A few accomplishments this summer went unblogged, and before I return for development days on Monday and Tuesday, before the little buggers come back into the room with big, wide eyes and nothing resembling a clue, I thought I'd share my list of what I've left out.
Work - I know, I know, you're thinking, This little brat has the nerve to parade across my cyberspace with tales of his summer and then leads off his summer wrap-up with work!? But I'm beaming. My summer started with early mornings, coffee until 11 or so, and piece after dynamic piece to build my curriculum. I've taught it before, but this summer I gave it wings. As I said when the summer started, the time to work without distraction is a benefit to the profession.
Leisure - For the first time in my life, I finished a list of books solely for pleasure. Last summer, I only made it through some of Steinbeck's stragglers and Fitzgerald's Gatsby. This summer, I broke off a bigger chunk, and found time to slide some extras in as well. The list and necessary annotations/explanations, presented in order, follows:
The Last Shot by Darcy Frey - I don't have many nonfiction pieces under my belt, and this was one I included on my Advanced English 9 class's summer assignment list. I can't very well ask for something that I haven't read. It's an amazing book I found way too late.
On the Road by Jack Kerouac - Duluoz and I go back and forth. I have to be in the right state of mind to read him. I left about 120 pages of this unfinished back in 2005, but with travel plans set for Wyoming and a visit with Matt for the Pyramid backpacking trip, I needed to rekindle my affair. I finally finished this and went right on to Big Sur, which I ate up on the plane flights and layovers between Sacramento and Jackson and back.
Bird by Bird by Ann Lamott. I took this in bits, and although I'm not finished with it, it doesn't stand as something in need of cover-to-cover completion. Lamot writes with great candor and humor, and for anyone interested in writing fiction, this should be book number 1.
Ape and Essence by Aldous Huxley - I maintain that Brave New World changed my life, so it's appropriate that I picked this up on a whim back in 2004 after reading the jacket. Like so many books I buy, it sat on the shelf. I knocked it out on the plane ride back from Hawaii so that Matt and I had more fodder for our backpacking trip.
Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury - I'm chopping through this right now, but I'm wondering if all the utopian/distopian/futuristic literature is really necessary.
Creativity - The blog has, in truth, become a monster. I didn't foresee the thoughts and ideas that would come up and find their way to the screen. While I'll continue to muse and update here at Erasure Dust, expect the thoughts and ramblings to pick up over a Pop Quiz, my "professional" blog, as well.
In addition to the blog, I completed some short story work. I'll admit, I have a hard time with the investment portion of the work, but I harbor an infatuation with characterization, so the exercise ultimately proves worthwhile. The Lamott book really helped with adding plot, something I almost ignore while in my own cloud of verbosity.
I also continued writing songs, which is probably the most satisfying part of my "creative" flare. Despite any training or talent (or conviction), I winnowed a collection into another disc for friends, family, and interested parties. Unlike previous discs, this time I included a miniature booklet of lyrics to help prop the thing up.
Play - Aside from what I've previously showcased (Pyramid and Jeep Jamboree), Stephanie and I enjoyed a June weekend camping on the West Fork of the Carson River where we hiked part of the Tahoe Rim Trail to Dardanelles Lake. As you've seen, we tallied up the miles in Hawaii as well. Additionally, Stephanie and I are in training for the Cowtown Marathon (well, the half-marathon anyway). I racked up some high altitude miles in Jackson, and have since been seen looping William Land Park on a regular, sweaty basis. We're in incremental training now for the remaining weeks leading up to October's event.
Additionally, I've joined a softball team called the Hunter-Gatherers. We'll be playing in a men's league on Friday nights at the Sacramento Softball Complex on Howe Avenue. You probably won't see us because of our kick-ass uniforms though.
Support - The summer also included/will include plenty of unions. I was a groomsman when my college roommates Brittany and Sol finally tied the knot in Coloma. Friends Sage and Emily are up next, followed by Melissa and Michael, and then Carrie and Scott. The summer of love, indeed.
All in all, it's been another amazing summer. I'm rather sad to see it go, but I'm ready for the challenges and fun ahead.
Friday, August 15, 2008
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Wednesday, August 13, 2008
No News is Good News.
We open this tale with Ken, a naïve middle-schooler who likes to keep to himself. His teachers love his tenacity, how his work, while not the finest in quality, is always timely, dependable, and thorough. Often, Ken lingers after school. He likes watching the 7th grade boy’s basketball games because no one bothers him there. Ken is content; he knows things around him are changing, and he’s okay with letting his adolescent bubble adapt and form to the constraints of the times.
On a day like any other, we find Ken in the gym, catching another basketball game. In strides our antagonist, Bull, a junior in high school with a leather jacket, a fast car, and no business in a middle school gym. But truthfully, his business is the middle school, as the the crowd there represents the largest chunk of his drug sales profit. Naïve Ken doesn’t know Bull—he’s never seen him, in fact.
Bull strides along the out-of-bounds line and steps up into the bleachers and sits just a few feet from Ken. He breaks the proverbial ice and, before too long, wraps Ken around his finger with promises of popularity, girls, and exposure. Never before considering these things available, Ken is dazzled like a customer in a magic shop.
After a taste, Ken is hooked. His work struggles, strays off topic and reads in a rather pedantic tone. His teachers note his increased isolation, but they’re so busy accounting for their other students and duties, they figure he’s just "finding his way."
This goes on well into high school. No one seems to know what Ken is saying when he speaks. They’ve seen him off with Bull—who dropped out during his senior year to sell drugs professionally—throwing and crashing parties with all too confusing enthusiasm.
Flash-forward to adulthood, and while all those who grew up with Ken rush off to their jobs and families and busy schedules, Ken is apart--off in his own universe, feeling self-important and necessary. He’s ultimately ignored now since the masses around him have seen and heard it all before. So Ken, wallowing in the false hope that opportunity knows his address and might one day ring his doorbell, sits and spews his nonsense for any who will listen. Only no one does.
---
And here we are, at the end of a familiar allegory, and even I'm wondering if I've lost you.
As my eyes bounced between the glowing plasma screens at the gym last night, I started thinking about my previous blog concerning the Olympics, the finger-tip accessibility of technology and information, and all the televised news falling in a constant, muted rain on the exercise equipment. I went home and fired up the computer. My handy MacBook dictionary widget defines "news" as newly received or important information, esp. about some important events. I wondered if the definition is modernly true?
Print news, in the traditional and tangible sense, only gets one shot, so the relevancy must hit the mark. Newspapers and weekly magazines find themselves bound to the presentation of information and important events in a self-contained, limited body. And though some might find the black and white print the dying Dunder Mifflin of the news industry, there's still reason to value such a restricted model in an otherwise unrestricted universe.
So I'll fess up. Ken represents CNN, a nice little news organization working hard to present the textbook definition of the news. (Of course, Ken represents all major news organizations, but Ken/CNN is too get to unlink.) Bull stands for cable television(pronounced kay-BULL), a player who convinced Ken and his other newsy buddies they'd be better off with their own channels, 24-hour news desks, and pundit-punching programs.
We all used to like Ken and his kind; before we realized drugs were ruining him, we thought he was pretty cool. He had it going on. We'd turn to him when we needed a dependable fix, some of the good shit. Now we'd rather not, as the ranted puking and mewling is fraught with frivolous polls from countless correspondents adding opinion to open-ended promptings.
So much attention is given to the irony of reality t.v. that conversations about modern news coverage remain silent. We all know that so-called reality television isn't actually reality, per se, but clever editing, handpicked story lines and home-brewed drama. (The paradox of it all is that it's become our reality--but I'll leave that for another time.) But anymore, the televised news isn't giving us important information as much as its documenting the happenings of people for a flickering public spotlight.
I love how old the idea of boring and fabricated news is. I marvel how entertainment value, ratings, and dollars somehow craft what we see. I even like watching the Daily Show every night just to count how many major cable news telecasts Stewart's production crew splices together to compile the repeated "something" made from nothing. I love the fundamental contradictions, how even those camping with attention seekers are contrarily calling for reprieve.
The news-driven political arena and all its gladiators like to think themselves mightier than the nonsense of popular reality-based television programming, despite how recent slandering paints it all the same color.
So Ken is just another burnout reeling in too much Rick James and Miami Vice. Cable news channels are just reality shows set in a studio with a three-camera format.
You thought the allegory was familiar? The moral is worse: "Say No to Drugs."
On a day like any other, we find Ken in the gym, catching another basketball game. In strides our antagonist, Bull, a junior in high school with a leather jacket, a fast car, and no business in a middle school gym. But truthfully, his business is the middle school, as the the crowd there represents the largest chunk of his drug sales profit. Naïve Ken doesn’t know Bull—he’s never seen him, in fact.
Bull strides along the out-of-bounds line and steps up into the bleachers and sits just a few feet from Ken. He breaks the proverbial ice and, before too long, wraps Ken around his finger with promises of popularity, girls, and exposure. Never before considering these things available, Ken is dazzled like a customer in a magic shop.
After a taste, Ken is hooked. His work struggles, strays off topic and reads in a rather pedantic tone. His teachers note his increased isolation, but they’re so busy accounting for their other students and duties, they figure he’s just "finding his way."
This goes on well into high school. No one seems to know what Ken is saying when he speaks. They’ve seen him off with Bull—who dropped out during his senior year to sell drugs professionally—throwing and crashing parties with all too confusing enthusiasm.
Flash-forward to adulthood, and while all those who grew up with Ken rush off to their jobs and families and busy schedules, Ken is apart--off in his own universe, feeling self-important and necessary. He’s ultimately ignored now since the masses around him have seen and heard it all before. So Ken, wallowing in the false hope that opportunity knows his address and might one day ring his doorbell, sits and spews his nonsense for any who will listen. Only no one does.
---
And here we are, at the end of a familiar allegory, and even I'm wondering if I've lost you.
As my eyes bounced between the glowing plasma screens at the gym last night, I started thinking about my previous blog concerning the Olympics, the finger-tip accessibility of technology and information, and all the televised news falling in a constant, muted rain on the exercise equipment. I went home and fired up the computer. My handy MacBook dictionary widget defines "news" as newly received or important information, esp. about some important events. I wondered if the definition is modernly true?
Print news, in the traditional and tangible sense, only gets one shot, so the relevancy must hit the mark. Newspapers and weekly magazines find themselves bound to the presentation of information and important events in a self-contained, limited body. And though some might find the black and white print the dying Dunder Mifflin of the news industry, there's still reason to value such a restricted model in an otherwise unrestricted universe.
So I'll fess up. Ken represents CNN, a nice little news organization working hard to present the textbook definition of the news. (Of course, Ken represents all major news organizations, but Ken/CNN is too get to unlink.) Bull stands for cable television(pronounced kay-BULL), a player who convinced Ken and his other newsy buddies they'd be better off with their own channels, 24-hour news desks, and pundit-punching programs.
We all used to like Ken and his kind; before we realized drugs were ruining him, we thought he was pretty cool. He had it going on. We'd turn to him when we needed a dependable fix, some of the good shit. Now we'd rather not, as the ranted puking and mewling is fraught with frivolous polls from countless correspondents adding opinion to open-ended promptings.
So much attention is given to the irony of reality t.v. that conversations about modern news coverage remain silent. We all know that so-called reality television isn't actually reality, per se, but clever editing, handpicked story lines and home-brewed drama. (The paradox of it all is that it's become our reality--but I'll leave that for another time.) But anymore, the televised news isn't giving us important information as much as its documenting the happenings of people for a flickering public spotlight.
I love how old the idea of boring and fabricated news is. I marvel how entertainment value, ratings, and dollars somehow craft what we see. I even like watching the Daily Show every night just to count how many major cable news telecasts Stewart's production crew splices together to compile the repeated "something" made from nothing. I love the fundamental contradictions, how even those camping with attention seekers are contrarily calling for reprieve.
The news-driven political arena and all its gladiators like to think themselves mightier than the nonsense of popular reality-based television programming, despite how recent slandering paints it all the same color.
So Ken is just another burnout reeling in too much Rick James and Miami Vice. Cable news channels are just reality shows set in a studio with a three-camera format.
You thought the allegory was familiar? The moral is worse: "Say No to Drugs."
Monday, August 11, 2008
Surely Nations Will Gather, but Families?
I recall the scramble to take off my shoes, the rush to fill a glass with chocolate milk or soda, and the feeling of coarse carpet rubbing on my forearms as I sprawled out on my belly on the living room floor. I'd bunch the pillow between my hands, shove it beneath my chin, and wait. My brother would follow suit, and our parents, not far behind, commanded us to slow down. But how could we? We'd waited four years in isolation; four years deprived of any knowledge of world competitions, international play, or sight of foreign face or color. And despite their pleas for us to relax, the excitement of our parents was equally undeniable. They had, after all, had a hand in crafting an aura and zeal for the games.
But like Bill Bradley noted in last week's Leading Off column, the idea that families will gather 'round the tele and share the global experience is fading--if it's not completely gone already. The upcoming results of Phelps' first two or three races? I'll probably grab those from ESPN.com and send out an e-mail. The Redeem Team's opener against China? I bet I'll hear the final, the leading scorers, and stats and highlights on the radio long before I hit play on the DVR, more than a day after the actual game, in a last-ditch effort to be involved. I suppose it's another glaring sign of the times.
It's hard to make the effort with so much on our plates, and although our viewing came far later than the live airing, we on 7th Avenue gave it the traditional go on Friday night. There we sat: Steph, Zoe, and myself, watching the magic unfold in Beijing. The color, the grandeur, and size of the spectacle were utterly amazing. The symbolic unity of the performers and the rich collaboration of a country determined to both impress the world and convey its message, its history, and its harmony did not disappoint. At times, I didn't know if I was moved to tears by the games themselves, or by Zoe's dander reaching my eyes, (though I like to think it was the show).
My brother sent me a text message during the ceremony that spoke volumes about the meaning of the games for my family. Watching NBC's Bob Costas narrate the ceremony, his message read, "If this is Michael Jordan's final chapter, what a way to close the book," a quote we loosely translate from the 1998 NBA Finals (I know Costas tried to say something metaphorically prolific, but all I can find is a clip in which he says, "If that's the last image of Michael Jordan, how magnificent is it?"). The message was heartwarming. The fact the my brother reached down into our childhood and pulled out a little gem to link our youthful passion to the 08.08.08 spectacle is an endearing reminder of the importance of sports and competition as fodder in our family.
All human rights issues aside, I think it's quite extraordinary that the country hosting the games has such a rich and mysterious history. As act after breathtaking act unfolded, Stephanie noted that everything we watched was actually a highlight of a historical highlight. That is, the ceremony did its best to encompass 500 years of history and value in a matter of hours, unveiling tip after tip of bergs in an unfathomably extensize ice field. Thousands of performers--none of whom were repeated, as organizers admit there's no shortage of people in the country--communicated the country's theoretical unity, its threatened harmony, and global appeals for redemption. Moreover, I found it particularly stunning that such technological wonders were balanced with a seemingly endless precision and flawless display of (hu)manpower.
A contrast noted: On one hand, I enjoyed seeing so much national pride. I didn't grow up during the Red Scare or the Cold War, so I don't have an inborn fear of communism. That said, I can admit an admiration of such a high level of nationalism evident in the actions and on the faces of the hosts. What I saw was undeniably impressive. Inversely, I started thinking that democracy and the fundamentals of our national fabric permit--even promote--a light switch approach to patriotism. We flick our pride on and off at will. While we are a nation founded in dissent, the Chinese thrive on the believe that such behavior is detrimental.
The Chinese put on a show, and like any show, it was crafted, directed, edited, and formatted to fit this screen. I know there's more here than meets the eye, and after watching the spiraling ignition of the flame and reflecting on the achievements of the ceremony, I couldn't help but wonder what would unfold as the games began. Like Rick Kushman, another Bee columnist, I wonder how our American values and our media-driven society will react to the levels of pride and nationalism the host country will undoubtedly continue to tout. Back on April 2 and again on August 7, Kushman speculated whether the media covering the games would seize the opportunity to bring human rights issues to global--and let's face it, American--eyes. Watching the games and soaking up the host country's pride, I too wondered if audiences would see any images that might tug at the strings attached to the core of their democratic hearts.
Will NBC show all us what remains to be seen? Will media show us its mettle? And if it succeeds, is there a family without scheduling conflicts available to savor the lesson?
But like Bill Bradley noted in last week's Leading Off column, the idea that families will gather 'round the tele and share the global experience is fading--if it's not completely gone already. The upcoming results of Phelps' first two or three races? I'll probably grab those from ESPN.com and send out an e-mail. The Redeem Team's opener against China? I bet I'll hear the final, the leading scorers, and stats and highlights on the radio long before I hit play on the DVR, more than a day after the actual game, in a last-ditch effort to be involved. I suppose it's another glaring sign of the times.
It's hard to make the effort with so much on our plates, and although our viewing came far later than the live airing, we on 7th Avenue gave it the traditional go on Friday night. There we sat: Steph, Zoe, and myself, watching the magic unfold in Beijing. The color, the grandeur, and size of the spectacle were utterly amazing. The symbolic unity of the performers and the rich collaboration of a country determined to both impress the world and convey its message, its history, and its harmony did not disappoint. At times, I didn't know if I was moved to tears by the games themselves, or by Zoe's dander reaching my eyes, (though I like to think it was the show).
My brother sent me a text message during the ceremony that spoke volumes about the meaning of the games for my family. Watching NBC's Bob Costas narrate the ceremony, his message read, "If this is Michael Jordan's final chapter, what a way to close the book," a quote we loosely translate from the 1998 NBA Finals (I know Costas tried to say something metaphorically prolific, but all I can find is a clip in which he says, "If that's the last image of Michael Jordan, how magnificent is it?"). The message was heartwarming. The fact the my brother reached down into our childhood and pulled out a little gem to link our youthful passion to the 08.08.08 spectacle is an endearing reminder of the importance of sports and competition as fodder in our family.
All human rights issues aside, I think it's quite extraordinary that the country hosting the games has such a rich and mysterious history. As act after breathtaking act unfolded, Stephanie noted that everything we watched was actually a highlight of a historical highlight. That is, the ceremony did its best to encompass 500 years of history and value in a matter of hours, unveiling tip after tip of bergs in an unfathomably extensize ice field. Thousands of performers--none of whom were repeated, as organizers admit there's no shortage of people in the country--communicated the country's theoretical unity, its threatened harmony, and global appeals for redemption. Moreover, I found it particularly stunning that such technological wonders were balanced with a seemingly endless precision and flawless display of (hu)manpower.
A contrast noted: On one hand, I enjoyed seeing so much national pride. I didn't grow up during the Red Scare or the Cold War, so I don't have an inborn fear of communism. That said, I can admit an admiration of such a high level of nationalism evident in the actions and on the faces of the hosts. What I saw was undeniably impressive. Inversely, I started thinking that democracy and the fundamentals of our national fabric permit--even promote--a light switch approach to patriotism. We flick our pride on and off at will. While we are a nation founded in dissent, the Chinese thrive on the believe that such behavior is detrimental.
The Chinese put on a show, and like any show, it was crafted, directed, edited, and formatted to fit this screen. I know there's more here than meets the eye, and after watching the spiraling ignition of the flame and reflecting on the achievements of the ceremony, I couldn't help but wonder what would unfold as the games began. Like Rick Kushman, another Bee columnist, I wonder how our American values and our media-driven society will react to the levels of pride and nationalism the host country will undoubtedly continue to tout. Back on April 2 and again on August 7, Kushman speculated whether the media covering the games would seize the opportunity to bring human rights issues to global--and let's face it, American--eyes. Watching the games and soaking up the host country's pride, I too wondered if audiences would see any images that might tug at the strings attached to the core of their democratic hearts.
Will NBC show all us what remains to be seen? Will media show us its mettle? And if it succeeds, is there a family without scheduling conflicts available to savor the lesson?
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Up, Gross, and Personal.
Sacramentans love their "Second Saturdays." To clarify, on the second Saturday of each fair-seasoned month, Midtown throws its own little art and wine party. Did I say little? Numerous storefronts beam aglow, gallery doors stand ajar, and pedestrians spill off the sidewalks and mill through establishments, crisscrossing the streets. Their strides weave in and out of various performers, the acoustic guitars rattling, drums beating, full bands raging with full amplification.
It's hip. It's chic. It's the new Sacramento man, and everybody's doing it.
Party crashers are always welcome, and my often estranged but never departed friend from Placerville, currently wrapping a summer tour with two other performers, found his way into the Atelier Boutique on this second Saturday of August 2008. I can't explain the excitement I felt at the idea of seeing a gargantuan figure from my past showcasing his passions during such a painfully popular local time slot.
And for a moment, let me digress and slap a disclaimer across the whole notion of performance art. True, there are some questionable aspects, and an open mind is absolutely mandatory if you're to glean any enjoyment from the processes of its presentation. I've learned that marching into the audience with any disassociation or disconnection from the "art" only ensures I sit for a seemingly endless stint in hell. The disclaimer is this: you must permit yourself to let the art exist and affect or you'll wind up hating yourself for agreeing to attend. That said, beyond the pure support of my friend and his passion, I bought in to the work and the effort and the time and the sweat of the performance, and entered the show prepared to do whatever necessary to help and believe.
It was a good thing I decided to engage because the It Speaks project's second summer of the Hello Show, or Hello Sacramento! as the title changes based on location, isn't a scripted performance. The format best resembles a traveling talent show; a hilarious emcee (tonight it was Janice, a librarian breaking the acts of citizens from the fictional town of Strawberry), introduces a parade of awkward small-town residences performing odd-ball gags, quirky songs, interpretive dance, even a short lecture on the cosmos. Like the name, the show adapts to the location.
The spoofs are varied, the characters all unalike. The natural feel and flow of the unscripted show is engaging, and throughout the performance, it's clear the actors are working their professionally-trained asses off. Their physicality and concentration is intense. The audience responds, creating drum beats to "jam" with the instrumentless rock band; they provide nouns, verbs, and adjectives for the MC to create her very own location-specific song; they cringe during the close-quarter acrobatics; they hold the floor and liven the Q & A sessions. It's not a troupe of drama club dropouts; these are hardworking students, working to earn advanced degrees and MFAs from prestigious schools.
The show garnered strong support, 10 or 15 of the young and open minded filled the cramped foyer behind Ateliers. It was great to watch old and new friends dedicate their night to the pursuit of their passion. Watching these out-of-town performers come out for the River City's favorite street party and share themselves was a joy. They were happy, eager to explore, and clearly live comfortably outside a world of fixation or patterned predictability.
***
So all this art, all this wholesome community engagement, all the sweat, blood, and tears comes with a price. Tonight's price was the opening act--the only opening act on the Hello Show tour through California. Liken the situation to a band rolling through small venues in major cities; essentially, the Hello Show had little knowledge of the first act.
She's on stage with a microphone, its chord wired through an effects pedal. She's plugged a discman into a large amplifier. She's in a loose red dress that gives way to green tights covering her awkward legs until they reach her pigeon-toed feet, covered in dusty, ruby slippers. A conspicuous red mask covers her face. She pushes play on the discman, beginning distorted and weird selections. There's even a warped version of a track from Mary Poppins which allows her to wander through the audience and stroke particular faces (mine included). The tracks go on, and she marches around the room and maintains a dialogue through her microphone. There's no telling what she says; it's nothing but garbled, echoed squeals. I'm told this part is pretty regular.
The "show" persists. She marches on, pulling up her dress to show off the panties she's wearing over the tights. There's a patch of pink fur, like a chunk of the Abominable Snowman's hair in faded dye, that she runs her hands through. The audience giggles at her new gag, but I find that it the kind of thing even an open mind can't remedy. The track blares and muffled screeching goes on.
And then, this disaster starts falling apart. She chirps away from under her red mask, and down go the tights, interior underwear along with it. She stumbles around in her red dress, the tights stuck at her knees. And her shedding reveals her red maxi pad, resting on her partly-removed knickers suspended between her knees. I can't leave because my friends are going on. Everyone else is letting her stumble around like it's something they've seen before, but they couldn't have possibly seen this before.
And there's the drone of her eeeee eeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeee from the amp. And there's he yelling and her red mask; and her red, thrift garb and her faded ruby shoes; and her red aunt Flow. She cocks her hips to the side and pulls the pad from its suspension. It's there between her thumb and index finger, and as the crowd squirms, she flings it into the audience, cringing just feet away!
The man next to me leaned in and asked, "Are you okay?" NO! NO! NO! I think, as the show goes on. Really, I respond, "Should I be?" He tells me he's seen her "performance" before, and he's never seen that, but admits he's a bit bored now.
It must've been her grand finale, because her yelp session ended and she took her bow.
Thankfully, the artists of Hello Sacramento took the stage, unabashed, and saved the night, the art, and all that is legitimate in the world. At the show's conclusion, other locals told me yes, the opening act's cycle was legit, and no, it has never happened before. "She's smashed hamburgers in people's faces and thrown eels on the crowd though." Art? Do you mean harassment? Does the shock factor include line crossing?
So before the nightmares begin, I write this solemn blog and reach out to my friends.
Dear Hello Show: Take me back to Strawberry!
It's hip. It's chic. It's the new Sacramento man, and everybody's doing it.
Party crashers are always welcome, and my often estranged but never departed friend from Placerville, currently wrapping a summer tour with two other performers, found his way into the Atelier Boutique on this second Saturday of August 2008. I can't explain the excitement I felt at the idea of seeing a gargantuan figure from my past showcasing his passions during such a painfully popular local time slot.
And for a moment, let me digress and slap a disclaimer across the whole notion of performance art. True, there are some questionable aspects, and an open mind is absolutely mandatory if you're to glean any enjoyment from the processes of its presentation. I've learned that marching into the audience with any disassociation or disconnection from the "art" only ensures I sit for a seemingly endless stint in hell. The disclaimer is this: you must permit yourself to let the art exist and affect or you'll wind up hating yourself for agreeing to attend. That said, beyond the pure support of my friend and his passion, I bought in to the work and the effort and the time and the sweat of the performance, and entered the show prepared to do whatever necessary to help and believe.
It was a good thing I decided to engage because the It Speaks project's second summer of the Hello Show, or Hello Sacramento! as the title changes based on location, isn't a scripted performance. The format best resembles a traveling talent show; a hilarious emcee (tonight it was Janice, a librarian breaking the acts of citizens from the fictional town of Strawberry), introduces a parade of awkward small-town residences performing odd-ball gags, quirky songs, interpretive dance, even a short lecture on the cosmos. Like the name, the show adapts to the location.
The spoofs are varied, the characters all unalike. The natural feel and flow of the unscripted show is engaging, and throughout the performance, it's clear the actors are working their professionally-trained asses off. Their physicality and concentration is intense. The audience responds, creating drum beats to "jam" with the instrumentless rock band; they provide nouns, verbs, and adjectives for the MC to create her very own location-specific song; they cringe during the close-quarter acrobatics; they hold the floor and liven the Q & A sessions. It's not a troupe of drama club dropouts; these are hardworking students, working to earn advanced degrees and MFAs from prestigious schools.
The show garnered strong support, 10 or 15 of the young and open minded filled the cramped foyer behind Ateliers. It was great to watch old and new friends dedicate their night to the pursuit of their passion. Watching these out-of-town performers come out for the River City's favorite street party and share themselves was a joy. They were happy, eager to explore, and clearly live comfortably outside a world of fixation or patterned predictability.
***
So all this art, all this wholesome community engagement, all the sweat, blood, and tears comes with a price. Tonight's price was the opening act--the only opening act on the Hello Show tour through California. Liken the situation to a band rolling through small venues in major cities; essentially, the Hello Show had little knowledge of the first act.
She's on stage with a microphone, its chord wired through an effects pedal. She's plugged a discman into a large amplifier. She's in a loose red dress that gives way to green tights covering her awkward legs until they reach her pigeon-toed feet, covered in dusty, ruby slippers. A conspicuous red mask covers her face. She pushes play on the discman, beginning distorted and weird selections. There's even a warped version of a track from Mary Poppins which allows her to wander through the audience and stroke particular faces (mine included). The tracks go on, and she marches around the room and maintains a dialogue through her microphone. There's no telling what she says; it's nothing but garbled, echoed squeals. I'm told this part is pretty regular.
The "show" persists. She marches on, pulling up her dress to show off the panties she's wearing over the tights. There's a patch of pink fur, like a chunk of the Abominable Snowman's hair in faded dye, that she runs her hands through. The audience giggles at her new gag, but I find that it the kind of thing even an open mind can't remedy. The track blares and muffled screeching goes on.
And then, this disaster starts falling apart. She chirps away from under her red mask, and down go the tights, interior underwear along with it. She stumbles around in her red dress, the tights stuck at her knees. And her shedding reveals her red maxi pad, resting on her partly-removed knickers suspended between her knees. I can't leave because my friends are going on. Everyone else is letting her stumble around like it's something they've seen before, but they couldn't have possibly seen this before.
And there's the drone of her eeeee eeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeee from the amp. And there's he yelling and her red mask; and her red, thrift garb and her faded ruby shoes; and her red aunt Flow. She cocks her hips to the side and pulls the pad from its suspension. It's there between her thumb and index finger, and as the crowd squirms, she flings it into the audience, cringing just feet away!
The man next to me leaned in and asked, "Are you okay?" NO! NO! NO! I think, as the show goes on. Really, I respond, "Should I be?" He tells me he's seen her "performance" before, and he's never seen that, but admits he's a bit bored now.
It must've been her grand finale, because her yelp session ended and she took her bow.
Thankfully, the artists of Hello Sacramento took the stage, unabashed, and saved the night, the art, and all that is legitimate in the world. At the show's conclusion, other locals told me yes, the opening act's cycle was legit, and no, it has never happened before. "She's smashed hamburgers in people's faces and thrown eels on the crowd though." Art? Do you mean harassment? Does the shock factor include line crossing?
So before the nightmares begin, I write this solemn blog and reach out to my friends.
Dear Hello Show: Take me back to Strawberry!
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Writing a Personal Victory on Someone Else's Battlefield.
Howard Zinn has amassed a body of work by examining the stories below historical blankets of victory. History, he asserts, is written by the victor; therefore, his literature and lectures focus on illuminating the tribulations of the common people. Though far less revealing than Zinn's typical subject matter, I couldn't help but wonder, as I returned from the 30th Annual Jeep Jamboree this week, how he'd go about discovering the people's history here amid the ongoing battle between humans and mother nature.
First, a brief Rubicon history lesson. Lest you forget the trail, commonly referred to as "The Devil's Playground," was a public highway that linked the budding gold towns of Old Dry Diggins (Placerville), Coloma, and Growlersburg (Georgetown) to the wonders of Tahoe. The route was carved through what was essentially old trapper roads and Native American migration routes. It crosses open granite faces, skirts rugged mountain lakes and streams before tumbling (literarlly) down into the lush valley of springs along the Rubicon River, then climbs up and out toward the deep blue gem of the Sierras. Rubicon Springs itself housed a popular retreat hotel, accessible, at one point by a car or two, from both the Georgetown Divide and the west side of Lake Tahoe. It wasn't until 1953, after residents of Georgetown decided to boost local economy by hosting an organized Jeep tour along the trail, that the area reached its fame. On August 29, 55 Jeeps with 155 participants ventured from Georgetown on a two-day trip that is now known as "Jeepers Jamboree 1."
Eventually, word spread. Jeepers Jamboree is now a business, very recently celebrating it's 56th year of rock rolling. Demand grew so large that in 1978, the company created a second, smaller "Jeep" Jamboree (with which I am associated) to accommodate the intrigue. Others followed suit. One of the trip's originators, Mark Smith, established the offshoot Jeep Jamboree USA. More groups formed. The Lake Tahoe Hi-Los, Friends of the Rubicon, Toys on the Rocks, and the Clampers, to name a few, all wanting their tire tread stamped along the world's premier OHV trail. Just begin to consider what the Rubicon Trail has done for Chrysler, and it's easy understand the astronomical impact of, essentially, a pile of friggin' rocks.
But where there's conflict, there's a story. With a name like "The Devil's Playground," it's not hard to see how the challenge of the trail has evolved, for many, into a battle of good-versus-evil. And after watching so many dump so much into tires, axles, drive lines, springs, air lockers, and fenders, it's clear that many consider it a battle worth fighting. Jeepers treat the road like a surfer treats the tide. You respect it; you work with it; you don't piss it off.
It's a powerful, all-consuming sonofabitch, and this year, I'm finally willing to give it some credit. However, the props I'm willing to allot "The Grandaddy" of all off-road trails do not stem from any personal battle with its boulders; I didn't recently struggle through its challenging course or falter before eventually emerging victorious. I just felt it there, welcoming me back.
Beyond my 9-year history with the Jamborees, the trail is a well of memories. It hosted my family's annual Kid Trip (eventually dubbed the "Heathens from Hell Trip." Yes, we have t-shirts to prove it). The trip was an unfixed number of camping families sharing a weekend until it eventually swelled in size, not unlike the Jamboree itself, and crumbled under its own immense weight. It's the road on which I took my driver's test as a white-knuckled six-year old on his father's lap, steering a '77, shit-brown Landcruiser through the trees. I learned the values of moderation, sixteen years old and sneaking tequila into my orange Crush soda. The adults around me knew what I was up to, for they'd done it in similar style, and they kept their distance while I learned my lessons.
I've grown up in the presence of other Jamboree crew members; they're uncles and aunts and cousins and family friends. Like me, they're saturated in the traditions of the trail. They stop to admire the view from Observation Point, where at least one good friend must start his "Observation Point Mix" (which opens with an amazing Rusted Root track, by the way) to establish a mood for his descent into camp. Passersby pull over to pay their respects with a beer at Sid's Grave (in memory of Sid Mainwaring, who was a Forest Service employee and Jamboree committeeman, and relative/friend of many Jamboree employees). Brothers and sisters talk of their first solo trips on the trail, reminiscing about the feeling of being dropped off at Loon Lake at 15 years old, driving their future CJ-5 across trail they'd only seen from a passenger seat, only to be picked up again in Tahoe and shuttled home legally. It was the tradition of it all--not the trail itself--that eventually brought me to my knees.
So while so many find themselves out to conquer to Rubicon, intently burning through credit card receipts and repair bills in the hopes of taming the Rubicon, I'm just hoping the tradition finds a way to live on. It's no secret that years of attempting to tame it have had destructive consequences. Recently, high counts of fecal coliform in the soil closed access to Spider Lake. In many places, oil and fluid stains the open granite slabs. If one dragged a magnet through the rocks and rubble, they'd find shreds and shavings and bolts and brackets hidden in the dirt and tracks. Erosion continues to uncover new rocks and create new obstacles, and the technology of increasingly larger off-road behemoths continues to push the boundaries of exploration--often off designated trail. The results of public usage on a county road--no matter how pristine the environment around it--are unavoidable.
And so far, mother nature, with the help of local government, is winning.
So what would Zinn say about this mess? How would he classify my attempts to write my own history on such an unstable battle ground? How can I find a footing to tell of my own tradition while, all around me, people are seeking bigger and badder ways oust the Devil and from his dark playground?
Unfortunately, like most of our recorded history, you'll find a simple page with a familiar formula: a winner, a loser, and a date. The stories we told from way in the back, our inspired retellings of small-town families and time-honored traditions, will fall silent as our attention is drawn toward the swirling back and forth between the two culprits in the foreground. And real history, we realize, is never that simple.
First, a brief Rubicon history lesson. Lest you forget the trail, commonly referred to as "The Devil's Playground," was a public highway that linked the budding gold towns of Old Dry Diggins (Placerville), Coloma, and Growlersburg (Georgetown) to the wonders of Tahoe. The route was carved through what was essentially old trapper roads and Native American migration routes. It crosses open granite faces, skirts rugged mountain lakes and streams before tumbling (literarlly) down into the lush valley of springs along the Rubicon River, then climbs up and out toward the deep blue gem of the Sierras. Rubicon Springs itself housed a popular retreat hotel, accessible, at one point by a car or two, from both the Georgetown Divide and the west side of Lake Tahoe. It wasn't until 1953, after residents of Georgetown decided to boost local economy by hosting an organized Jeep tour along the trail, that the area reached its fame. On August 29, 55 Jeeps with 155 participants ventured from Georgetown on a two-day trip that is now known as "Jeepers Jamboree 1."
Eventually, word spread. Jeepers Jamboree is now a business, very recently celebrating it's 56th year of rock rolling. Demand grew so large that in 1978, the company created a second, smaller "Jeep" Jamboree (with which I am associated) to accommodate the intrigue. Others followed suit. One of the trip's originators, Mark Smith, established the offshoot Jeep Jamboree USA. More groups formed. The Lake Tahoe Hi-Los, Friends of the Rubicon, Toys on the Rocks, and the Clampers, to name a few, all wanting their tire tread stamped along the world's premier OHV trail. Just begin to consider what the Rubicon Trail has done for Chrysler, and it's easy understand the astronomical impact of, essentially, a pile of friggin' rocks.
But where there's conflict, there's a story. With a name like "The Devil's Playground," it's not hard to see how the challenge of the trail has evolved, for many, into a battle of good-versus-evil. And after watching so many dump so much into tires, axles, drive lines, springs, air lockers, and fenders, it's clear that many consider it a battle worth fighting. Jeepers treat the road like a surfer treats the tide. You respect it; you work with it; you don't piss it off.
It's a powerful, all-consuming sonofabitch, and this year, I'm finally willing to give it some credit. However, the props I'm willing to allot "The Grandaddy" of all off-road trails do not stem from any personal battle with its boulders; I didn't recently struggle through its challenging course or falter before eventually emerging victorious. I just felt it there, welcoming me back.
Beyond my 9-year history with the Jamborees, the trail is a well of memories. It hosted my family's annual Kid Trip (eventually dubbed the "Heathens from Hell Trip." Yes, we have t-shirts to prove it). The trip was an unfixed number of camping families sharing a weekend until it eventually swelled in size, not unlike the Jamboree itself, and crumbled under its own immense weight. It's the road on which I took my driver's test as a white-knuckled six-year old on his father's lap, steering a '77, shit-brown Landcruiser through the trees. I learned the values of moderation, sixteen years old and sneaking tequila into my orange Crush soda. The adults around me knew what I was up to, for they'd done it in similar style, and they kept their distance while I learned my lessons.
I've grown up in the presence of other Jamboree crew members; they're uncles and aunts and cousins and family friends. Like me, they're saturated in the traditions of the trail. They stop to admire the view from Observation Point, where at least one good friend must start his "Observation Point Mix" (which opens with an amazing Rusted Root track, by the way) to establish a mood for his descent into camp. Passersby pull over to pay their respects with a beer at Sid's Grave (in memory of Sid Mainwaring, who was a Forest Service employee and Jamboree committeeman, and relative/friend of many Jamboree employees). Brothers and sisters talk of their first solo trips on the trail, reminiscing about the feeling of being dropped off at Loon Lake at 15 years old, driving their future CJ-5 across trail they'd only seen from a passenger seat, only to be picked up again in Tahoe and shuttled home legally. It was the tradition of it all--not the trail itself--that eventually brought me to my knees.
So while so many find themselves out to conquer to Rubicon, intently burning through credit card receipts and repair bills in the hopes of taming the Rubicon, I'm just hoping the tradition finds a way to live on. It's no secret that years of attempting to tame it have had destructive consequences. Recently, high counts of fecal coliform in the soil closed access to Spider Lake. In many places, oil and fluid stains the open granite slabs. If one dragged a magnet through the rocks and rubble, they'd find shreds and shavings and bolts and brackets hidden in the dirt and tracks. Erosion continues to uncover new rocks and create new obstacles, and the technology of increasingly larger off-road behemoths continues to push the boundaries of exploration--often off designated trail. The results of public usage on a county road--no matter how pristine the environment around it--are unavoidable.
And so far, mother nature, with the help of local government, is winning.
So what would Zinn say about this mess? How would he classify my attempts to write my own history on such an unstable battle ground? How can I find a footing to tell of my own tradition while, all around me, people are seeking bigger and badder ways oust the Devil and from his dark playground?
Unfortunately, like most of our recorded history, you'll find a simple page with a familiar formula: a winner, a loser, and a date. The stories we told from way in the back, our inspired retellings of small-town families and time-honored traditions, will fall silent as our attention is drawn toward the swirling back and forth between the two culprits in the foreground. And real history, we realize, is never that simple.
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