"There's a pre-meeting meeting after the meeting."
- Chris, clarifying the schedule of house, Board, and community meetings
Biking back from Winters, 12 miles outside of Davis
Working at Peet's Coffee involves a lot of trouble shooting when it comes to customers' needs. I have to translate what they want into what we can do. Most of the time this is straightforward and only a matter of negotiation Yesterday, however, I had three people come in with some real brain teasers. First, a man asked for a plain cup of iced coffee with sweetener. Alright, dude, you can't have both plain and sweetened coffee and even if you could, I don't know what you mean by "sweetener", since we have literally 13 kinds of sugar and syrup. Another customer asked for an empty cup of ice. I actually hesitated before scooping the ice, afraid I was doing something... stupid. Finally, a woman came in an asked if we put water in our iced tea. Well you see, Miss, we— by which I mean the entire world— actually use water twice: once when we BREW THE TEAand then once more when wePUT ICE IN IT. Since you seem to struggle with the concept of tea, perhaps I should also explain the difference between ice and water.
I am way too excited about Premium Rush!
The social implications of this are, of course, huge. If being a fixie bike messenger is cool enough to be the subject of $100+ million blockbuster, then it's undeniably too mainstream. What will you hipsters do now? Bwahahaha!
Last week, midway through one the most jubilant and rejuvenatingly playful days of my life, I received a text message from my brother:
"Do you ever feel like this is the most enriched and free you'll ever be in your life?"
I've arriving at a realization that I'm at this crucial nexus in my life where I've very recently experienced the peak of my youth, but with every passing day I grow more appreciative of what I have left. If youth is wasted on the young, when does youth end and hindsight begin? Now that school is in, I'm surrounded by truly young people just beginning to step into adulthood. I recently overheard someone defending the Freshmen, saying that the forest needs the saplings. (To cross metaphors) when I was 19 I missed that forest for the trees. I felt lost and helpless— disconnected from the community. Now I can see that I was the forest. I still am, but my role is evolving. We need the saplings and they need us.
Is this the most enriched I'll ever be? Ultimately, yes, but the less I have to get from my community, the more I have to give.
"(There is) a good dose of prejudice based on your age and status as an itinerant uninstitutionalized heart-throb." - a concern raised while discussing whether or not I am "boyfriend material"
Sandwiches from the Food Co-Op are incredible. Ted (in the red shirt) always gets all the free extras available, while I go for the classic lettuce-tomato-onion combo. Either way, as you can see, salivation is unavoidable.
These Boxes is totally the name of my new Indie Aleatoric Funk band.
I moved into a new house and now must stock my cupboard with staples and my bathroom with toiletries. With less and less time in my day to work up a good lather, I've decided to revisit body wash as a medium for expeditious general hygiene. In the past I've used an Adidas brand body wash which, in retrospect, seems like using Kraft toilet paper. Yesterday I stood before an 8ft shelf of scented varieties for men and slowly narrowed my options to select the scent that best represents Me (a marketing rep for any of these companies would have creamed their jeans to observe this process outside of a focus group):
The first consideration was cost, so my choices were limited to what was on sale. I didn't even look at the labeling of the other brands.
So far so good: my frugalness is my core value here.
The next consideration was finding a mild scent: not too strong and not too soapy. My brother once brought my attention to the malodorous combination of fruit and B.O.
Apparently, I value subtlety over style. I don't want to wear the scent like an expensive watch.
The final stage was repeatedly sniffing 3 different scents, trying to identify with the smell: Is this what I want to smell like? I was trying very hard to ignore the associations of the labeling, but still walked away with Old Spice Denali which smells, according to the label, "like wilderness, open air and freedom". I wonder whether this is the result of very precise marketing or simply the power of suggestion... probably a little of both. Or maybe the Universe is trying to sell tell me something.
Played during the intermission of A Midsummer Night's Dream at the Arboretum:
"Oh, it's you. Is anyone of consequence home?" - Jessi to me, finding me on the couch reading the Hobbit
I love running at sunset. Everything starts to glow. The temp drops from superfucking hot down to very warm. I've taken to bringing my camera along to try to catch the little jems I pass on my loop around campus.
Oh my dear sweet lord, what a mess I've made. I have so thoroughly deluded myself in so many respects that, while I'm beginning to understand the current state of things, I have no idea how it has come this far. Perhaps I could be more vague? The last two weeks have been filled with self reflection regarding my romantic machinations, more specifically the ethos that has informed my decision-making before, during, and after my relationships. All of them. There is a number equal to the amount of people I have slept with. Like your weight or maybe your age, it's a number that I've been rounding down for so long that I'd lost track of the real thing. This number, as it turns out, is very large relative to anyone I know. While I'm not surprised, I'm suddenly a little uncomfortable.
It wasn't my goal to end up here. I've never identified as a ladies man and I've never felt particularly confident as a suitor. I'm not saying I'm not a scoundrel; I just thought that all my good intentions might make up for my flights-of-fancy. Apparently not. So now what? I'm still me and there's nothing to be done about that— but I can use this new clarity to move forward with more... discipline. Already, I feel less pressure to pursue every opportunity that comes up. Which is to say I'm enjoying not feeling the need to, you know, hump every cute girl that comes within arms' reach.
Fucking mynocks, right?* Always chewing on power cables. What's that about?
"Würfeln!" -German for Roll the dice! (pronounced "voorfln")
Co-op dinner: awww yeah!
Let's talk about this. The tortilla at the top was hand made. The pickle was pickled at a pickle party*. The grapes were grown in a house garden. And all of it vegan.
I'm w a i t i n g.
For Burning Man
To start work at ROCKNASIUM To move into my new house To catch up one-on-one with so many people
To watch Davis explode back into life
Excerpted from a New Yorker article on Internet dating, by Nick Paumgarten:
"The cutting edge is in mobile and location-based technology, such as Grindr, a smart-phone app for gay men that tells subscribers when there are other willing subscribers in their vicinity. Many Internet dating companies are trying to make this kind of thing work for straight people, which means making it work for straight women, who may not need an app to know that they are surrounded by willing straight men."
"Men want someone who will take care of them, make them look good, and have sex with them— not necessarily in that order. It may be that this is all women really want, too, but they are better at disguising or obscuring it. They deal in calculus, while men, for the most part, traffic in simple sums."
"Most bad dates are just awkward or excruciating. One woman likened them to airplane crashes: the trouble usually occurs during the takeoff and landing— the minute you meet and the minute you leave. You can often tell right away if this person who's been so charming in his e-mails is a creep or a bore. If not, it becomes clear at the end of the evening, when he sticks his tongue down your throat. Or doesn't. One women told me that she maintains a chart, both to keep the men straight and to try to discern patterns— as though there might be a unified-field theory of why men are dogs."
"...the question 'Do you like the taste of beer?' is more predicative than any other of whether you're willing to have sex on the first date. (That is, ...people who have answered yes to one are likely to have answered yes to the other.)"
"It is an axiom of Internet dating that everyone allegedly has a sense of humor, even if evidence of it is infrequently on display. ...if you say you are funny, then you should probably show it. Demonstrating funniness can be fraught. Irony isn't for everyone. But everyone isn't for everyone, either"
Colorado wildflowers are great, but check out the succulents growing in the yards of
Berkeley residents.
This is a series of time-lapse videos taken of Bay Area fog. I've never seen my gray home look so beautiful.
"It's so stupid. First of all, how do they understand that walking bear they hang around with all the time? It goes '*GRROWWW*' and they're all like 'That's a good point, Bear. Let's try that.'"
- a review of Star Wars from How I Met Your Mother
"Go away. I can't pollinate with you looking at me."
Last weekend was Comic Con, which means that lots of people dressed up as sexy anthropomorphic animals, listened to nerdcore, and watched the trailer for the new Spiderman reboot. The first-person sequence at the end is pretty sweet, right? Well, the world has seen something like that before. In a video game. Mirror's Edge came out in 2008 and presented revolutionary gameplay coupled with gorgeous effects. You play a courrier, running across rooftops parkour-style, delivering illegal goods. Check this out:
I think it's awesome that there's this kind of cinematic cross-over happening with experiential storytelling. Immersive 3D movies like Avatar and the fluid storytelling and cinematic gameplay in video games like Unchartered represent a convergence of media, moving towards virtual reality. It's exciting to watch it happening from both ends and I think too many people refuse to acknowledge that video games are carrying the greater load. In terms of the development of complex, interactive storytelling, games like Mass Effect (which will use vocal cues by the player to steer dialogue) and L.A. Noir (a detective game in which the player must interpret the subtle facial expressions of suspects) are pushing boundaries faster than POV web-slinging. That said, I've never felt anything onscreen as viscerally as Jake in his avatar taking flight for the first time— and I know kung fu.
I said I was writing a song about thunderstorms (one word; look it up!) and I did. I know I posted it to Facebook, meaning you've already had a chance to listen to it, but I'm posting it here for archival purposes. With a little discipline, I should have a more polished version of this and all my other songs up soon.
"She wants to be the center of attention, which is impossible around me because I'm so articulate and funny." - Bonnie, a sassy hipster friend, sizing up her competition
Here's a riddle: Two young men were on a zip line tour with me today. They looked almost identical. They said they weren't twins, neither identical nor fraternal, but they were brothers born to the same mother and of the same father on the same day. They were born one minute apart. But they weren't twins.So what gives? Here's a BIG hint.They had the rest of us stumped for 20 minutes before they spilled the beans.
Got some disappointing news today. An affaire de couer, as per uzh. You know that feeling when you're leaving the house and you're sure you've forgotten something, but you don't know what? Like, it wasn't a problem because you were in the house with the thing, but now you're leaving and suddenly it's your last chance. You don't need it, which is why you can't remember what it is, but you know you might and kills you to think you'll be caught unprepared. Like it was something that could have been taken care of— a packed lunch, an overdue book, a special key— but now you're walking out the door and it hasn't been and now it's too late. And, really, what I'm talking about is that moment after you've closed the door, as you're walking to your car bike, when you're waiting for the thing to pop back into your head (always, of course, of it's own volition) and you want to know if it'll be important enough to go back for. Will it be worth being late to work because this nameless thing on the edge of your consciousness is so critical that you're doomed without it? Every second spent continuing to leave grows more excruciating because you know there's something. You're poised, on edge— ready to spring back up the stairs the moment it clicks... but it's hopeless. The thought won't come because there was never anything to remember. All that's left is the sinking fear of a missed opportunity. Well, I had a moment like that the other day getting on train. I just remembered what I forgot.
Someone is going to have to tell me if the new Death Cab for Cutie album is good or bad, or if they've sold out or come back, or what. I've listened to it twice and I don't know what's going on. I think I'm thinking of the Postal Service. Anyway, I kind of like it, which is probably a bad sign for them.
It's fucking monsoon season out here. It's 80 degrees at noon, dumps rain from 3 to 7, clears for a gorgeous sunset, then dumps from midnight to 4. I'm writing a song about it.
For all the hardcore bums out here, I've met a few Davis-quality people. One of them is a warm-hearted, Chaco-wearing, queer girl who works for Adaptive Sports (the adventure Non-Profit for disabled bad-asses). She actually hugs me when we say hello and goodbye. No one fucking hugs anybody around here. It's tragic. I was having a shitty day and she gave me a hug and now I feel better. I thanked her again via text just now: "Thanks for the hug. It meant a lot." and she texts back "You mean a lot." And it hit me. Goddamn, I miss physical contact. I'm stoked to be headed back to a place where hugs are like handshakes and handshakes are like rain on your wedding day.
(Speaking of irony)Discussion topic of the day:Is Hipsterpornactually porn? (NSFW, unless you're killing time at your Portland bike kitchen shift, in which case go for it.) Is it, in fact, a social commentary on modern sexuality and media? Is it Art if it's not generating income because everyone's coke habits are already fully supported by trust funds? Or is it just porn for people who find Playboy too mainstream?
Reblogged from FenestraVitae (who has more suggested reading for hipsterporn enthusiasts in the comments section)
I've been giving a lot of high-fives, but no one seems as interested in leveraging their thund'rous power for enthusiasm and camaraderie as I do. My boss gave me one once out of acute gratitude, but he did it the way a Texan might say "grah-see-ahs" to a waiter at a mexican restaurant. Like, "This is how you show appreciation where you're from, right?" I'm amazed at how Californian— how socially frivolous and ideologically irresponsible— I feel out here.
"According to Peter, you should only ride the zip line if you're prepared to stare a tiger in the eyes and slap it in the face." -Trippe, my coworker, after I suggested to a guest that the zip line required the same athletic ability as jumping off a trashcan
The Red Lady Quartet performs in a poorly lit room. (quality of photo is somewhat intentional)
Woah. Crazy busy 10 days:
I spent four 10-hour days training to be a Zip Line guide. It was super sketchy to be working out the kinks in the 5-zip course as we learned how to navigate it and guide people through. The longest zip is 400 ft. long and you clock in at 30 mph. It's safe (...now). Basically, I have to catch people as they come in to land without getting knocked off a platform 40 ft. off the ground. I'm tied in on a safety rope, but still.
The 4th of July is a mad house here. Like Picnic Day, things go from mellow to absolute pande-fucking-monium for a day and a half. Crowds of clueless goobers— tourists— (supercomma!) flood the town and throw money around. Friends made $200 busking with a banjo and mandolin on Sunday and Monday. All the locals work double shifts and party the night before instead.
Danica's family visited for the weekend so I went couch surfing to give them their space. On the third day of being out of the house, I came in to the coffee shop to hang out before going to work on the mountain and Arvin informed me that I wasn't "clicking" at the shop and that it would be best if I just worked full time at the Zip Line. I'll rephrase that in case it was too passively worded: they fired me. I'm fired from the coffee shop I came back to CB to work at. To be fair, I was showing up late and asking for days off to work more on the mountain (they're short-staffed and it pays better). I've gleaned that this lead Danica to question my "loyalty and attention to detail". That's like having Stephen Colbert question your Patriotism. But it is for the best. I'm super happy as a guide and I wasn't stoked on my coffee shop shifts. I served coffee for 2 hours, did nothing for 4, then cleaned for 2. I will totally admit to not being a good janitor. So fuck it. Don't tell anybody, but I'm looking at coming home a smidge early. There's a change in the wind and it's blowing West.
For now, the Zip Line gig is fucking awesome. I lead three trips over the course of each day and the last big zip always gets my adrenalin up. Catching people, especially kids who barely make it, is exhilarating. The daily rush has definitely upped my mood and makes me giddy in the evenings. It might be addicting, we'll see. I'm making good money and I've got great coworkers. It's a blast and I love it, but work isn't everything and I'm feeling a little thin in every other department, if only for a lack of free time. I'm going on a wildflower hike on Tuesday (with a girl!), so we'll see how that goes.
Also, I know that Deathly Hallows pt. 2 is coming out and we're all excited or whatever but, Jesus people, pull yourselves together!
"I like my coffee the way I like my women— sweet and complicated." - Me, inadvertently christening my new specialty drink, the Sweet and Complicated. A triple-shot soy mochachino with a shot of hazelnut and whipped cream suspended in the foam and dusted with cinnamon.
Chains (and bottom brackets) are for wussies.
I've been keeping track of this blog's traffic and it seems that people aren't clicking on the links I sprinkle around. Some of them are just for reference, but some of them are there to make you chuckle. I'll tell you what I'm gonna do: I'll just underline the referential links, but I'll leave the entertaining links highlighted turquoise (which I encourage you to click on because you never know what you might find).
Last weekend I participated in a fundraising event for Adaptive Sports, a local guide company for the handicapped. Bridges of the Butte is a 24-hour bike marathon where teams sponsored by local businesses make as many 2.4-mile laps around town as they can from 3pm Saturday to 3pm Sunday. Through my connections at the bike co-op, I was invited to join Team Space Camp. This Burning Man-style crew of hippies has historically completed the most laps of any team between 10pm and 6am. Despite being in the middle of four days of Zip Line Guide training, I rose to the occasion and got swept up in the team spirit. Using tinfoil and cardboard, I built Arvin's cruiser into a spaceship complete with rockets— tragically simplistic compared to the flagship recumbent light-bike that flickered like a neon cocoon when its bell rang. The event proved to be the psychedelic, nocturnal cousin of the Tour de Davis.
My favorite punctuation mark is the em dash: "—". It turns out— when using the em dash as I do— it can be called a super comma. Super Comma is totally the name of my nu-metal indietronica jam band.
"Women in Crested Butte are like parking spaces; they're either taken, handicapped, or way-the-fuck out there."
- on the bathroom wall of the Eldo bar
Something for everyone... except illiterate rednecks.
I really like the movie The Rocketeer. It's one of those movies I saw as a kid back when watching a movie and all of its sequels overandover again endlessly all weekend was deeply comforting (there was always that hope that the 100th playthrough would reveal some new scene or missed joke). This repetition, at such an early age, meant that any lines of dialogue that were beyond my understanding were nevertheless memorized permanently, if only phonetically. So it was with the original Star Wars trilogy, which means that phrases like "hive of scum and villainy" and "Chespo kutata kreesta krenko, nyakoska!" are in my head at the same depth as "hakuna matata" might be for someone else. Ultimately, this leaves me with the ability to quote the gibberish on screen, which some people* mistake for actually speaking a fake language. Anyway, the Rocketeer and Star Wars. Great movies, great characters, great crossover:
This is the beat poetry of my generation. I'm sure you've seen this, but take a moment and consider this medium as art— poignant snapshots of a culture. Breathtaking.
So I have this game that I play that I thought everybody played, but I guess not. It goes like this: somebody speaks a phrase in the course of a conversation that, in context, is unremarkable, but taken on its own has an enigmatic poetry to it. The challenge is to notice these phrases, determine if the phrase is the name of a band, a song title, or an album title, and then assign to it the appropriate genre of music. For example, I was joking with a friend about being fated to work in a cubicle and she said something about having a cube-shaped soul. I then stopped the conversation to announce that "Cube-Shaped Soul" is totally the name of the debut album of my neo-new wave folk shoegaze band. "Thunder and Lightning and Jazz" is totally the name of my post-mariachi prog rock band. And so on.Can you guess my all-time favorite phrase to have been plucked from a conversation?
*I was kind of seeing this girl. We watched Jedi with some friends and I knew Jabba's lines. She thought I could speak Jabbanese or whatever and gave me shit for it for days. E chu ta, what a stoopa!
You: Gorgeous, dramatic features. Lush, grand curves with steep, fun lines.
Me: Just a stranger passing through.
We crossed paths this past winter and I find myself in your area again. I've tried to make myself approachable, hoping you would notice me, but I guess I can't keep up. I just want to share an adventure or two and I thought you would be more inviting now that you're dressed for summer, all flirty and flowery. It's clear now that I'm not going to catch your attention unless I get more aggressive. I know I'm just one of a hundred dudes trying to have a little fun, but could you give me a sign before it's too late?
There are a lot of Christian summer camps in this part of the Rockies and, on the days between camps, the guides all come into the coffee shop to get their Facebook fix and load up on mochas and pastries. I've asked these kids about their programs and they keep it pretty vague (lots of knowing looks and pregnant pauses). There seems to be this expectation that I know what goes on out there ...and maybe nothing really goes on. Maybe they hike and camp and climb and pray and that's the end of it. I wonder if people react the same way when I say I've lived in a co-op. I know what that entails, but I guess I've never had anyone really ask me for details. Have you heard the word of Kord?
So it turns out that shopping on Zappos.com has given me key work experience for my shipping and receiving job. I can pack up and tape boxes, and print and attach UPS labels like a pro. Scott Frye would be proud.
"You've got a funny look on your face, but your face is funny looking, so..."
- Arvin to me while I was staring into space
View of CB from the Upper Loop Trail
I've been trail running above town a few times a week. Today I had to run down the block in flip-flops— usually awkward— and automatically fell into a perfect stride. My midfoot strike is coming along nicely.
Pop quiz, Hotshot: Why would you want to drive a bougie, Eurotrash Saab around Colorado more than your dad's all-American F150? Answer: the Elk Test. Elk and Moose collisions make up such a staggeringly* large percentage of car accidents in Sweden that all Saab vehicles are engineered to scoop the elk off its legs and pass its body over the roof without damaging the car or passengers. The valley here is lousy with 'em. Around here, elk are like bison in Oregon Trail. Ski bums can't afford a gallon of milk, but their freezers are chock full of elk meat. So, elk collisions are a problem here, too. Trucks and SUVs smash and roll. Hatchbacks get totalled. Throw some mud tires and a gun rack on a Saab and you're good to go.
(The following paragraph is a tribute to Dr. Patrick Dragon)
They said it was impossible at the academy—they called me mAd— said it couldn't be done. But they were WRONG. I can segway into this last, hideously extraneous link. Because while we're on the subject of large, unexpected animals, check out this comic.
I want to set the record straight: I do not have hoes in multiple area codes.
I guess I have a thing for macro.
So I kind of have four jobs. I work for my housemates, Danica and Arvin, as a barista at their coffee shop and a clerk in their bookstore. I also work for the Resort as a minigolf and climbing wall attendant, and as a zip-line tour guide. My superviser, Zack, who is in the middle of making the schedule for the summer (and so must fit my two sets of resort shifts around my other shifts), passed by the coffee shop while I was out front, sprawled across a bench and talking on my phone. I waved as he passed, but he only smirked and shook his head: "Get a job!"
I had an idea for a tattoo last night (deep breath, Mom and Dad, I said "idea"; just an idea). A bike chainwheel with a crank pointed straight down with a lotus flower in the middle of the chainwheel. The Pali word for "impermanence" in Burmese script (no Pali script exists) inscribed on the crank, "suffering" along the teeth, and "non-self" in the lotus. Those 3 ideas go together and are represented by the leverage of the crank and the contrast between the abrasive metal teeth and the soft, colorful petals. The bicycle parts symbolize my connection to cycling as part of a pure and mindful lifestyle. The lotus is an ancient Buddhist symbol representing peace and enlightenment... so, you know, it's, like, cool... Whatever. Chicks dig tattoos.
Ohmygod I want one! This thing can tear it up around Berkeley, cruise across Davis, or haul straight up the Rockies. Gimme.
Met an established CB resident named David today. He ordered a book that's just come out about the historical evidence around the actual person who is now remembered as Jesus (yes, that Jesus). David has some stories. Check it:
He met General Dwight D. Eisenhower at the Hoover Dam when he was 7. His grandfather was the first Rabbi in L.A. He had an uncle take a young Richard Nixon to court and win for failing to pay for a window installation. He had another uncle who worked for 20th Century Fox, won two Oscars for cinematography, and introduced him to John Wayne and Marilyn Monroe (this was back when it still said Hollywoodland). David himself went to UC Davis in 1955 (where he lived in a barn) and worked for UC Berkeley in the 60's as a statistician of student affairs. As the first and last federal park ranger at Pointe Reyes, he made national news by busting a congressman for poaching deer and refusing to drop the charges. He busted so many illegal campers in 1969 that he was known as the Ranger Who Never Sleeps by the local papers. He was so hard-nosed that his superior officers repeatedly relocated him until he was left to patrol a 7,000 acre stretch of park south of Lake Mead (waythefuckout in the Nevada desert) by himself. He has four degrees and seems to know everything about everything.
That's the heavily abridged version of what I can remember from a 90 minute monologue. I hope it was good for you.
I took second place in the first official round of on-the-clock-mini-golf with my co-workers and our awesome boss, Phil. When Phil put the scorecard in his pocket at the end of the game, I asked if he was going to keep it. "No. I'm gonna burn it."
I bent down to pick up a wrench at the base of a bike stand, stood up too quickly and managed to bang my head on the clamp. It hurt more than it seemed like it should have. That night, I found a clump of dried blood in my hair. Gross.
I was supposed to help build bikes today and instead drove to Denver to help get an order of books for the store. Arvin asked if I would come with him as I was leaving the house. I took a moment to consider that I had no real obligations and that I could help Jonathan at the co-op some other day. That's it.That's all it took for me to commit to a 12-hour favor with 10 minutes notice. I realized at about Hour 8 that I hadn't taken into account what the chore would really entail or what sort of favor Arvin would owe me. It had at no point occurred to me calculate the "generosity cost-benefit". Arvin wanted help (it was the book distributer's fault that the books would not arrive on time) and I was available. End of story.
So what's my point?
I've spent years trying to cultivate and internalize certain values and develop positive emotional habits. I'm constantly putting energy into improving my relationship to things that cause aversion*. In the past, I would have gnashed my teeth over being self guilt-tripped into such an inconvenient favor— knowing what was the right thing to do, but begrudgingly agreeing only after negotiating the terms of my compensation. Today, it took the same amount of effort to agree to help Arvin as it does to brush my teeth before bed. I've always wanted to be the sort of person who would, with genuine compassion and humility**, give their time and energy to someone else's problem. I can now honestly say that I am that sort of person. Go me!
* Buddhist concept of Aversion: Aversion arises reflexively as an emotional defense against unpleasant sensations. For me, spending money, even on important things, triggers anxiety. I have an aversion to the anxiety so instead of facing reality, I avoid spending spending money and suffer the lack of food or other resources. It's emotionally easier to feel hunger than anxiety. Obviously it's not healthier. If I improve my relationship to the sensation of anxiety, the Aversion will dissipate over time. **While I was indeed humble in the actual moment, the irony of me blogging about my humility has not escaped me.
" Studying (western) philosophy taught me how to think. Buddhism taught me how to feel."
- customer on academic vs. experiential education
Variety is our special-tea (get it?)
Sitting in my living room with a bunch of guys watching How I Met Your Mother. An ad for a female contraceptive came on which was so choked with side effect warnings that it wasn't clear what they were selling. We were left to speculate on how exactly the thing worked. Michael suggested that it was a miniature paperclip that clips the cervix closed. I submitted an IUD made of enriched uranium. Arvin, however, took the cake with a vision of truly futuristic contraception.
I went to the bike co-op in town to rehabilitate an old road bike that's been sitting in the driveway for six months. Jonathan, the guy who's trying to keep the place running, wants to build up the donated frames and parts into a rental fleet to generate income. When I offered to help him with the project in exchange for using the space, he cleared his throat the way someone might choke back a spit take. Apparently the shop guys around town are pretty tribal when it comes to sharing resources, leaving poor Jonathan in need of all the help he can get.
Tried to play Fidelity on the guitar. I see potential for a truly hilarious talent show submission.
I had a good chat with Arvin today about privilege. We got on the subject after hearing a friend of mine worrying about Meaning. As in, a summer waiting tables in Crested Butte is Meaningless— a waypoint on the way to a significant, Meaningful life. I didn't bring up my whole Buddhistish life-is-meaningless-so-chill-the-fuck-out-and-enjoy-yourself thing because the conversation usually ends pretty quickly at the impasse of "Well, if you think everything is meaningless, then why even bother doing anything that you don't absolutely have to?"
This got me thinking about privilege.
Not just my specific middle class American white male privilege, but privilege as a condition, as a state of being. I've been told to "check my privilege"*, mostly by equally privileged people trying to live more righteously. For the most part the idea hadn't really nestled into my consciousness. Today, however, I had an interesting thought while trying to explain this sentiment to Arvin (who's parents are Indian, was born in Trinidad & Tobago, and grew up in Miami).
If I think of my privilege as a negative condition— as a benign illness— then I can either ignore it and let the symptoms get worse, or acknowledge it and treat it. I used the word "commit" while talking to Arvin, when I really meant "embrace". If I embrace something, I'm accepting it fully for good or ill and taking responsibility for my relationship to it.** It's one thing to be privileged, it's another to deny it. A personal (and weird, I know) example that came to mind earlier: I have a favorite brand of condom that I buy on the internet because they're hard to find in stores. I am privileged to be culturally educated about safe sex, have access to any contraceptives at all, and have the internet as a resource. How much of a dick would I be if I felt inconvenienced by the "inaccessibility" of a specific brand in the face of past and present STI epidemics and population control problems.
So. I embrace my privilege not to be a pretentious asshole, but to avoid the trap of pretending like it isn't there and becoming an even bigger asshole. I am blessed to be able to "waist" a summer in Crested Butte. I'm not going to drop this to go join the Peace Corp and neither are you, but the worst thing I can do is act like I deserve better.
*The phrase "check your privilege" turns out 150,000 results on Google. "Don't do drugs" turns out 3 million, "live the American dream" 4.3 million.
**Buddhist idea of acceptance: I embrace my distaste for spicy food. I cannot blame green chiles for being spicy and thus offensive. I am offended by the taste of chiles. They do not offend me. If I take responsibility for my relationship to spicy food, I no longer need to view the chiles themselves as "bad". One less thing to hate. Try it on something that pissed you off today. Was it the thing, or how you felt about the thing that pissed you off?
Arvin to me as I'm leaving the house for a run, wearing only running shorts: "You better not get any ladies pregnant on that run!"
Danica and gay friend Michael went to a play about "the lives of women", while Arvin and I stayed home and marveled at the high-resolution performance of my new Xbox hooked up to the HDTV. When Michael asked about my evening and I related our excitement, he replied "That sounds about right; we went to see a play about bras and you boys played video games."
I'm mixing an acoustic cover of Praise You with GarageBand.
Today is my 35th day couch surfing in Davis between seasons in Crested Butte. I've slept on 6 couches, in 10 beds, and with 6 people (not likethat). I've eaten at 23 co-op dinners, run 64 miles, played 5 sessions of D&D, consumed 7 doses of H.S. Thompson-grade chemicals, and gotten laid more than once*. Life is good.
I rolled up to one of the student co-ops yesterday and was greeted warmly by several people on the lawn. Someone declared "Damn, Peter. Look at you. You just look so good." I firmly believe that if you drop out of school, quit your job, re-invest in your community, and mooch juuust enough to get by that you too can look this "good". For those of you who aren't prepared to take that leap or are vaguely offended by the way I brazenly suckle at the teat of my socioeconomic privilege, I say twice as much rest, sunshine, and hugs will get you most of the way there. Anyone who feels that there is no time for or value in that kind of leisure is in desperate need of a lifestyle enema.
Sell your stuff. Bake cookies for someone who doesn't know your last name. Shop at your local dumpster. Go outside.
*A math-grad friend and I decided that because getting laid for the first time after a dry spell is so much more revitalizing than getting laid a second time, the relative difference between hooking up twice and 100 times is null. Thus, a distinction need only be made between getting laid 0, 1, or >1 times.
