drunkenbee

Yuppie vs. Indie Rocker: The Reckoning

I removed this essay today. This is Sarah's site and this whole thing has been blown way out of proportion. If you want it, you can email me directly. If I ever get my own site, it'll be reposted.

Gabe

ENTRY RESTORED
August 5, 2004

Hi. This is Gabe, a proud and honored member of the guest-panel Sarah's assembled to entertain you, dear reader, while she's away. I feel a little Stephen Colbert to Sarah's John Stewart at this point, and rightfully so, but I'm going to do my best to fill the metaphorical (and to make the metaphor appropriate to Sarah, stylish) shoes. I can't quite get that last bit to flow right --I've never been 100% solid on the parentheses/comma/semicolon/em-dash conundrum, but I'd appreciate if you'd let it slide, because I haven't written for an audience in years, and it's also 1 in the morning.

I enjoyed Sarah's introduction of all of us, mostly because, as I'm sure you know, everything she writes drips with brilliance like honeydew melons (if honeydew melons dripped, ahem, brilliance, instead of, uh, watchamacallit), but partially because she never fails to chide me for my ability to walk through life as if I'm Dana Carvey's Grumpy Old Man. "We didn't have rolleycoasters." When Sarah, Ed, Leo, and I first discussed some sort of superblog with multiple authors, Sarah suggested I title mine "Reactionary Fun Time!" In short, she makes me laugh at myself, but as Homer Simpson says, "it's funny 'cause it's true."

(Bear with me, I'm a little rusty and unsure of where I'm heading with this gigantic introduction-slash-segueway, but I'm getting there, and I've been overthinking what my subject matter was going to be, so I'm just gonna let it fly.)

The truth is, I'm a born fucking contrarian, but I have trouble understanding exactly where I stand these days. I just turned 31, and I have to tell you, I never thought once about what happened after 25 until I was about 27, and now that I'm here, my point-of-view is completely screwy.

For the last few years, I've actually hidden the fact that "I want a condo" goes through my brain on a regular basis, but dammit, I'm tired of feeling ashamed. Every artsy indie rocker somehow thinks they're oh-so-super-specially different from the 3rd-year investment analyst they LIVE NEXT DOOR TO and even ATTENDED THE SAME COLLEGE AS and GREW UP IN THE SAME MIDDLE-CLASS SUBURB WITH and I just don't get the big cultural separation.

I'm gonna switch to the second person here -- it just feels more effective.

So they like the Dave Matthews Band, big fucking deal. It's not like you're the fucking Tutsi and the Hutu. And yes, I'm patting myself on the back for that Rwandan reference.

I think it's all about the fact that they don't give a shit about your band. And I gotta say, why should they? Why shouldn't they want things out of life -- they're fucking 80 times smarter than you are if they're dropping their money into a mortgage every month, even if it's a ghastly-looking condo, instead of burning it in rent on some overpriced "vintage" shithole to maintain some bullshit sense of artistic credibility. And one question -- how the fuck do you work in a coffee shop, have a master's in aesthetics from Brown, and go out every single night?

My priorities have changed lately, though you wouldn't know that unless you knew me before, which you don't, so just trust me, it's true. I WAS an indie rocker, I mean I wore stupid pants and everything, but I'm finally able to be honest with myself and say that I really can't remember the last time I had fun at an indie rock show. I learn nothing from it, and I get so sad looking at all my friends who still can't accept the fact that they're not going to be rock stars. And I know, I know, that's the way that people want to live, and they don't WANT to "sell out" and blah blah blah, but you know what? I just don't buy it anymore. I think it's all just a childish fantasy that's extraordinarily selfish and it's all about wanting to be thought of as a genius while making it easier to get laid, which is ultimately not so different from wanting a Beamer. And no, I don't want one of those yet, I'm just saying.

But again, why am I apologizing for even using that in an example? What is that value judgement all about? This idea that being a fucking guitar player for Shellac is a more noble profession than, say, accountant, is just nonsense. One guy plays on a stage in front of a bunch of snotty kids and the other guy helps people do their taxes. I'd call that a wash. Who sold me this bill of goods? It's such a goddamn hypocrisy.

And now that I'm warmed up, I'm gonna finish off with three short rants about things that I find equally stupid.

1. Women who fawn over rock stars and look down on men who read Maxim. If it looks like a duck and sounds like a duck and it wants to fuck a guy because he's on a stage, then it's a fucking groupie. It's a fantasy, and you'll get smacked over the head with the reality when you find you're the only one in the relationship that knows how to change a tire.

2. Anyone who uses the phrase "beauty is a construct." Oh, I see, so when I'm walking down the street and I'm literally stunned by the sight of the unbelievably gorgeous woman passing by, it's actually the patriarchy talking. You're an idiot. I can't believe you actually respected the equally stupid graduate assistant who taught your Women in Feminist Theatre class sophomore year. Were you one of those people that actually turned gay for awhile so it would give you more credibility in class arguments? That phrase doesn't even make sense. Is gravity a construct, you fucking retard?

3. Vegans who criticize religious fundamentalists. Is there anything more bizarrely religious than being that devoted to what you eat? Just go to church already.

And finally, some people are fat because they're lazy.

Thank you for getting to the end of this. I hope I justified Sarah's introduction, and even if you loathe me, I hope you were entertained. In real life, I'm a very nice guy, I swear. Try me -- we can play Scrabble and everything and I won't complain about anything, unless I get all fucking vowels three times in a row, and then...

Exactly What The Hell Is Wrong With Britney Spears?

I'm mainly just practicing, but in case there's a single person in America who hasn't seen this already--
Check this out!

And Introducing...

My body is agoraphobic, I think. Give me months of rarely leaving the house other than to ride my bike down the block to AB's house and I'm hale and hearty, albeit a bit gin-soaked and goofy. But introduce my body to the prospect of flying thousands of miles across the globe to an isolated archipelago and its all like "Excuse me? You want me to go where?! Fuck that, I'm getting an infection!"

So tonight I'm pissing fire, trying to pack and get mentally ready to pretend like I know what I'm talking about in front of a crowd of myopic scholars who better not get all upside my shit. My plan so far? Blind them with my superpowered BRIGHT YELLOW HIGH HEELED SHOE MACHINES!

While I am gone, three of my very bestest friends have posting privileges here at the Bee. I hope they post more than I do. They are, in no particular order except fabulous ladies first:

Lauren: She's hot, she's cute, she's witty like she's the one that turned your gramma senile, she actually gets PAID to write, and she's fixin' to open up a can of complex-comma-claused madness right on your ass.

Gabe: He's mean, he's lean, he's a fighting writing machine. The man's so cranky he's got his own exhaust pipes (wha?), he'll take a look at your baby and tell you not only is she fat but she's stupid, too. Love him, he's a gadfly.

Leo: A sexy motherfucker, fer shir. Pop culture Ph.D., with a special focus on Ma$e, Rodney Dangerfield, and Alvin, Simon, ThEEodore! Plus, he's British! The ladies love that. Ask him to say "Girl, put on your panties and get me a lighter."

Be nice and make these kids feel welcome. I'll be back next week. Hang ten, dood.

Oh, and, BARACK THE HOUSE!!!!

Catching Up's So Hard to Do

Work is Hard. That's Why I Don't Do it Often

I'd like to think that my lack of posting activity is due to these computer problems I'm having. Have you heard? I've been using a DIAL-UP connection for two weeks. It's a nightmare. It's a trial. It's very Fritz Lang, very Franz Kafka (but unfortunately not at all Franz Ferdinand). Facing facts, however, my silence here is probably more to do with the fact that-- hold up, wait a minute!-- I have been working the past two weeks.

Let me repeat that. I have worked. I am currently working. I am writing and copyediting, and earning my keep and sending me and my husband to Hawaii.

Working is hard. That's why after I work for two weeks, I'm promptly going to Hawaii.

Did I tell you about Hawaii?

You hate me right now. And my first instinct is to hate me, too, except I'm realizing that I've spent far too much time this year bent under the weight of Weberian/Friedanian (Max and Betty, natch) guilt, hiding the fact that here in Louisiana, I'm Marge Simpson in Cypress Creek sitting alone in a gleaming and automated kitchen drinking a glass of wine at 3 p.m. There's not much for housewives to do these days, what with the machines to help us out. I personally love the fuck out of my robot helper, don't you?

But now, as I sit at the window watching two goateed fatheads take down the number on the depressing "For Rent" sign outside our house, I decide to no longer be ashamed! I've barely done a lick of work the entire time I've lived here, and I'm Proud Of It! When my colleagues in Chicago were studying for qualifying exams, they were simultaneously taking classes and teaching overprivileged bitches wearing Paper Denim about Literature and Life and all the Big Huge Things You Learn When You are A Freshman That You Don't Remember Because of All the Beer and the Tequila. Me? I was studying, too: I just had a book in my right hand, martini shaker in the other. While my best friends were moving and shaking, earning degrees from Harvard, getting promotions at fancy jobs, negotiating their salaries, I was growing tomatoes. I was riding my bike over to the river at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday night with nothing on my mind but a fine, fine freedom.

It's been so great.

I'll probably be getting very maudlin here over the next few weeks. We just realized we're moving in just over a month. This apartment-- with its cast iron sink and bird's eye view of Monroe's Garden District-- was our first apartment together. I won't even get into what goes through my mind when I remember that leaving this town means leaving Anna Beth and Vince.

Time's a jealous bitch, that's for sure. Distracted, always looking ahead, waiting to be betrayed.

His Name is Bo, and He Drives a Trans Am

Last Saturday was quite possibly the perfect Saturday. Two words: Pool Party. You know it's a Pool Party™ when a group of pasty and under-muscle-toned twenty-somethings gather in the shallow end to play some kind of Special Olympics version of volleyball-- Wheee! Look at the ball bounce! Wheeee! Just look out when you hear yourself exclaim, "Hey, I wonder if I can swim to the other end of the pool holding my High Life aloft with one hand!" The answer is: no you cannot, you drunk twat.

But you can only Pool Party™ for so long. (That's a disingenuous rhetorical statement to get the narrative moving; obviously you can spend all day Pool Partying™). So we followed it up with a trip to desolate downtown Monroe to hear some interesting local music; and, people, there IS a scene here. And even though there may have been a bit too much hat irony, circa 1992, it was damn refreshing to see the youth of the town put on some outfits, get together, and listen to a bunch of racket. And look! there are like so many cute lesbians in this town, and also punks. Who look a bit lost until finally (finally!) a song fit for "moshing" is played and they're like, "Hey! this is why I've got my hair all crazy like this and I'm standing around with no shirt on and a backpack on my back. It's for the 'moshing'! I almost forgot! Lemme at that floor, man!"

What really topped things off, though, was finishing the night at a drag show, emceed by a gay guy in a wheelchair-- a dead ringer for Eric Balfour-- affecting an interestingly lispy version of Nelly-speak. A very drunk lesbian in a Hanes t-shirt and baseball cap kept interrupting, asking to sing a song in tribute "to our troops." But when the emcee finally introduced the ultimate Queen of Monroe-- Chelsea (Chel-see-ah) Alexandria-- and she came out in a Sally Beauty Supply wig and daisy dukes, and was at least 6'10, what really, really, really made this the perfect Saturday, what pretty much made me want to jump in the casket and call it a life, is when one of our companions turns to us and says "Hey, I know that guy. His name is Bo, and he drives a Trans Am."

Show, Don't Tell

Tell: The shower/tub drain is currently clogged.

Show: Spewing forth from the depths of this old house is an army of gunky brown goops fleeing their pipal imprisonment. The army is released when the obtuse human residents of the home dare to turn the sink faucet on, unwittingly setting in motion the bathtub's upchuck reflex as surely as if they had leaned over the porcelain beast and stuck a curved and inquisitive finger down its delicate little throat.

Tell: My computer was still broken upon coming back from Apple Repair, so I have to send it away again today.

Show: Having used my broken computer as a crutch to support my broken brain for weeks, I must now throw that crutch away and truly begin hobbling toward writing a paper to be delivered in front of a large crowd in two weeks. Writing longhand is out of the question as a mere 15 minutes of writing in that manner would likely cause stigmata to mystically burst open upon my hands, so unused to grasping pen-like writing instruments as they are. Ed's computer is the only other option available, the worrisome fact that it emits a high-pitched whine causing all the neighborhood dogs, cats, alligators, and other bayou-dwelling creatures to lay down and die must not be heeded. I know! I'll buy EARPLUGS and wear those while I write. That way, not only will I sit here unwashed (see above) and cranky, but also I will simultaneously develop crazy writerly habits that I will never be able to break, a la Marcel Proust and his cork-lined freakroom.

Tell: I'm having a hard time writing.

Show: It's 1 p.m. and I'm currently on my fourth cup of coffee. Did I tell you I am wearing ear plugs to drown out this computer's whine? And that the whine is the only noise that does manage to penetrate my earplugs so that, in fact, I have actually managed to isolate the brain-splitting noise so as to hear it more clearly?

Tell: My husband is nervous about hearing back from law firms with which he interviewed.

Show: My husband is a shell of a man, forced into jumping every time the phone rings, wincing every time Outlook makes a little "received mail" chime, peeing his pants just a little when he goes to get the mail in the late afternoon. My husband does not really want to work at a law firm, but he spent three years whiling away many lovely hours getting a degree from a prestigious law school in Chicago, one whose campus is placed at a perfectly lovely remove from the glistening and everchangingly gorgeous Lake Michigan, one whose student body was made up of many, many striking blondes and healthily-glowing brunettes in North Face fleece pullovers, fresh from KD/Phi Kap mixers, one whose endowment is roughly equivalent to Greenland's GNP, a school that with a smile and a nod, has succeeded in appending an expansive string of extra 0s onto our little family's student loan debt.

Tell: I had a weird dream last night.

Show: In my dream, I got set on fire, lost all my skin, and had to spend months laying still, wrapped in gauze from head to foot with only a tiny mouth opening, while I regrew all that skin. The people attending to me had to water my gauze-wrapped body using a plastic watering can filled with Miracle-Gro in order to stimulate skin regrowth, which subsequently turned my gauze wrappings all greenish with algae.