History

A few years back, my Mom, Dad, sister, and brother traveled down to Georgia to visit some family on my mother’s side. We were staying with my aunt Joanne in her new house just outside of Atlanta in a small development called Newnan. This was quite a different setting from her old house in Peachtree City, where we’d stayed almost every summer when we lived in Germany. I’d grown so familiar with that house, its size, the winding, wooded driveway from the road, the in-ground pool with blistering hot concrete all around it, and my favorite, the old rectangular trampoline.

Peachtree City was my only experience with the United States growing up, the only time I saw commercials on TV, caught lightning bugs, watched Major League Baseball, and got sunburned. I remember my overwhelming feeling being one of Moreness. Not in some anti-materialist nonsense that I would’ve preached a few years ago, I just remember the States having more of everything. More channels, more streets, more cereals with cartoon characters, more people that spoke English, and so on. I was enthralled with American television as a kid. The idea of 44 channels blew my mind, which I’m sure was becoming more and more jelly-like every summer we returned.

Aunt Joanne’s house in Peachtree was probably very “modern” when it was built in the early 70’s. Lots of angles and weirdly sloping rooflines dominated the all brown exterior. The master bathroom had a bidet (which I allegedly took for a fancy, Matt-sized water fountain at some point), and a huge marble bathtub which matched the floors and walls, surrounded by mirrors, and equipped with jets. The main living room, which I only remember as a place to run through between the Marble Wonderland and the kitchen, had vaulted ceilings and a huge fireplace that I never saw lit. These were the days when Uncle Bob and Aunt Joanne were still together.

Here in Newnan, the new house is, well, a new house. Lots of white, new furniture, the carpet looks like one should never tread upon it, and the sod in the lawn still looks a bit suspicious, like it might pick up and scamper down the street at any time. Everything felt exposed, without the tall pines I remembered from the old house. This was after we’d been living in Wisconsin for a few years, so Georgia was no longer my only vision of America, but Peachtree City was still my only image of Georgia. Bob was gone, and this was all different.

As I was growing more and more used to American things being normal, something still struck me as both American and foreign: Alarm systems in homes. Aunt Joanne showed us all how to disarm the thing within thirty seconds of coming into the house with a secret code. That part made sense to me. What was confusing was that during the day, any window or door that was opened produced an authoritative bleep from the alarm box. Even while the system was shut down; it seemed like an over zealous mall security guard, informing us that, yes I had noticed that window being opened in sector 17-G at 3:17pm, even though I’m on my break. This was pretty noticeable since Georgia in the summer demands lots of heading outside to cook in the sun and back inside for more iced tea. If I ever move to the south, God help me, I’ll end up just sitting on my porch drinking tea all day long. And when my metabolism decides to be reasonable, I’ll become a blob.

One night found me in my temporary bedroom, the sunroom of the house. There were two sets of French doors leading into it, split by the ever useful Southern fireplace in the living room. The couch I was sleeping on that week faced the doors and a television, which was on the other side of the fireplace, facing the windows. It was late, and my fascination with cable TV still hadn’t worn off so I was flipping through the trash at about one in the morning. Everyone else had gone to sleep hours ago, and I needed to soon. Everything I could see of the house through the glass doors was black and still.

Then I heard it. The unmistakeable bleep from the kitchen. Something had just opened, and the blackness suggested it wasn’t a sibling rooting about for a snack.

*BLEEP*

The second one came before I had even properly formed an argument in my head against hearing the first. There was no doubt as to what I’d heard.

I thought about flicking off the television and inching my body down to a prone position on the couch, so as to render myself invisible to any intruder.

But oh how the bladder betrays. I was suddenly painfully aware of the immense, uncompromising pressure that bellowed “Try to go to sleep now and you’ll be sorry.” I was stuck. There was a murderer in the house and my own body was betraying me. The fear of a bloodthirsty marauder battled with the possibility of social destruction. With no options left save colossal humiliation the next morning, I sat up, bolted through the doors closest to my goal and sprinted through the house into the bathroom without looking over my shoulder into the kitchen. After locking the door and taking care of business, I was struck with a new problem: Now what? Surely the bandit heard or saw me streak in here, and he’s waiting to pounce as soon as I come out. I looked around my tiny prison for inspiration, and settled on the towel rack. There were four full sized towels for the drying pleasure of all the guests this week. My gaze drifted from them to the bathtub, and back.

Towels + Bathtub + Locked Door = Safe Bed for The Night.

I fashioned a little nest for myself in the tub and settled in, using the last towel as a blanket.

A few hours later I found myself squinting in harsh white light at a quizzical face poking around the door. A relative (whose name I don’t think I knew even then) was peering at me with a look of complete bewilderment.

“Matt? What are you doing in here?”

The fantastic embarrassment of the situation had jolted me wide awake in the millisecond it took to recall the night. However I still thought it best to put on quite a show of confusion and mumbled words, acting as if I were still somewhat asleep as I pulled myself out of the tub and stumbled past her to my couch, any fear of an intruder long gone.

The next morning I had to give an account for my actions, and these words came out of my mouth:

“Yeah, I don’t know how I ended up in there, I must have sleepwalked or something.”

Well In MY Opinion…

The question of whether or not peer pressure is always a bad thing was raised in my lit for adolescents class last Monday. My initial thought was, Well it depends on what you’re being pressured to do. That led to thinking about the two situations that could come about, being pressured to do good and pressured to do bad. My mind quickly skipped to the conclusion that regardless of good or bad outcomes, to do something just for the sake of conformity probably isn’t the best motivation.

It’s been on my mind since Monday though, popping up here and there. The question of why someone or a group would pressure someone else into bad needed answering. The phrase “Misery loves company” came to mind, and helped me to articulate a possible explanation. When you look at most of what we consider “moral” or “right,” it tends to have a close relationship with popular behavior. Most people don’t run around murdering and looting. This is the norm in the big picture of the human race. To kill or steal is to go against the grain, to stand out, and regardless of what people say most of them don’t want that.

What I think people are doing in peer pressure is creating their own little population of decision makers, and stacking the deck in their favor. Get enough people together doing the wrong thing, somehow separated from the rest of humanity, and it becomes the new norm. The separation doesn’t have to be physical, but is usually cultural, something that makes you part of “that” group, and not the other. Within this secession from the general population is where you can mold right and wrong by majority much more easily than trying to shift the paradigm of western civilization to look upon your wrongdoing with favorable eyes.

On the other hand we have people doing good just to go with the flow. It seems that while this may have a positive outcome initially, given the previous circumstance, you’re just waiting around for the majority to shift to something else. You’ve found yourself afloat in the murky waters of moral relativism without having consciously signed over to it. Is this all too obvious to mention?

As For France...

This is an older story from this past summer during the Tour. You might have seen it, but I thought it was worth a re-read, enjoy.

The Associated Press Friday, August 26, 2005; 11:00
PM PARIS:

Lance Armstrong's record setting seventh Tour de France victory, along with his entire Tour de France legacy, may be tarnished by what could turn out to be one of the greatest sports scandals of all time.

Armstrong is being quizzed by French police after three banned substances were found in his South France hotel room while on vacation after winning the 2005 Tour de France.

The three substances found were toothpaste, deodorant,and soap, which have been banned by French authorities for over 75 years.

Armstrong's girlfriend and American rocker Sheryl Crowe is quoted as saying "We use them every day in America, so we naturally thought they'd be OK throughout Europe."

Along with these three banned substances, French authorities also physically searched Armstrong himself and found several other interesting items that they haven't seen in years, including a backbone and testicles.

Tragedy

The Malebox has claimed its fourth French press in under two years. I might see you at Bucer's tomorrow morning.

Hymn

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way, When sorrows like sea-billows roll – Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say, It is well, it is well with my soul. Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come, Let this blest assurance control, That Christ hath regarded my helpless estate, And hath shed His own blood for my soul. My sin – O the bliss of this glorious thought – My sin, not in part, but the whole, Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more: Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul! And, Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight, The clouds be rolled back as a scroll: The trump shall resound and the Lord shall descend, “Even so” – it is well with my soul.

V-Day

I put up a few pictures from the St. Valentine's Banquet at the Big Haus last night on flickr.

Accessibility and Cool-Factor, in Relation to Bicycles

It's great to own lots of things. Taylor and I have come to the conclusion that having a lot of possessions is wonderful. Before you get all anti-materialistic in my grill, check this out: Often people have more interests and desires than their time or resources can satisfy. “Gee, I’d love to go camping, but I just don’t have the stuff to do it.” Or, “I can’t justify spending the money on something I’ll only use a few times.” This is where Taylor has taught me the value of owning much more than I could ever need for myself. We can lend this stuff out, let someone enjoy themselves with it who wouldn’t be able to otherwise. Things are made accessible that were out of reach beforehand.

I started thinking about bicycles in this way, since I currently own seven and needed a way to justify my greed. Not really, I’m fine with it. What I was thinking about was Buggy’s new fixed gear track bike. For those who don’t know, a fixed gear means that you have one gear and no freewheel or brakes. Everything is controlled through the chain and your one cog in the back, so however fast your wheel is going, you have to be pedaling that fast or the force on the crank will toss you in the air. Needless to say they’re hard to ride, especially at first. I’ve been racing for two years and they terrify me. But the bike got me to thinking about the Accessible to Cool ratio in one’s belongings. Take the bike: What’s so cool about it? Well to look at, it’s incredibly clean with no cable or housing running along the frame, no brakes marring the tubes, no gawky brake levers breaking the smooth curve of the bullhorn bars, and no derailleur bolted to the chain stays or bottom of the frame. If you find beauty in simplicity, look no further.

But almost everything that makes it cool is what makes it unrideable to the friend who needs a bike for the day. Its coolness is in its exclusiveness (surprise!), the fact that not just ANYONE can ride this bike.

Pictures

I've posted a few new ones at Flickr.

Planned Punishment

I haven't started training. Have YOU?

Birfday

A splendid time was guaranteed and had by all.

Shootin' Some B'Ball Outside of the School

This was Coach’s big shot at the title, and he knew it. So did all the slivers of chewed nail and splatters of perspiration mingling underfoot as he paced up and down the line.

He wasn’t exactly sure how he and his ragamuffin team had arrived here, here at the State Championship Final in the Superior Dome. They weren’t a terrible team by any means, but he had never pictured them here, not in his wildest fantasies. His kids were all decent athletes and each had unique skills that they brought to the team. And it wasn’t that they didn’t work well together. In fact, there were moments when Coach could’ve sworn that they’d been born and raised on the court together, passing, dribbling, and shooting as one organism since their advent.

No, the problem, in Coach’s eyes, was the fact that they’d never been to State before. They were a relatively inexperienced team, but few people knew that. Coach had come to the school highly recommended, but always felt that he didn’t have the history to back it up. He grew to despise praise of his coaching ability. This was not only a first for these kids on the team, but for Coach as well.

He’d heard from other coaches about what it’s like to win state. He’d also heard about losing there. The disappointment, the build-up to failure, the crushed expectations; he hated thinking about it, but that was what he thought about now.

That and the trophy that would sit on his mantle should he pull this off. What he really couldn’t get his mind off of was that beautiful, golden, smoothly curving cup firmly planted in its base reading “State Champs.” Not only would he get to gaze upon it each night at home, but the school would also have one in the trophy case for all to see each and every day. Anyone that walked by would hardly be able to resist staring in amazement, awe, and (Coach secretly hoped) a bit of envy.

He’d learned plenty of strategies for winning a basketball game in his years of playing and coaching, but he rarely liked to implement them. To him, they felt somewhat sneaky, underhanded even. He loved the idea of his guys winning just by being better players. Resorting to playing some psychological game with the other team felt dirty. The biggest pressure he’d received from his betters as of late was to throw his kids into a full court press mid-way through the game. And here in the third quarter, trailing by more than a few, and his kids seeming to lose spirit, it was sounding pretty good.

Coach thought about the trophy. He looked out at his kids on the court. He called time. Everyone came in off the court and off the bench and huddled around him.

“This is it,” someone in the bleachers said. “This is where he lays it all out, inspires those kids to play like their lives depended on it.

“Yeah I’ve seen him do it before,” said another, who hadn’t. “He brings them all in, and riles ‘em up, and the come out playing like men possessed.” No one knows what he tells them in there, but it friekin’ works.”

As the circle of players began to break up, the excitement built. What could he have told them? Would it work this time? As the whistle blew to resume play, a few startled cries from the crowd quickly turned a roar.

“Where’s Butler?” someone yelled. Butler, the team’s leading rebounder, was nowhere to be seen on the floor.

“And Jack? Where’s Heizel?

“Is Tyler Aykoi out there?”

Heizel and Aykoi were neck and neck all season in points, always vying for the top spot.

Coach had stopped pacing. He now stood at half court, arms crossed, staring straight ahead. His varsity team sat behind him on the bench. On the court were the JV and freshmen kids who thought they were just suiting up for this game and had never dreamt they’d play. Coach watched and didn’t think of any trophies at all.

The Squid and the *BLEEP*

I watched the Squid and the Whale last night, with a certain Chris Aberle, and we came to similar conclusions about it. If you like Wes Anderson's films, you'd love the tone and atmosphere of Squid. Jeff Daniels is amazing as a mostly washed-up writer/teacher with a head full of literary terms and himself. He's unabashedly amoral in both his life and his advice to his oldest son. And his gigantic beard is awesome.

Unfortunately, I can’t in good conscience recommend this movie to anyone for two reasons. There’s a ton of profanity, which doesn’t usually get to me. As Chris pointed out, it was either used completely flippantly and without reason, or to severely hurt.

The story is loosely based on writer/director Noah Baumbach’s childhood, and follows a couple’s separation and the entanglements that come with joint custody. You see each of the two son’s gravitate towards different parents and it becomes a dividing point between them. The younger tended to deal with his anxiety in, shall we say, oddly profane ways. And not much is left to the viewer’s imagination.

All in all, the movie had great characters (including William Baldwin as a greaseball tennis player), quirky and hilarious dialogue, and decent cinematography. None of that overwhelmed the obscenity for me. If you do decide to go and would like it to be as painless as possible, avert your eyes when the younger son is in the library. Don’t worry about missing pivotal plot points, you’ll be filled in later. And if you have a soul, disgusted.

A Prediction

Freewrite alert: May infuriate logicians and grammar Nazis.

I just got back from my first Literature for Adolescents class and after finishing one of the books and hearing synopses of everything else we're to read, I'd like to predict a theme: Justification of all things that make teen-agers lame.

The books are claiming to be written for teens, kids in middle and high school, and the plots, characters are conflicts are certainly congruent with the stereotype of what that life entails. That's fine. Kids can't jump from The Polar Express to John Donne, it's good to have writing directed at them where they are. The problem comes in with this sense of trying to make those problems (and more importantly the characters' reactions to them) seem normal, acceptable. My roommate Neal is big on the "Is/Aught" fallacy idea, that just because something "is" a certain way doesn't mean that that's how it should be.

This gets back to the discussion I had with Sam about the poet being a creator, having the ability to construct things as they should be instead of just copying what he sees like an unmanned camera just snapping away at proper increments.

I think the problem is that people know that art has this ability and therefore tend to project that onto any and all art. They're expecting to be shown something other than what the world offers, some kind of instruction or alternate view of a situation that offers a better way. So when they see the world carbon copied into a paperback, they accept it as how it "aught" to be, even though the author is simply reproducing the scene.

My point is that instead of painting these kids in their situations getting beaten up, jacking off, lying, crying, and back stabbing as “victims of their environment,” and making everything excusable, show them how they can have a proper response to the mess that growing up can dish out. No one (much less a melancholic teen who’s getting his cues from tortured soul musicians sporting eyeliner and wails of loves lost) is going to think they should do something honorable about their situation if they are constantly reading about characters in the same situation responding with bitterness, anger, frustration, and depression.

Rock and Film

Goings on up in heeya:

For Your Ears
January 31: Of Montreal at Chop Suey in Seattle. Anyone interested in going, holla. Show starts at 8:00, so I'll leave the 'Scow by 2:00 at the latest.
February 14: Pretty Girls Make Graves at the Sub Ballroom. Come gawk at how emo kids crawl out of the woodwork and into their tight jeans for select events in Idaho.
February 24: Ok Go w/Motion City Soundtrack at the Cub in Pullman. I'm pretty excited for some sugar drenched pop rock.

For Your Eyes
January 20 - 22: Paradise Now at the Kenworthy. Looks good, it's a Warner Independent film, they've been putting out some good stuff lately. Basically follows two Palestinian suicide bombers for two days as they come to grips with what they're about to do. Check out the TRAILER.

January 27 - 29: The Squid and the Whale at the Kenworthy. Noah Baumbach's newest, based on his memories of growing up. Jeff Daniels stars, and a Baldwin shines (like they can do anything else). For those who don't know, Baumbach co-wrote The Life Aquatic with Wes Anderson. Be aware that while I've heard good things about it, I've also heard about a particulary graphic scene that might not be enjoyed by all. I believe that I'm previewing this movie, and I'll try to remember to post my take. In the meantime, TRAILER.

Baudelaire

This is a short response journal entry from my history class. Charles Baudelaire writing about Eugene Delacroix's love of "passion."

The description of Delacroix being in love with passion on p. 46 seemed notable to me. Being in love with love, or with the idea of something rather than the thing itself is a trademark (and stumbling block I believe) of artists, but rarely mentioned by their critics. I recently wrote a short essay about this tendency in Orsino of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. The man was crazy about love, and doing all the things that let others know that one is “in love.” But in reading all his declarations to Olivia, it becomes pretty clear that it’s not woman that he loves, but the passion itself. I say stumbling block because who are you most likely to marry? Someone who loves and knows you or someone that loves marriage? The latter seems to me to be the proper expression of the former, not something to obsess about on its own.

Not being familiar with Delacroix’s work beyond what is contained in this book, I can’t really say if this is something that he truly fell into, but Baudelaire seemed to think he did, and didn’t see it as a bad thing.

"Since I consider the impression transmitted to the artist by nature as the most important thing of all for him to translate, is it not essential that he should be armed in advance with all the most rapid means of translation?" - Eugene Delacroix

I liked the quote at the bottom of the page, about the importance of an artist being properly equipped with knowledge to accurately “translate” nature. This seems to be a lost notion among many artists today, in all genres. As soon as some pop musician tells you that he doesn’t have any use for those boring oldies, or worse yet, that coma-inducing classical nonsense, you can rest assured that 1. He’s lying, 2. His music will be horrendous and probably unbearably (and ironically) cliché. Any time you want to contribute your thoughts or work to an idea or medium of expression, the worst thing you can do is isolate yourself from the context of what you’re dealing with.

Odd

I'm really fascinated by how many people come across this blog through searching for commentary on Marvell's dialogue poems. That was my weaker paper by far. But aside from that, it just seems strange to be getting literary criticism from a blog site that a chimp could start and post on. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy to share my views on the stuff and I hope it benefits some of you. If you've arrived here looking for said commentary, you'll find it HERE, under Not As Pleased.