For some reason, last week I got it into my head that I needed a new suit. I own a black suit, but it doesn't fit me all that well and so I was hoping to get something new to wear for a birthday party that I am allegedly invited to and even, perhaps, for my upcoming Vegas trip.
So I got it into my head that I needed a new suit, but I didn't have any idea about my measurements.
I looked online for a suit that would be reasonable, thinking I could get it hemmed or whatever they do to make things fit better once I received it. I still didn't know my suit measurements, however.
I went into Men's Wearhouse yesterday, thinking I could get in, get the info, and get out. I wasn't eager to buy there for one primary reason: salesdudes.
Several years ago, well before the current version of my life, I went into Men's Wearhouse to get a suit. I went with my ex- and I was educated/talked to for a long time by a salesdude that seemed about 0.13% (that is about one part in 800) sincere. Maybe I read him wrong, and he was just really passionate about getting people into new clothes so they'd look better, but...
Anyway, I walked into the store I was immediately greeted. Not like a, "What's up?"-type of greeting, but a "I want to sell you a car TODAY!"-type of greeting. My distaste was ameliorated by several large signs up around the store: 50% off all suits. Hmm. Maybe I would buy something.
Or maybe not.
The guy who had pounced upon me talked to me for about 37 seconds, grabbed a suit from the rack, had me try on the jacket and then said he'd be back.
Where was he going? I didn't know. What was I supposed to do other than stare at myself in the mirror while he was gone? I didn't know.
After about five minutes, I noticed he was wrapping up a transaction with another customer... OK. Fine. He'll be right with me, right ... ?
Well. He wasn't. He disappeared again, and I was staring at myself in the same charcoal 39L jacket (which fit pretty well) and I was bored and irritated. Why the f would I want to spend that large of a chunk of my Saturday morning like that?
Further, I was not alone. I was not being actively served, but I was standing next to a salesdude. THE salesdude. After six+ years, the same guy who had helped me was still working there, and still was brimming with the pseudo-passion that he had exhibited so many years before.
After what seemed like forever (but was probably about three minutes more) of not seeing my salesdude, I removed the jacket. I set the suit down. I walked out the store.
That is definitely not the way to sell me a suit.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
I Saw a Dead Man Today
Life is, in many ways, a series of firsts. The first day of school. The first kiss. The first time you see a dead person.
It's not every day that you see a dead man.
Unless "every day" is today and "you" are me. Or you are I. Or however one would state that properly.
I saw a dead man today.
It was not a funeral. It was not the Bodies exhibit. It was a guy, lying outside his apartment building, who had put a gun to his head and turned his body into meat.
We were told, afterwards, that he had purchased a gun two weeks beforehand, and that he had a box full of bullets and he had only removed one. And that one was all it took.
I don't know the man. I don't know why he had tattoos where he did or why he was wearing the hat that he was or what he had for lunch before he took his own life. I certainly don't know why he chose to kill himself.
All I know is that it was a unique experience for me. I would imagine that I will see more dead bodies at some point in my life after this (it seems mathematically probable) but I'll never see a dead body for the first time. While I don't know if the second time will be like the first or, in its own way unique, I am sure this will prove to be unique.
The first thing I noticed was the surreal nature of it. I could see the body through a window, and watched the way the police looked into the situation: they checked his pockets, they took pictures, they placed his hands in paper bags--presumably to protect GSR, although I can't be sure.
That I even know a term like "GSR" indicates why, perhaps, it was so surreal.
It was not that it reminded me of my own mortality. It was not that I felt an overwhelming sadness for a man I never met. It was not that a totally normal day had been interrupted by a unique experience.
It was that it felt a bit like television: looking through a transparent rectangular portal to a scene that was totally foreign to me.
Another odd aspect of this was... irrational happiness. I feel a bit bad even admitting this, but the fact that he was dead and I was alive made me almost giddy. Intellectually, I would have much rather been bored and a stranger be alive, but rather than blaming this odd behavior on some sort of perverted sense of right and wrong, I will call it defense mechanism.
Laughter is a defense mechanism and black humor (the Dr. Stranglove kind, not the Kat Williams kind) is an extension of that, I think... dealing with taboo and difficult situations by twisting them until you can't help but laugh. I wasn't laughing due to the corpse within eyeshot, but I wasn't reacting in the sad manner I would have predicted, either.
Further, during and following battles where people are dying, some people feel elation. This seemingly counterintuitive response may be another way of the body rejecting the possibility/probability of its death. Obviously I was in no danger, but maybe subconsciously I felt more vulnerable than normal, and my body was just pleased to still be alive.
Maybe, of course, I am damaged. Maybe, of course, I am twisted. Maybe.
But I'm alive and I'm glad that I get to keep thinking about it. And I'm not looking forward to seeing how I respond to the next dead body I see.
It's not every day that you see a dead man.
Unless "every day" is today and "you" are me. Or you are I. Or however one would state that properly.
I saw a dead man today.
It was not a funeral. It was not the Bodies exhibit. It was a guy, lying outside his apartment building, who had put a gun to his head and turned his body into meat.
We were told, afterwards, that he had purchased a gun two weeks beforehand, and that he had a box full of bullets and he had only removed one. And that one was all it took.
I don't know the man. I don't know why he had tattoos where he did or why he was wearing the hat that he was or what he had for lunch before he took his own life. I certainly don't know why he chose to kill himself.
All I know is that it was a unique experience for me. I would imagine that I will see more dead bodies at some point in my life after this (it seems mathematically probable) but I'll never see a dead body for the first time. While I don't know if the second time will be like the first or, in its own way unique, I am sure this will prove to be unique.
The first thing I noticed was the surreal nature of it. I could see the body through a window, and watched the way the police looked into the situation: they checked his pockets, they took pictures, they placed his hands in paper bags--presumably to protect GSR, although I can't be sure.
That I even know a term like "GSR" indicates why, perhaps, it was so surreal.
It was not that it reminded me of my own mortality. It was not that I felt an overwhelming sadness for a man I never met. It was not that a totally normal day had been interrupted by a unique experience.
It was that it felt a bit like television: looking through a transparent rectangular portal to a scene that was totally foreign to me.
Another odd aspect of this was... irrational happiness. I feel a bit bad even admitting this, but the fact that he was dead and I was alive made me almost giddy. Intellectually, I would have much rather been bored and a stranger be alive, but rather than blaming this odd behavior on some sort of perverted sense of right and wrong, I will call it defense mechanism.
Laughter is a defense mechanism and black humor (the Dr. Stranglove kind, not the Kat Williams kind) is an extension of that, I think... dealing with taboo and difficult situations by twisting them until you can't help but laugh. I wasn't laughing due to the corpse within eyeshot, but I wasn't reacting in the sad manner I would have predicted, either.
Further, during and following battles where people are dying, some people feel elation. This seemingly counterintuitive response may be another way of the body rejecting the possibility/probability of its death. Obviously I was in no danger, but maybe subconsciously I felt more vulnerable than normal, and my body was just pleased to still be alive.
Maybe, of course, I am damaged. Maybe, of course, I am twisted. Maybe.
But I'm alive and I'm glad that I get to keep thinking about it. And I'm not looking forward to seeing how I respond to the next dead body I see.
Sexual Bending or Comic Sans
I read this earlier today. It involves this announcement for a Wisconsin dance:
I am the last person to fight the power, but:
- Comic sans? Really?
- "No blue jeans" rules are ridiculous. I guess I can understand a blanket "no holes in pants" and/or "no underwear showing" rule, but the continued discrimination against blue jeans (whether at a prom or on a golf course) is ridiculous.
- I had never heard of the term "sexual bending" before... but I'm disappointed to learn that it's only things like "hands on knees". Maybe I've spent too much time in Capitol Hill.
- I think they meant "ensure". But when someone's using Comic Sans looking at grammar seems particularly nitpicky.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
(-er)? Maybe. Old? Not quite yet.
I am the last person in the world who would claim to be whining-free. I like to vent/complain/bemoan/bitch/say "FML" as much as the next guy.
(Probably not as much as the next chick, though, when it comes to saying "FML". I have only seen two guys do it and both of them had their dude card revoked.)
In spite of this general lack of reluctance to whine, I think I've done a reasonably good job of accepting my advancing years with some grace. I rarely complain about the three or four gray hairs I have, and I don't find getting out of bed more difficult now than I did, say, a decade ago. I even attribute my primary physical pain to poor ergonomics, rather that Father Time's invisible hand gripping my right shoulder blade 20 hours a day.
With all of this said? I have been wondering if I've felt old the last week or so. A few little encounters have made given me pause:
On Saturday night I went with some peeps to Hula Hula. I hadn't been there in a month or so, and with my lingering sore throat I hadn't sung much karaoke recently. I had turned in a song and was having a rum and diet when I was approached by a guy I used to bump into around the neighborhood quite a bit.
You remember in school that there were kids you knew you were not supposed to make fun of, but you did it anyway? Maybe the kid was always dirty, or maybe he smelled bad, or maybe he was mentally slow, or maybe he was a girl. In any case, upon reflection as an adult you wish you hadn't mocked/bullied/mock-bullied?
Well, this guy is one of those kinds of guys. As an adult, I find him strange and off-putting. He's got several things about him that can make the kid in me giggle at him and the adult in me creeped out by him... but I try to treat him with respect and understand that if everyone did then his life would probably be better for it.
Anyway, he was there. He came over to me, as I was drinking my rum and diet, and asked how I was doing, etc., etc. Totally fine and normal conversation until he sort of stopped me with--out of the blue--this proclamation:
Hmm.
It would have been easy to respond with, "You look ugly, stupid-head!" but I did not. I think I joked about how that was sort of rude.
But did I look tired, even though I didn't feel tired? Don't old people look tired when they don't feel tired?
Sunday was the NFL conference championship games. I had been up pretty late Saturday night, but given that the games didn't start until noon I was in prime position to watch both of them. I had no rooting interest, though, and ... just didn't care.
When the second game rolled around, I watched (partially, as I worked on something on my compter) the first quarter and then ... took a long nap. I woke up just in time to turn on the TV and see the Saints kick their game-winning field goal in overtime. And felt nothing. Not merely a lack of excitement, but a lack of interest.
This might be traced back to a lack of someone to root for. During the regular season, I play fantasy football and it gives me players and teams to root for each week (indeed, in most games of every week). Maybe I'm accustomed/programmed to feel that rush of adrenaline in every game, and when it's gone, the interest is gone.
I've noticed something else, though, with the one team I do root for: the Portland Trail Blazers. I made it through the close losses against the Lakers. I weathered the years where they were mocked as the "Jail Blazers". I even managed to make it through losing Greg Oden (one of the best prospects ever) to a knee injury for a year before he played his first game.
But this year? So many injuries. Greg Oden, in his third year, was lost for the rest of the year after the first part of the season, and he's been joined by over a half-dozen teammates with injuries of varying level of severity.
I still watch the Blazers. But I miss games sometimes if I forget to record the games. I don't get upset when they lose on last-second shots. I won't be disappointed if they miss the playoffs this year.
I tell myself that I will care more next year, when the team (including Oden) is healthier. But will I? Have I lost the innocence that is so often associated with sports fandom? Don't old people give up on primarily meaningless hopes that can be easily crushed through no fault of their own?
Monday, after seemingly an eternity, I finally made it back to the dentist's office. Up until this past year, when a little thing called "Funemployment" derailed me, I had gone to the dentist's office regularly. Every six months I got a checkup and an ego boost as I was reminded that, no matter what other shit had been happening in my life, at least my teeth were in reasonably good shape.
By the end of the visit, I had felt the warm and fuzzy feeling that I'd come to know and love from the dentist, but there was a point where I was (lightly) chastised by the hygienist. They do some thing where they prod your gums and can tell the health of them. Evidently I'd had merely two fours, or something, my previous visit, and this visit I had like eight fours and two fives (fives being worse, indicating early periodontal disease symptoms, or something).
Yes, it can be reversed with flossing, and yes, I haven't flossed much lately. But I never had to floss much before to avoid getting fours and fives. Don't old people have early indicators of the onset of periodontal disease?
...
So. I'm old?
I'm not willing to admit it just yet. I still have good vision. I still have all of my hair (most of it not gray). I am able to occasionally trick younger women into hanging out with me. I even get carded at the liquor store occasionally.
I sometimes joke that I'm closer to death now than I ever have been (yes, my humor is occasionally dark). But I shouldn't even be sure of that. With nanotechnology and improved nutrition and the upcoming return of Elvis, I might be farther away from dying now than I was when I was born.
So I am farther from birth than I've ever been before, but--in spite of looking tired, being apathetic to sports and having early signs of gingivitis--I am not willing to concede that I am old.
(Probably not as much as the next chick, though, when it comes to saying "FML". I have only seen two guys do it and both of them had their dude card revoked.)
In spite of this general lack of reluctance to whine, I think I've done a reasonably good job of accepting my advancing years with some grace. I rarely complain about the three or four gray hairs I have, and I don't find getting out of bed more difficult now than I did, say, a decade ago. I even attribute my primary physical pain to poor ergonomics, rather that Father Time's invisible hand gripping my right shoulder blade 20 hours a day.
With all of this said? I have been wondering if I've felt old the last week or so. A few little encounters have made given me pause:
On Saturday night I went with some peeps to Hula Hula. I hadn't been there in a month or so, and with my lingering sore throat I hadn't sung much karaoke recently. I had turned in a song and was having a rum and diet when I was approached by a guy I used to bump into around the neighborhood quite a bit.
You remember in school that there were kids you knew you were not supposed to make fun of, but you did it anyway? Maybe the kid was always dirty, or maybe he smelled bad, or maybe he was mentally slow, or maybe he was a girl. In any case, upon reflection as an adult you wish you hadn't mocked/bullied/mock-bullied?
Well, this guy is one of those kinds of guys. As an adult, I find him strange and off-putting. He's got several things about him that can make the kid in me giggle at him and the adult in me creeped out by him... but I try to treat him with respect and understand that if everyone did then his life would probably be better for it.
Anyway, he was there. He came over to me, as I was drinking my rum and diet, and asked how I was doing, etc., etc. Totally fine and normal conversation until he sort of stopped me with--out of the blue--this proclamation:
"You look tired."
Hmm.
It would have been easy to respond with, "You look ugly, stupid-head!" but I did not. I think I joked about how that was sort of rude.
But did I look tired, even though I didn't feel tired? Don't old people look tired when they don't feel tired?
Sunday was the NFL conference championship games. I had been up pretty late Saturday night, but given that the games didn't start until noon I was in prime position to watch both of them. I had no rooting interest, though, and ... just didn't care.
When the second game rolled around, I watched (partially, as I worked on something on my compter) the first quarter and then ... took a long nap. I woke up just in time to turn on the TV and see the Saints kick their game-winning field goal in overtime. And felt nothing. Not merely a lack of excitement, but a lack of interest.
This might be traced back to a lack of someone to root for. During the regular season, I play fantasy football and it gives me players and teams to root for each week (indeed, in most games of every week). Maybe I'm accustomed/programmed to feel that rush of adrenaline in every game, and when it's gone, the interest is gone.
I've noticed something else, though, with the one team I do root for: the Portland Trail Blazers. I made it through the close losses against the Lakers. I weathered the years where they were mocked as the "Jail Blazers". I even managed to make it through losing Greg Oden (one of the best prospects ever) to a knee injury for a year before he played his first game.
But this year? So many injuries. Greg Oden, in his third year, was lost for the rest of the year after the first part of the season, and he's been joined by over a half-dozen teammates with injuries of varying level of severity.
I still watch the Blazers. But I miss games sometimes if I forget to record the games. I don't get upset when they lose on last-second shots. I won't be disappointed if they miss the playoffs this year.
I tell myself that I will care more next year, when the team (including Oden) is healthier. But will I? Have I lost the innocence that is so often associated with sports fandom? Don't old people give up on primarily meaningless hopes that can be easily crushed through no fault of their own?
Monday, after seemingly an eternity, I finally made it back to the dentist's office. Up until this past year, when a little thing called "Funemployment" derailed me, I had gone to the dentist's office regularly. Every six months I got a checkup and an ego boost as I was reminded that, no matter what other shit had been happening in my life, at least my teeth were in reasonably good shape.
By the end of the visit, I had felt the warm and fuzzy feeling that I'd come to know and love from the dentist, but there was a point where I was (lightly) chastised by the hygienist. They do some thing where they prod your gums and can tell the health of them. Evidently I'd had merely two fours, or something, my previous visit, and this visit I had like eight fours and two fives (fives being worse, indicating early periodontal disease symptoms, or something).
Yes, it can be reversed with flossing, and yes, I haven't flossed much lately. But I never had to floss much before to avoid getting fours and fives. Don't old people have early indicators of the onset of periodontal disease?
...
So. I'm old?
I'm not willing to admit it just yet. I still have good vision. I still have all of my hair (most of it not gray). I am able to occasionally trick younger women into hanging out with me. I even get carded at the liquor store occasionally.
I sometimes joke that I'm closer to death now than I ever have been (yes, my humor is occasionally dark). But I shouldn't even be sure of that. With nanotechnology and improved nutrition and the upcoming return of Elvis, I might be farther away from dying now than I was when I was born.
So I am farther from birth than I've ever been before, but--in spite of looking tired, being apathetic to sports and having early signs of gingivitis--I am not willing to concede that I am old.
Friday, January 22, 2010
All About Facial Hair
I didn't really need to shave my face until my death was relatively close.
I didn't have to shave in high school, and I could go for a week without shaving in much of college before anything would be apparent. I still remember my sophomore year I'd decided to leave a little soul patch area under the lip, and a guy in my dorm said, extremely casually (as was Flem's way), "You have something under your lip."
My next stop was my dorm room to shave that shit off.
At some point--probably after law school, when I actually got paid to show up somewhere--I had to start shaving. Even though I could wear shorts and t-shirts much of my time at my first job, I never felt comfortable letting my facial hair grow out.
The last couple of years, however, I've evidently tried to make up for lost time with my facial hair (as I have with so much else).
Last winter, in the midst of my funemployment, my hair was getting super-shaggy and I had a mustache (just a mustache) and I felt like a freak. For over a month, I made an actual effort to maintain a mustache by shaving other parts of my face.
While it might not be the healthiest mental approach, there's something to be said for never going all-out. If you don't give your all, you do not become invested and therefore you can shrug and say that it doesn't really matter. In some ways, it probably doesn't matter. Success has the added sweetness of earned at little cost.
The downside is, of course, potential is never maximized. Opportunities are lost. Discrete failure is averted, but systemic and holistic failure is all but ensured.
When I grow facial hair, it's no big deal. I am not trying to do anything... I'm just letting it go.
Once I decide to shave part of it, though? That means that, at whatever level, I'm making an actual decision. I'm investing some of my very self into a mustache.
I am at that stage with my facial hair, as I sit and type this. I have a mustache and chin beard, and it's been growing for almost two months. The mustache is long enough that when I smile it covers part of my teeth in pictures and it's a constant threat to intermingle with my food and drink (as I consume them; not the stuff I keep in, say, my refrigerator).
So... I have to do something. I am not ready to get rid of it entirely, I don't think, but I fear that if I trim it or attempt to shape it, then I will open myself up to ridicule. To failure.
My life is so difficult.
I didn't have to shave in high school, and I could go for a week without shaving in much of college before anything would be apparent. I still remember my sophomore year I'd decided to leave a little soul patch area under the lip, and a guy in my dorm said, extremely casually (as was Flem's way), "You have something under your lip."
My next stop was my dorm room to shave that shit off.
At some point--probably after law school, when I actually got paid to show up somewhere--I had to start shaving. Even though I could wear shorts and t-shirts much of my time at my first job, I never felt comfortable letting my facial hair grow out.
The last couple of years, however, I've evidently tried to make up for lost time with my facial hair (as I have with so much else).
Last winter, in the midst of my funemployment, my hair was getting super-shaggy and I had a mustache (just a mustache) and I felt like a freak. For over a month, I made an actual effort to maintain a mustache by shaving other parts of my face.
While it might not be the healthiest mental approach, there's something to be said for never going all-out. If you don't give your all, you do not become invested and therefore you can shrug and say that it doesn't really matter. In some ways, it probably doesn't matter. Success has the added sweetness of earned at little cost.
The downside is, of course, potential is never maximized. Opportunities are lost. Discrete failure is averted, but systemic and holistic failure is all but ensured.
When I grow facial hair, it's no big deal. I am not trying to do anything... I'm just letting it go.
Once I decide to shave part of it, though? That means that, at whatever level, I'm making an actual decision. I'm investing some of my very self into a mustache.
I am at that stage with my facial hair, as I sit and type this. I have a mustache and chin beard, and it's been growing for almost two months. The mustache is long enough that when I smile it covers part of my teeth in pictures and it's a constant threat to intermingle with my food and drink (as I consume them; not the stuff I keep in, say, my refrigerator).
So... I have to do something. I am not ready to get rid of it entirely, I don't think, but I fear that if I trim it or attempt to shape it, then I will open myself up to ridicule. To failure.
My life is so difficult.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Sometimes I Don't Want to Hear People Talk
I'm usually a pretty forgiving person. Most people who speak have nothing to say, and most people are uncomfortable with silences, so they end up saying nothing in more words than they should. I know this and I understand it and I do not begrudge most things that most people say.
A couple things this weekend, though, I heard and they rubbed me the wrong way.
"What? No Drink?"
I was chilling with Queen Bee and Politica Sunday night at my place. Some TV on DVD was watched and some red wine was consumed. We decided to take a quick walk to the grocery store to get more supplies (food, wine, etc.).
As we entered the establishment, a panhandler struck up a conversation. Here's how a conversation like this usually would go:
This weekend, though, following a bit of wine, I let down my guard, and it went something like this:
The way the purchasing worked, it fell to Queen Bee to pick out the sandwich, and she selected a $6.50 pastrami sandwich. I actually kinda wanted to eat it, myself (I rarely buy myself anything more than a $5 footlong (plus tax and tip)), but she gave it to me to give to the guy on the way out.
Even given that, is a legitimate "Thank you" too much to ask?
"I Had a Dream That My Whites Were Extra Bright"
After walking back from the gym today, a day I have off of work thanks to Martin Luther King Day, I took the elevator up with a pair of guys I'd never seen/met before. They knew each other and had the following exchange as I remained silent:
Setting aside whatever value I may place on marches happening in Seattle on MLK Day, I found it odd that someone else would put enough value on it to consider going... unless laundry had to be done.
That's like saying I would TOTALLY feed my cats unless there's a new episode of Fringe on.
If you want to march because it's important to you: cool. If you want to march because you want to fit in and/or pick up people of the opposite sex: fantastic.
If you want to pay lip service to the importance of the march even as you make a lame excuse for a reason you can't quite make it: that's super-lame.
A couple things this weekend, though, I heard and they rubbed me the wrong way.
"What? No Drink?"
I was chilling with Queen Bee and Politica Sunday night at my place. Some TV on DVD was watched and some red wine was consumed. We decided to take a quick walk to the grocery store to get more supplies (food, wine, etc.).
As we entered the establishment, a panhandler struck up a conversation. Here's how a conversation like this usually would go:
Him: Can I have a buck?The end. Simple, honest, quick. Even if the person endeavors to continue the conversation, I keep walking and establish that I am not interested.
Me: I don't carry cash.
This weekend, though, following a bit of wine, I let down my guard, and it went something like this:
Him: Can I have a buck?And I walked in. That there was no "thank you" or any sense of gratitude struck me as a bit odd, but I figured he doubted my sincerity, so I decided to get him SOMETHING to eat.
Me: I don't carry cash.
Him: Buy me a sandwich?
Me: A sandwich? For a buck?
Him: Nah, man.
Me: What kind of sandwich?
Him: Roast beef. And a drink. Gatorade or something.
Me: I'll buy you some Gatorade.
Him: Buy the roast beef. Get some of that ciabatta bread and they sell the (some weird brand name I'd never heard of) roast beef right there.
Me: Well, we'll see.
The way the purchasing worked, it fell to Queen Bee to pick out the sandwich, and she selected a $6.50 pastrami sandwich. I actually kinda wanted to eat it, myself (I rarely buy myself anything more than a $5 footlong (plus tax and tip)), but she gave it to me to give to the guy on the way out.
Me: Here you go. It's pastrami. Hope that's OK.I was not pleased on the walk back to my place, although I quickly remembered the fact that I was going back to sit on my couch with two attractive women, cuddled under a blanket drinking wine and eating delicious snacks as we watched funny shows on my HDTV. And he wasn't.
Him: What? Yeah. And a drink?
Me: What? Are you serious...?
Him: Thanks, man. But a Gatorade, too? [Flashes me a weak smile]
Me: No, sorry.
Him: OK.
Even given that, is a legitimate "Thank you" too much to ask?
"I Had a Dream That My Whites Were Extra Bright"
After walking back from the gym today, a day I have off of work thanks to Martin Luther King Day, I took the elevator up with a pair of guys I'd never seen/met before. They knew each other and had the following exchange as I remained silent:
Guy #1: How's your day going?*gag*
Guy #2: Pretty good. Doing laundry and listening to NPR.
Guy #1: Ah... it could be worse, right?
Guy #2: Yeah. I was thinking about going to the [MLK Day] march.
Guy #1: Oh, yeah?
Guy #2: I was going to go but I had to do laundry. Otherwise I would have marched.
Guy #1: Ah.
Setting aside whatever value I may place on marches happening in Seattle on MLK Day, I found it odd that someone else would put enough value on it to consider going... unless laundry had to be done.
That's like saying I would TOTALLY feed my cats unless there's a new episode of Fringe on.
If you want to march because it's important to you: cool. If you want to march because you want to fit in and/or pick up people of the opposite sex: fantastic.
If you want to pay lip service to the importance of the march even as you make a lame excuse for a reason you can't quite make it: that's super-lame.
Seattle Hip Hop Show Generator 1.0
I walked into the half-full venue, noticing that a single guy was on stage, DJing, presumably, in front of a projection screen that read "Chop Suey Screen Graphic". The music might have been bumping but the crowd was not jumping. This was my first introduction to the Seattle hip hop scene.
Before I get into the bulk of the blog (randomly generating your own Seattle Hip Hop Show experience), let me remind everyone that I have serious sample size issues with all of this. I don't claim to be a hip hop expert by any means (necessary) and I am sure that if I went to a few more shows (a massive "if", at this point) my position would change and become more confidently stated. With all of that said, here are some thoughts on the evening:
Here's my report on Spaceman, the second act we saw that night (ignore the parenthetical numbers for now):
In case you can't make it to Chop Suey to check out a Seattle Hip Hop show, grab your ten-sided die (or visit this site in another browser window, making sure to select D10) and make your own!
Start off with selecting an artist (do a Web search for one, imagine yourself as the star, or use the "Special Guest Generator", below). Create a Song Preamble, and create Song Content. Repeat as long as you'd like. I chose to go until I got to five songs.
Make sure to enjoy your special guests!
Performance Flow
Instructions: Roll a 10-sided die and check against the Song Preamble list. Document and follow instructions. When "Start performing song" comes up, roll three times from the Song Content list.
Song Preamble
Instructions: Roll a 10-sided die and check against the Name One list, the Name Two list, the Name Three list, and the Name Order list. Document and follow instructions. Generate results from each of the remaining Special Guest Generator lists and return to the Performance Flow list.
Name One
Before I get into the bulk of the blog (randomly generating your own Seattle Hip Hop Show experience), let me remind everyone that I have serious sample size issues with all of this. I don't claim to be a hip hop expert by any means (necessary) and I am sure that if I went to a few more shows (a massive "if", at this point) my position would change and become more confidently stated. With all of that said, here are some thoughts on the evening:
- The act we bought tickets to see, Fresh Espresso, was unavailable due to illness. Bummer. We saw them on NYE and I thought they were pretty good... Flowers and Raftmate and the others fell in love with them, so it was particularly disappointing to them.
- I felt less white than I was anticipating. I mean... I'm pretty damn white (culturally and pigmentation-ly) but while it was a more... urban scene than I'm normally frequenting, I felt less un-hip (hop) than I was thinking I would. Maybe it was because I had thoroughly prefunked, or maybe because, well, it's Seattle. And Seattle Urban is less urban than other cities? I dunno.
- There were a lot of special guests. The people on the stage were moved off and on with every song. I'm actually slightly surprised that Natty didn't contribute to a song or two.
- I love making fun of things I don't understand (climate change, women) and hip hop definitely fits the bill. As a result of the number of special guests, about 10% of the audience actually were performing that night! It made mocking the performers slightly more tricky... and while the performers, themselves, didn't deserve mockery (at least at the tip of my ignorant tongue)... the structure did.
Here's my report on Spaceman, the second act we saw that night (ignore the parenthetical numbers for now):
- Spaceman opened with a dark stage. Robotic voice implored/chastised/explained something to the crowd as Spaceman (one guy with sunglasses and a stocking cap) waited.
- Spaceman invited a special guest on stage. (4)
- Ol' D Seatown (5,4,7, 6), a black guy wearing a baseball cap and baggy jeans with a t-shirt (1, 9, 3, 3)
- Spaceman and Ol D' Seatown denigrated the current state of hip hop for a bit (7) and then began a "Space-MAN!" chant (6) and then started it again (6) before Spaceman invited up another guest to the stage
- Diamond (7, 4, 3, 2), an African American wearing a baseball cap and a baggy hoody with jeans (3, 9, 7, 3)
- Spaceman, Ol' D Seatown and Diamond started a song (8) about hip hop, women, and money (9, 5, 1). I found the references to women distasteful.
- Diamond and Ol' D Seatown left the stage, and Spaceman performed a song, solo (10), about how Seattle bitches love money (1, 5, 6).
- After he completed that song, Spaceman implored the crowd to make some noise (1) and then implored the ladies in the house to make some noise (2) before performing another song (9)... this one about Seattle, ho's and the need to get up and stand up (6, 4, 8).
- Following this rousing song, Spaceman again told the ladies to make some noise (2) but they didn't make enough, so he told them to do it again (2) and then he invited another special guest up
- C Midnight Guru (7, 3, 8, 7), a white kid wearing a t-shirt and baggy jeans and nerdy glasses (8, 4, 10).
- C Midnight Guru came on stage and assisted Spaceman in denigrating the current state of hip hop, claiming they were going to bring it back to previous glory (7). The two then performed a song about how Spaceman and C Midnight Guru were smoking chronic and getting bitches (7, 10, 4).
- C Midnight Guru left and Spaceman performed (10) a song about smoking weed and bitches that smoke weed (4, 7, 7) .
In case you can't make it to Chop Suey to check out a Seattle Hip Hop show, grab your ten-sided die (or visit this site in another browser window, making sure to select D10) and make your own!
Start off with selecting an artist (do a Web search for one, imagine yourself as the star, or use the "Special Guest Generator", below). Create a Song Preamble, and create Song Content. Repeat as long as you'd like. I chose to go until I got to five songs.
Make sure to enjoy your special guests!
Performance Flow
Instructions: Roll a 10-sided die and check against the Song Preamble list. Document and follow instructions. When "Start performing song" comes up, roll three times from the Song Content list.
Song Preamble
- Implore crowd to make some noise [Roll again]
- Implore ladies to make some noise [Roll again]
- Invite Special Guest out [Use Special Guest Generator; Roll again]
- Invite Special Guest out [Use Special Guest Generator; Roll again]
- Invite Special Guest out [Use Special Guest Generator; Roll again]
- Begin artist-specific chant [Roll again]
- Denigrate current state of hip hop [Roll again]
- Start performing song
- Start performing song
- Start performing song
- Money
- Women (polite)
- Women (denigrating)
- Women (denigrating)
- Women (denigrating)
- Seattle
- Chronic
- Getting up/Standing up/Making noise
- Hip hop
- The performer
Instructions: Roll a 10-sided die and check against the Name One list, the Name Two list, the Name Three list, and the Name Order list. Document and follow instructions. Generate results from each of the remaining Special Guest Generator lists and return to the Performance Flow list.
Name One
- Da
- Fresh
- Rip
- Kid
- Ol'
- Puff
- Guru
- Tone
- Tre
- [Roll Twice]
- A
- B
- C
- D
- E
- F
- G
- J
- Z
- [Roll Twice]
- Black
- Blue
- Diamond
- Green
- Ice
- JayJay
- SeaTown
- Midnight
- Smoov
- [Roll Twice]
- One
- Three
- One Two
- One Three
- Two Three
- One Two Three
- Two Three One
- One Three Two
- [Roll Again, Reverse Results]
- [Roll Again, Reverse Results]
- Black
- Black
- Black
- Black
- Black
- Black
- White
- White
- Asian
- Pacific Islander
- T-shirt, baggy jeans with exposed underwear
- T-shirt, baggy jeans with exposed underwear
- T-shirt, baggy jeans with exposed underwear
- T-shirt, baggy jeans with exposed underwear
- Track suit
- Sweater with collared shirt underneath
- Baggy hoody and jeans
- Stocking cap [Roll again]
- Baseball cap [Roll again]
- Outfit change [Roll Twice, with period of shirtlessness due to on-stage costume change]
- None
- None
- None
- None
- Sunglasses
- Sunglasses
- Sunglasses
- Sunglasses
- Nerdy glasses
- Nerdy Glasses
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