and George Sr. from Arrested Development. Also, I will not even dignify Homer Simpson with the title of father. The number of online lists that cartoon gets onto makes me shudder. Also, and this is completely unfair, but when I find out too much about an actor's off-screen behavior while filming, perfectly likeable father characters like Danny Tanner from Full House are no longer palatable or listable.

An addendum to the methodology: We didn't have TV after I turned ten years old, and even when we did it was basic channels and closely monitored. If any glaringly obvious classic father figures are missing from the list, it's because I never got to watch the show. But I'm sure they're very nice. Put them on your own list, this one's mine.

And now, with plenty previous ado, we begin the countdown with

#15: John Schneider, Smallville's Jonathan Kent

Mmm. Floppy haired goodness. I'm allowed to check him out--he's not my dad.

Let's not kid ourselves. Being the dad of an alien would be hard work, even if he wasn't an indestructible god-like force. And being the dad to an indestructible god-like force would be a cake-walk if that same 'roid pumped snot face wasn't a broody little misfit who has a thing for the wrong girl almost as consistently as he's seduced by the dark, bald side of the force. Jonathan Kent pulls off moralisms with minimal fuss, is believable as a hay bale-throwing Midwesterner, and is . . . just so, so pretty. Wish he still had the The General Lee around, I wouldn't object to being taken for a spin.

#14: Jason Bateman, Arrested Development's Michael Bluth

I'll never be able to listen to "Afternoon Delight" with any kind of reverence. Not that I really could before

Michael has a lot on his plate. He has the most grasping, needy, neurotic extended family in the universe, and having his jailbird father squirrelled away in their faux home doesn't make things easier for him. And while his son, George Michael, is a peach, he's the type of pale, pudgy, hairless, cousin-lusting peach that repulses most normal people. But Michael Bluth loves him anyway, and even frequently has old-fashioned Opie-Andy moments that warm the heart.

#13: Nathan Fillion, Castle's title character

 O Captain, my Captain. Mine.

Let's face it, Rick Castle--mega rich novelist with the emotional maturity and instinct for play of a fifteen-year-old boy--as your legal guardian and moral compass would be a dream. He is the epitome of self-indulgence and good humor, like a soft serve ice cream double dipped in chocolate and sprinkled with money. In fairness to the other dads, it must be acknowledged that he sorta caught an epic break by having a daughter so grounded and self-disciplined that I suspect government brainwashing. However, his handling of boyfriends and body image demonstrates an instinct for unconditional love that earns him his spot on the list.

#12: John Spencer, The West Wing's Leo McGarry

O.G.

Leo is a fantastic example of a much more realistic school of Dad. While he excels at his job, he's crazy awkward in his home life. The way he deals with this is by frequently growing petulant and dismissive with his daughter Mallory while simultaneously trying to keep her close. He barks at Mallory much more often than he opens up to her, but he still finds ways to express his affection and protectiveness, even if she'd probably prefer to flirt with his staff in peace. Gruff around the edges and incapable of make a straight statement of love, Leo ranks high in the category of adored yet off-putting patriarchs.

#11: Michael Landon, Little House on the Prairie's Charles Ingalls

If you're starting to notice the trend of Magnificent Locks, this is not happenstance. And you ain't seen nothin' yet.

He's Pa. The infinitely kinder, wiser, more practical version of his wife, one who understands Laura's high spirits and doesn't discourage his daughters from thinking they can do absolutely anything they set their minds to. Always struggling to make ends meet, he infuses their desperately poor existence with magic, protecting his children from wild beasts and Nellie Blye (synonymous?) with a tireless concern for their welfare. And then there's the hair, which I could probably dedicate a whole section of this list to. Pa is not to be beat.

#10: Andy Griffith,  The Andy Griffith Show's Sheriff Taylor

Even his ears seem kind. And law-abiding.

I couldn't claim the title of red-blooded American if I didn't acknowledge that Sheriff Taylor is the essence of Manliness. He's an officer of the law, he's a hulking figure of a man, he enjoys fishing, shootin' breeze at the local barber shop, and keeping Barney Fife in line. And above all else, he's the kindest, gentlest father to itty-bitty-Opie that anyone could ever hope for. Really, I think he could have accidentally squished him into oblivion if he wasn't so conscientious. He's the type that I'm sure cries every time he accidentally steps on a caterpillar. Except that Andy Taylor's are simultaneously so manly and so sweet that they produce harty maple syrup for his flapjacks.

#9: Peter Gallagher, The O.C.'s Sandy Cohen

Those eyebrows could kindly conquer continents. And my heart.

If pressed to reveal how I know about this character, I will claim that I am gathering only from hearsay. That is all I have to say about the matter. But seriously, Sandy is, like, the best dad ever. Coming from a wild background, he pulled himself into a position of respectability and wealth, but never lost touch with his roots. He devotes himself to his family and helping the unfortunate, never losing his idea of right and wrong while simultaneously having boundless faith in the potential of people society has written off. Also, he surfs and loathes yogaletes. Which just seals the deal.

#8: Fred MacMurray, My Three Sons' Steven Douglas

Coiffed curls and cleft chins=trust

I have a mildly shameful loyalty to the show My Three Sons. It's unabashed agenda somehow circumvents any shakily constructed cynicism I may have put up and gets me absolutely pumped about how perseverance, optimism, hard work, virtue and a good hair gel can really keep the universe on an even keel. Mr. Douglas' backseat approach to parenting is comforting in that he is always interested in his boys welfare, but equally committed to allowing them to find their own path and passions. Corny it may be, but that doesn't make it less enviable.

#7: Avery Brooks, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine's Commander Benjamin Sisko

This kind of dapper demeanor must be passed from father to son.

Here's a man who devoted his life to the job without sacrificing his son's upbringing. Instead, he used his position as the commander of a far-flung space station to enrich his son's thinking, exposing him to new cultures and ways of life that helped boy Jake become a phenomenal writer. Even  the initial struggle Sisko had with his son choosing a career so completely different from Starfleet was handled admirably, as Sisko relinquished the idea that his child should operate as a miniature perfection of himself. And, above all else, Sisko achieves this high rank of Fatherhood through his devotion to the greatest of sports--baseball. Jake was given every advantage, including superior taste in leisure activities.

#6: Enrico Colantoni, Veronica Mars' intrepid Keith Mars



Look at them twinkling brown eyes. Songs could and will be written.

Keith plays on multiple themes touched on by fathers lower down in the rankings. A father whose job is the absorbing task of pursuing truth and justice, Keith also recognizes and focuses on his child's potential. Ex-Sheriff Mars never tries to dissuade daughter Veronica from demonstrating her brilliance and resourcefulness, and strikes up a partnership that allows her to flouish. He may occasionally set traps of spraying ink when she starts to snoop into areas best left alone, but that's really more in the attitude of a rival colleague than an overbearing parent. His affection and faith that his daughter will develop into a truly remarkable person is never shaken, and his personal struggles never color his treatment of people in trouble or pain.

#5: Jeffrey Dean Morgan, Supernatural's John Winchester

 . . . there are no words. Well, yes there are, but they'd probably creep y'all out.

 Ok, yeah, so maybe he slightly abandoned his sons for periods of their childhood in his one-man quest to capture the demon who killed their mother. And maybe he's a textbook case of the non-communicative, ever demanding, praise and affection witholding type of father. And maybe when I gaze into those eyes and contemplate his scruffy jawline I find I don't care in the slightest. No, but really. John Winchester had his flaws. But he had an iron grip on the difference between good and evil, and more than that, he sold his soul to the devil in exchange for his son's life. Eternal burning, the whole nine yards. I find I can forgive quite a bit in the face of that level of devotion. Basically I just need to be in the face of his face and I am completely persuaded of all his virtues.

#4: Edward James Olmos, Battlestar Galactica's Commander William Adama

I'd be perfectly fine with this being prominently placed on currency.

Now, if I were this estimable hunk of honor, grit, and smarts, I would have considered my duty to humanity complete when I realized that I had contributed my DNA to the creation of the Sun God:

Feel free to linger over this image as long as you wish.

But was our inestimable leader of the remnants of civilization satisfied with that? Not in the slightest. He proceeded to be a truly remarkable father. While reticent and closed off at times, he sees the end of the world as a second chance, an opportunity to reach out and give all of his worldly wisdom about the value of human life. He clings to the best parts of mankind, never letting despair and bitterness overcome him or those in his command. The best part? He didn't just do this with the above godly hunk of flesh who had a genetic claim on his concern. He became the father of the entire fleet, never tiring in his duties to each of them in turn. Now, go back and stare at Apollo again if you need to. I know I do.

#3: Victor Garber, Alias' Jack Bristow

Such terrifying loyalty.

Jack brings to the table at levels of Certainty no one ever could (or should) rival. There is no force in heaven or earth that could sway Jack from his core purpose in life, which is keeping his daughter Sydney safe. Jack is unhampered with any feeling of individual significance, nor is he distracted by any semblance of a personal life outside of his daughter. Jack truly considers that his only point of worth, the sole contribution he can make to the world, is in using his particular set of skills to ensure that Sydney lives. Did we mention that this skill set involves warehouses of currency, munitions, and instruments of torture? Jack doesn't care how much he has to compromise himself. Sydney is all that matters.

#2:  William Henry Cosby, Jr., The Cosby Show's Dr. Heathcliff Huxtable

Dad is great! Gives us chocolate cake!

Dr. Huxtable brought you into this world, and he can take you out of it again! Not only is he wisecracking and silly-faced, Dr. Huxtable demonstrates an inspiring level of love and tenderness toward his brilliant wife. As a team the Parents Huxtable encourage their children to pursue their strengths wholeheartedly, kindly expecting them to see obstacles only as challenges that they will soon conquer. The level of common sense he teaches and tender affection he shows to all his children is a marker that few will ever reach, let alone surpass.

#1: Kiefer Sutherland, 24's Jack Bauer

Mr. The Bauer, Sir. My Liege.

Here it is. The epitome of what it is to be a dad. Also, the final proof that it really doesn't matter how much you suck, everyone deserves a great dad. Kim can go ahead and spit everything her  father gives up for her back in his face, but Jack still walks through fire, bombs, terrorists, torture, more bombs, incompetent world leaders, and sleep deprivation to make sure you're ok and able to continue living your sucky life. But Jack is untouched by Kim's untreatable level of lameness. He rises above it all, the perfection of filial duty, love, and bad-ass gauntlet-throwing defiance. I love my dad, Jack, but if I could trade him for you . . . I'd have to think about it. If your hair was floppy I'd already be sold.