From God’s lips to your ears

In regard to my last post:

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See? It’s on TV; that means it’s true.

 

Okay, Kanye. I have my degree. Now what?

My Dad died, and he left me his degrees. And now I’m just glad he left me these. Because all the regular homeless people have newspaper, and look what I have. These are documented. I’m going to learn too. I’m going to get super smart, so I to can die without money. But I’ll be the smartest dead guy.

A byproduct of a painfully bitter divorce, most of my father’s possessions ended up at my mother’s house. Being the intermediary between the fractured household, my dad periodically sends me on missions to retrieve some of his effects—the most recent of these being his college and law school diplomas. After searching several boxes, I finally found them, the large frames wrapped in two inches of bubble wrap and packaged lovingly away in an airtight container.

I feel like I should be a lot prouder of my own college degree, gratified enough to want to wrap them in miles of bubble wrap. After the years of hard work and stress which that thin little piece of paper caused me, I thought that finally receiving it in the mail would elicit some unbridled joy in me. But I felt…nothing. Absolutely nothing. My father frequently cites my degree as one of my accomplishments, much as I imagine he sees his own. But really, it was just another act in the script I perceive my life as being—a series of acts that only truly succeed when the audience claps.

Unfortunately, my life-play was only tightly scripted untill college graduation. It has now morphed into an episode of Who’s Line is it Anyway. And I’m terrible at improv. I keep telling the audience, “Now, I need a job, somebody. Someone in the audience give me a cool job,” and those assholes just shout out things like, “janitor” and “waitress” and “prostitute.”

This scene really is not getting off the ground.

What did my degree get me? I’m not talking about the experiences I had, the friends I made, or the diseases I caught while enrolled. I mean, what professional edge did I gain while in school? What do I have because of Ithaca that I A.) could not have obtained by starting in the industry out of high school, or B.) make me more appealing than graduates from any other journalism degree program?

I have some names to drop, including simply the school I attended. But that makes me feel cheap when I do it. Proclaiming, “I went to the Park School of Communications” says nothing concrete of my skills, aptitude, or character. Employers, however, make assumptions based on that fact. Assumptions which are to my benefit, but that are based on nothing but a name. I just paid $120,000 for a club membership.

Do all those people who frame and hang their college degrees at work really hold them in such esteem? Are they displayed to legitimize their offices? Why is it so important for my father to have these tangible bits of his acquired knowledge? Maybe they all are merely taking a social cue from generations past, when those pieces of paper were accurate measurements of one’s successes instead of a probable indicator of debt. Because that’s what mine illustrates right now, resting on the dining room table—the most expensive piece of mail I’ve ever received.

 

Transitive Property

In Boston, there is a place by Boston Common called Boylston Place. For some reason or another, Boylston Place has taken the colloquial name “the Alley.”

There is a collection of nightclubs in the Alley. One of these is called the Liquor Store.

During radio promotions, the announcer excitedly tells listeners to “head down to the Liquor Store in the Alley this weekend” for a good time. And while you’re there, ride “Boston’s only mechanical bull.”

Sketchy? Not at all.

This is genius.

 

So That’s Where He Went

I have a very quick question.

Would a recount of this summer’s Afghan elections really change the leadership there,

Or will Sir Ben Kingsley continue to portray American puppet-president Hamid Karzai?

 

If I Could See All My Friends Tonight

Do you ever feel like no matter how many people you have in your cell phone contacts or however many wish you a happy birthday on your Facebook Wall, you just don’t have that many friends?

Now maybe it’s different in the real world. I’m used to the college definitions of “social life:” sitting in cafes typing papers or reading together (Kelsey), going out to eat (Mal), watching movies at each others’ houses (Dana), bars (everyone)  and 80’s parties on weekends screaming “I’m On A Boat” at the top of our lungs (my team). I truly was not ready to give any of that up.

Yet I unwittingly have. While these friends are now scattered in literally every corner of the United States, I find my life devoid of pleasure without them. If, in the end, we are the of our experiences, those who are a participants in those experiences must be part of substance as well. I like the person my friends have helped me to become. I’m not sure I want to find any substitutions.

So here I sit, 10 PM on a Saturday night lamenting on a blog. A great man once pondered, “Is this real life?” I find myself asking the same question. Is real life getting sparing calls from people you use to talk to every day? Is it going whole days at a time without laughing at an inside joke? If so, real life sucks.

And I haven’t even received my first loan bill.

I know some of those mentioned above will read this, and to them and everyone else who considers themselves a friend, know that I miss you. All of you. And I strongly advocate for each of you to move to Boston. (We’ll set up a weird commune. It’ll work, trust me.)

You know, they were right.

 

The T Is Not Your Bathroom

Dear Riders of the T,

Public transportation is not the place to groom yourself. This seems like a simple enough statement, one that should be common knowledge.

The operative words are “should be.”

Now, why a select few of you deem it necessary to catch up on hygienic practices in the midst of a car full of strangers is beyond my level of comprehension. But there are enough of you that participate in this to warrant this intervention.

Here are  two examples of what I am talking about.

#1 Ear Cleaners

There are two types of Ear Cleaners: the Equipped and the non-Equipped. The Equipped come prepared. Halfway between their ride they reach into their pocket and pull out a Q-Tip. There is absolutely no reason to bring a Q-Tip on a train. None. Because nobody should be fucking cleaning out their ears with them on a train.

Yet, I think I would prefer the Equipped kind of the Ear Cleaner as opposed to the variant.

The non-Equipped Ear Cleaner is an improviser. Which is to say he takes his pinky and just goes to town. Digging and scratching and using his nail as a little mellonballer of ear wax.

Then, he looks at it. He always looks at it.

And wipes it on a seat.

#2 Nail Clippers

It seems that nearly every week, I hear the distinctive click, click, click of nail clippers. The first time I heard this, I looked around the car with a face contorted in disbelieving outrage at what I was hearing. That couldn’t possibly be what I think that is.

Oh, but it was. It was.

I have since watched someone give themselves a metro-mani at least once a week.

The only thing I have to say about this is

FUCKING REALLY?

I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that sitting on pointy dead fingernails was part of my $1.70 T fare. Awesome. Thanks for that.

And, while I’m on this rant, I suppose I should give a shout out to Colgate for introducing their line of disposable toothbrushes.

Way to encourage this shit, Colgate.

Am I completely nuts?

Actually, don’t answer that.

But am I overreacting? Or are other people as nauseated by these people as I am?

 

The Secret Life of Hares

I suppose it’s about time I let you in on this secret life I’ve been leading. When I disappear into the warrens of Boston for an evening and return home sweaty and smelling of cheap beer, I have been slightly misleading you by saying I was out for a run.

Because it is so much more than that.

You see, I’m a Hash House Harrier.

Surrounded by some of the city’s weirdest and most raucous (read: awesome) denizens,  I run through the streets following hastily made chalk marks made on the sidewalks. Some of these marks lead to absolutely nowhere. Dead-ends. But—and this is the key here—others lead to beer. The challenge is to find this enlightened path. Bud Lite-hism.

But let me back up a little bit. The group (abbreviated as H3 or HHH) dates back to 1938, where Malaysian-based British officers playing hares-and-hounds would reward themselves with cold beer at the end of the trail. Today, I guess we’ve grown impatient, for not only is there beer at the end of the trail, but there is also some at the beginning and one or two (or more) others in the middle of the trail.

There are H3 groups everywhere: from Istanbul to Moscow to Athens to Kampala. They are in over 180 countries and on every continent. Yes, even Antarctica. There are people who travel the globe participating in these runs, crashing on fellow hashers’ couches.

It’s an astounding community. And like a true community, it has certain rituals and rites. Like naming. When you’ve run with a chapter long enough for them to get some dirt on you, you lose your birth name in favor of a more, er, unsavory one. The Boston hash is joined by Doogie Plows-Her, Night of the Giving Head, and Willy Wonka and the Back Door Factory, to name a few.

First time runners are Virgins. You are only a virgin once, like real life. The pack’s deflowering of the Virgins is, in a word, humiliating. Like real life. (I am in the limbo period between virginity and naming. Right now, I am “Just Katie.” I’ll let you know when that changes.)

There are also songs. Awful, awful…awfully funny songs. YouTube them if you’re curious.

Naming, songs, and accusations (wearing a hat in circle, wearing new shoes to the hash) all happen at the end of the run. Food, usually pizza, and more beer are served. Then, it’s a general party. It’s perfect.

So it’s a cool running/drinking club. Big deal. Why have I written 400 words on the subject?

Because this is my niche.

When I look at myself in the mirror, I see a really weird person. I think that’s a good thing, but I recognize that my amplified personality, rife with “because no means yes” jokes and satirical perceptions, can rub the populace the wrong way. The result is an identity stifled. All those quips I want to say are repressed and probably turning into tumors at the base of my cerebral cortex.

The Hash House Harriers exemplify my character in a brilliantly public way. We make spectacles of ourselves, make no accommodations for political correctness, and defy open container laws. We are proud of these facts. With the pack, I am who I am.

I am a hasher.

 

Gray hair is nature’s way of whispering, “You’re dying.”

It’s Friday again, and I have no idea how that happened. I have experiences that relegate this week to its own niche in my collective memory, but without real permanence. A month from now, I won’t consider September 18-25, 2009 any different from September 18-25, 1993.*

And that is heartbreaking. I want to live a life that leaves brand marks scorched on my cerebellum. Not these one-off episodes, many without any connection to the original plot.

I am 22 years-old, but I don’t see myself as young anymore, which I know is pretty bombastic (triple word score there). Perhaps it is because I’m sitting on the same couch in the same house staring at the same oil painting of the “Celebrated Steed, Lexington” that I was four years ago—a time when the idea of college promised to be my Glass Glass Elevator; where I would break through the roof and inherit the chocolate factory of life. Yet, sitting in the familiar ass-groove of this couch, I cannot help but think I’ve stagnated.

So before my own mane begins to whisper my impending demise—you know, at 23—I need to start rocking this bitch.

* Maybe except for Wednesday. Wednesday too much of a coincidence for this fatalist.

 

Quickquick.

Not political, intellectual or really of any importance at all, but a guy asked me this earlier, and I am compelled to answer.

“If you were stranded on a desert island, what are the 5 albums you’d take with you,” Jack said.

First answer: I’d trade all those CDs in for my guitar. Is that allowed?

2nd answer: If mixed CDs weren’t barred, I’d choose the 5 CDs my most recent boyfriends have burned me.

UPDATE:

3rd answer: 1.) Bridge Over Troubled Water Parsley, Sage, Rosemary & Thyme~Simon & Garfunkel (for it’s inclusion of “A Poem on the Underground Wall”)

2.) The White Album, sides 1 & 2 (as not to cheat with a double album) or, if we’re being really strict, Let It Be~The Beatles

3.)  Feed the Animals~Girl Talk

4.) 36 All-Time Greatest Hits Come Fill Your Glass With Us~The Clancy Brothers (for The Parting Glass, Finnigan’s Wake, Rosin the Bow, and because compilations are cheating)

5.) Ten Years Together~Peter, Paul & Mary Blue~Joni Mitchell (because every time I listen to it I hear something new)

But there’s still no Baez, Clapton, James Taylor, Dylan, The Who, etc. etc. on there. This requires a bit more thought. This will always require more thought.

 

Things That Make You Go… “Huh.”

Last night, in honor of the 40th Anniversary of Woodstock, looked up some footage of the performers on YouTube. I started with the last on the set list, Jimi Hendrix, and clicked on “Voodoo Child.” About 15 seconds into the song, something happened that jolted me back into reality and into recognizing the true singularity that was Woodstock:

a Google Ad popped up. Buy this MP3 from Amazon, it urged.

Sigh.

I encourage everyone who reads this to take a minute and watch some of the footage of that magnificent event 40 years ago. I especially recommend this to those of you in my age group (20-25) who have an utterly different definition of what music is. (I don’t mean this as an insult, but as a challenge to modern notion of popular music. No Birthday Sex here, folks.) If you want to try and bypass the ads, check out Country Joe McDonald and the “Feel-Like-I’m-Fixin’-To-Die Rag.” Before the song, he leads the crowd of half a million in a cheer of, well, you’ll see.