We hit the slopes yesterday on our yearly ski/snowboard trip. Off we went to My Hood; I braided my hear, put on my baggy gray cargo snowboarding pants, my new green ski-jacket that has a GPS chip in the sleeve, and outdated ski-goggles.
The weather was beautiful; the azure sky contrasting against the white snow with the brown peaks of the mountain poking through was breathtaking. To top it all off, there was virtually no one else enjoying the lovely day! I didn't have to share. Thus, we became quite spoiled. Especially me. One has to be careful of those with Spoiled Snowboarder/Skier Syndrome, also known as SSS.
SSS is caused by individuals who
1. Are practically alone on the mountain snowboarding.
2. Enjoy great company whilst snowboarding.
3. Get really close parking and don’t have to take a shuttle to the lodge.
4. Have new green coats with a GPS chips in them.
5. Eat seriously over-priced food in the lodge ($9 for a burger?!)
6. Drink expensive hot cocoa with lots of whipped cream.
So now you know what the causation is. But can you spot one? Here are some pointers
How to spot someone with SSS
1. They have matted blond braids, a red face, and a runny nose.
2. They become irate for waiting in line for a lift for more than 20 seconds.
3. They yell, “Get off my mountain, You putz!”
4. They wear baggy pants and look like punks.
5. They shout things like “Kowabunga!” and “Geranamo!”
After spending a lovely day on the mountain, I must admit, I did show some symptoms of SSS. However, I did suffer for my SSS behavior. It was my last run. I had done great the whole day with no falls to report. Against my will, I was told I needed to be back in the lodge by six. It was about 5:55. I got to the top of the run, I told myself I had four minutes to zoom down the mountain. Off I went. I expertly carved by board into the icing snow and weaved around the slower folks. I shouted “get off my mountain!” (Okay I didn’t, but I thought it). I was going fast; I was out of control. Then my board caught on something and before I knew it, I was going down the hill, only not on my board. I landed on my tushie, then my side, my coat hiked up and my bare skin scraped the barnacle-like snow. Ouch. I did horizontal somersaults, my board moving in circles, like a ceiling-fan. Finally, I stopped. I felt pain in my knees and my side. I thought to myself “Am I hurt?” I lied on the snow for a few minutes assessing the damage. Nothing was broken, but pain was visiting me. I sheepishly got up, my knees pounding with pain and slowly descended down the mountain, this time at a safe speed.
When I got back into the lodge, I lifted up my shirt only to discover a massive bruise adorning my side; it was the size of a tennis ball. Very cool! Now I can act like I’m this extreme person with all these cool battle wounds. When really, I’m just an individual with SSS.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
The Consequence of Casualness
There are certain things that I truly love about the United States. For example, we have awesome supermarkets. They sell delicious freshly made Indian cuisine that exudes this lovely aroma which carries shoppers to the far corners of the hindu kush. They even have a sommelier. And, you would never ever find green meat on their shelves (I found green meat on a shelf in a German grocer’s). I suppose I could go on and on about America’s fine grocery stores such as Trader Joes and Whole Foods, and even Fred Meyer. But, this week I have come to appreciate the casualness of this country. Perhaps, it is just the west coast, but we just kick back, wear jeans, use slang, and relax.
Last week my professor was complaining about age. Apparently, when people get old, they get respect. Sometimes his students call him “Professor Schmitz.” (Not his real name). His response to that was “come on, it’s Jo, I mean what is this? Get real.” Enough with these titles and last names, isn’t that a bit pretentious? Even professors are on a first-name basis. I can’t think of a single person who I would call by their last name. But I do find it odd when my elderly professors start using slang such as “sick,” “sweet,” or “righteous.”
And dressing up? What for? Who would go to the opera in anything aside from jeans and pumas?
Although we don’t embrace formalities, we don’t embrace utter casualness. For example, it would be inappropriate to call my professors “Dude” or “Man,” “Hey man, I don’t understand the lecture last week on the philosophy of modern drumming.” Yeah, that wouldn’t “fly.”
It’s great that we Northwesters don’t buy into that Gucci and Prada business. Rather, we head on down to the second-hand store, only to be taken to the cleaners for a pair of used jeans. But then we can say to our friends, “Yeah, I got these as a thrift store.” When in reality, it was a “new to you” store, with overpriced merchandise. We pay that price of fashion, and to enact our trendiness, and just to prove we’re casual. And, that is all I have to say on the issue of casualness.
Last week my professor was complaining about age. Apparently, when people get old, they get respect. Sometimes his students call him “Professor Schmitz.” (Not his real name). His response to that was “come on, it’s Jo, I mean what is this? Get real.” Enough with these titles and last names, isn’t that a bit pretentious? Even professors are on a first-name basis. I can’t think of a single person who I would call by their last name. But I do find it odd when my elderly professors start using slang such as “sick,” “sweet,” or “righteous.”
And dressing up? What for? Who would go to the opera in anything aside from jeans and pumas?
Although we don’t embrace formalities, we don’t embrace utter casualness. For example, it would be inappropriate to call my professors “Dude” or “Man,” “Hey man, I don’t understand the lecture last week on the philosophy of modern drumming.” Yeah, that wouldn’t “fly.”
It’s great that we Northwesters don’t buy into that Gucci and Prada business. Rather, we head on down to the second-hand store, only to be taken to the cleaners for a pair of used jeans. But then we can say to our friends, “Yeah, I got these as a thrift store.” When in reality, it was a “new to you” store, with overpriced merchandise. We pay that price of fashion, and to enact our trendiness, and just to prove we’re casual. And, that is all I have to say on the issue of casualness.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Winter-Fast-Forwarded
It’s that time a year again when nothing is happening. And no, I don’t have the Post Valentines Day Blues, it’s just that it’s February. I’m not looking forward to Christmas and I’m not looking forward to summer: summer is too distant. It is that time of year when nothing is accomplished so I hole myself up with intentions to hibernate and sleep away these dreary months. (Lately, my location for napping has been the second floor lobby of the library on campus, ya know, by the big windows).
I only want to shut myself shut off from all forms of civilization, in my cave-like roomdrinking an Echinacea and Airborne concoction- wishing I had taken heed to my mother’s advice of downing copious amount of vitamins. Typically in the winter, I have a constantly running red nose and a tissue in every pocket of every winter coat I own. It is this time of year when I research new places to live; I imagine myself on a faraway beach looking at the sparkling aqua sky and hearing the gentle sound of the surf. I envision myself closing my eyes as I exhale- opening my mouth so servants can feed me grapes. In this daydream, I am in a place where blonde sun-soaked surfer boys saunter by hoping for a big kahuna. But today, although it is that time of year, I’m finding myself deleriously content with the Northwest. Usually it’s rainy and gray, with each moment being worse than the next. It is February when all aspects of life are devoid of any shimmer of hope. The month of February has historically been the darkest, joyless and most miserable days of the year. I find myself thinking, “It can’t get any worse than this.” And then it does: I catch another cold. So, what makes this winter day so different? The sun emerged and showed her positively brimming face, which ricocheted off my small corner of the world.
I drove with the windows down, with upbeat summer music playing, sipping an iced mocha. Some might say I was out of control, validating my hipness with my overpriced beverage. I even donned my trusty three-dollar running trousers that I got at a thrift store five years ago (ya think I got my moneys worth?). I ran around the neighborhood listening for the sound of distant lawnmowers, basketballs bouncing, and giddy children. I was feeling (more than usually) pleased with myself.
Instead of dreaming of a new place to live I’ve begun picturing myself as a bonified-full-fledged-Northwest-naturalist reaping the benefits of summer. Yeah, this place isn’t so bad: February is tolerable. To jumpstart this early spring, I’ll start eating steamed kale, tofu sandwiches and green-healthy-looking-juices. Then I’ll go into the gorge- hike up to the top of the lookout point- ¬¬watch windsurfers and enjoy God’s creation. After that, I’ll go to the beach and dip my toe into the frigid salty waters of the Pacific Ocean. Ooh, and then sit outside and have a barbeque! Aah, I’m thrilled to see the signs of spring sprouting up early this year; there is evidence of daffodils poking their way through the soil. Perhaps I ought not get carried away; after all, there still waits a few more months of winter. But, it is days like today that put a smile on my face and a twinkle in my eye. The Pacific Northwest is great, no matter what those other people say (mainly Californians). Who needs a far-away beach anyways?
I only want to shut myself shut off from all forms of civilization, in my cave-like roomdrinking an Echinacea and Airborne concoction- wishing I had taken heed to my mother’s advice of downing copious amount of vitamins. Typically in the winter, I have a constantly running red nose and a tissue in every pocket of every winter coat I own. It is this time of year when I research new places to live; I imagine myself on a faraway beach looking at the sparkling aqua sky and hearing the gentle sound of the surf. I envision myself closing my eyes as I exhale- opening my mouth so servants can feed me grapes. In this daydream, I am in a place where blonde sun-soaked surfer boys saunter by hoping for a big kahuna. But today, although it is that time of year, I’m finding myself deleriously content with the Northwest. Usually it’s rainy and gray, with each moment being worse than the next. It is February when all aspects of life are devoid of any shimmer of hope. The month of February has historically been the darkest, joyless and most miserable days of the year. I find myself thinking, “It can’t get any worse than this.” And then it does: I catch another cold. So, what makes this winter day so different? The sun emerged and showed her positively brimming face, which ricocheted off my small corner of the world.
I drove with the windows down, with upbeat summer music playing, sipping an iced mocha. Some might say I was out of control, validating my hipness with my overpriced beverage. I even donned my trusty three-dollar running trousers that I got at a thrift store five years ago (ya think I got my moneys worth?). I ran around the neighborhood listening for the sound of distant lawnmowers, basketballs bouncing, and giddy children. I was feeling (more than usually) pleased with myself.
Instead of dreaming of a new place to live I’ve begun picturing myself as a bonified-full-fledged-Northwest-naturalist reaping the benefits of summer. Yeah, this place isn’t so bad: February is tolerable. To jumpstart this early spring, I’ll start eating steamed kale, tofu sandwiches and green-healthy-looking-juices. Then I’ll go into the gorge- hike up to the top of the lookout point- ¬¬watch windsurfers and enjoy God’s creation. After that, I’ll go to the beach and dip my toe into the frigid salty waters of the Pacific Ocean. Ooh, and then sit outside and have a barbeque! Aah, I’m thrilled to see the signs of spring sprouting up early this year; there is evidence of daffodils poking their way through the soil. Perhaps I ought not get carried away; after all, there still waits a few more months of winter. But, it is days like today that put a smile on my face and a twinkle in my eye. The Pacific Northwest is great, no matter what those other people say (mainly Californians). Who needs a far-away beach anyways?
Friday, January 11, 2008
Where Have all the Cowboys Gone and What Happened 2 Phone Calls?
On average I receive zero letters each day and approximately three e-mails (most of which consist of quick messages such as, “Hey wanna go to coffee tonight? Bye! friend x”). Communication has changed so much in every way imaginable. Presidents no longer prepare eloquent three-hour speeches. Instead, they recite simple speeches (told to them through a small earpiece) the masses can comprehend, which are probably written by some temp or intern at a public relations firm in Corvallis, OR. The art of letter writing has been lost in the web of technology. Not only has the medium changed by what the medium contains has also changed. We blend words in order to consolidate such as, “sup” or “y’all.” I know language changes and I embrace change but there is value in quality communication, which seems to have been kidnapped.
Let me use the example of text messages. When living in Europe I was introduced 2 the concept of communicating purely and only by “sms” messages. I nearly forgot how 2 dial a telephone number, as I was so used to using my phone as a texting machine. As I averted my eyes out the window on the train, I could text messages full of acronyms and modern lingo. I had become a prestigious deeply importantly talented texter. “where u @?” “ILBCNU” “will b l8” There ought 2 be a manual on how to text. In this manual one could learn all the acronyms, and special techniques, such as how drive and text, how to position the thumb in order to be as efficient as possible. Efficient Texting Instructions: 1. Lay phone in hand with the foundation of phone at base of fingers. 2. Loosely clutch. 3. Position thumb over keypad. 4. Quickly Depress keys. 5. You are texting. 6. Congratulations, and don’t forget 2 send your message.
Even some of the most expert and experienced texters I know struggle with the lingo. Recently, my friend (who happens 2 be a text message connesseuer), whom I shall refer 2 as Person A, sent a text 2 Person B. The text read something along these lines. “at nat treas, u goin 2 cdr st?” Now, let me help you decode that message. “nat treas” actually means the movie: National Treasure 2. “u” has replaced what ought to be are you. The beginning of the sentence seems to have been forgotten all about. The number 2 refers to a dead word spelled t-o remember that word? Hmm, come on..,think harder! It died when it was decided that it was simply far 2 much effort to spell, so it was replaced. “goin” is the word going with the “g” abandoned. And lastly, “cdr st” is a simple acronym for Cedar Street. So in English, a dying language that is quickly being replaced by text lingo, that text would read as follows: I am at National Treasure 2, are you going to Cedar Street? Now imagine getting a text message that communicated using English and not text lingo. I bet your reaction would be of confusion. What? Huh? What are all those extra words for? Why can’t people just say things like “at nat treas u goin 2 cdr st?”
And now, a call to action: You can change this. Write to your senator, your congressman, the newspaper, the mayor, and your cellular phone provider demanding that all texts are to be written in text lingo; it is the public’s best interest! Tell them your goal is to have the gasses of the English language that are emitted into the communication ozone layer decreased by 45% by the year 2014. If we all work together and each of us tries to reduce our English language footprint we can change the world.
All this innovation and advancement in the English language is truly exciting. But on the rare occasion when I hear English and not text lingo, I find myself nostalgically wishing things were the way they were back when I was a kid. I got a letter a few months ago, a hand written letter, with a postage stamp, tucked inside an envelope. I was quite thrilled, as that hadn’t happened to me since I was in elementary school and regularly receiving letters from my various pen pals (including a boy called Richard Bailey, from England, who liked pancakes and wondered if I liked them too). Getting a letter is actually very exciting. I found myself enjoying old-fashioned communication. There was a unique bond in reading someone’s actual handwriting and trying to figure out if they had written a “u” or a “v.” This was something I knew better than to take for granted because it is a rare occasion to receive letters, whereas electronic mail regularly flows into my electronic inbox. Recently, my phone rang, which is quite strange because normally it beeps, alerting me that I have received a text message; I almost didn’t know what the ascending jarring and most unpleasant noise was (yeah, I was class too), then it occurred to me, it was a phone call! Hmm…how strange. This too was a very pleasant surprise, as I never get phone calls anymore. I mostly get these strange coded memos also know as text messages.
I really miss the old fashioned way of communicating; it held great value and still does. But, does anyone know it? Or, are people simply 2 lazy to put fourth effort into communicating? Perhaps the call to action we ought to take is resurrecting the English language. We could start by calling people, or writing them a letter; how cool would that be? Imagine rushing 2 the mailbox in anticipation that something personal, written with effort was waiting. Waiting just for unique you.
Let me use the example of text messages. When living in Europe I was introduced 2 the concept of communicating purely and only by “sms” messages. I nearly forgot how 2 dial a telephone number, as I was so used to using my phone as a texting machine. As I averted my eyes out the window on the train, I could text messages full of acronyms and modern lingo. I had become a prestigious deeply importantly talented texter. “where u @?” “ILBCNU” “will b l8” There ought 2 be a manual on how to text. In this manual one could learn all the acronyms, and special techniques, such as how drive and text, how to position the thumb in order to be as efficient as possible. Efficient Texting Instructions: 1. Lay phone in hand with the foundation of phone at base of fingers. 2. Loosely clutch. 3. Position thumb over keypad. 4. Quickly Depress keys. 5. You are texting. 6. Congratulations, and don’t forget 2 send your message.
Even some of the most expert and experienced texters I know struggle with the lingo. Recently, my friend (who happens 2 be a text message connesseuer), whom I shall refer 2 as Person A, sent a text 2 Person B. The text read something along these lines. “at nat treas, u goin 2 cdr st?” Now, let me help you decode that message. “nat treas” actually means the movie: National Treasure 2. “u” has replaced what ought to be are you. The beginning of the sentence seems to have been forgotten all about. The number 2 refers to a dead word spelled t-o remember that word? Hmm, come on..,think harder! It died when it was decided that it was simply far 2 much effort to spell, so it was replaced. “goin” is the word going with the “g” abandoned. And lastly, “cdr st” is a simple acronym for Cedar Street. So in English, a dying language that is quickly being replaced by text lingo, that text would read as follows: I am at National Treasure 2, are you going to Cedar Street? Now imagine getting a text message that communicated using English and not text lingo. I bet your reaction would be of confusion. What? Huh? What are all those extra words for? Why can’t people just say things like “at nat treas u goin 2 cdr st?”
And now, a call to action: You can change this. Write to your senator, your congressman, the newspaper, the mayor, and your cellular phone provider demanding that all texts are to be written in text lingo; it is the public’s best interest! Tell them your goal is to have the gasses of the English language that are emitted into the communication ozone layer decreased by 45% by the year 2014. If we all work together and each of us tries to reduce our English language footprint we can change the world.
All this innovation and advancement in the English language is truly exciting. But on the rare occasion when I hear English and not text lingo, I find myself nostalgically wishing things were the way they were back when I was a kid. I got a letter a few months ago, a hand written letter, with a postage stamp, tucked inside an envelope. I was quite thrilled, as that hadn’t happened to me since I was in elementary school and regularly receiving letters from my various pen pals (including a boy called Richard Bailey, from England, who liked pancakes and wondered if I liked them too). Getting a letter is actually very exciting. I found myself enjoying old-fashioned communication. There was a unique bond in reading someone’s actual handwriting and trying to figure out if they had written a “u” or a “v.” This was something I knew better than to take for granted because it is a rare occasion to receive letters, whereas electronic mail regularly flows into my electronic inbox. Recently, my phone rang, which is quite strange because normally it beeps, alerting me that I have received a text message; I almost didn’t know what the ascending jarring and most unpleasant noise was (yeah, I was class too), then it occurred to me, it was a phone call! Hmm…how strange. This too was a very pleasant surprise, as I never get phone calls anymore. I mostly get these strange coded memos also know as text messages.
I really miss the old fashioned way of communicating; it held great value and still does. But, does anyone know it? Or, are people simply 2 lazy to put fourth effort into communicating? Perhaps the call to action we ought to take is resurrecting the English language. We could start by calling people, or writing them a letter; how cool would that be? Imagine rushing 2 the mailbox in anticipation that something personal, written with effort was waiting. Waiting just for unique you.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
The Information Age
To be informed means to have relevant knowledge of current events, past events, and the implications of these events. Relevant knowledge is knowledge that matters to more than just a few people. The latest events in Paris Hilton’s life are not knowledge that I would consider to be relevant. Sure, is might be of importance to her family, but to the general public, it has little value and virtually no implications. The passing of a new law by legislature does affect the American people and that is relevant knowledge. It is in everyone’s best interest to know the laws so we can act accordingly. One can say the Iraq war is bad or good but, if they cannot defend their position, then this person is not properly informed. To be informed is essentially an accumulation of knowledge. Being informed does not pertain purely to world events. One could be informed on the bioluminescence of fireflies and be able to explain it in great detail; this is also being informed. An well informed person has relevant knowledge that they are able to defend, they debate the issues, and seek the truth.
Although many people take the time to inform themselves of many things, particularly world events, what is done with that information is often small. When I heard of a cyclone barging through Bangladesh, I did nothing. When I heard of the assassination of Benizir Bhutto in Pakistan, once again, I did nothing. However, when I hear that traffic is going to be bad, I might take a different route to work. If I was a banker, I would pay particular attention to Wall Street news, then, based upon the information accumulated, I might make educated decisions. In that way news also will cause people to act. What humans do with most of the news they acquire is generally nothing, unless it pertains directly to them. Oh sure, we might shed a tear for the mass killings in Darfur, but very few of us actually take action. The most that the gum-chewing individual is going to do is spend a few hours researching a candidate who has plans to take action and then proudly casting their vote. After that, this individual will go about town wearing their sticker that says “I voted.”
I would consider myself to be relatively informed. There is so much to know, even about a single event; I simply do not have the time to understand it all. I first began taking interest in world events when I was eighteen, after I had taken a vacation to Europe for the first time. Although, I spent most of my time in England, a country with many similarities to the United States, I learned that the world is so much larger than my little plot. I wanted to know what the people of England cared about. What were their concerns? What was news to them? From that point on I began reading the news. The affect reading the news has had on me is that is has expanded my mind, opened me up to new ideas and perspectives and given me a well-rounded world view.
In my experience in reading the news, which is my primary way of informing myself, I’ve found that it is almost like a puzzle. Certain world events are connected to another event; history plays a huge role in what is happening today. For example, one could learn much from going back into the history of Iran to find out why there is a negative attitude towards Americans from Iranians. Simply reading the news is not enough to be considered informed; one has to find out the history behind what is happening today in order to develop a true understanding. Discussing the issues is a great method of seeking the truth; one might find that their opinion is actually quite narrow-minded. It is healthy to debate issues and open the mind up to new perspectives and ideas. That is seeking the truth, a vital part of being informed. When one seeks the truth through research and debate they are then able to defend their position much more easily.
In conclusion I would like to say that being informed constitutes primarily of the accumulation of relevant knowledge. What is done with that knowledge is not necessarily applicable but nonetheless noteworthy. To inform oneself of relevant knowledge, debate the issues, and ultimately seek the truth is to be informed.
Although many people take the time to inform themselves of many things, particularly world events, what is done with that information is often small. When I heard of a cyclone barging through Bangladesh, I did nothing. When I heard of the assassination of Benizir Bhutto in Pakistan, once again, I did nothing. However, when I hear that traffic is going to be bad, I might take a different route to work. If I was a banker, I would pay particular attention to Wall Street news, then, based upon the information accumulated, I might make educated decisions. In that way news also will cause people to act. What humans do with most of the news they acquire is generally nothing, unless it pertains directly to them. Oh sure, we might shed a tear for the mass killings in Darfur, but very few of us actually take action. The most that the gum-chewing individual is going to do is spend a few hours researching a candidate who has plans to take action and then proudly casting their vote. After that, this individual will go about town wearing their sticker that says “I voted.”
I would consider myself to be relatively informed. There is so much to know, even about a single event; I simply do not have the time to understand it all. I first began taking interest in world events when I was eighteen, after I had taken a vacation to Europe for the first time. Although, I spent most of my time in England, a country with many similarities to the United States, I learned that the world is so much larger than my little plot. I wanted to know what the people of England cared about. What were their concerns? What was news to them? From that point on I began reading the news. The affect reading the news has had on me is that is has expanded my mind, opened me up to new ideas and perspectives and given me a well-rounded world view.
In my experience in reading the news, which is my primary way of informing myself, I’ve found that it is almost like a puzzle. Certain world events are connected to another event; history plays a huge role in what is happening today. For example, one could learn much from going back into the history of Iran to find out why there is a negative attitude towards Americans from Iranians. Simply reading the news is not enough to be considered informed; one has to find out the history behind what is happening today in order to develop a true understanding. Discussing the issues is a great method of seeking the truth; one might find that their opinion is actually quite narrow-minded. It is healthy to debate issues and open the mind up to new perspectives and ideas. That is seeking the truth, a vital part of being informed. When one seeks the truth through research and debate they are then able to defend their position much more easily.
In conclusion I would like to say that being informed constitutes primarily of the accumulation of relevant knowledge. What is done with that knowledge is not necessarily applicable but nonetheless noteworthy. To inform oneself of relevant knowledge, debate the issues, and ultimately seek the truth is to be informed.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
A Taste of Stardom
So, I’m kind of a fanatic. Yup, that’s right, true bonified authentic fanatic. What about? Well, the band Travis of course. In fact, I’ve even named blog after them, you see their second cd was titled “The Man Who.” And, in my computer class in high school, I did a power point slideshow on Travis. Well, on November 18th I actually saw Travis, live, in the flesh, up close and personal. I had my first real contact with Travis. Those kinds of things just don’t happen to people like me.
We got to the concert quite early and stood around with the other Travis fanatics for an hour, and then we saw some rubbish band perform (Unfortunately, Gretchen has since become a fan of this rubbish band). The redeeming quality of the first band was the aesthetically pleasing drummer, who I enjoyed looking at.
Suddenly, after more waiting, the theme jingle from Universal pictures played and lights flashed around. The venue was dark and fans began screaming. I thought to myself “Wow!” and my heart began to race. The band ran up from a side corridor in wrestlers robes. Fans put their hands out hoping to touch the band, I stuck my hand out, but I didn’t touch anyone. Gretchen touched Dougies hand, I’m still jealous. She told me it felt rough.
Amazingly enough, me and Grethen were really close the action, about 3 feet away from the stage right in the center. I think I made eye contact with Dougie (Bassist) several times (uh, I think it was me he was looking at..). He enjoyed playing cat and mouse with the fans (that’s me by the way) he’d give a look and then look away and grin real big in his trendy rocker clothes. Then, he would do it again but this time more deviously. Gretchen got the honor of making eye contact with Franny (Lead Singer), man she gets everything!
All their major songs were played, sing, turn, side, battleships, why does it always rain on me, all I wanna do it rock, good feeling, writing to reach you, driftwood, closer and much more. Then when they sang “Flowers in the Window” they all put their arms around each other and sang together with just a guitar and a tambourine. Neil the drummer is a great tambourinist, well I suppose he has good rhythm since he’s a drummer.
At one point Andy (Guitarist) ran out into the crowd and played a solo in the with a guitar cord trailing behind him back up to the stage. Franny had us all point and shout rhythmically “Klaus, Klaus” at their keyboard guy. Then Franny insisted we make use of the springboard dance floor by jumping up and down during the chorus of “Why doe it always rain on me.” They got the audience involved and validated everyone’s feelings. Later in the show Franny said “Hi Linda” to an older lady with long grey hair, glasses and a denim coat. She looked absolutely shocked that they remembered her and her mouth hung open in disbelief.
I feel like I’ve arrived. I’ve never had contact with anyone remotely famous (unless you count a local newscaster). We did everything with Travis, we sang with them, looked at them, were looked at by them, touched them, screamed at them, jumped with them, and they talked to us. After all that contact, I feel like I can nonchalantly say, “Yeah, I know them.”
We got to the concert quite early and stood around with the other Travis fanatics for an hour, and then we saw some rubbish band perform (Unfortunately, Gretchen has since become a fan of this rubbish band). The redeeming quality of the first band was the aesthetically pleasing drummer, who I enjoyed looking at.
Suddenly, after more waiting, the theme jingle from Universal pictures played and lights flashed around. The venue was dark and fans began screaming. I thought to myself “Wow!” and my heart began to race. The band ran up from a side corridor in wrestlers robes. Fans put their hands out hoping to touch the band, I stuck my hand out, but I didn’t touch anyone. Gretchen touched Dougies hand, I’m still jealous. She told me it felt rough.
Amazingly enough, me and Grethen were really close the action, about 3 feet away from the stage right in the center. I think I made eye contact with Dougie (Bassist) several times (uh, I think it was me he was looking at..). He enjoyed playing cat and mouse with the fans (that’s me by the way) he’d give a look and then look away and grin real big in his trendy rocker clothes. Then, he would do it again but this time more deviously. Gretchen got the honor of making eye contact with Franny (Lead Singer), man she gets everything!
All their major songs were played, sing, turn, side, battleships, why does it always rain on me, all I wanna do it rock, good feeling, writing to reach you, driftwood, closer and much more. Then when they sang “Flowers in the Window” they all put their arms around each other and sang together with just a guitar and a tambourine. Neil the drummer is a great tambourinist, well I suppose he has good rhythm since he’s a drummer.
At one point Andy (Guitarist) ran out into the crowd and played a solo in the with a guitar cord trailing behind him back up to the stage. Franny had us all point and shout rhythmically “Klaus, Klaus” at their keyboard guy. Then Franny insisted we make use of the springboard dance floor by jumping up and down during the chorus of “Why doe it always rain on me.” They got the audience involved and validated everyone’s feelings. Later in the show Franny said “Hi Linda” to an older lady with long grey hair, glasses and a denim coat. She looked absolutely shocked that they remembered her and her mouth hung open in disbelief.
I feel like I’ve arrived. I’ve never had contact with anyone remotely famous (unless you count a local newscaster). We did everything with Travis, we sang with them, looked at them, were looked at by them, touched them, screamed at them, jumped with them, and they talked to us. After all that contact, I feel like I can nonchalantly say, “Yeah, I know them.”
Sunday, October 7, 2007
The Times, They Are a Not Changin
If you’re a country music enthusiast, you’ll surely remember that song by Tracey Lawrence, “Time Marches On." Unlike most country songs that sing about unfaithful women and lonesome cowboys, Lawrence professes that the only thing that stays the same is that everything changes. He illustrates his point by saying, “North moves South and South Moves North” and “A star is born, a star burns out.” Well I only half way agree with Mr Lawrence, everything does not change, however everything does not remain the same.
Tonight I was walking through my old stomping grounds of inner-city Portland. I was outside Powell’s Books and I saw the this bum. That same bum I’d seen years before. That same bum who received a whole cheesecake from me that was a leftover from a wedding reception. And here I was, and there he was, approximately three years later, still holding his cardboard sign. I don’t think he remembered me, the cheesecake girl. Some years ago when this same bum had approached me for change, I had given him a half eaten bag of soy nuts that for some reason happened to be in my pocket. He thanked me, but then I heard him trying to pawn of the soy nuts onto another street dweller. I’d like to believe he was just sharing but I am led to believe that he was trying to ditch the healthy snack. And, he was still there; I was astonished! What’s even more haunting about the encounter is that across the street there was that same man playing the trumpet. The street musician who perches himself on a little stool, and wears a tuxedo and Mickey Mouse ears still plays in the same spot year after year. He plays a potpourri of jaunty tunes near a busy stoplight and has to stop every so often to turn the page in the music he is following. Two years later and I see him again in the same spot, wearing the same costume, and playing the same tunes.
Some things are expected to change. I had expected a new batch of street dwellers and street musicians, so I was surprised that they were still the same people. However, it could be a prime sport for securing soy nuts or cheesecakes, if you happen to be sparinging (slang: requesting or hinting at someone’s spare change; sparechanging). If you’re a street performer you might be in the middle of a great multitude of people who are trying to cross the boulevard and that could be financially advantageous.
There are some things which one expects never to change. My Uncle Phillip has this purple shirt which I am sure he worn at least 3 days a week for the last 17 years. I remember him in that purple plaid shirt when I was a kid. He has received new shirts as gifts but I suppose he has a tendency to return to the familiarity and trustworthiness of the purple shirt. Some things will never change.
Some things do change. For example a man in the middle of a mid life crises has been known to re-invent himself. You might see these men sporting longer hair, riding on a Harley, and flaunting a much younger girlfriend. There are the inevitable changes of the twenty-something crowd (of which I am a part of). We’re always changing our minds, majors, careers or towns. I’m a perfect example of an ever-changing young adult, as are most, of not all of my friends. There’s the child who grows up, who starts wearing make-up, doesn’t refuse to eat vegetables (they might even employ a vegetarian diet), starts driving a car and carrying on with the opposite sex. People get married, acquire children, buy houses, and join Mommy and Tot time at the local community center. Some changes are just expected.
Some things I wish would change, I should like to hear kazoo music instead of trumpet music whilst I cross Burnside. I should like to get harassed for change by someone new. I expect change from everyone else. From this observation of life I have concluded that some things such as bums, struggling musicians and purple shirts don’t change while other aspects of life such as jobs and towns are expected to change.
Tonight I was walking through my old stomping grounds of inner-city Portland. I was outside Powell’s Books and I saw the this bum. That same bum I’d seen years before. That same bum who received a whole cheesecake from me that was a leftover from a wedding reception. And here I was, and there he was, approximately three years later, still holding his cardboard sign. I don’t think he remembered me, the cheesecake girl. Some years ago when this same bum had approached me for change, I had given him a half eaten bag of soy nuts that for some reason happened to be in my pocket. He thanked me, but then I heard him trying to pawn of the soy nuts onto another street dweller. I’d like to believe he was just sharing but I am led to believe that he was trying to ditch the healthy snack. And, he was still there; I was astonished! What’s even more haunting about the encounter is that across the street there was that same man playing the trumpet. The street musician who perches himself on a little stool, and wears a tuxedo and Mickey Mouse ears still plays in the same spot year after year. He plays a potpourri of jaunty tunes near a busy stoplight and has to stop every so often to turn the page in the music he is following. Two years later and I see him again in the same spot, wearing the same costume, and playing the same tunes.
Some things are expected to change. I had expected a new batch of street dwellers and street musicians, so I was surprised that they were still the same people. However, it could be a prime sport for securing soy nuts or cheesecakes, if you happen to be sparinging (slang: requesting or hinting at someone’s spare change; sparechanging). If you’re a street performer you might be in the middle of a great multitude of people who are trying to cross the boulevard and that could be financially advantageous.
There are some things which one expects never to change. My Uncle Phillip has this purple shirt which I am sure he worn at least 3 days a week for the last 17 years. I remember him in that purple plaid shirt when I was a kid. He has received new shirts as gifts but I suppose he has a tendency to return to the familiarity and trustworthiness of the purple shirt. Some things will never change.
Some things do change. For example a man in the middle of a mid life crises has been known to re-invent himself. You might see these men sporting longer hair, riding on a Harley, and flaunting a much younger girlfriend. There are the inevitable changes of the twenty-something crowd (of which I am a part of). We’re always changing our minds, majors, careers or towns. I’m a perfect example of an ever-changing young adult, as are most, of not all of my friends. There’s the child who grows up, who starts wearing make-up, doesn’t refuse to eat vegetables (they might even employ a vegetarian diet), starts driving a car and carrying on with the opposite sex. People get married, acquire children, buy houses, and join Mommy and Tot time at the local community center. Some changes are just expected.
Some things I wish would change, I should like to hear kazoo music instead of trumpet music whilst I cross Burnside. I should like to get harassed for change by someone new. I expect change from everyone else. From this observation of life I have concluded that some things such as bums, struggling musicians and purple shirts don’t change while other aspects of life such as jobs and towns are expected to change.
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