A Taste of Colorado and Geezer-hood

I know many things about myself (more than most do I expect) and one of my defining traits is a general intolerance of crowds. The bemusing thing is that I occasionally feel the need to test this aversion by attending events that will be filled with mindless herds of people...more evidence for a masochistic alter-ego nesting in my subconscious. This weekend's attempt was the Taste of Colorado, an annual community celebration in downtown Denver featuring every restaurant and cuisine that has made a name for itself in this mountain city.

As my friend, Andrea, and I walked through the festival flags, I was pleased to see that the hippie-handicrafts had come out to play, too. The streets were wedged full of heavily-scented, superfluous sashes, candles, jewelry, and cultural artifacts. Streams of people flowed through the corridors creating a human current that would involve way too much personal-space-violation to swim against. We floated toward the food stalls. Naturally, everything was over-priced but it was interesting to see the bustle of preparation. For some reason, food is more appetizing when watching its development; in the same way that it is dangerous to watch the food network or grocery-shop when hungry, spectating the street kitchens made it inevitable that I buy something. A HUGE yellow banner in the distance decided it for me: TURKEY LEGS! Long had I heard legends of turkey-leg deliciousness from renaissance-going friends but I had never had the opportunity to try one myself. My mission became clear: acquire turkey leg at all costs.

Beyond fulfilling a life-long dream in greasy fashion, I also developed the unique ability to inspire love in all canines; they followed me like I was a donut in fat camp, though with slightly less drool. It was about this time that I realized exactly how intolerable this situation was: blubbery arms brushed mine, smells of a non-culinary nature permeated my nose, and micro-bursts of rage at insignificant things began popping in my head. When you're 3 this means nap-time; at 25, it meant our adventure downtown was over. So I fled from the hordes of people to the safety and splendid isolation of my couch and it is from this safe distance that I will relish my turkey-leg victory until I next feel the need to torture myself.

Why Characters are Better Than Actors

It's an argument as classic and pointless as cat vs. dog, but I firmly believe that book vs. movie is a no-contest affair. The standard advantage of books is that they have greater depth and detail than movies (being more a collaboration of your own imagination with the author's guiding words); whereas movies are inescapably structured but instantly gratifying. Yet, beyond all the surface comparisons, what struck me the other day was how dangerous actors are to a movie, and all it took was a drag queen.

The great advantage of characters in a book is that they are unique to their tale. Sure, there are stereotypes (the wizard, the old wise man, the young and stupid protagonist) but even a line-up of blond cheerleaders can be differentiated in some way! So you never see a book-character outside of their world and they stay pure. This is most definitely not the case with actors who change costumes and stories with each new gig. Hurray, for them! They are employed! But what are the consequences?!

• Oskar Schindler gives up his whore-mongering ways to become a rogue Jedi-master; then, years later, starts exploring his sexuality under the name Dr. Alfred Kinsey....Qui-Gon, noooooo! (This awkward transition brought to you by Liam Neeson)
  
• A bi-curious, Australian drag queen morphs into a sentinel in the sham of life that is the matrix and then escapes said matrix to rule over Rivendale as Elrond. (Agent Smith's got some nice gams! Thanks, Hugo Weaving.)
• After successfully winning a film award for a failed amateur porn movie, Andy Sargentee transforms into a giant, surfing penguin who loves clams...I saw those in reverse order but the whole porn movie had me thinking of penguins. (Jeff Bridges)

So when watching a movie you get story-line backwash from other parts the actor has played and that can interfere with the story itself. Especially for movies based off of books, I think no-name actors should be cast so that I'm watching the character and not the career.

Maybe I shouldn't complain, though, because this way I get to enjoy the characters on a whole new level. Afterall, once you've seen Hugo Weaving in fishnets you can spot something almost sassy in the way he plays Agent Smith...and who can gripe about that? ;-)

Prehensile Giraffe Tongues, Depressed Wallabies, & Chipmunks

A high-pitch noise erupted from my friend, Andrea, that could mean several things: a large bull was charging her down, an axe-murderer had begun stabbing her, or a bird had landed on her head. Needless to say, when I spun around I expected her to be facing down a terror, and there, crouched before her (battle-ready!) was a chipmunk. Aside from their unarguably fearsome aspect, chipmunks also were the most numerous of creatures at the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo in Colorado Springs; they were in every enclosure: gorillas...chipmunks, tapirs...chipmunks, penguins...you get the idea.

One of the great lures of the zoo was its wallaby enclosure. We had spent happy hours in Australian zoos petting their marsupial cousins - the kangaroos - and had high hopes for this one. What we found was an enclosure filled with a lazy, sparse population, hand sanitizers, and a general sense of hands-off (rather museum-like, really). And while we tried to enjoy what we could of it, the contrasts between American and Australian outlooks were undeniable. The over-protective, rule-centric petting enclosure seemed to speak of an American paranoia that taxes even the most innocent of activities. I felt a wave of regretful nostalgia as I looked at those sloth-like wallabies, so distant from their Aussie relatives.

One herd that was not depressing, though, was the giraffe herd. Cheyenne Zoo is actually renown for its sizable and healthy giraffes. Their scientific name, Giraffa camelopardalis reticulata, means "camel-leopard-like one who walks swiftly"; they had an unnatural fascination with licking the wooden poles and concrete walls (even though crackers were being proffered); and they smelled like musky hay. We bought crackers that seemed more like cardboard to me and feed them to the eel-ish prehensile tongues sticking through the fence posts. One of the other girls feeding them scolded, "That's no way to proposition a lady!"...but I really think it depends on the lady ;-)

It was overall a lovely day filled with animal shenanigans and remembrance, but, most of all, chipmunks. Vicious, photogenic, little chipmunks.

Nesting...

It has come to my attention that I am in love with my new home. It's smaller than the old one, yes, but cozy and complete with pool, fitness center, and a patio/psuedo-balcony overlooking a retirement home's public pool. (*shudder) It's also cheaper than my old ghetto-hole of an apartment which was the main lure in the first place. (FYI, I hear financial prudence is the new black!) The entire place just has a homey feel to it that I delight in. I even sleep better, no longer plagued by reality-dreams and now firmly back into WTF-zone where people are plants and I'm a turtle-princess.

What amuses me about my own fondness is that it displays a tendency found in other aspects of life. A decision was made based on what was practical and logical and love blossomed afterward. It's almost as if my heart needed the go-ahead from my brain before it merrily saluted and exploded all over the newly cherished apartment. I wonder if it's actually a form of rationalization or coping...something to make people happier with what they need to do.

I truly doubt it will ever extend to my current career situation though - I've been stewing a delicious sense of injustice over that for 10 months and I think it's just about ready for eating. Something I did notice with my new second job in play is a Stockholm-Syndrome-like sense of loss over Microcenter. Call me crazy but, on some level, I miss the place. Until this weekend, my computer-store love!

So, in conclusion, life is weird, I love odd but highly sensible things, and my true nature is that of a turtle princess which I think we all knew. Bow! - - - - - Slowly.

Pirates? In Colorado? Society's to Blame.

Ahoy, mateys! This weekend brought about one of the most nerdish rituals I have ever taken part in: I attended Baron's War with SCA. SCA is better known as the Society for Creative Anachronism and is essentially a role-playing renaissance fair in which everyone is a player. My friend Andrea and her family have been involved in this organization for about the length of her life. Baron's War was my second event and brought its own unique flavor to an otherwise drab weekend.

First thing we had to do was get to Cripple Creek, which is deeper into the heart of Colorado than one would normally venture, about 101 miles away. On the way we stopped by two llama farms (within .5 miles of each other) and tried to lure them to the fence by imitating their angry-baby-like cries. Andrea insisted they were territorial creatures but I found their long-lashed eyes and small faces reminiscent of Betty Boop; instead I experienced the much more territorial attentions of the small red ants whose hill I was standing on. Our girly bug dance seemed to amuse the llamas at least.

When we arrived at the Lost Burro campground the sun was just setting. The camp was full of contradiction! Top-of-the-line campers sat next to viking tents; people wearing medieval garb drove cars; golf-carts whizzed down the paths bearing pirate flags and water pistols...all nested beneath a beautiful cliff face at a cozy 9,500 ft. The first order of business was to change from tanks & tees into more lady-like garb.

The first night was a low-grade kegger with fire-lit jousting and much roasting of marshmallows. Even though we wore the flowing gowns of ladies our slack, staring faces were those of our generation...it was the end of a long day. Let me just say here that sleeping with Andrea is never without risk - it carries dangers of disturbance, assault, and unwanted spooning - that night though it was just terribly cold. Cold sweat sleep is one of the worst aspects of camping.

Another horrid aspect is waking up with the first idiot early-bird who wants everyone to experience the frigid morning air. Day two was filled with sun-soaked lounging, more jousting-watching, and freak rainstorms which induced a lovely nap nestled in the loft of a cabin. Just as well, really, because that was the night of the pirate party!

Andrea and I became bar wenches and served up a horrendous, rainbow concoction of rum and sugar drink. Got to say it was definitely the pirate party where the sense of unreality disappeared. Call me crazy but people wearing pirate clothes and drinking heavily seems almost natural...must be left-over college vibes. Of course more happened but what happens among the llamas stays there ;-)

(If you can't tell by the photo I am supposed to be a naughty pirate...I've been told that underwear on the outside of my clothes is a good look for me. Something to keep in mind for sure!)

If you can't tell by the photo I am supposed to be a naughty pirate...I've been told that underwear on the outside of my clothes is a good look for me. Something to keep in mind for sure!

The Quest for Gratitude: A Fool's Errand

One of the mantras I have formed since graduating college is: Don't do anything expecting gratitude. It is not the most poetic of phrases, to be sure, but it rings through my head with its importance. An action done purely in the pursuit of another's gratitude is doomed from the start; it relies on the most finicky of things - human feeling. If you've missed your mark you are left with nothing, and if, by chance, you succeed "thanks" is a fading reward. The main issue is that if you work for gratitude you are working for outside approval, when you really should be laboring to please yourself. But, the concept extends further now - beyond favors and surprises to basic self-worth.

So many in the world are constantly seeking approval for what they know themselves to be. The intelligent strive to have their wit acknowledged; the beautiful bask in the light of admiration; even the strong must lift the little to prove a point. I wonder what brings about this need for public acclaim...it's rather like the tree-falling-in-the-forest quandary: Does a beauty unseen still glow? Does a joke unheard lose its laughter?

One of my greatest goals right now is to separate myself from this destructive tendency. I will not act for gratitude and I will learn to value my positives without the need of an outside harrumph.

...HARRUMPH!

Loose First Names - How Scandalous!

I've come to the realization that I am famous. You're shocked. Don't worry, it took me time to get used to too. It seems like everywhere I go people know my name: Walmart, grocery stores, even the library! How did I achieve such world-renown? I blame society and a horrible practice among retailers to steal my name from any proffered plastic payment method.

Any retail experience nowadays is marred with what I view as an act of over-familiarity. I know these cashiers are only implementing a company policy, but I question the larger motive. This effort to personalize the shopping experience is a cheat: ignore the prices and services because we are your friends! I do not enjoy being addressed by my first name by strangers. If you consider how little first names are used even among familiars, it really is a remarkable breach.

But it works the other way too, with customers taking advantage of name tags to violate this boundary. Actually, I consider this a tad more unforgivable because of three things: 1) The name-tags are mandated and not a personal choice, 2) the customers are doing it by their own free will and not because of any job requirement, and 3) I am the constant victim of it! AGH!

The only solution seems to be changing my name to an expression of outrage beyond the bounds of modern spelling!

The Zen of Clean

The masters of clean are the masters of the universe. Watch in awe as they center their mind, body, and place-mat! Gasp, as they vacuum away the entropy of the universe! And let your mind boggle in the presence of their life-altering dusting regime! What is it about a tidy home that brings a sense of peace and purpose to life? The ruffle of a freshly vacuumed carpet and the quiet stack of clean dishes seem to speak of a rightness not often found.

The older I get (questionably wiser) the more drawn I am to order. I think that as the complications of everyday life accumulate, crowding just outside of my control, the appeal of things that I CAN affect increases. I remember cringing at the sound of my step-mother's Saturday morning vacuuming, but I begin to understand her motivation. To be able to craft a small portion of your world to your liking...that is something. To see tangible benefits of your work in a world where things are unquantifiable is satisfying. And while I do not aspire to such heights as my step-mother, my busy bee hours are more numerous by the day.

So! Out with the dusters and bleach! And onward with the battle against that which we cannot control!

Bzzz, Bzzz!

The Marriage Bug

Last November, I sat next to my college friends and watched the first of us get married. We always knew Nate would be the first to go down that path, being devoutly catholic, and there he was. He had brought our little crew together for the first time in 6 years and the night was warm with remembrance and laughter. In a small catholic church in Fairfax, VA I watched my high school prom date stand before his family, friends, and god to take a wife. Yet, even though I was there I still can't believe it. He has a ring, he has a wife, but he can't be married! We're too young for marriage! I half-expected someone to call an end to reccess and the playground union would be forgotten. You know what the problem is? Marriage is for grown-ups....and I don't think anyone really considers themselves an adult. Why would they? Much less fun, anyway.

Aside from the unthinkable reality of marriage at the tender age of 24, there are vastly different views of this union floating around. Nate has always had a beautiful view of marriage. One time in college he leaned over and told me, in that whispered way that truly important things are shared, that the woman he married would complete his soul and better enable him to live a good life and worship god. As a child of divorce, I have a drastically different take on the matter but I have long remembered his words. For some people, even the young, marriage can be a wonderful thing.

Elusive Elocution: A Vexing Vice

Peeves! They get under your skin just a little and suddenly you see them everywhere. What starts as a slight annoyance with un-tucked shirts can warp and swell into a tidy-hemline obsession; until one day you're yelling at one of the "dirty hippies" who don't understand the elegance of a defined waistline. (To be fair, there are numerous waistlines in my life whose sense of mystery I greatly appreciate.) The point is that these things escalate. A few months ago, I noticed that people do not answer the questions they are asked. A yes/no question will be answered with "sure"; a fairly direct informational question about the drive to work will result in a blow-by-blow account of how they woke up that morning. Why is it so hard for people to answer the questions they are asked?

Let's start with the yes/no scenario. A cashier asks if you want a bag...that's a fairly simple yes/no, right? WRONG! Besides the multitudes who must debate the benefits of obtaining said bag, there are those that say "sure". As in: "not really, but to make you happy- yes". I believe a simple "yes" would have sufficed. Why this softening of the answer? Is there a fear that it comes off as an order? Even if it does, so what? Then there's "that's alright" for "no". Does society have such as issue with PC manners of rejection that people can no longer answer such simple questions?

As frustrating as the first scenario is, the run-on explanations of an informational question are exhausting! Example:

-"How was your drive today?"
-"Oh! Well, I woke up this morning late; my alarm clock didn't go off for some reason. Then my hair-dryer shorted out, which is so random 'cause it's new. THEN I found out my cat vomited on the shoes I wanted to wear so I had to go with these old ones which don't really match at all!"

...which tells me absolutely nothing about the drive. People are so eager to discuss the details of their lives that they completely omit the actual information requested. Maybe it's to make you understand the experience better, maybe it's an ingratiating gesture, there may be logic behind it but the overall result at this late phase of my peeve is to make my skin crawl.

Rant complete. Ending wish: for people to learn so enunciate their ideas before my brain explodes from trying to track side-stepping language.

Grant Me Some Forgetfulness

"I'll put on the creepy mask, if you grant me some forgetfulness." -Warren Zevon

Let me start by saying that I have never relished the act of falling in love; for me it has always been an ordeal full of confusion and despair. You know what falling for someone is? It's that moment in a dream when you fall off a cliff: the tortuous seconds before you realize you can fly. In those moments, you feel the danger you're in much more acutely than ever before or after. Before you jumped there was loneliness, sure, but safety as well - and if someone jumps with you, then you forget how hard it was in the happy blur of mutual affection.

So now I've fallen twice and somewhat dread what the future may bring.
Firmly face-planted at the bottom of the ravine, rebound coyotes are stalking about and the cacti are extra-pokey...but I'm sure eventually I'll start looking for another way up to the jump point. In my last relationship, I often lamented the fact that I didn't keep a log of the early stages: when everything was sweet and new. But now I remember why that never happened. Some things you wouldn't try again if you could remember how much they hurt.

You know what? I think love deserves its own happy-chemical (like oxytocin and childbirth): something that induces forgetfulness after the fact. Goodness knows women wouldn't have so many babies without oxytocin to dim the memory of their own harpy-like screams...would it kill nature to provide some chemical courage for romance?

You Deserve Better

Ah, the classic phrase of comfort! How often I've heard it of late, too. Let's just say that life has been a bit rocky: job troubles, boy troubles, dogs and cats living together...all the good stuff that breeds chaos and melancholy in a young lady's life. And so, as friends and loved ones come to my emotional aid they whisper the phrase: "You deserve to be happy."

But what does it mean to deserve happiness? Do any of us for a single minute think that everyone with good fortune has earned it? That every person who stumbles into luck has actually paid for it all in full? Of course not! If that were the case it wouldn't be luck, now would it? It would be your just reward for services rendered to karma and the world. This idea of justice in life is odd...it rubs against the grain of reality and seems to encourage a fairy-tale sense of fairness that simply doesn't exist. The bad prosper as much as the good and the world spins on.

What I find truly interesting is the sub-concept that we can be destined to undergo pain to achieve the happiness we "deserve". A friend told me recently that the reason I've had troubles finding a new job is because I'm destined for something different. This negates the whole idea of free will (something she found very reassuring): we're not digging that hole we're stuck in - destiny is!

I figure that if we're simply paying off a future delivery of bliss then our troubles are being arranged in some fashion by a universal bill collector...

I only hope my nirvana-to-be is still in vogue by the time I get it off lay-away.

Anti-Altruism: The Golden Rule

"Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." How very self-centric thinking!

Recently, a friend of mine mentioned a simple law of camaraderie that I had not thought of. She told me that every friend has "bad friend" qualities and "good friend" qualities which we attempt to balance in order to maintain a friendship. This struck me as quite true, though I'd never actively considered it.

Immediately I began to think of my "bad friend" qualities that she might be currently weathering: arrogance, pride, loner tendencies, logic (the enemy of many female friendships), etc. But then I thought of the golden rule and got tangled in a mental pretzel. The thing is, I DO "do unto others" and it is this that chafes them most!

Why? Because, just as we each love in our own way, we each have different friend-needs. I value friends who are challenging and honest, with a generous spice of sarcasm...and so that's the friend I try to be. But if I was a "good friend" wouldn't I try to offer them what they need rather than what I do?

Is the golden rule all that beneficial once you get past the hitting/learning-to-share stage? It seems to me that we are trained from a very young age to think of everyone as versions of ourselves; which leads to some rather awkward social interactions and misunderstandings. The very phrasing of the Golden Rule is meant to put the world into your own terms without ever breaking from the center of the universe (Your rightful place, of course). So what would I propose?

I don't think the golden rule is meant to be taken literally. Maybe what is meant is something more general; when we say "do unto others as you would have them do unto you" we simply mean that we need to extend an open mind and understanding in our dealings with the world....rather in the way we'd like to be approached by it.

(But I'm still not sharing my crayons.)

Where the Banjos Play...

"It's only a fiddle if you don't wear shoes." -Ben Skulnik (college friend)

Years ago, my family and I went tubing down the Shenandoah River. Clutching our black rubber inter-tubes, we were ferried down to the drop point by a rickety old bus complete with its original driver. He ran through the rules: No horse-playing. Mind the rocks. But the driver lowered his voice for the last warning: "Don't go past the bridge, they play banjos down there." And then he cackled in a way that seemed to indicate he wasn't kidding. We avoided the bridge that day and whatever fate may have had in store.

Well, on January 28th I floated past the bridge as my friend, Andrea, and I mingled with Josh Turner fans at his 7:30 concert at the Ogden Theatre in Denver, Colorado.

We arrived thoroughly out of place, far too metropolitan for this crowd of wife-beaters and jeans; my down jacket ruffled its feathers in embarrassment. The crowd filled in around us, seeming to understand we were beside-the-point in this arena. When the music started we found ourselves at the very back of the auditorium with no clear idea of how this happened. Blocked by a wall of wavy hair and cowboy hats, we hopped and leaned over our toes trying to scrape a glimpse of the performer. Occasionally, we broke into dance for a few bars just to celebrate our ongoing battle. (I have a theory that a video of us sped-up would look like stimulant lab mice.)Eventually, the two models standing in front of us moved and we were swept into eyesight of a tall, blue-eyed, gangly man strumming a guitar and stomping his skinny legs. (If this wasn't living I don't know what is.) The songs were thick with country culture but lively, and it was good.

But it wasn't until our last song of the night that the banjos came out. While listening to "Long Black Train" that I realized we had left the trailer park, cruised through God Town and landed at the KKK rally:

"Cling to the Father and His holy name,
And don't go ridin' on that Long Black Train

There's an engineer on that Long Black Train,
Makin' you wonder if the ride is worth the pain,
He's just a waiting on your heart to say
Let me ride on that Long Black Train"

Everyone singing along thought it was about Jesus, but since I didn't know the words I gradually developed my own interpretation and realized that most attendees would look quite dapper in white sheets.

...you racist bastards.

The Female Attraction Cycle

"If you discover something that violates the first law of thermodynamics don't tell anybody. Just come see me." - my p-chem professor.

Topeka! I have found it! My physical chemistry professor would be so proud. What, you may well ask, have I found? Yes, you may well ask what my theory is. The female attraction system is my miraculous discovery: as a two-stage process that feeds back on itself creating a constant re-evaluation of attractiveness, ad infinitum, it sits as a violation of the first law of thermodynamics!

**A brief science explanation: The first law of thermodynamics is about conservation of energy; essentially the energy coming out of a system cannot be greater than that put into it. The idea of perpetual motion violates this law because in perpetual motion the system creates more energy than it consumes. By saying that the female attraction system violates the first law of thermodynamics, I mean to say that it is in constant and perpetual motion.**

Details! I hear you screaming in, no doubt, uncontrollable excitement. Well, let's just admit that everyone we meet is put through the attraction wringer where we tote up their assets and decide if we likey what we see. With women, this is a two-stage process. The first stage of evaluation is a simple physical assessment. This is essentially a yes/no question of basic attraction. At this point there is no grade of overall attractiveness: a man simply passes or fails. 50/50 shot, not bad odds, eh? If you fail, then you are immediately removed from sexual consideration; if you pass then stage two can make or break you!

During stage two, the man is scored on compatibility: humor, intelligence, (and whatever asinine traits this particular female values) are each given their scores. The overall scores for stage two feed back onto stage one, upping or lowering the basic physical attractiveness of the target. If he's scored spectacularly high on stage two then his appeal increases, and vice versa if he scores low.

Let's break down what that means for the various combos.

High Stage 1, Low Stage 2: This man is a casual sex option. The girl may even try to attach some emotion to him, as girls are wont to do, but there is little thought to him as a permanent solution. If dating, she will keep looking.

Low Stage 1, Low Stage 2: This man is hated. Go away, and stop looking at her ass.

Low Stage 1, High Stage 2: This man is deemed friend material and could in a moment of desperation and loneliness be catapulted into a relationship. Or, after a long time of consistent high stage 2 scores can bump him into a romantic zone.

High Stage 1, High Stage 2: I want to have your babies. This is where the clear green lights are for women. These are the guys they crush and lust on for however long it takes for something to happen or for the guy's score to change.

How does a score change? This system is dynamic; so as the female's needs in stage two change, so does her assessment of her mate's attractiveness. It's like a hamster ball on a treadmill...Tough break, guys.

If anyone's got a coherent theory of male attraction, I'd love to hear it. So far, most guys just say it's stage one...rather like chasing your own tail if you ask me.