Oberlin is a great place. Great restaurants, free music shows, amazing theater, hilarious people. But there are a few things you can't get in town. Principally: clothes.
As Oberlin's my home, and I don't have a car, I haven't gone shopping in a long time.
But yesterday, I went shopping. For serious lady clothes.
Thoughts on Gender:
You know that point in high school, where you figure out your gender role and how much you want to do with it (if anything)? It might involve fixing your hair more often, or buying different clothes? It might mean figuring out how to brand yourself to attract the right kind of significant other. You work out how to flirt best, how to hold yourself, how to dress and act. I never had that.
I didn't really hit puberty until my sophomore year of college. And I've been catching up as best I can. While most people seem to adjust to their gender easily, I think about it.
I'm an aggressive person: blunt, forward and competitive. I like violence, video games, sex and food. I'm physically larger than most of my male friends. I've never had a manicure or a pedicure; I don't own any foundation or blush; I'm not very graceful.
But presenting femme is awesome. It's such a great game. Every morning, when I put on my clothes, I feel such amusement and amazement at the alien-ness of female attire. I shave my pits, groom, exercise, and do everything possible to mitigate the masculinity of my eastern European side. I am a gender ninja.
But while I'm got some mannerisms down, I'm still a bit sketchy on one avenue: clothes. I've figured out how to dress like a girl (cute shirts + jeans! Silly, flouncy dresses and skirts!). But dressing like a woman? A woman with a job but without a family or the presumptions of age?
Common Wisdom on women's workplace garb is weird. Professionalism screams for a de-sexed look, clothes that indicate adulthood, power and prestige. However, *not* acknowledging your gender, is pretty suspect. You want the dress that makes your figure look good, but not bodacious. Class, not ass.
It's hard for me to find that middle ground. Muffling my recent sexuality is as unnatural to me know as dresses were when I was 14. I've worked hard for my positive body image. I want to keep it.
This is where Brandi and Ali come in.
Brandi and Ali are classy, stylish ladies. Ali can look overwhelmingly great in anything, no matter how odd, and Brandi's just... classy. If class were a person, it'd be Brandi. If style were a person, it'd be Ali. After 4 hours of dancing, Brandi will still look impeccable. They understand being ladies. They get it.
We went to Crocker Park, specifically H+M. And I got schooled.
Ali: "What are we getting?"
Brandi: "Shirts and skirts that you can throw on the floor, stomp on and still look good."
Aries: "... Good thinking."
At H+M, they just found amazing things. It was like an episode of What Not To Wear except without the cruelty of a TV audience. They were clear in what worked, what didn't, what needed a different size and what was just... wrong. Given my weird, hip-heavy body, it was awesome to have professional help.
"Spin... Ass is great. But where's your hips?"
"Yeah. That's a no."
"YES. Yes. My god. Yes."
"That would need tailoring."
"No tailoring could fix that. Oooh. See how the pockets poke out, making your hips look ginormous? That's a problem."
"Buy it."
And it was fun. Ali and Brandi are both hilarious, sassy humans and it was fantastic to spend more time with them. I rarely just chill with folks for several hours at a time, which I need to change. As soon as possible.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
The Big Tour
Life? Life is good.
I gave a tour to the direct descendant of John F. Oberlin, for whom the college was named. I was nervous, of course. The only details about the Perrus: French, from Paris and middle-age. Possibly, they had never been to the US before.
In high school, my French teacher was a Parisian. Though an excellent teacher, she terrified me. A strict person, both in diction and behavior, she did not approve of my chronic lateness, imperfect accent or adoration of comic books (I wrote an essay on the Sandman).
In my head, I pictured giving a tour to a pair of irritated blonds, infuriated by my foolish blathering and my inability to discuss Oberlin achievements in conversational French. They would probably bolt from the tour, forcing Ben to fire me for insubordination to historic guests. From there, I would move to the Canada, shamed beyond measure, and wandering across the tundra until I was eaten by rabid bears.
I met the couple in archives, where I confessed I knew nothing about the Oberlin memorial, where we were doing a short photo op. In two seconds, one of the archivists grabbed a book on designs and explained it. The Oberlin Archives are really cool: they have letters from the civil war, including two officers in the USCT. Oberlin is an incredibly historic place, so the archives has plenty of fascinating local information on abolition, racial justice, gender equality, as well as a ton of books completely unrelated to Oberlin. For History and Structure of the English Language, one of our assignments took us to archives, just to see what Old and Middle English scripts looked like. In my Hebrew Bible class, an archivist brought in objects over a thousand years old.
As a history nerd, I explode with glee every time a librarian puts on gloves to look over a text.
The Perrus sat at a table, looking over super-historic documents. I stared at them for a minute. They didn’t look terrifying. Then they shook my hand, smiling. I sighed with relief.
The Perrus with Marvin Krislov.
Oberlin students don’t know much about John Frederic Oberlin. Even his name is perplexing: we call him John Frederic, but he’s also Jean-Frédéric or Johann Friedrich. I’m going to call him JFO for simplicity’s sake.
Our confusion is understandable: JFO never saw Oberlin College: he died before it was founded. On tours, I don’t discuss the ethics of JFO, and how he impacted John and Philo, Oberlin College’s founders. That said, I think I should. JFO was a cool guy. He was very "Oberlin," linking social justice into his role as pastor. In his parish, he built bridges, taught agriculture,founded schools and libraries. Given how Obies work in terms of ecological design and environmental and educational progress… JFO would probably like Oberlin.
On some tours, I do tell an Oberlin founding story, involving bears and Heavenly Signs.
In my mind’s eye, this story takes place in the dead center of Tappan Square, where I told it to the Perrus.
Small tours are different from big tours – I cater towards different interests. In this case, we spent more time outdoors, as the Perrus loved the trees in Tappan, venturing guesses as to what each kind was. We snuck into Hall Auditorium where they mentioned their son was a sound engineer, seeing the paint dry on a new set. They both loved music: jazz for him, classical for her. We spent a while in the Conservatory.
Though there was a language barrier, I think I discussed the uniqueness of the college while still being mildly entertaining. The Perrus reminded me of my own parents, smiling and laughing easily, occasionally mock-bickering in French. It was such a pleasure to meet them.
Oberlin Founding Story:
I gave a tour to the direct descendant of John F. Oberlin, for whom the college was named. I was nervous, of course. The only details about the Perrus: French, from Paris and middle-age. Possibly, they had never been to the US before.
In high school, my French teacher was a Parisian. Though an excellent teacher, she terrified me. A strict person, both in diction and behavior, she did not approve of my chronic lateness, imperfect accent or adoration of comic books (I wrote an essay on the Sandman).
In my head, I pictured giving a tour to a pair of irritated blonds, infuriated by my foolish blathering and my inability to discuss Oberlin achievements in conversational French. They would probably bolt from the tour, forcing Ben to fire me for insubordination to historic guests. From there, I would move to the Canada, shamed beyond measure, and wandering across the tundra until I was eaten by rabid bears.
I met the couple in archives, where I confessed I knew nothing about the Oberlin memorial, where we were doing a short photo op. In two seconds, one of the archivists grabbed a book on designs and explained it. The Oberlin Archives are really cool: they have letters from the civil war, including two officers in the USCT. Oberlin is an incredibly historic place, so the archives has plenty of fascinating local information on abolition, racial justice, gender equality, as well as a ton of books completely unrelated to Oberlin. For History and Structure of the English Language, one of our assignments took us to archives, just to see what Old and Middle English scripts looked like. In my Hebrew Bible class, an archivist brought in objects over a thousand years old.
As a history nerd, I explode with glee every time a librarian puts on gloves to look over a text.
The Perrus sat at a table, looking over super-historic documents. I stared at them for a minute. They didn’t look terrifying. Then they shook my hand, smiling. I sighed with relief.
The Perrus with Marvin Krislov.
Oberlin students don’t know much about John Frederic Oberlin. Even his name is perplexing: we call him John Frederic, but he’s also Jean-Frédéric or Johann Friedrich. I’m going to call him JFO for simplicity’s sake.
Our confusion is understandable: JFO never saw Oberlin College: he died before it was founded. On tours, I don’t discuss the ethics of JFO, and how he impacted John and Philo, Oberlin College’s founders. That said, I think I should. JFO was a cool guy. He was very "Oberlin," linking social justice into his role as pastor. In his parish, he built bridges, taught agriculture,founded schools and libraries. Given how Obies work in terms of ecological design and environmental and educational progress… JFO would probably like Oberlin.
On some tours, I do tell an Oberlin founding story, involving bears and Heavenly Signs.
In my mind’s eye, this story takes place in the dead center of Tappan Square, where I told it to the Perrus.
Small tours are different from big tours – I cater towards different interests. In this case, we spent more time outdoors, as the Perrus loved the trees in Tappan, venturing guesses as to what each kind was. We snuck into Hall Auditorium where they mentioned their son was a sound engineer, seeing the paint dry on a new set. They both loved music: jazz for him, classical for her. We spent a while in the Conservatory.
Though there was a language barrier, I think I discussed the uniqueness of the college while still being mildly entertaining. The Perrus reminded me of my own parents, smiling and laughing easily, occasionally mock-bickering in French. It was such a pleasure to meet them.
Oberlin Founding Story:
“Utopia, Philo,” John said, “We are going to build it.”
Philo nodded, chewing on his tuna sandwich, brushing the crumbs onto the forest floor.
John continued, “So often they turn out peculiar, but I have faith in us.”
“I hear in Oneida, each man has seven brides, all children.” Philo said. He adjusted his glasses; speaking of child-brides warped his frames.
“Free love and communism,” John muttered, shaking his head.
Philo fished an ant off of their blanket, letting it walk across his palm for a minute. While John wrestled with big ideas, Philo tended towards more earthly issues: accounting, carpentry and gardening.
“There’s an excellent spot further south that the locals say rings with holiness.” John said.
“That might be too expensive,” Philo added. “Why not here? No one has claimed this township.”
“This area is cheap, but far too swamp-like to support enlightened children. Without a godly spot, the college will fail. We must find a place like Alsace in its beauty, able to attract students great and far.” John’s sonorous voice always comforted Philo, even when he disagreed. They had been exploring the back-country of Ohio for weeks, searching out the spot to base their college. Their boots reeked, muddy and sweaty, and though they had just found a lake the day before, Philo already smelt the stink that had nestled into his body.
“Do you think people will confuse Oberlin with Oneida?” wondered Philo. “The names are familiar.”
“I hope not,” John said as he munched on an apple. “That would be sorrowful.”
A strange noise perked their ears, a low growl spreading from the trees. In the trees, the birds flew away, the squirrels bolting for distance branches. John inched closer to Philo. Philo found his breath strained. The ants were gone now. The brush before the woods parted slowly.
A bear. It stood thirty feet high, with gigantic ivory claws. A stream of drool ran from the bear’s mouth, its maw opened, teeth jutting from each angle. Steam puffed out from the bear’s nose, lined with putrefied snot. The bear’s coat was rust-colored, matted with bits of fur and bone from smaller creatures.
John squeaked and gripped Philo’s hand.
The bear lumbered towards them, its body shaking the ground. A few feet from the picnic blanket, the bear screamed. The incredible roar echoed for miles around, terrifying children and other small animals.
Philo gripped John’s shoulder. He stood, legs wavering.
“Leave this place,” Philo commanded, waving a loaf of bread as a scepter.
The bear paused and jostled its weight around. Eyes glowing red, it eyed Philo. Steam from the bear’s nostrils singed Philo’s eyebrows. His glasses fogged, rendering the bear a darkened smudge.
“Begone!” Philo screamed, realizing how close the bear’s claws were.
With a final huff, the bear turns from the humble picnic and lumbers back into the woods. Philo stands for another moment before his knees collapsed.
John clears his throat. “I think we should build Oberlin here.”
Philo nodded.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Orientation: Best of Times!
Normally, Orientation is a crazy time, though no one agrees why. Freshmen go through some pretty dramatic changes, and no matter how well Orientation is run, it's going to be stressful. That said, the stress manifests in different ways.
Over the last two years, I've found that for every emphatic opinion, there exists the equal and opposite reaction, delivered just as piercingly. Say these freshmen, Joan and Oliver, are talking about Orientation. You might get something like this:
Oliver: It's too boring.
Joan: It's too busy.
Oliver: Jeez! Is there anyone who doesn't play music?
Joan: Yay! Everyone plays music! Win, win, win!
Oliver: Where's the noise at night? I miss the city.
Joan: Why are my hallmates so loud? I can hear them playing Lady Gaga in the lounge!
Oliver: It's all talk-talk-talk; everyone is telling me what to do!
Joan: I don't know what to do! Someone tell me!
Oliver: Dude, it's freakin flat here.
Joan: It's so beautiful! The sky is so bright, the trees are so green! I'm going to go picnic in the Arb!
Oliver: Registration is so simple. Are we done now?
Joan: WTF PRESTO ATE MY CLASS. FML.
Oliver: I got everything I want! Classes should start now.
Joan: WHERE ARE MY APs? HELP PLS.
Oliver: I really miss my girlfriend. This is going to really hurt.
Joan: The cute boy in Barrows made eye contact with me! Yes!
Oliver: People are really awkward. I can't wait for things to get rolling.
Joan: Everyone is so friendly! This already feels like home.
Oliver: I left so much stuff at home. Strangely, I don't miss it. There's something great about being in a new place.
Joan: It's weird not to go to the living room and see my brother and my dog. I mean, my dormmates are cool, but they're not my family.
That said, this year feels different. Everyone is relaxed, and while there may be some absolutist Joans and Olivers... they aren't as many out there. The freshmen are mature, active and wonderful. I feel so lucky to be here.
For two years, I moved to campus early to be an Academic Ambassador: counseling, consoling and communicating with freshies on issues big and small. (As both Brandi and Ma'ayan are both Academic Ambassadors, they might have a different view of all this.)
Basics of the Academic Ambassadors:
1. Teach freshmen about academic requirements.
2. Serve as a Big Brother/Sister, giving mentoring and advice to make the transition easier.
3. We're the WD-40 of Orientation. We keep things rolling as ushers and guides.
4. Give mini-seminars on academic issues during the first semester.
5. Hang out with Dean Randal Doane, one of the smartest people in the whole world.
Photo Cred: Ma'ayan Plaut.
In terms of our official duties, the big thing we do is give a classroom presentation on academics to our twenty first-years. As we don't have a core curriculum, students have a lot of choice in how they make their schedules. That said, we do mandate some distribution requirements. While they aren't killers, it's a good thing to keep in mind when registering for classes. Not sexy information, but really, really helpful.
My favorite part was helping with registration. I imagine registration as a Scrubs-style daydream....
At one instant, you're sitting at a laptop with at least 3 tabs open, staring at Presto, the course catalogue and the course schedules. You can't figure out if classes are conflicting. Are the classes you signed up for over the summer at the same time as these two totally rock-freakin-tastic courses that would totally fit with your major? Is Presto frozen? Why is it taking so long? How many spots are left? Do I need consent?
... And suddenly, you're on the floor of the NY Stock Exchange! You're wearing newsies clothes that don't fit! Your suspender snapped - fix it! Sell the class! Buy the other class! No, no, get the one with dividends! Oh, the price is rising and your options are tanking! Your ambassador is trying to tell you to take the new class! But the stock is plummeting! You're really hungry because you forgot breakfast and the person next to you just finished cooking muffins for his co-op! He smells delicious! The first year seminar is your only stable stock; you're going for broke! Buy everything! Get a muffin! Take the class!
And then, you've signed up for 4 classes, planned which excos you're going to take, signed up for your library/computer help desk/dining hall/Student Union job and your portfolio is balanced. Phew.
Registering! Photo Cred: Ma'ayan Plaut.
The rest of being an AA is more chill, giving advice and generally helping out. As someone who totally messed up their first year, my advice was generally well-received. There's nothing like a cautionary tale to help clarify some issues.
Truth: I was not qualified to become an Academic Ambassador. I didn't get recommended by a professor. I didn't have a solid transcript to back me up. For the first time in my life, grades were not my strongest suit. And yet, though I had done most of the things you aren't supposed to do, Dean Doane to hire me.
My first semester, I assumed college was like high school, and to do well, I would just do more. In retrospect... that was a poor choice. I took a full courseload, overloaded with work, projects and extracurriculars. I failed a class my first semester and barely scraped by in the next semester. On the positive end, I made tons of friends, worked through some really painful personal problems and took some spectacular classes. I started new things that I fell in love with (radio, improv, circus, storytelling, clowning), but did it with little sleep or planning.
I love helping freshmen avoid making my mistakes.
That said, this year's freshmen don't seem in danger of that. As a class, and individually, they are some of the smartest, most relaxed, charming and friendly folks I've ever met. For the first time, I think I would feel okay if classes never started. These freshmen are just way too cool.
Yesterday, I did Day of Service at George Jones Farm, weeding veggies, moving a shed and chilling with freshmen for a full day. There's something about picking up a shed and sliding it that lets your really understand your peers. When it's hot and sunny, things are heavy and ungainly, they're on it. They're all over it. If we start throwing a peach and it explodes, they'll keep going. They understand how the game works. When our supervisor didn't come back for a while, we stood in a circle, telling stories.
When we did a circus shindig the other night, the freshmen weren't afraid to try anything. They learned fast, they wanted more. Despite moving hundreds, or thousands of miles from home, living in different rhythms with different demands, they rocked it. At the swing dance last night, the room was packed. The raw beginners were wonderful partners.
PS: Every year, around this time of the season, I listen to "This Will Be Our Year" by The Zombies (or the cover by OK Go). Sometimes it applies to relationships (blush), but mostly to school, to hope, to change. This year, it seems more fitting than ever.
The warmth of your smile
smile for me, little one
and this will be our year
took a long time to come
You don't have to worry
all your worried days are gone
this will be our year
took a long time to come.
Over the last two years, I've found that for every emphatic opinion, there exists the equal and opposite reaction, delivered just as piercingly. Say these freshmen, Joan and Oliver, are talking about Orientation. You might get something like this:
Oliver: It's too boring.
Joan: It's too busy.
Oliver: Jeez! Is there anyone who doesn't play music?
Joan: Yay! Everyone plays music! Win, win, win!
Oliver: Where's the noise at night? I miss the city.
Joan: Why are my hallmates so loud? I can hear them playing Lady Gaga in the lounge!
Oliver: It's all talk-talk-talk; everyone is telling me what to do!
Joan: I don't know what to do! Someone tell me!
Oliver: Dude, it's freakin flat here.
Joan: It's so beautiful! The sky is so bright, the trees are so green! I'm going to go picnic in the Arb!
Oliver: Registration is so simple. Are we done now?
Joan: WTF PRESTO ATE MY CLASS. FML.
Oliver: I got everything I want! Classes should start now.
Joan: WHERE ARE MY APs? HELP PLS.
Oliver: I really miss my girlfriend. This is going to really hurt.
Joan: The cute boy in Barrows made eye contact with me! Yes!
Oliver: People are really awkward. I can't wait for things to get rolling.
Joan: Everyone is so friendly! This already feels like home.
Oliver: I left so much stuff at home. Strangely, I don't miss it. There's something great about being in a new place.
Joan: It's weird not to go to the living room and see my brother and my dog. I mean, my dormmates are cool, but they're not my family.
That said, this year feels different. Everyone is relaxed, and while there may be some absolutist Joans and Olivers... they aren't as many out there. The freshmen are mature, active and wonderful. I feel so lucky to be here.
For two years, I moved to campus early to be an Academic Ambassador: counseling, consoling and communicating with freshies on issues big and small. (As both Brandi and Ma'ayan are both Academic Ambassadors, they might have a different view of all this.)
Basics of the Academic Ambassadors:
1. Teach freshmen about academic requirements.
2. Serve as a Big Brother/Sister, giving mentoring and advice to make the transition easier.
3. We're the WD-40 of Orientation. We keep things rolling as ushers and guides.
4. Give mini-seminars on academic issues during the first semester.
5. Hang out with Dean Randal Doane, one of the smartest people in the whole world.
Photo Cred: Ma'ayan Plaut.
In terms of our official duties, the big thing we do is give a classroom presentation on academics to our twenty first-years. As we don't have a core curriculum, students have a lot of choice in how they make their schedules. That said, we do mandate some distribution requirements. While they aren't killers, it's a good thing to keep in mind when registering for classes. Not sexy information, but really, really helpful.
My favorite part was helping with registration. I imagine registration as a Scrubs-style daydream....
At one instant, you're sitting at a laptop with at least 3 tabs open, staring at Presto, the course catalogue and the course schedules. You can't figure out if classes are conflicting. Are the classes you signed up for over the summer at the same time as these two totally rock-freakin-tastic courses that would totally fit with your major? Is Presto frozen? Why is it taking so long? How many spots are left? Do I need consent?
... And suddenly, you're on the floor of the NY Stock Exchange! You're wearing newsies clothes that don't fit! Your suspender snapped - fix it! Sell the class! Buy the other class! No, no, get the one with dividends! Oh, the price is rising and your options are tanking! Your ambassador is trying to tell you to take the new class! But the stock is plummeting! You're really hungry because you forgot breakfast and the person next to you just finished cooking muffins for his co-op! He smells delicious! The first year seminar is your only stable stock; you're going for broke! Buy everything! Get a muffin! Take the class!
And then, you've signed up for 4 classes, planned which excos you're going to take, signed up for your library/computer help desk/dining hall/Student Union job and your portfolio is balanced. Phew.
Registering! Photo Cred: Ma'ayan Plaut.
The rest of being an AA is more chill, giving advice and generally helping out. As someone who totally messed up their first year, my advice was generally well-received. There's nothing like a cautionary tale to help clarify some issues.
Truth: I was not qualified to become an Academic Ambassador. I didn't get recommended by a professor. I didn't have a solid transcript to back me up. For the first time in my life, grades were not my strongest suit. And yet, though I had done most of the things you aren't supposed to do, Dean Doane to hire me.
My first semester, I assumed college was like high school, and to do well, I would just do more. In retrospect... that was a poor choice. I took a full courseload, overloaded with work, projects and extracurriculars. I failed a class my first semester and barely scraped by in the next semester. On the positive end, I made tons of friends, worked through some really painful personal problems and took some spectacular classes. I started new things that I fell in love with (radio, improv, circus, storytelling, clowning), but did it with little sleep or planning.
I love helping freshmen avoid making my mistakes.
That said, this year's freshmen don't seem in danger of that. As a class, and individually, they are some of the smartest, most relaxed, charming and friendly folks I've ever met. For the first time, I think I would feel okay if classes never started. These freshmen are just way too cool.
Yesterday, I did Day of Service at George Jones Farm, weeding veggies, moving a shed and chilling with freshmen for a full day. There's something about picking up a shed and sliding it that lets your really understand your peers. When it's hot and sunny, things are heavy and ungainly, they're on it. They're all over it. If we start throwing a peach and it explodes, they'll keep going. They understand how the game works. When our supervisor didn't come back for a while, we stood in a circle, telling stories.
When we did a circus shindig the other night, the freshmen weren't afraid to try anything. They learned fast, they wanted more. Despite moving hundreds, or thousands of miles from home, living in different rhythms with different demands, they rocked it. At the swing dance last night, the room was packed. The raw beginners were wonderful partners.
PS: Every year, around this time of the season, I listen to "This Will Be Our Year" by The Zombies (or the cover by OK Go). Sometimes it applies to relationships (blush), but mostly to school, to hope, to change. This year, it seems more fitting than ever.
The warmth of your smile
smile for me, little one
and this will be our year
took a long time to come
You don't have to worry
all your worried days are gone
this will be our year
took a long time to come.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Big Bad Voodoo Daddy!
I just saw Big Bad Voodoo Daddy. Live. Free. In Youngstown.
Obviously, I danced a lot.
The Crew:
It was all because of Brandi Ferrebee. Her car contained: me, Brandi, Matt C, Rachel B, and John A.
The Band:
Big Bad Voodoo Daddy!
Big Bad played an awesome set: over an hour of tunes. I remember "Mr. Pinstripe Suit," "Minnie the Moocher", "You And Me And The Bottle Makes 3 Tonight" and "I Want to Be Like You," though there were certainly more. It was solid. Sadly, they didn't play "Maddest Kind of Love." But they nailed out a lot of fast songs with tight playing. Though after a while, I focused less on musicianship and more on the beat.
The venue was a grassy valley, a natural amphitheater. Grass and swing dance aren't great bedfellows, which I never knew before. Brandi suggested wearing sneakers, not flats, but my sneakers looked pretty smelly, so I went with my casual flats. Ugh. The ground had very little traction, and any footwork I had... went away. I danced badly, unsure of my footing.
The swing crowd was tight. Out of the general audience of 300 - 400, there were about 25 swing dancers. They knew their stuff. There was a Greg Schram doppleganger. I wanted to dance with him, but he was really good and had a girlfriend, who he danced with for the whole show. Damn you, monogamoid couple.
John and Brandi were some of the most talented dancers there. John gets totally immersed in the musicality of the song; he scat calls as he dances and is one of the most outwardly happy dancers I've met. Most swing dancers seem to take it very, very seriously. Brandi wields an incredible style: cute, sultry and exact. She prances and pouts when she dances, her hips always moving.
I was only disappointed with the audience. While the grass was full with lawn chairs and picnic blankets, no one stood up. Clapping was minimal. Cheering was slight. Singing call-backs were quiet. The audience was mostly older folks and families; folks who gave little energy back to the band save their presence. Watching amazing performers for free is an incredible privilege. Fail, people.
--
It's something I've noted elsewhere -- normal people suck at being audience members. (The woman sitting next to me at the Tempest actually recoiled from me whenever I laughed.) If a performer does something impressive, you clap. If you don't clap, Tinkerbelle dies and the show is sad. A supportive audience makes a good show great.
I know people express joy differently. I know loud people don't feel more than quiet people. I know I can't pack each show with Liz Hibbard, Ardon Shorr, Grey Castro and Chris Gentes... but I'd like to.
--
I feel guilty when I swing dance. I apologize to my partner before and afterwards. I bumble and shift. My footwork is awful; my timing is worse. It's so frustrating. I want to do it more; I want to learn more and dance more. I want to dance to fast song. I hate being a block to my partner.
But as fraught as I feel, it's still wonderful. Swing's peculiar intimacy has grown on me considerably and the sensation of a good dance is unbeatable.
I unleashed my litany of self-defeating woes on a follow, a really good one, asking for her advice. Her name was Miriam and she moved like a tricked-out ballerina.
"Well," Miriam said, "All of us were once where you are now. We all remember how much it sucks. So when you ask a guy to dance, don't apologize, just say, "I only know the basics." That always works."
Obviously, I danced a lot.
The Crew:
It was all because of Brandi Ferrebee. Her car contained: me, Brandi, Matt C, Rachel B, and John A.
The Band:
Big Bad Voodoo Daddy!
Big Bad played an awesome set: over an hour of tunes. I remember "Mr. Pinstripe Suit," "Minnie the Moocher", "You And Me And The Bottle Makes 3 Tonight" and "I Want to Be Like You," though there were certainly more. It was solid. Sadly, they didn't play "Maddest Kind of Love." But they nailed out a lot of fast songs with tight playing. Though after a while, I focused less on musicianship and more on the beat.
The venue was a grassy valley, a natural amphitheater. Grass and swing dance aren't great bedfellows, which I never knew before. Brandi suggested wearing sneakers, not flats, but my sneakers looked pretty smelly, so I went with my casual flats. Ugh. The ground had very little traction, and any footwork I had... went away. I danced badly, unsure of my footing.
The swing crowd was tight. Out of the general audience of 300 - 400, there were about 25 swing dancers. They knew their stuff. There was a Greg Schram doppleganger. I wanted to dance with him, but he was really good and had a girlfriend, who he danced with for the whole show. Damn you, monogamoid couple.
John and Brandi were some of the most talented dancers there. John gets totally immersed in the musicality of the song; he scat calls as he dances and is one of the most outwardly happy dancers I've met. Most swing dancers seem to take it very, very seriously. Brandi wields an incredible style: cute, sultry and exact. She prances and pouts when she dances, her hips always moving.
I was only disappointed with the audience. While the grass was full with lawn chairs and picnic blankets, no one stood up. Clapping was minimal. Cheering was slight. Singing call-backs were quiet. The audience was mostly older folks and families; folks who gave little energy back to the band save their presence. Watching amazing performers for free is an incredible privilege. Fail, people.
--
It's something I've noted elsewhere -- normal people suck at being audience members. (The woman sitting next to me at the Tempest actually recoiled from me whenever I laughed.) If a performer does something impressive, you clap. If you don't clap, Tinkerbelle dies and the show is sad. A supportive audience makes a good show great.
I know people express joy differently. I know loud people don't feel more than quiet people. I know I can't pack each show with Liz Hibbard, Ardon Shorr, Grey Castro and Chris Gentes... but I'd like to.
--
I feel guilty when I swing dance. I apologize to my partner before and afterwards. I bumble and shift. My footwork is awful; my timing is worse. It's so frustrating. I want to do it more; I want to learn more and dance more. I want to dance to fast song. I hate being a block to my partner.
But as fraught as I feel, it's still wonderful. Swing's peculiar intimacy has grown on me considerably and the sensation of a good dance is unbeatable.
I unleashed my litany of self-defeating woes on a follow, a really good one, asking for her advice. Her name was Miriam and she moved like a tricked-out ballerina.
"Well," Miriam said, "All of us were once where you are now. We all remember how much it sucks. So when you ask a guy to dance, don't apologize, just say, "I only know the basics." That always works."
Friday, July 17, 2009
Dirty Water for Elephants
I read "Water for Elephants." Everyone told me to do it.
Water for Elephants was an okay book. Cleanly written. Digests easily. A good book for a plane, here you need something for 4 hours to take your brain away. It was solid, but not very interesting. In part because the characters weren’t very… spicy.
Warning: Lots of pictures. Tons.
Characters:
Jacob= Jimmie Stewart + Harry Potter. In college to become a vet, disaster brings him to the circus.
August= Christian Bale + Handlebar Mustache. Attractive, abusive, crazy.
Marlene: Jessica Alba. Pretty, rich, weak idiot.
Plot---
Jacob: I shall care for nothing.
Circus clowns: It's the circus, you ninny.
Jacob: I shall care for animals.
August: I am charming and highly competent. This boy seems like an excellent lackey. Come, lackey! I will enjoy breaking you! Would you like to wear my suit? It can be a metaphor!
Jacob: I don't... understand... I thought... but you're my boss.
Clowns: Oi, watch the show.
----A circus ensues, followed by circus, cooch, hooch and poverty----
Jacob: Gosh, that Marlene is pretty.
August: My wife is indeed attractive. _pause_ If you smile at her, I will fuck you with a hook and feed you to the clowns.
Jacob: Ah, it is time to run away now. Where were the hookers?
August: My hook is right here, boy. Whenever you want it.
--- There is mad drama because Jacob likes Marlene ---
Marlene: Jacob, don't get upset when August beats me. He can't help it.
Jacob: Angry.
August: I am bigger than you in all ways.
Jacob: You are a bad man.
August: You cannot control your manhood.
Jacob: You’re insane.
Marlene: I am going to cry!
August: I had carnal relations with your mother last night.
Jacob: My mother has been dead for months.
--- Cut scene: fight ---
Ringleader: I make poor business decisions. La la! Elephants for everyone! La la la! I love Rosie!
Poor people: I’m quite hungry.
Ringleader: But don’t you like the elephant, hobos? Don’t you identify with Rosie’s downtrodden, abused, denigrated form, wrestled from an exotic land across the sea? Doesn’t she make you feel majestic and large?
Readers: I think it might be a metaphor for the swollen American dream…
Poor people: No, not really.
Rosie, the elephant: Czesc.
Jacob: She speaks Polish, guys.
August: Listen to me, Rosie, or I will pretend you are like all women and start hitting you until you do what I want.
Rosie: Dude, that was not Polish.
August: This has angered me. It’s punishment time.
Rosie: I am going to cry enormous elephant tears. Skurwysyn.
Readers: This is so poignant!
---Marlene and Jacob make out and feel guilty.---
Marlene: Running away with an older man and joining the circus was an unexpectedly bad idea!
Jacob: Marlene, you're so pretty when you go into hysterics. Your mouth makes an oh shape.
---Circus occurs, followed by historically accurate portrayals of the national malaise.---
August: Guys, I'm not angry anymore. Remember, Marlene? Me? Lovely husband? I bought you a shiny thing! Let’s dance!
Marlene: I knew you were still wonderful and charming! Lovey!
Jacob: But… too good… to be true…
August: You’re like a son to me, kiddo.
Marlene: Let’s have a dance party and eat oysters while the people outside starve to death on poisoned moonshine!
August: We can all dance together! Yay!
Jacob: Um… Okay.
Marlene: Hurray! I will hug Jacob in a platonic manner.
August: …I lied. I am still angry. More than before.
Marlene: ... Please don't hit me with the elephant whip.
Jacob: Also, please don't hit the elephant with the whip. FYI.
---Drama. There is more.--
A Taste of Water
"I look up just as he flicks the cigarette. It arcs through the air and lands in Rosie's open mouth, sizzling as it hits her tongue. She roars, panicked, throwing her head and fishing inside her mouth with her trunk. August marches off. I turn back to Rosie. She stares at me, a look of unspeakable sadness on her face. Her amber eyes are filled with tears."
August is not just beating his hot wife, but he's also abusive to non-native animals. An utter cad.
CAD:
And now you know what I think.
Water for Elephants was an okay book. Cleanly written. Digests easily. A good book for a plane, here you need something for 4 hours to take your brain away. It was solid, but not very interesting. In part because the characters weren’t very… spicy.
Warning: Lots of pictures. Tons.
Characters:
Jacob= Jimmie Stewart + Harry Potter. In college to become a vet, disaster brings him to the circus.
August= Christian Bale + Handlebar Mustache. Attractive, abusive, crazy.
Marlene: Jessica Alba. Pretty, rich, weak idiot.
Plot---
Jacob: I shall care for nothing.
Circus clowns: It's the circus, you ninny.
Jacob: I shall care for animals.
August: I am charming and highly competent. This boy seems like an excellent lackey. Come, lackey! I will enjoy breaking you! Would you like to wear my suit? It can be a metaphor!
Jacob: I don't... understand... I thought... but you're my boss.
Clowns: Oi, watch the show.
----A circus ensues, followed by circus, cooch, hooch and poverty----
Jacob: Gosh, that Marlene is pretty.
August: My wife is indeed attractive. _pause_ If you smile at her, I will fuck you with a hook and feed you to the clowns.
Jacob: Ah, it is time to run away now. Where were the hookers?
August: My hook is right here, boy. Whenever you want it.
--- There is mad drama because Jacob likes Marlene ---
Marlene: Jacob, don't get upset when August beats me. He can't help it.
Jacob: Angry.
August: I am bigger than you in all ways.
Jacob: You are a bad man.
August: You cannot control your manhood.
Jacob: You’re insane.
Marlene: I am going to cry!
August: I had carnal relations with your mother last night.
Jacob: My mother has been dead for months.
--- Cut scene: fight ---
Ringleader: I make poor business decisions. La la! Elephants for everyone! La la la! I love Rosie!
Poor people: I’m quite hungry.
Ringleader: But don’t you like the elephant, hobos? Don’t you identify with Rosie’s downtrodden, abused, denigrated form, wrestled from an exotic land across the sea? Doesn’t she make you feel majestic and large?
Readers: I think it might be a metaphor for the swollen American dream…
Poor people: No, not really.
Rosie, the elephant: Czesc.
Jacob: She speaks Polish, guys.
August: Listen to me, Rosie, or I will pretend you are like all women and start hitting you until you do what I want.
Rosie: Dude, that was not Polish.
August: This has angered me. It’s punishment time.
Rosie: I am going to cry enormous elephant tears. Skurwysyn.
Readers: This is so poignant!
---Marlene and Jacob make out and feel guilty.---
Marlene: Running away with an older man and joining the circus was an unexpectedly bad idea!
Jacob: Marlene, you're so pretty when you go into hysterics. Your mouth makes an oh shape.
---Circus occurs, followed by historically accurate portrayals of the national malaise.---
August: Guys, I'm not angry anymore. Remember, Marlene? Me? Lovely husband? I bought you a shiny thing! Let’s dance!
Marlene: I knew you were still wonderful and charming! Lovey!
Jacob: But… too good… to be true…
August: You’re like a son to me, kiddo.
Marlene: Let’s have a dance party and eat oysters while the people outside starve to death on poisoned moonshine!
August: We can all dance together! Yay!
Jacob: Um… Okay.
Marlene: Hurray! I will hug Jacob in a platonic manner.
August: …I lied. I am still angry. More than before.
Marlene: ... Please don't hit me with the elephant whip.
Jacob: Also, please don't hit the elephant with the whip. FYI.
---Drama. There is more.--
A Taste of Water
"I look up just as he flicks the cigarette. It arcs through the air and lands in Rosie's open mouth, sizzling as it hits her tongue. She roars, panicked, throwing her head and fishing inside her mouth with her trunk. August marches off. I turn back to Rosie. She stares at me, a look of unspeakable sadness on her face. Her amber eyes are filled with tears."
August is not just beating his hot wife, but he's also abusive to non-native animals. An utter cad.
CAD:
And now you know what I think.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Tall and Short of Oberlin
Hello!
Remember that video you were in? Well, here it is!
I want to thank all of you for being involved in this project. It was a lot of fun to put together.
Have a lovely summer,
Aries
Remember that video you were in? Well, here it is!
I want to thank all of you for being involved in this project. It was a lot of fun to put together.
Have a lovely summer,
Aries
Road Trip 5: The Last Night
Dearest Readers,
The backlogged road trip is now over! Still to come: Dallas, NY, Obietown!
Onwards!...
We stopped at Hope, Alabama, birthplace of President Clinton and strolled around. While walking, Yoshi and I had a heated talk on small town living. At first, I lauded them, a bit too strongly. And as we move towards the cold, steel talons of the real world… the closeness of a village is a lovely thing.
Yoshi questioned me: citing the slowness, the insularity and the backwardness. It would be hard for us to find “our people” in nearly any small town. They sold a unicycle in the Hope Bike Shop… but a single unicycle does not make a circus.
As we were talking, a man in a car stopped us, calling out, “Hey, I don’t know you – you new?”
“We’re from out of town,” we explained, “Just taking a walk.”
“We don’t get young people too often,” he said. I bet you don’t, I thought.
Balancing out my conflation of small towns was a general disdain for southern culture. After a while, my insensitivity, crudeness and tactlessness became overwhelming; Yoshi politely asked me to shut my face.
I did shut my face, keeping quiet even when we passed Arkedelphia and Okalona. I tried to be respectful of Texarkana, where we planned on staying the night. Yoshi held hopes for the place, he’d heard of it often enough in Texas. However, I kept mispronouncing the city, which made me sound even more like a Yankee snob. We came up with a few mnemonics for me:
“I am Texarkana’s cold sweat.”
“Yes we texarKAN-a.”
“I’d like to recycle my Texarkana.”
(I was saying Texarkana. Like Madonna. Or Americana. Or Llama.)
I tried very hard to be polite. But Texarkana was a sad, empty town. When I told my dad we passed through, he said, “Guess it hasn’t changed in 80 years.” Apparently it got hit during the dust bowl, sending penniless farmers to California.
From there: Shreveport, the South’s answer to Las Vegas. I was excited – I’d never been inside of the real gambling floor of a casino. When my parents went to Atlantic City for a family get-together, I’d spent my time in the arcade playing Rampage World Tour.
In my childhood, the casino floor seemed so dangerous and glorious. Skill! Chance! Loss! Gain! Bright lights and fast-talking! Cards runs deep in my family – my grandfather was an incredible poker and bridge player. As a kid, I anticipated the day when I could make dough playing cards all day. This was my destiny, to be Aries “Lucky” Indenbaum. Better pay-off than a bank robbery and safe as a CD.
But the Shreveport casinos were not glamorous. Not one bit.
After dinner at IHOP (strawberry pancakes drenched in diabetes-sweet syrup), we went to the casinos: Sam’s Town, Horseshoe and Boomtown. There were a few surface differences between them, mostly in the uniform of the waitresses. Questions were: How pretty were they? How tall were they? What was the color of the waitress costume? Did the skirt end with the thigh, or did the fabric slide away as the ass was finishing its final rotation into the pelvis? How much junk was packed into that trunk?
As we spent more time in the casinos, I felt my disgust grow and grow. Not at the players, but at the structure, which enabled addiction. Pure addiction. The casinos allowed cigarette smoking, had little lights on each machine to allow patrons to order drinks while they played the slots, chatted up high-rollers…. it’s all good business, but to a foul end. The slot machine customers resembled cows at a feedlot.
Given my own associations with addictive behavior, I felt queasy and overwhelmed. The “Requiem for a Dream” theme rang through my ears. Although these were apparently bottom-of-the-barrel places, it was nice to see what remained when the glitz washed away. Gambling in the raw.
We watched one guy play a “sexy” slot machine game for a while. Most of the symbols seemed arbitrary, hearts and diamonds, with one figure of a foxy cartoon chick. He kept playing and playing. I couldn’t even see when he won – most of the lines seemed irregular, and it was unclear which figures were wilds. The machine behind Yoshi and I made a huge noise whenever anyone did anything to it, and all loud, heart-popping jingles. The sound, coupled with the flashing lights and the smell of smoke and booze, made my head hurt.
Yoshi, who had been to Vegas, wasn’t as revolted as I. He played one slot machine based on “House of the Dead” and made $30. While I’m glad he won, and I don’t begrudge him for playing… I was fine avoiding it.
It was a smart system, Yoshi noticed. All of the slot machines were more of less the same, and as computer systems, it would only take a few adjustments in code to make a completely new game. Slap a new plastic cover on it, and it would be done. The Scream game becomes the Blair Witch game becomes the Hostel game, all on the same piece of hardware.
I was happy when we left.
The backlogged road trip is now over! Still to come: Dallas, NY, Obietown!
Onwards!...
We stopped at Hope, Alabama, birthplace of President Clinton and strolled around. While walking, Yoshi and I had a heated talk on small town living. At first, I lauded them, a bit too strongly. And as we move towards the cold, steel talons of the real world… the closeness of a village is a lovely thing.
Yoshi questioned me: citing the slowness, the insularity and the backwardness. It would be hard for us to find “our people” in nearly any small town. They sold a unicycle in the Hope Bike Shop… but a single unicycle does not make a circus.
As we were talking, a man in a car stopped us, calling out, “Hey, I don’t know you – you new?”
“We’re from out of town,” we explained, “Just taking a walk.”
“We don’t get young people too often,” he said. I bet you don’t, I thought.
Balancing out my conflation of small towns was a general disdain for southern culture. After a while, my insensitivity, crudeness and tactlessness became overwhelming; Yoshi politely asked me to shut my face.
I did shut my face, keeping quiet even when we passed Arkedelphia and Okalona. I tried to be respectful of Texarkana, where we planned on staying the night. Yoshi held hopes for the place, he’d heard of it often enough in Texas. However, I kept mispronouncing the city, which made me sound even more like a Yankee snob. We came up with a few mnemonics for me:
“I am Texarkana’s cold sweat.”
“Yes we texarKAN-a.”
“I’d like to recycle my Texarkana.”
(I was saying Texarkana. Like Madonna. Or Americana. Or Llama.)
I tried very hard to be polite. But Texarkana was a sad, empty town. When I told my dad we passed through, he said, “Guess it hasn’t changed in 80 years.” Apparently it got hit during the dust bowl, sending penniless farmers to California.
From there: Shreveport, the South’s answer to Las Vegas. I was excited – I’d never been inside of the real gambling floor of a casino. When my parents went to Atlantic City for a family get-together, I’d spent my time in the arcade playing Rampage World Tour.
In my childhood, the casino floor seemed so dangerous and glorious. Skill! Chance! Loss! Gain! Bright lights and fast-talking! Cards runs deep in my family – my grandfather was an incredible poker and bridge player. As a kid, I anticipated the day when I could make dough playing cards all day. This was my destiny, to be Aries “Lucky” Indenbaum. Better pay-off than a bank robbery and safe as a CD.
But the Shreveport casinos were not glamorous. Not one bit.
After dinner at IHOP (strawberry pancakes drenched in diabetes-sweet syrup), we went to the casinos: Sam’s Town, Horseshoe and Boomtown. There were a few surface differences between them, mostly in the uniform of the waitresses. Questions were: How pretty were they? How tall were they? What was the color of the waitress costume? Did the skirt end with the thigh, or did the fabric slide away as the ass was finishing its final rotation into the pelvis? How much junk was packed into that trunk?
As we spent more time in the casinos, I felt my disgust grow and grow. Not at the players, but at the structure, which enabled addiction. Pure addiction. The casinos allowed cigarette smoking, had little lights on each machine to allow patrons to order drinks while they played the slots, chatted up high-rollers…. it’s all good business, but to a foul end. The slot machine customers resembled cows at a feedlot.
Given my own associations with addictive behavior, I felt queasy and overwhelmed. The “Requiem for a Dream” theme rang through my ears. Although these were apparently bottom-of-the-barrel places, it was nice to see what remained when the glitz washed away. Gambling in the raw.
We watched one guy play a “sexy” slot machine game for a while. Most of the symbols seemed arbitrary, hearts and diamonds, with one figure of a foxy cartoon chick. He kept playing and playing. I couldn’t even see when he won – most of the lines seemed irregular, and it was unclear which figures were wilds. The machine behind Yoshi and I made a huge noise whenever anyone did anything to it, and all loud, heart-popping jingles. The sound, coupled with the flashing lights and the smell of smoke and booze, made my head hurt.
Yoshi, who had been to Vegas, wasn’t as revolted as I. He played one slot machine based on “House of the Dead” and made $30. While I’m glad he won, and I don’t begrudge him for playing… I was fine avoiding it.
It was a smart system, Yoshi noticed. All of the slot machines were more of less the same, and as computer systems, it would only take a few adjustments in code to make a completely new game. Slap a new plastic cover on it, and it would be done. The Scream game becomes the Blair Witch game becomes the Hostel game, all on the same piece of hardware.
I was happy when we left.
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