Part of my job has me running a snack bar, which is quite the flashback to the days of yore working at The Gallery with Mafia Marge and what became the Taps Week Crew, which is not the point of this post, though notable.
Because it's the fall, ol' Windy Gap (where I live and work) is constantly full not of the traditional YL programs, but with private schools, large corporate groups, etc. Each group has its quirks and we try to accommodate them as best as possible, understanding that this facility is for their use and not for our comfort levels. So if they want to freak out about mixed gender swimming, then they can do that. This most recent group has been fabulous, respectful, kind, etc. I loved them until last night.
The Sippie (snack bar) was opened late just their Senior class and chaperones, which means that absolutely no one was coming in, and I was sitting at the register reading a nerdy book and trying to stay awake. For some reason, several teachers/coaches/parents were congregated in close proximity. That is when I began to overhear their conversation. They were talking about a new teacher, who happened to be on the trip. They were talking about his "queer shoes" and how he'd be fired if he kept wearing them pink girl shoes. I then realized that his "queer shoes" were a pair of red crocs. Not pink, red. Crocs. The current trendy a-sexual shoe. They just kept bashing this guy, whom I'd met earlier in the day--recent college grad, very friendly, went to a Christian college, kinda guy one would expect to teach at a Christian school. He'd taken up knitting as a hobby (started as a joke, then discovered he kinda liked it--talked to him about it) and obviously, to these kind folks, that just upped his firing potential. They said if he ever came to school wearing a pink shirt they'd all quit if he didn't get canned.
So there they were, just tearing apart this guy who dared to be even slightly different than them, while the kids they were to be mentoring and guiding in the concepts of grace and compassion and faith were listening to them and agreeing.
WHAT!?
They went on to talk about how they thought all Muslims were violent and ignorant and ready to jihad us all off the planet, etc. I guess I just forget that people actually think and talk this way about others. And have the gall to do it in large groups. There is no room for the benefit of the doubt in a preset notion. We make decisions based off little (or false) information and use that as a blanket policy; Pink is a girl color, ergo guys in pink are girls. 1 Nun is killed in response to the Pope's recent anti-Islamic remarks, ergo all Muslims are bloodthirsty and vengeful.
Does the ease of preset come with age, with a lackadaisical view of relational investment?
I sound credulous when I say that with all that makes us hard, it'd be worthwhile to hold on to the soft parts, but if we don't, we all let ourselves become one-word caricatures.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Friday, September 15, 2006
State of the Union
Here is what I know:
* My job requires me to have keys to three different golf carts and carry a walkie-talkie. This makes me happy. Listening to the conversations happening over the radio makes me feel connected to everyone else. It's white noise that is occasionally personal.
* Potatoes are incredibly versatile, yet differ from tofu in that no matter what, they always taste like potatoes. Science needs to do something about this.
* Asshole the Cricket was viscously massacred by my roommate while he was trying to take a shower. My roommate has been given a metal. Asshole was unceremoniously dumped in the trash. And this is what happens when you wake me at night. Be warned.
* Peter Cetera's "Glory of Love" (most famously known from the motion picture "Karate Kid" starring Ralph Macchio and Pat Morita) sticks in your head like cold molasses. Seriously. Get this out of my head.
* I wonder how Jimi Hendrix would have affected the rise of the hip-hop movement if he had lived. I feel like his blues influence would have helped create some amazing songs.
* On that same thinking, Janis Joplin would have been twice married and had three kids. She would not be in music anymore. She'd live in Oregon.
* Jim Morrison would have gone bald and yet still made it look hot. That's all I know about that.
* Spying on people will always creep me out. As will clandestine organizations. Unless I'm in them, then I feel that they are fabulous.
* I have yet to meet a person who doesn't want to belt out the "NA NA NA NA-NA-NA-NA NA NA NA NA HEEEYY JUDE!" climax of the Beatles' "Hey Jude".
*In 2000 my friend Amy and I wrote predictions about where we'd be in the year 2005.
I was completely wrong about myself.
I am very, very happy about this fact.
* Reading Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close during the 5th anniversary of 9/11 brought back feelings I didn't know I had.
* When (and if) I ever settle down with someone, I will miss feeling giddy and nervous about them. There is a terror and a delight in uncertainty.
* I've been checking books out of a library owned and run by a 10 year-old. That is fabulous.
* My job requires me to have keys to three different golf carts and carry a walkie-talkie. This makes me happy. Listening to the conversations happening over the radio makes me feel connected to everyone else. It's white noise that is occasionally personal.
* Potatoes are incredibly versatile, yet differ from tofu in that no matter what, they always taste like potatoes. Science needs to do something about this.
* Asshole the Cricket was viscously massacred by my roommate while he was trying to take a shower. My roommate has been given a metal. Asshole was unceremoniously dumped in the trash. And this is what happens when you wake me at night. Be warned.
* Peter Cetera's "Glory of Love" (most famously known from the motion picture "Karate Kid" starring Ralph Macchio and Pat Morita) sticks in your head like cold molasses. Seriously. Get this out of my head.
* I wonder how Jimi Hendrix would have affected the rise of the hip-hop movement if he had lived. I feel like his blues influence would have helped create some amazing songs.
* On that same thinking, Janis Joplin would have been twice married and had three kids. She would not be in music anymore. She'd live in Oregon.
* Jim Morrison would have gone bald and yet still made it look hot. That's all I know about that.
* Spying on people will always creep me out. As will clandestine organizations. Unless I'm in them, then I feel that they are fabulous.
* I have yet to meet a person who doesn't want to belt out the "NA NA NA NA-NA-NA-NA NA NA NA NA HEEEYY JUDE!" climax of the Beatles' "Hey Jude".
*In 2000 my friend Amy and I wrote predictions about where we'd be in the year 2005.
I was completely wrong about myself.
I am very, very happy about this fact.
* Reading Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close during the 5th anniversary of 9/11 brought back feelings I didn't know I had.
* When (and if) I ever settle down with someone, I will miss feeling giddy and nervous about them. There is a terror and a delight in uncertainty.
* I've been checking books out of a library owned and run by a 10 year-old. That is fabulous.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Open letter
Open letter to the cricket in my closet:
As you know, I live in a basement. My "window" is about four inches high and maybe 8" wide, and has trees and bushes planted outside of it. Very little light ever passes in. It is what you in the cricket world would call a "dream house" but what we humans like to call "very basement-esque". It is dark, it is damp, it is your dream come true.
However, it is my dark, damp room and not yours.
I'm assuming you moved in last night. Maybe you moved in a few days ago and if that's true then you were a very good roommate for those first nights. I felt like we could co-exist. However, I'm writing you about your behavior last night.
First off, 2AM is not a good time to belt out your cricket version of "Endless Love".
It is when I am trying to sleep. And though it was probably a very good version, it was not the time or the place for it. So I gave you subtle hints.
I closed the curtain at 4AM to separate you from what I can only assume is your captive audience, thinking maybe if you can't hear them, you'll stop singing. I was wrong. Your solo version of "Islands in the Stream" was lacking the beauty of the Dolly/Kenny version. I'm sorry I'm being honest.
And maybe you were drunk and didn't know they couldn't hear you. Or maybe you like to sing like no one is listening. Making your joyful noises to your cricket Jesus. I don't care.
So at 4:30 I turned on the AC, which can be fairly loud. I thought it'd be like the music they play to get people off the stage at the Oscars. I mean, the AC unit was winning in the ambient noise contest with you. But no, you moved on to Peter Cetera.
At 5 I was done with subtle hints. I closet the closet door and put a pillow over my ear. I think you got the hint then. Or I just drown you out. I don't know which was true but the fact still remains that we are at a crossroads. We need to come to an agreement, or I fear I may harm you with something large and heavy.
I'm out of my room from about 8am until 6pm. That is a long time, and with no light in there, I feel it is a more than adequate time to get your karaoke on.
If that doesn't work, I have two other roommates who would be more than happy to host you. Maybe do a little tour of Shady Grove.
I'm sorry to be so harsh, I just need to really set some boundaries. It's for your own good, really. When I'm awakened I'm not responsible for my actions, or the things that I may throw.
Regards,
-S
As you know, I live in a basement. My "window" is about four inches high and maybe 8" wide, and has trees and bushes planted outside of it. Very little light ever passes in. It is what you in the cricket world would call a "dream house" but what we humans like to call "very basement-esque". It is dark, it is damp, it is your dream come true.
However, it is my dark, damp room and not yours.
I'm assuming you moved in last night. Maybe you moved in a few days ago and if that's true then you were a very good roommate for those first nights. I felt like we could co-exist. However, I'm writing you about your behavior last night.
First off, 2AM is not a good time to belt out your cricket version of "Endless Love".
It is when I am trying to sleep. And though it was probably a very good version, it was not the time or the place for it. So I gave you subtle hints.
I closed the curtain at 4AM to separate you from what I can only assume is your captive audience, thinking maybe if you can't hear them, you'll stop singing. I was wrong. Your solo version of "Islands in the Stream" was lacking the beauty of the Dolly/Kenny version. I'm sorry I'm being honest.
And maybe you were drunk and didn't know they couldn't hear you. Or maybe you like to sing like no one is listening. Making your joyful noises to your cricket Jesus. I don't care.
So at 4:30 I turned on the AC, which can be fairly loud. I thought it'd be like the music they play to get people off the stage at the Oscars. I mean, the AC unit was winning in the ambient noise contest with you. But no, you moved on to Peter Cetera.
At 5 I was done with subtle hints. I closet the closet door and put a pillow over my ear. I think you got the hint then. Or I just drown you out. I don't know which was true but the fact still remains that we are at a crossroads. We need to come to an agreement, or I fear I may harm you with something large and heavy.
I'm out of my room from about 8am until 6pm. That is a long time, and with no light in there, I feel it is a more than adequate time to get your karaoke on.
If that doesn't work, I have two other roommates who would be more than happy to host you. Maybe do a little tour of Shady Grove.
I'm sorry to be so harsh, I just need to really set some boundaries. It's for your own good, really. When I'm awakened I'm not responsible for my actions, or the things that I may throw.
Regards,
-S
Sunday, September 10, 2006
"The World's Fastest Table Sport!"
I know that visiting camp is sold as "the best week of your life" what with all the activities and games and loud and/or shiny things to look at (ended in a preposition! Ha!). But I live at camp. Score one for me.
Well, actually, I don't get to do all that stuff, so I really don't win, but it's still fun to watch others doing it. Out of the plethora of things to do, what with the zipline and giant swing and blob and climbing tower, etc the only thing I've gotten to do is the game room. You know, shuffleboard, ping pong, billards, fooseball, and, what inspires me to write this, air hockey.
I love air hockey.
Like have an irrational love of air hockey.
There is something simple and beautiful about air hockey. It requires little or no skill (except some elementary hand/eye coordination) and yet I hold the firm belief that I am quite good at it. My defense is much stronger than my offense, though I have a great left bank shot. Seriously, I rarely lose. You wouldn't want to play me. (To learn some sweet air hockey moves, check this out. )
There is a professional billard leaque; ping-pong is an Olympic event. Fooseball is found in most good American bars (including Taps--holla to the Westcott Nation). But air hockey? No such thing. There are "world rankings" but they consist of people from mostly Ohio and Colorado. Spectators don't gather to watch two players battle over that little plastic puck, there are no professional leagues, no way to raise through the ranks of air hockey-dom. That is one thing I love about it; it is still unmolested by sponsors, ESPN, elitism and doping scandals. There is aggression with no physical contact. There are moves but mostly luck. I live for that satisfying TWAAK of the puck against the mallet, the corners.
Everything I do has some sort of purpose to it, to gain something, get past something, feel something, get over something. Not with air hockey; I love the purposeless of it.
Well, actually, I don't get to do all that stuff, so I really don't win, but it's still fun to watch others doing it. Out of the plethora of things to do, what with the zipline and giant swing and blob and climbing tower, etc the only thing I've gotten to do is the game room. You know, shuffleboard, ping pong, billards, fooseball, and, what inspires me to write this, air hockey.
I love air hockey.
Like have an irrational love of air hockey.
There is something simple and beautiful about air hockey. It requires little or no skill (except some elementary hand/eye coordination) and yet I hold the firm belief that I am quite good at it. My defense is much stronger than my offense, though I have a great left bank shot. Seriously, I rarely lose. You wouldn't want to play me. (To learn some sweet air hockey moves, check this out. )
There is a professional billard leaque; ping-pong is an Olympic event. Fooseball is found in most good American bars (including Taps--holla to the Westcott Nation). But air hockey? No such thing. There are "world rankings" but they consist of people from mostly Ohio and Colorado. Spectators don't gather to watch two players battle over that little plastic puck, there are no professional leagues, no way to raise through the ranks of air hockey-dom. That is one thing I love about it; it is still unmolested by sponsors, ESPN, elitism and doping scandals. There is aggression with no physical contact. There are moves but mostly luck. I live for that satisfying TWAAK of the puck against the mallet, the corners.
Everything I do has some sort of purpose to it, to gain something, get past something, feel something, get over something. Not with air hockey; I love the purposeless of it.
Monday, September 4, 2006
Aquifers and granite
Lately dreams have been vivid and searing, blurring lines and lives. I wake up feeling a message has been passed, an insight given and yet I do not possess the codebreaker needed. It's frustrating. And those Internet dream dictionaries are full o' crap. Fascinating how little is known of dreams, their powers and headwaters. I wonder how much are aquifers of hope; little pockets of the untainted. Does that make sense? Optimism encased in the granite of adult realism. Dreams of floods, exes, weddings, ships, music, chaos, fire, secrets, trysts, a red minivan, death, peril, and playing Ani DiFranco's “Adam and Eve” on guitar. I do not like waking to a head more full then when I consciously left it.
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