Monday, November 24, 2008
November 24
Thanks for the pants advice, ladies. I will do some investigation during Thanksgiving weekend and report my findings. (I especially appreciate "Emily" (mysterious!) who wished me "Godspeed." I appreciate the solemnity. Pants are pretty solemn.)
Okay, so I started my Tour de Childhood on Saturday and we will return to that today. Our next stop is Fargo, North Dakota, which is a deeply, deeply weird place. The band Southern Culture on the Skids came one summer when I was in college and I heard through the grapevine that they said Fargo was the weirdest place they had ever been. This is a group that throws fried chicken at their audiences. They know from weird.
So, December 1982. I am four years old. We pull up in front of our rental house and I immediately threw up. This rather inauspicious beginning is easily credited to traveling from New York to North Dakota in December with a 2 year old sister, a 4 month old brother, two stressed-out parents and two freaked-out cats in a Dodge Aries K. Frankly, I'm surprised we all didn't throw up.
I spent the rest of my childhood in Fargo, only leaving when I went to college. The thing that is bad about Fargo is that it is so isolated. But the thing that is great about Fargo is that it is so isolated. It allowed people to become genuinely weird and creative people, and gave them the space to try things that a bigger city would not allow. There were so many strange band venues. I saw Bikini Kill at the Elks, and Calvin Johnson at the bowling alley. There was also an old skating rink called the Purple Pickle or something, and local bands would play there too. Some guys started a theatre/coffee house/hangout place downtown with carpet samples laid out all over the floor and walls. It lasted about 4 months, but it was great. It was so unabashedly itself.
There was also a lot of ignorance and closed-mindedness and I'd be lying if I said I didn't fantasize about leaving from approximately age 13 onward. But I feel some real tenderness toward a place that lets people leave their cars running, unlocked, in the parking lot while they go grocery shopping. It makes you start thinking a little bit . . . weird.
Okay, so I started my Tour de Childhood on Saturday and we will return to that today. Our next stop is Fargo, North Dakota, which is a deeply, deeply weird place. The band Southern Culture on the Skids came one summer when I was in college and I heard through the grapevine that they said Fargo was the weirdest place they had ever been. This is a group that throws fried chicken at their audiences. They know from weird.
So, December 1982. I am four years old. We pull up in front of our rental house and I immediately threw up. This rather inauspicious beginning is easily credited to traveling from New York to North Dakota in December with a 2 year old sister, a 4 month old brother, two stressed-out parents and two freaked-out cats in a Dodge Aries K. Frankly, I'm surprised we all didn't throw up.
I spent the rest of my childhood in Fargo, only leaving when I went to college. The thing that is bad about Fargo is that it is so isolated. But the thing that is great about Fargo is that it is so isolated. It allowed people to become genuinely weird and creative people, and gave them the space to try things that a bigger city would not allow. There were so many strange band venues. I saw Bikini Kill at the Elks, and Calvin Johnson at the bowling alley. There was also an old skating rink called the Purple Pickle or something, and local bands would play there too. Some guys started a theatre/coffee house/hangout place downtown with carpet samples laid out all over the floor and walls. It lasted about 4 months, but it was great. It was so unabashedly itself.
There was also a lot of ignorance and closed-mindedness and I'd be lying if I said I didn't fantasize about leaving from approximately age 13 onward. But I feel some real tenderness toward a place that lets people leave their cars running, unlocked, in the parking lot while they go grocery shopping. It makes you start thinking a little bit . . . weird.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
November 22
My dear Sis suggested I write about the places I have lived, and since I am too tired to take pictures of the February Lady I'm making, that's just what I'll do.
I spent my first four years in Schenectady, New York, but owing to the fact that I was developing basic motor skills and learning language I don't have too many memories of being there. My very first memory is being at my babysitter's house, Grandma Wetzel (not my real grandma, but like a real grandma), and talking on the phone with my dad, and him telling me I had a baby sister. I promptly burst into tears, mostly from confusion, and perhaps from some deep understanding that things would never be the same. I got over it, and now adore my sis of course! Sorry about the rude welcome, though, buddy.
My other memories are sort of strange, Lynchian disembodied strands. I remember my mom being mad and me picking her flowers in the backyard. I remember standing at the top of the staircase and dropping my cat Timmy down to the bottom. I did that every night after we had snuggled in bed for a while. I don't do that any more. It turns out it's not very nice for the cat!
I also remember eating dinner with my sister and us putting ketchup on our noses and proclaiming ourselves Rudolph. I remember watching my sister eat pieces of paper ripped from a Charlie Brown book, and then getting in trouble for not stopping her. In a stunningly accurate prediction of my future self-conception, the book was called Everything I Do Makes Me Feel Guilty. One thing I don't remember was that I used to go outside with a bucket of water and a paint brush and paint tree trunks, but I apparently enjoyed hours of that. To which I say, was I offered no toys or did I simply reject them in favor of an unsatisfying and pointless activity?
Thus, you see that the early formative years of my life were creepy and I'm lucky to have developed relatively normal interests and hobbies. Well, I still bust out that ketchup thing when dinner party conversation lags. I find it works much better than sharing the Timmy story.
I spent my first four years in Schenectady, New York, but owing to the fact that I was developing basic motor skills and learning language I don't have too many memories of being there. My very first memory is being at my babysitter's house, Grandma Wetzel (not my real grandma, but like a real grandma), and talking on the phone with my dad, and him telling me I had a baby sister. I promptly burst into tears, mostly from confusion, and perhaps from some deep understanding that things would never be the same. I got over it, and now adore my sis of course! Sorry about the rude welcome, though, buddy.
My other memories are sort of strange, Lynchian disembodied strands. I remember my mom being mad and me picking her flowers in the backyard. I remember standing at the top of the staircase and dropping my cat Timmy down to the bottom. I did that every night after we had snuggled in bed for a while. I don't do that any more. It turns out it's not very nice for the cat!
I also remember eating dinner with my sister and us putting ketchup on our noses and proclaiming ourselves Rudolph. I remember watching my sister eat pieces of paper ripped from a Charlie Brown book, and then getting in trouble for not stopping her. In a stunningly accurate prediction of my future self-conception, the book was called Everything I Do Makes Me Feel Guilty. One thing I don't remember was that I used to go outside with a bucket of water and a paint brush and paint tree trunks, but I apparently enjoyed hours of that. To which I say, was I offered no toys or did I simply reject them in favor of an unsatisfying and pointless activity?
Thus, you see that the early formative years of my life were creepy and I'm lucky to have developed relatively normal interests and hobbies. Well, I still bust out that ketchup thing when dinner party conversation lags. I find it works much better than sharing the Timmy story.
