BucketHead

Holy Moly. I can't believe it's been 3 months since I posted last. My world has been a whirlwind, in a great way, truly. I've been working a lot and I'm absolutely loving my non-profit job. Still trying to figure out how to save the world, but I think the answer is getting closer - it lies within lots of meditation, little sleep and a great many scoops of humble pie. I'm going to post an old blog because I'm also trying to do 47 things at once (typical), and I love this clip. I just didn't post it earlier because I didn't want to offend anyone. But I think it's ok now. And I swear that I'll write some fresh content for you (all 4 of you - thanks for humoring me ;)) soon.


This post is dedicated to all single men: I've come to the conclusion that my dating life is ultimately for the sole purpose of giving me good material to facilitate my writing career. So thanks to you. 

And now, Buckethead:

I had a “date” tonight. Concerts are typically not the first thing I spend my money on (usually that would be canned goods, toilet paper and the occasional $1 movie theatre night when my zany, gentile side takes over). But when the chance comes around once every six years, you figure out how to rearrange your schedule to accommodate an invitation – even a last-minute one. And the dude said these musicians were an amazing percussionist and a prodigious guitar player.  Sweet.

I realized immediately that we weren’t on the same page about the evening when I showed up looking spunky yet sophisticated in a thoughtfully coordinated outfit and he gave me a high five. My stature approached just around his nipple – a height difference that allowed me the subtle opportunity to read his t-shirt: “Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.” Thank you, Groucho Marx, for starting the evening off classy.  By the way, the cute guy that asked me to a concert will henceforth be referred to as “homeboy” to protect his dignity… 

We got a beer and immersed ourselves in the sound waves emerging from a large man playing synthesized tuba. It sounded like a techno didgeridoo and was actually pretty cool. But all I could think about was how his mother felt about his success after so many years of listening to him scream into his tuba in the basement.

As the next act came on – what I can best describe as Mel Brooks on speed beating on a fake harp to pre-recorded electronica – Homeboy finished his beer and offered to get us another round. When I politely explained that I was still hung over from St. Patrick’s Day, he responded, “Well, I’m gonna get boozed up.”  And lo, it came to pass.

We enjoyed the rest of Mel Brooks’s performance (the highlight of which was the screeching sock puppet) and bantered back and forth a bit, with profound questions like “What percentage of the audience do you think is stoned?” (I low-balled at 50%.) Finally, the man of the hour: Buckethead. Buckethead, the master guitar guru; Buckethead, whose fingers are so long and nimble he was destined  to become a world-famous a musician and a most dexterous lover; Buckethead, the man whose title is a symbolic exploration of our minds’ isolation from reality….well, perhaps it had more to do with the perfectly contoured KFC bucket he wore upon his dome. We’ll never know because the true artist was hidden behind a white mask, which probably is symbolic of his isolation from…oh, whatever. For the next three hours he proceeded to violate the guitar with truly impressive adroitness and entertaining compositions. Homeboy would intermittently lean down to scream sweetly in my ear: “This shit is blowing my mind!!”

When his digits became fatigued, Buckethead placed foam replacements upon his hands and busted robot moves that would have made Michael Jackson swoon. When he got bored with that, he swung a chainsaw around (powered-off, obviously) and a pair of nunchaku that he clearly had been practicing with for more than 3 weeks. Maybe he and tuba dude practiced in the basement together in middle school.  He chucked the nunchaku and proceeded to toss toys from a sack into the front rows. 

Meanwhile, Homeboy was getting progressively more intoxicated and asked if it’d be cool for me to drive him home. I mean, we were headed to the same neighborhood, and he smelled good. So I agreed.  As the show was wrapping up, he asked me to borrow a $1.50 to round out his cash for a CD.  I pulled a 20 out of my bra and handed it to him (which apparently was a magical trick to a tall drunk man with a great angle on a low-cut shirt). In exchange, he tossed me his entire wallet.

I had flash visions of encountering passport-sized pornographic photos and raisins: “Um, I don’t know what to do with this. Do you really want me to dig through your wallet?”

“Oh. Um, here” – he handed me a $5 bill and said “we’ll work the rest out later.” I sighed and headed for the door, pausing once more so he could trace prospective traffic routes on the plaid sweatshirt of an equally inebriated Buckethead enthusiast.

He spent a portion of the ride home explaining how he was hoping to meet up the next day with all of the people who had bailed on him for the concert. Oh….so, you mean, I probably could have spent a little less time on my hair then, huh? We finally got back to the place where he was crashing for the weekend (I forgot to mention he was an out-of-towner), and he leaned in closely to me, looking deeply into my eyes. It was not romantic – he was simply trying to focus. “This was awesome. Thanks for coming with me” (a sentiment he would reiterate via text hours later - sogreatweshoulddothisagainsometime). He raised his hand for one final high-five as we parted ways and I drove off into the night with sock puppet screeches still ringing in my ears. 

Getting into Deep Shit

I can’t remember why I was wandering around downtown late Friday night – I do so on occasion, feeling like I’m searching for something that I can’t really pinpoint. Is it food? Is it love? Is it a human connection? I like peering into peoples’ stories as I pass by – a couple on a date; a family having dinner; a group of girlfriends on their 3^rd round of martinis. On my second lap around town, I got distracted from my soul searching by the overwhelming stench of dog shit, which had been smeared down the sidewalk for half a block. As I dodged the poo and fellow pedestrians, I caught myself saying “Ew” aloud. This is where I totally diverged from whatever cookie or love story I’d been fantasizing over, as I began to consider how quickly we adapt to our surroundings.

My mind flashed back to August 1, 2007 – I remember the date because it was my first day of classes in Buenos Aires and I had decided to walk home to familiarize myself with the huge metropolis. The second block from my university,  I squished down into a huge pile of dog poo; my newly lubricated shoes carried me sliding into the intersection where I stopped a few inches shy of the broad side of a taxi. These little land mines were a normal aspect of Argentine life; I didn’t bother with being grossed out, but simply learned to maneuver around them.  In Mexico, although droppings from every kind of animal littered the roads like fiesta confetti, we quickly realized that sidestepping poo mounds was not as crucial as learning to evade the wild dogs that dropped them. Carrying a rock and the air of a beast-tamer became a part of our daily commute.

So here I am walking down the sidewalk in this amazing city in a very privileged country and I say “ew” to dog crap. Has my identity changed from the girl who stepped off the plane and marveled at her hotel’s shiny toilet seats? When I get dressed for work, my boots remain in the corner; my fingernails stay clean (and sometimes even pink); and the sun doesn’t shine into my cubicle to beat down on my neck. My calluses have worn away, my new phone can Google your mom, and though cutting the lawn with the push-mower seems to be only a small step up from the dull machete I still boast about, it is a step forward nonetheless. How quickly we adapt to our surroundings to find ourselves comfortable and necessitating what we have within our grasp. I was totally content surviving on beans and tortillas for two weeks straight. Now I find myself perusing the farmer’s market considering spiced pumpkin ravioli and sprouted nut butter for $12/jar.

Does our identity change as we transition to new chapters, or do we carry the past chapters with us and build on them? I’ve always had this theory that we swap little bits of our souls with the people and places we encounter as we move through life.  Perhaps this is why I feel perpetually unsettled – because I have parts of me everywhere; a chunk of my identity is still in the campo with the dog poo and amazing neighbors, Mayan ruins, pot holes, beggars and horses in pickup trucks.

I guess I’m in a matrix – always adapting to the present elements, but eternally trying to get my soul whole as I leave its droppings around the globe. That's deep shit. 

My new phone can beat up your phone

I’ve done it, friends. I’ve crossed the threshold to the dark side and there’s no going back. I thought I’d hit that point when I signed up for a Twitter account, but seeing as how I haven’t tweaked since January, I assert that I officially caved this past Monday when I purchased a smart phone.

For those of you who don’t know me very well, first let me say thank you for reading a stranger’s blog, and secondly, technology gives me hives. The whole button pushing thing is really overwhelming to me and there are so many things to break. I’d rather be playing with sticks or frisbees and running in the quiet. Yet, here I am, holding the interspace in my palm.

It was a difficult process to arrive at this point. Upon returning from Mexico, where my phone was a little brick reminiscent of my first Nokia (sans Snake and sparkly pink case), I purchased a Samsung Evergreen. Despite being in early phases of creating a business, I presumed that as long as I had a phone that would call and text people my professional life could advance at a healthy pace. I was on a soapbox (which I still keep in my bathroom in case this whole smartphone phase bites me in the ass) about living simply, separating work life and home life and connecting with people not technology.

The Evergreen had a little green sticker that indicates a percentage of recycled materials, and well, green was in the name. I like to think I’m not a sucker for subliminal marketing, but apparently I’ll have to bring it up with my eco-therapist. The reviews of the phone indicated that it occasionally would reboot itself, but my immediate response was that I can deal with a little refresher now and then, so why not allow my phone the same courtesy? Four months, one battery and one replacement phone later, I was still having the same conversation with AT&T: “My phone is a hazard to my career. Every time I try to text someone it reboots. It shuts off when I call people. Yes, I checked the white square, the golden doo-dads, the sim card, the yes, I’ll hold…Yes. I’m here….hello? Hello? Gaaaaaaa!!!!!”

I have spoken to AT&T 8 times since February. They really are lovely people. I became especially close with an amicable gay man from Bangladesh in my later calls. We still exchange casserole recipes, but the best he could do on the phone front was to offer me one of three equally dysfunctional alternatives. With clammy hands and a racing heartbeat, I opened the door to the AT&T store and walked into the incandescent lighting and unnecessarily frigid air-conditioning of the 21^st century.

Our local store employs a family friend who has seen my family through many a cellular crisis. She followed up with the insurance agency after my brother dropped 3 smartphones in the toilet (oh, wait – two smart phones and one normal one that got a thorough cleanse in the washer. His hair dryer plan almost salvaged it had it not been for the tenacious 9 key, but I digress). She held my hand in November as I perused the smart phones and settled on the Evergreen. So when I came into the store on Monday, it was almost as if she’d been expecting me. She informed me that Evergreen buyers have been old and probably don’t use the phone enough to be concerned about its manic reboots. After much counseling and deep breathing, I chose the simplest smart phone and an AWESOME purple cover about which I am equally if not more excited.

I think it’s a testament to my personal growth that I got this phone on Monday and still have not cried. I even helped my boss sync her emails to her new phone! Booyah. I was walking to West End Bakery this afternoon and realized that I could look up how many sub-species of opossums there are and the quickest way to Peoria, Illinois right this moment. I feel overwhelmed with power…and a little bit just overwhelmed. For a spot of deep irony, here is a picture of my phone, taken from my phone and uploaded directly from my phone. (That last part is a lie – baby steps.)