The rituals continue cyclical, shifting with age, as we're no longer required to do cutesy little kid Christmasy things like sing "Away In A Manger" to bemused nursing home residents, or plays for the grownups involving costumes made of 1970's colored bath towels and faded bedsheets, until we retreated to the basement to run around and be ninja turtles or whatever, buzzed on sugar.
Most of us are older now, old enough to drink or vote. There's fifteen years between me and the youngest, skinny with glasses and bangs like I once was, her room pink and glittery, an island in a house of sports trophies and pennants. She's a sweet and awkward kid who seems somewhat younger than her tweenage cohort, whose girliness is still ballet slippers and fairies instead of celebrity crushes and lipgloss. She tells me about her dance classes, that she likes to draw, and that she built these fairy houses out of silk flowers and cinnamon sticks for her dolls but seems embarrassed that what she perceives to be her cool older cousin sees this part of her world.
I tell her it's really cool, and I mean it, though I wish her imagination had been stretched even further, that there were more books in the house to be absorbed by osmosis instead of videogames. I wish I had copies to give her of all the fantasy novels I read when I was her age, all the Robin McKinley and Lloyd Alexander paperbacks checked out countless times from the library and read over and over. I wish she had volumes of fairy tales (she'd never heard of Andrew Lang) with illustrations by Bilibin and Dulac and that she'd read the Lord of the Rings instead of just watching the movies. Maybe this will come with time.
I end up missing the vigil this year, because this time we're actually enjoying each other's company and talking about what's actually going on with us even though the ones my age take the cynicism further than I do into borderline paranoia, as we roll dice over a board of the world map and snark about imperialist stoogedom. There is choir music on the radio as I drive home and I commune with the Divine on Route 2 to the crystalline voices floating through the static under the dark skies.
I wake up with scratchy eyes and whisper through the microphone as the others sing, and tonight I find I enjoy the company of pretty much everyone, and as the wine bottles empty, no one's arguing about Iran, but we're talking about books and I don't even know what's on the bestseller list because I've been reading about the Balkans and medieval people and Herodotus so I end up cooing over the baby and trying to speak wisdom into the lives of The Kids who are still caught up in nascent hipsterdom or high school hierarchies remembering when I thought I knew it all.
The drive back to the soon-to-be neighbor's house is quiet, and there's more lonely souls than I remember wandering the street, empty buses, a solitary figure framed in the laundromat window, a pack of young punks scowling beneath the awning of a cell phone shop. The cats are hungry and the street is quiet. A week ahead of sleeping, friends' cats, and packing boxes, feeling like a wanderer with a pile of clothes and sundry in the trunk, grateful for the introversion.
Showing posts with label the kids. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the kids. Show all posts
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
so small
There are more dead souls residing in this city than the living, and even among the living sometimes that seems a bit debatable.
This does mean there's quite a few old-school cemeteries with huge trees and statues of angels and ornate family vaults. When I was little before the presence of subculture in my consciousness, me and my friend up the street would have her dad take us to old graveyards half-hidden in the woods where we'd go through looking at the stones marveling at the oldness and the quiet. And now, I always stop to wander through the rows of stones whenever I go anywhere, because each place is different, and I try to conjure up the stories so cryptic in the semantics of epitaphs, the size and intricacy of the sculpture, the mementos left saying that they have not been forgotten.
There's a distance that is comfortable, as I have no family members there, and the history is often distant enough that it becomes like a park, a neutral space to linger and be introverted. I wonder if I've turned into a cliche this weekend, as I drove from one to the other on my day off, listening to of all people Nick Cave, snapped photos of stone angels under golden trees framed by the light of the late autumnal sunset.
I told a friend of mine this as we turned the corner to the one on Riverside because I'd seen a sign for a place called Babyland. It's an old place, with an imposing red stone gatehouse with gothic accents galore, so I assumed that Babyland would be similarly archaic.
I was not expecting what we found instead.
Rows of wooden crosses with names and Our Beloveds. Stillbirths and kids that died a day old, granite-etched faces of bright eyes and big smiles and lives cut short. And who decorates a cemetery for Halloween? I'm disoriented by the teddy bears encased in cellophane hanging from hooks. I walk through snapping pictures and trying to glean some meaning, but I just don't understand.
In the old cemeteries, it was common to see the names of children who lived a few weeks or a couple years, and that was the way it was, for every ten kids, maybe five made it. We don't think about it that way now. What also got me was that all of these names were clearly kids from the neighborhood, black and Puerto Rican and the occasional Greek or Romanian.
What were the stories here as fresh as the newly unearthed dirt and the ungrimed silk flowers? Is this another way of grieving that I don't understand? When my grandma would take me to the cemetery with her I would collect rose petals from her garden and scatter them on my youngest sister's grave. My parents never did get a headstone. It was too hard to think about, I guess.
How many of these kids would be in kindergarten right now if they had been born in a place with less pollution and more favorable circumstances? I don't know, and I feel like I'm treading in a place where the grief is still raw. I'm no longer a tourist. I'm an interloper, and I'm glad there's no one here besides us.
This does mean there's quite a few old-school cemeteries with huge trees and statues of angels and ornate family vaults. When I was little before the presence of subculture in my consciousness, me and my friend up the street would have her dad take us to old graveyards half-hidden in the woods where we'd go through looking at the stones marveling at the oldness and the quiet. And now, I always stop to wander through the rows of stones whenever I go anywhere, because each place is different, and I try to conjure up the stories so cryptic in the semantics of epitaphs, the size and intricacy of the sculpture, the mementos left saying that they have not been forgotten.
There's a distance that is comfortable, as I have no family members there, and the history is often distant enough that it becomes like a park, a neutral space to linger and be introverted. I wonder if I've turned into a cliche this weekend, as I drove from one to the other on my day off, listening to of all people Nick Cave, snapped photos of stone angels under golden trees framed by the light of the late autumnal sunset.
I told a friend of mine this as we turned the corner to the one on Riverside because I'd seen a sign for a place called Babyland. It's an old place, with an imposing red stone gatehouse with gothic accents galore, so I assumed that Babyland would be similarly archaic.
I was not expecting what we found instead.
Rows of wooden crosses with names and Our Beloveds. Stillbirths and kids that died a day old, granite-etched faces of bright eyes and big smiles and lives cut short. And who decorates a cemetery for Halloween? I'm disoriented by the teddy bears encased in cellophane hanging from hooks. I walk through snapping pictures and trying to glean some meaning, but I just don't understand.
In the old cemeteries, it was common to see the names of children who lived a few weeks or a couple years, and that was the way it was, for every ten kids, maybe five made it. We don't think about it that way now. What also got me was that all of these names were clearly kids from the neighborhood, black and Puerto Rican and the occasional Greek or Romanian.
What were the stories here as fresh as the newly unearthed dirt and the ungrimed silk flowers? Is this another way of grieving that I don't understand? When my grandma would take me to the cemetery with her I would collect rose petals from her garden and scatter them on my youngest sister's grave. My parents never did get a headstone. It was too hard to think about, I guess.
How many of these kids would be in kindergarten right now if they had been born in a place with less pollution and more favorable circumstances? I don't know, and I feel like I'm treading in a place where the grief is still raw. I'm no longer a tourist. I'm an interloper, and I'm glad there's no one here besides us.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
caffeinenation
The need for caffeine and the urge to write have me sitting in the corner, attempting to conjure up verse and rust belt writing because I'm feeling existential and the paper from hell is finally done, so I'm people watching all the lonely souls of Clevelandia too young to drink too old to stay at home, who are too busy with their own drama to really pay attention.
It's one of those nights where the cold and the unspooling of continual thought makes for things maybe worth scrawling about. The conversations about life and love and trying to think in a sad city where sometimes we get so tired that it's hard to. But tonight I am too awake and too verbose to try and paint, too alert to kick back and be entertained by a screen so I take the long way down Lorain past the dollar stores and dive bars, the boarded up buildings, the halal markets and Irish pubs, to sit in the corner at Common Grounds, to write poetry alone like a teenager.
I was invited to a birthday party tonight, but I'd rather be among strangers where it's not expected to socialize, where there's caffeine instead of alcohol, and nobody thinks they're cool. When I'm at parties like that the last thing I want to do is be around people, I get this freaked out urge to disappear into the backyard or sit on the porch, wishing I had the excuse of cigarette breaks to be introverted, wanting to take a walk with the other person there who feels antisocial, amble around the block in the cool October air and talk about everything and nothing.
Thinking about wars and rumors of wars, of American exceptionals and the provincialism of small cities with big orchestras and bigger problems, so many things I wish I could say before the battery on my laptop dies, but I'm tired, and I've written, so it's a beautiful thing.
It's one of those nights where the cold and the unspooling of continual thought makes for things maybe worth scrawling about. The conversations about life and love and trying to think in a sad city where sometimes we get so tired that it's hard to. But tonight I am too awake and too verbose to try and paint, too alert to kick back and be entertained by a screen so I take the long way down Lorain past the dollar stores and dive bars, the boarded up buildings, the halal markets and Irish pubs, to sit in the corner at Common Grounds, to write poetry alone like a teenager.
I was invited to a birthday party tonight, but I'd rather be among strangers where it's not expected to socialize, where there's caffeine instead of alcohol, and nobody thinks they're cool. When I'm at parties like that the last thing I want to do is be around people, I get this freaked out urge to disappear into the backyard or sit on the porch, wishing I had the excuse of cigarette breaks to be introverted, wanting to take a walk with the other person there who feels antisocial, amble around the block in the cool October air and talk about everything and nothing.
Thinking about wars and rumors of wars, of American exceptionals and the provincialism of small cities with big orchestras and bigger problems, so many things I wish I could say before the battery on my laptop dies, but I'm tired, and I've written, so it's a beautiful thing.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
transitionals
Housesitting the Awesome Kitties and the Jungle Puppy tonight and the cats have already made a great escape, sliding open the screen door with their claws while I was outside with the dog and sliding under the fence into the neighbor's garden. The quietness of the house made me suspicious especially after the clink of food in the bowls elicited no response and then the guy across the street came over to tell me that the cats were out running around.
Of course the little punks were sitting on the patio when I came back as if they'd been minding their own business all this time, giving me withering looks as I shooed one inside and the dog chased in the other. Cats have no conscience after all, and there's no way to make them feel guilty.
It's been almost a month straight of dog-walking and cat watching, which is nice for the change of scenery and thankfully I was able to escape to the lake for the day to read, nap under trees with the sound of the waves, and sing songs to my nephew when he cries because that's all he can do to express himself "I'm TEN WEEKS! and I don't know what I want...! He doubles in size every time I see him and it astounds me to see life grow like that, since I'm so used to seeing the decline rather than the ascent.
My little sister called me last night to see if I wanted to hang out, which never happens as our ideas of what's awesome to do on a weekend are a bit different, but she had a lot on her mind because one of her friends got murdered a couple weeks ago and her friends are moving to Portland and there's been other small frustrations that she needed to vent about over coffee in Coventry and a long Cleveland drive which I was more than happy to oblige because it's been awhile since I've done one, leaving Sonic Youth on repeat as we drove from west to east and back.
We ended the night at the Arabica I once haunted in my teens and early twenties when like most coffee establishments was full of subcultural souls and usually the guy working the counter was someone from your art class or something. It's now overrun with 14-year-olds who watch too much Jersey Shorechasing each other up the sidewalk, boys with cracking voices and girls in the shortest shorts I've ever seen tottering in high heels.
The motherly instincts I didn't know I had wanted to ask what they were doing out so late and why were they wearing that and where are their parents, but mostly for all the crazy that comes with knowing more of the world, I'm glad I'm not that age anymore, even though my Friday nights at that age involved trying to learn Soundgarden riffs and disappearing into my bedroom with a pile of CDs from the library and a stack of art supplies. It reminded me of the first weekend in Kent when fresh-faced freshman girls would go down to their first fraternity row college party and come back drunk with half their clothes gone. It probably starts earlier I guess, and with most things I seem to exemplify the exception rather than the rule.
And still, it's a Saturday night and I'm enjoying the solitude. It's been needed.
Of course the little punks were sitting on the patio when I came back as if they'd been minding their own business all this time, giving me withering looks as I shooed one inside and the dog chased in the other. Cats have no conscience after all, and there's no way to make them feel guilty.
It's been almost a month straight of dog-walking and cat watching, which is nice for the change of scenery and thankfully I was able to escape to the lake for the day to read, nap under trees with the sound of the waves, and sing songs to my nephew when he cries because that's all he can do to express himself "I'm TEN WEEKS! and I don't know what I want...! He doubles in size every time I see him and it astounds me to see life grow like that, since I'm so used to seeing the decline rather than the ascent.
My little sister called me last night to see if I wanted to hang out, which never happens as our ideas of what's awesome to do on a weekend are a bit different, but she had a lot on her mind because one of her friends got murdered a couple weeks ago and her friends are moving to Portland and there's been other small frustrations that she needed to vent about over coffee in Coventry and a long Cleveland drive which I was more than happy to oblige because it's been awhile since I've done one, leaving Sonic Youth on repeat as we drove from west to east and back.
We ended the night at the Arabica I once haunted in my teens and early twenties when like most coffee establishments was full of subcultural souls and usually the guy working the counter was someone from your art class or something. It's now overrun with 14-year-olds who watch too much Jersey Shorechasing each other up the sidewalk, boys with cracking voices and girls in the shortest shorts I've ever seen tottering in high heels.
The motherly instincts I didn't know I had wanted to ask what they were doing out so late and why were they wearing that and where are their parents, but mostly for all the crazy that comes with knowing more of the world, I'm glad I'm not that age anymore, even though my Friday nights at that age involved trying to learn Soundgarden riffs and disappearing into my bedroom with a pile of CDs from the library and a stack of art supplies. It reminded me of the first weekend in Kent when fresh-faced freshman girls would go down to their first fraternity row college party and come back drunk with half their clothes gone. It probably starts earlier I guess, and with most things I seem to exemplify the exception rather than the rule.
And still, it's a Saturday night and I'm enjoying the solitude. It's been needed.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
teenage angst has paid off well...
So in walking past a major concert venue, I thought about the last ten years, and how each decade tends to have its defining genres and cultural benchmarks. Maybe it's too early to tell my wiser companion says, but upon consulting the Dictionary of Imaginary Places, as we are well-versed in the Bookly Arts, it's probably that whole emo thing when everyone my age and younger decided to stop listening to Limp Bizkit and move on to bands like one acquaintance of mine referred to as "As I Lay Dying in a Poisoned Well on Thursday's Darkest Hour."
After so many hardcore shows full of mediocre bands whose names and sounds blended together, the way that Myspace seemed to highlight just another clique of people obsessed with image and status with more exhibitionistic ways to express it, and I found it amusing to see it mutate into its own thing, hearing parents talk about how their kid is hanging out with the "emos" and such. What started out as something with some good originators (hello Rites of Spring and Sunny Day Real Estate!) ended up more or less being the love child of goth angst and hair metal excess of my generation. It was hard to tell the scene kids apart from Nikki Sixx after awhile.
I don't know if this is all as big as it once was, because my sister and her friends like all that kind of boring indie stuff and disdain the "scene kids" with their eyeliner and crazy hair. I see a lot of t-shirts of bands that I pre-judge as crappy and generic based on the neon dayglo designs (superficial I know, but Randal assures me that http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifthese groups suck though he's more curmudgeonly than me).
Anyways, we found this in the dictionary of imaginary places, and the mentions of big hair and tattoos made me laugh. Click through, kids.
An island of Emo, where the savage natives have big hair that requires a lot of maintenance, tattoo each other until they're thirty, and worship a giant eel. Heck yeah. Teenage angst has paid off well, kids. Now I'm not-so-bored, but definitely getting old.
After so many hardcore shows full of mediocre bands whose names and sounds blended together, the way that Myspace seemed to highlight just another clique of people obsessed with image and status with more exhibitionistic ways to express it, and I found it amusing to see it mutate into its own thing, hearing parents talk about how their kid is hanging out with the "emos" and such. What started out as something with some good originators (hello Rites of Spring and Sunny Day Real Estate!) ended up more or less being the love child of goth angst and hair metal excess of my generation. It was hard to tell the scene kids apart from Nikki Sixx after awhile.
I don't know if this is all as big as it once was, because my sister and her friends like all that kind of boring indie stuff and disdain the "scene kids" with their eyeliner and crazy hair. I see a lot of t-shirts of bands that I pre-judge as crappy and generic based on the neon dayglo designs (superficial I know, but Randal assures me that http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifthese groups suck though he's more curmudgeonly than me).
Anyways, we found this in the dictionary of imaginary places, and the mentions of big hair and tattoos made me laugh. Click through, kids.
An island of Emo, where the savage natives have big hair that requires a lot of maintenance, tattoo each other until they're thirty, and worship a giant eel. Heck yeah. Teenage angst has paid off well, kids. Now I'm not-so-bored, but definitely getting old.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
the cycle
As much as I enjoy history and old things, the one perk of living in the 21st century in an industrialized country is that people don't die in childbirth like they once did or still do. And as much as I complain about the frequent absurdity of male-female dynamics, at least I can kind of make my own life decisions and not have to worry about being married off before I've hit puberty or considered fair game if I'm not in the company of a male relative.
My sister is going to get the care she needs and she has the support of a wonderful husband who values her education and was willing to move so she could go to grad school. There's a lot of girls that aren't so lucky. I read this article in a waiting room the day before my nephew was born and re-read it today. I almost cried looking at these photos.
And the on the other side of the world, my sister called me this morning to tell me that my nephew was born. She said it was rougher than she thought it'd be and that she was really tired, but she wanted to see me so before work I drove out to the hospital to hang out with her and her husband.
So I'm holding this kid who has my eyes and bro-in-law's nose, this little wrinkled pink squirmer in a blanket, only a few hours old, whose chin quivers when he cries. I remember my sister being born, and now she's got a son who's going to perceive me as a Responsible Adult. This is so weird but incredibly awesome at the same time.
I've got some friends around my age who are really into wanting babies and while I've never paid attention to the biological clock, I guess I kind of get it when I'm holding him and feeling this little heartbeat, but I don't think people always realize how messy the whole being born thing is, all the blood and the ick and the pain. But it is so beautiful and it'll be cool to watch him grow up surrounded by so much love.
My sister is going to get the care she needs and she has the support of a wonderful husband who values her education and was willing to move so she could go to grad school. There's a lot of girls that aren't so lucky. I read this article in a waiting room the day before my nephew was born and re-read it today. I almost cried looking at these photos.
And the on the other side of the world, my sister called me this morning to tell me that my nephew was born. She said it was rougher than she thought it'd be and that she was really tired, but she wanted to see me so before work I drove out to the hospital to hang out with her and her husband.
So I'm holding this kid who has my eyes and bro-in-law's nose, this little wrinkled pink squirmer in a blanket, only a few hours old, whose chin quivers when he cries. I remember my sister being born, and now she's got a son who's going to perceive me as a Responsible Adult. This is so weird but incredibly awesome at the same time.
I've got some friends around my age who are really into wanting babies and while I've never paid attention to the biological clock, I guess I kind of get it when I'm holding him and feeling this little heartbeat, but I don't think people always realize how messy the whole being born thing is, all the blood and the ick and the pain. But it is so beautiful and it'll be cool to watch him grow up surrounded by so much love.
Friday, March 25, 2011
best of the blotter 39: blind dating rules, whiny kids, and birds
DISTURBANCE, SOUTHPARK CENTER: At 9:53 p.m. March 19, Houlihan’s restaurant reported having a problem with male customer refusing to pay his entire bill.
Apparently, the man had been on a blind date with a woman who insulted him and left the restaurant after eating her meal, but before the check arrived.
The man did not believe he should be required to pay for her meal, since this is not in the “blind dating rules.”
Police convinced the man to pay the bill in order to avoid being arrested, but he did not include a tip.
THEFT, ROYAL PORTRUSH DRIVE: A Solon man, 30, reported March 15 that sometime after Christmas, someone took his watch, an Audemars Piguet Las Vegas Strip Special edition, valued at $18,900. Details were sketchy, other than the watch had a black alligator strap with red stitching
An Aurora Road boy was charged and taken downtown March 16 after he was not allowed to go skateboarding because he had not taken out the garbage, then went anyway after a parent left the home briefly. He then returned with two friends and packed some personal belongings with plans to leave again, before a family member attempted to stop him.
DOMESTIC VIOLENCE, PRINCETON COURT: A woman called police March 19 to report that her 26-year-old son had become enraged when she discarded some marijuana she found in the home.
He threw a candle at her, injuring her arm. He left the house for a while, and upon his return home, he was arrested by police and taken to the station and charged with domestic violence. The mother put in a request for a temporary protection order.
ANIMAL COMPLAINT, IRENE ROAD: A man said March 19 a bird somehow got into his dishwasher, and he requested help removing it. The bird was removed.
ASSAULT, BAGLEY ROAD: A 49-year-old man sitting in a theater at Regal Cinema with a woman on March 19 was struck in the head by the woman’s husband, 53, of Olmsted Township.
Apparently, the man had been on a blind date with a woman who insulted him and left the restaurant after eating her meal, but before the check arrived.
The man did not believe he should be required to pay for her meal, since this is not in the “blind dating rules.”
Police convinced the man to pay the bill in order to avoid being arrested, but he did not include a tip.
THEFT, ROYAL PORTRUSH DRIVE: A Solon man, 30, reported March 15 that sometime after Christmas, someone took his watch, an Audemars Piguet Las Vegas Strip Special edition, valued at $18,900. Details were sketchy, other than the watch had a black alligator strap with red stitching
An Aurora Road boy was charged and taken downtown March 16 after he was not allowed to go skateboarding because he had not taken out the garbage, then went anyway after a parent left the home briefly. He then returned with two friends and packed some personal belongings with plans to leave again, before a family member attempted to stop him.
DOMESTIC VIOLENCE, PRINCETON COURT: A woman called police March 19 to report that her 26-year-old son had become enraged when she discarded some marijuana she found in the home.
He threw a candle at her, injuring her arm. He left the house for a while, and upon his return home, he was arrested by police and taken to the station and charged with domestic violence. The mother put in a request for a temporary protection order.
ANIMAL COMPLAINT, IRENE ROAD: A man said March 19 a bird somehow got into his dishwasher, and he requested help removing it. The bird was removed.
ASSAULT, BAGLEY ROAD: A 49-year-old man sitting in a theater at Regal Cinema with a woman on March 19 was struck in the head by the woman’s husband, 53, of Olmsted Township.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
the madding crowd
The place of employment was uncharacteristically quiet, with the occasional drunk, and a few bored conspiracy theorists. I should've taken the day off to spend it outside, since it was beautiful when I got out, and since the buses were backed up, me and one of my coworkers started walking downtown, encountering an increasing amount of drunks in various shades of green and varying states of wastedness.
I'm already feeling like I'm getting old even if my boomer overlords party harder than I do. I was glad I had someone with me who's also a fast walker so we could get past the stumblers and stragglers as bottles rolled past us from patios and the noise was deafening. Everyone looked half dead with their faces streaked in green paint and their red eyes. "It's like zombies," she says, "we've just got to get past them to get home and not make eye contact."
We got to the square and it was total chaos, and it was clear that something had gone down but we couldn't tell what. There was this tension in the air, the way that everyone was acting, I've never seen so many cops, so many cruisers and paddy wagons and after spending the afternoon reading about the Balkans and being jittery about massive displays of authority and the mentality of large drunken crowds it made me a little more than nervous but some weird survival instinct kicks in and I just move faster.
I couldn't process it completely, everything going on around us. The sound of yelling and sirens everywhere, masses of people swirling, cops in various states of uniform, cars trying to cut across, people getting belligerent, gang colors standing out from the green (like no one's gonna notice you head to toe in red if everyone else is themed different), new black panther types in berets and combat boots, way too many people looking for trouble in one place and we not-garishly clad white girls were able to dash across the street before the light changed, only to encounter more cops telling us that Tower City was closed and we had to go around past drunk girls crying on the phone, kids hanging out looking pissed off and menacing.
The entrance from the back was strangely quiet but when we got down to the platform it was cordoned off with what looked like bike racks and there were more cops in bulletproof gear with DHS prominently displayed, as drunk kids in Iron Maiden t-shirts who'd written "F--k Cops" on their knuckles with markers told us about how drunk they were and how awesome all this was.
People were standing around, trying to figure out which way to go, a girl was drinking a Budweiser on the platform and we caught the first train out which smelled like beer and weed as the bros who must never ever ride public transit ever were like "Dude! We're on a big bridge!" and were hitting on Puerto Rican chicks and calling people honkeys which was bearable and almost hilarious because this was more expected and I only had about five minutes before I'd get off at my stop. I was still so tense when I got to my stop and finally chilled out with the aid of tunes in the car and the weather being totally gorgeous.
So I get to my parents' and it's chill, and I'm home now, drinking tea and listening to Trees (yay for left-field Brit folkies) reading about what was about three hours of brawling and such in the square, which must have been what was going down when we were trying to get through.
Oh Cleveland.
I'm already feeling like I'm getting old even if my boomer overlords party harder than I do. I was glad I had someone with me who's also a fast walker so we could get past the stumblers and stragglers as bottles rolled past us from patios and the noise was deafening. Everyone looked half dead with their faces streaked in green paint and their red eyes. "It's like zombies," she says, "we've just got to get past them to get home and not make eye contact."
We got to the square and it was total chaos, and it was clear that something had gone down but we couldn't tell what. There was this tension in the air, the way that everyone was acting, I've never seen so many cops, so many cruisers and paddy wagons and after spending the afternoon reading about the Balkans and being jittery about massive displays of authority and the mentality of large drunken crowds it made me a little more than nervous but some weird survival instinct kicks in and I just move faster.
I couldn't process it completely, everything going on around us. The sound of yelling and sirens everywhere, masses of people swirling, cops in various states of uniform, cars trying to cut across, people getting belligerent, gang colors standing out from the green (like no one's gonna notice you head to toe in red if everyone else is themed different), new black panther types in berets and combat boots, way too many people looking for trouble in one place and we not-garishly clad white girls were able to dash across the street before the light changed, only to encounter more cops telling us that Tower City was closed and we had to go around past drunk girls crying on the phone, kids hanging out looking pissed off and menacing.
The entrance from the back was strangely quiet but when we got down to the platform it was cordoned off with what looked like bike racks and there were more cops in bulletproof gear with DHS prominently displayed, as drunk kids in Iron Maiden t-shirts who'd written "F--k Cops" on their knuckles with markers told us about how drunk they were and how awesome all this was.
People were standing around, trying to figure out which way to go, a girl was drinking a Budweiser on the platform and we caught the first train out which smelled like beer and weed as the bros who must never ever ride public transit ever were like "Dude! We're on a big bridge!" and were hitting on Puerto Rican chicks and calling people honkeys which was bearable and almost hilarious because this was more expected and I only had about five minutes before I'd get off at my stop. I was still so tense when I got to my stop and finally chilled out with the aid of tunes in the car and the weather being totally gorgeous.
So I get to my parents' and it's chill, and I'm home now, drinking tea and listening to Trees (yay for left-field Brit folkies) reading about what was about three hours of brawling and such in the square, which must have been what was going down when we were trying to get through.
Oh Cleveland.
suburban thrashers, awkward girls, and sexy huntresses
So I really wonder who responds to Craigslist personal ads. I really do.
When I worked at the Cleveland Zoo, I sold tickets to a family that we snarky kids working referred to as "The NRA Family" because their blond and blue-eyed children all had camouflage baseball caps saying "Daddy's Little Hunter" and they all had toy guns like they were going to go and hunt big game. The youngest was about three, and had his sippy cup in one hand and a toy rifle sticking out of his little backpack.
The following missed connection is the more estrogen driven model.
Sexy Huntress Baron's Supply - m4w - 31 (Lorain)
Date: 2011-02-26, 11:29PM EST
Reply To This Post
We met at Baron's today around 2 or 3 pm. We both had our two daughters with us. It was so cute when your little girl asked for a pink and purple crossbow. I am kicking myself for not asking you out for coffee or dinner or something. I was wearing sunglasses a peacoat and my boots jingle when I walk. You are so sexy and beautiful. I regret not talking to you more. you brought a shotgun there. Please if by some chance you read this contact me.
When super rich people end up looking for love and hot women with sports cars.
Porsche carrera "mean biz" - m4w - 29 (turnpike i 77 booths)
Date: 2011-03-08, 8:21AM EST
Reply To This Post
You were coming off the turnpike as I was getting on, you're a beautiful and obviously succesfull woman with fantastic taste in cars. I'm from Europe but I live in Akron Canton area. I drive a sports car myself so if you ever want to go riding, would be tons of fun. Anyway I hope you or a friend of yours reads this. Would love to hear from you. Love the license plate btw ;) send me the color of your car so I know it's you.
Now this next one hits me the wrong way probably because I've known too many of the male species like this who play the 'average guy' card but look down on people who don't have the same sophisticated taste. Because really, it's not like these things are so unique. If you're white and have a liberal arts degree, you probably like all this stuff too and if you live in Cleveland you might be reading this blog. So if I've totally misconstrued you, I'm sorry Dude.
It is true that I am an introverted chica who has some interest in most of the below (I've never been to the Cinematheque), but I'd resent being referred to as awkward, which is almost as bad as getting hit on with the line "You seem like you read a lot." Ya think?
Also, having worked in multiple bibliotheques in the course of my life, I can agree that a Greater Access card is amazing but it is hardly grounds for finding a soulmate. There's lots of freaks with library cards.
Any awkward girls that like going to thrift stores? - m4w - 28 (Westside)
Date: 2011-03-09, 7:00PM EST
Reply To This Post
I’m looking to meet an awkward, shy girl who enjoys similar interests, such as going to thrift stores, exploring small forgotten towns and watching movies at the Cinematheque. Being a card holding member of either the Cuyahoga County or Cleveland Public Library would be amazing.
I’m average height, average job, average car, and average mind. I enjoy the metroparks, reruns of Madmen/Leave it to Beaver, college radio, and when in Parma Heights, dining at fine restaurants such as The Whip and Udupi Café.
If you have kids or listen to WGAR, no thanks.
To exchange emails, please put the name of a thrift store you like in the subject line so I know it’s not spam.
And this last one is for the one and only Randal, as it mentions Darkthrone four times and confirms the hypothesis that there will always be a disaffected segment of The Kids that gravitates toward loud and fast rock and/or roll.
In Parma, we were lucky enough to have kindred who also existed on the margins, though it seems like this kid's having a hard time finding other likeminded souls. It must suck in Avon Lake.
metal punk death squad - 18 (avon lake)
Date: 2011-03-12, 8:47PM EST
Reply To This Post
venom, hellhammer, bathory, motorhead, onslaught, sacrilege, bulldozer, dishammer, children of technology, sodom, kreator, destruction, slayer, anthrax, overkill, nuclear assault, agent steel, puke, discharge, black flag, anti cimex, judas priest, black sabbath, electric wizard, toxic holocaust, razor, slaughter (can), acid witch, apokalyptic raids, sepultura, sarcofago, vulcano, entombed, inquisition, autopsy, dismember, grave, black sabbath, candlemass, celtic frost, repulsion, terrorizer, carcass, iron maiden, midnight, nunslaughter, crucified mortals, DARKTHRONE, DARKTHRONE, DARKTHRONE, DARKTHRONE
leather jackets, studs, back patches, spikes, combat boots, no corpse paint
NO METALCORE, NO MOSH, NO TRENDS, NO FUN
am i alone?
No kid, you're not alone, you just need to move to a cheap apartment in Lakewood and hang out at My Mind's Eye more. It'll make you happy even if you're into NO FUN.
When I worked at the Cleveland Zoo, I sold tickets to a family that we snarky kids working referred to as "The NRA Family" because their blond and blue-eyed children all had camouflage baseball caps saying "Daddy's Little Hunter" and they all had toy guns like they were going to go and hunt big game. The youngest was about three, and had his sippy cup in one hand and a toy rifle sticking out of his little backpack.
The following missed connection is the more estrogen driven model.
Sexy Huntress Baron's Supply - m4w - 31 (Lorain)
Date: 2011-02-26, 11:29PM EST
Reply To This Post
We met at Baron's today around 2 or 3 pm. We both had our two daughters with us. It was so cute when your little girl asked for a pink and purple crossbow. I am kicking myself for not asking you out for coffee or dinner or something. I was wearing sunglasses a peacoat and my boots jingle when I walk. You are so sexy and beautiful. I regret not talking to you more. you brought a shotgun there. Please if by some chance you read this contact me.
When super rich people end up looking for love and hot women with sports cars.
Porsche carrera "mean biz" - m4w - 29 (turnpike i 77 booths)
Date: 2011-03-08, 8:21AM EST
Reply To This Post
You were coming off the turnpike as I was getting on, you're a beautiful and obviously succesfull woman with fantastic taste in cars. I'm from Europe but I live in Akron Canton area. I drive a sports car myself so if you ever want to go riding, would be tons of fun. Anyway I hope you or a friend of yours reads this. Would love to hear from you. Love the license plate btw ;) send me the color of your car so I know it's you.
Now this next one hits me the wrong way probably because I've known too many of the male species like this who play the 'average guy' card but look down on people who don't have the same sophisticated taste. Because really, it's not like these things are so unique. If you're white and have a liberal arts degree, you probably like all this stuff too and if you live in Cleveland you might be reading this blog. So if I've totally misconstrued you, I'm sorry Dude.
It is true that I am an introverted chica who has some interest in most of the below (I've never been to the Cinematheque), but I'd resent being referred to as awkward, which is almost as bad as getting hit on with the line "You seem like you read a lot." Ya think?
Also, having worked in multiple bibliotheques in the course of my life, I can agree that a Greater Access card is amazing but it is hardly grounds for finding a soulmate. There's lots of freaks with library cards.
Any awkward girls that like going to thrift stores? - m4w - 28 (Westside)
Date: 2011-03-09, 7:00PM EST
Reply To This Post
I’m looking to meet an awkward, shy girl who enjoys similar interests, such as going to thrift stores, exploring small forgotten towns and watching movies at the Cinematheque. Being a card holding member of either the Cuyahoga County or Cleveland Public Library would be amazing.
I’m average height, average job, average car, and average mind. I enjoy the metroparks, reruns of Madmen/Leave it to Beaver, college radio, and when in Parma Heights, dining at fine restaurants such as The Whip and Udupi Café.
If you have kids or listen to WGAR, no thanks.
To exchange emails, please put the name of a thrift store you like in the subject line so I know it’s not spam.
And this last one is for the one and only Randal, as it mentions Darkthrone four times and confirms the hypothesis that there will always be a disaffected segment of The Kids that gravitates toward loud and fast rock and/or roll.
In Parma, we were lucky enough to have kindred who also existed on the margins, though it seems like this kid's having a hard time finding other likeminded souls. It must suck in Avon Lake.
metal punk death squad - 18 (avon lake)
Date: 2011-03-12, 8:47PM EST
Reply To This Post
venom, hellhammer, bathory, motorhead, onslaught, sacrilege, bulldozer, dishammer, children of technology, sodom, kreator, destruction, slayer, anthrax, overkill, nuclear assault, agent steel, puke, discharge, black flag, anti cimex, judas priest, black sabbath, electric wizard, toxic holocaust, razor, slaughter (can), acid witch, apokalyptic raids, sepultura, sarcofago, vulcano, entombed, inquisition, autopsy, dismember, grave, black sabbath, candlemass, celtic frost, repulsion, terrorizer, carcass, iron maiden, midnight, nunslaughter, crucified mortals, DARKTHRONE, DARKTHRONE, DARKTHRONE, DARKTHRONE
leather jackets, studs, back patches, spikes, combat boots, no corpse paint
NO METALCORE, NO MOSH, NO TRENDS, NO FUN
am i alone?
No kid, you're not alone, you just need to move to a cheap apartment in Lakewood and hang out at My Mind's Eye more. It'll make you happy even if you're into NO FUN.
Friday, January 28, 2011
suburban angstas "we're not the first and we know we're not the last..."
One of my friends from the hallowed slacker Tri-C days of yore, who made the Cleveland Scene for Dumbest Quote of the Year for selling a parental-advisory-stickered CD to a grade schooler saying he'd "sell it to a fetus if he had to," declared that if he was elected Mayor of Strongsville, he would change the mascot on the downtown water tower to the Wu-Tangs instead of the Mustangs due to the high volume of suburban hip-hop fanhood in said land to the south.
My east siders find it supremely ironic that the white kids of the southern suburbs adored the crew while mostly oblivious to the whole Five Percenter thing, but it was what it was. And ODB's stage crash was infinitely more awesome than Kanye's. For the children, indeed.
There will always be suburban kids who love hip-hop for the same reason that white kids have always turned to African-rooted music. It's danceable, freaks out their parents (see: jazz, early rock and roll, etc), and is eventually co-opted into a sanitized mainstream culturally acceptable form, usually getting whiter in the process. The next musical form that freaks out/totally annoys the future white suburban parents my age who loved A Tribe Called Quest and the Roots will probably have African diasporic roots too.
My dad can't stand hip-hop but loves Beck, and made up parody lyrics to "Loser" when it came out that became an inside joke with his fellow truck-driving coworkers whose careers involve purveying bread of all kinds to the good people of the hood.
Meanwhile, in Crackerland, as it's been since the 1960's, there will always be disaffected youths who will turn to loud music with electric guitars that may or may not freak out their parents even if they don't understand this new sound that the Kids are into these days.
While the medium on which the music is recorded may change (see cassettes, vinyl, compact disc, MP3), The Kids will more or less look the same regardless of decade and are somewhat interchangeable, as what's basic yet never terribly fashionable can never go out of style. Jeans, black t-shirts, basic footwear usually of the Converse variety, zip-up hoodies, the occasional Joey Ramone leather jacket? The haircuts may vary in volume, the glasses may look different, but the basics are still there.
The Kids may not be getting stoned, but they love kung-fu movies, played Stratomatic in the 60's and 70's (because in the inner suburbs, it's still acceptable to be into sports and music), videogames from the 80's until now, guitars if they were available, and still probably spend a lot of time driving around aimlessly listening to music and discussing high school politics, and dishing snarky pop/subculture commentary at an all-night diner or the nearest coffeeshop.
One of my fellow peons from a generation old enough to have birthed me claims that in another 15 years, the Kids will no longer be listening to Slayer, but I disagree. For one thing, Slayer's older than I am, and their first record came out the year I was born.
17 years later, The Kids in my day mocked me for my love of U2 while extolling the virtues of Hell Awaits at the lunch table, while we regretted that we were too young to see Minor Threat or Nirvana or Led Zeppelin way back when and wondered if that new Alice in Chains song on the radio meant that maybe Layne Staley wasn't totally far gone yet.
My friends often had to turn their band t-shirts inside out (this was the post-Columbine era and any band t-shirt suggesting anything involving death and destruction was suspect), made fun of our valedictorian who didn't know what a pentagram was, and one of us, who also played on the football team, bore a startling resemblance to Kerry King, especially when he got tattoos post-graduation.
Even if you didn't know how to play anything else on the guitar, you knew how to play "Iron Man," and "Smoke on the Water." Every hardcore punk band I saw threw in a few bars of "Reign in Blood" when requested.
Maybe we Parmanians were just 20 years behind the times, but I'm sure there's kids sitting in a cafeteria right now listening to 70's punk, classic rock, and 80's thrash, just like we did. My little sister likes all this weaksauce indie, but her boyfriend's skater bros look just like my metalhead friends from back in the day.
I got the warm fuzzy feeling when I watched two teenage girls at My Mind's Eye buying pre- Blood Sugar Red Hot Chili Peppers albums on vinyl because I remember being that age and starting to delve into the underground gradually, or when my cousin posted pictures of his first electric guitar and is now presumably wailing away.
So boomers, thanks for Hendrix and Black Sabbath. We don't want to admit that we're still kind of like you (because who doesn't become their parents eventually?), because we insist that the sounds of our youth are the best they could be, but we have to give credit where it's due, and we have you to thank for spearheading the soundtracks and subcultures for disaffected and usually brilliant loners. Now, go retire so we can pay your pensions and stay employed.
Thanks.
My east siders find it supremely ironic that the white kids of the southern suburbs adored the crew while mostly oblivious to the whole Five Percenter thing, but it was what it was. And ODB's stage crash was infinitely more awesome than Kanye's. For the children, indeed.
There will always be suburban kids who love hip-hop for the same reason that white kids have always turned to African-rooted music. It's danceable, freaks out their parents (see: jazz, early rock and roll, etc), and is eventually co-opted into a sanitized mainstream culturally acceptable form, usually getting whiter in the process. The next musical form that freaks out/totally annoys the future white suburban parents my age who loved A Tribe Called Quest and the Roots will probably have African diasporic roots too.
My dad can't stand hip-hop but loves Beck, and made up parody lyrics to "Loser" when it came out that became an inside joke with his fellow truck-driving coworkers whose careers involve purveying bread of all kinds to the good people of the hood.
Meanwhile, in Crackerland, as it's been since the 1960's, there will always be disaffected youths who will turn to loud music with electric guitars that may or may not freak out their parents even if they don't understand this new sound that the Kids are into these days.
While the medium on which the music is recorded may change (see cassettes, vinyl, compact disc, MP3), The Kids will more or less look the same regardless of decade and are somewhat interchangeable, as what's basic yet never terribly fashionable can never go out of style. Jeans, black t-shirts, basic footwear usually of the Converse variety, zip-up hoodies, the occasional Joey Ramone leather jacket? The haircuts may vary in volume, the glasses may look different, but the basics are still there.
The Kids may not be getting stoned, but they love kung-fu movies, played Stratomatic in the 60's and 70's (because in the inner suburbs, it's still acceptable to be into sports and music), videogames from the 80's until now, guitars if they were available, and still probably spend a lot of time driving around aimlessly listening to music and discussing high school politics, and dishing snarky pop/subculture commentary at an all-night diner or the nearest coffeeshop.
One of my fellow peons from a generation old enough to have birthed me claims that in another 15 years, the Kids will no longer be listening to Slayer, but I disagree. For one thing, Slayer's older than I am, and their first record came out the year I was born.
17 years later, The Kids in my day mocked me for my love of U2 while extolling the virtues of Hell Awaits at the lunch table, while we regretted that we were too young to see Minor Threat or Nirvana or Led Zeppelin way back when and wondered if that new Alice in Chains song on the radio meant that maybe Layne Staley wasn't totally far gone yet.
My friends often had to turn their band t-shirts inside out (this was the post-Columbine era and any band t-shirt suggesting anything involving death and destruction was suspect), made fun of our valedictorian who didn't know what a pentagram was, and one of us, who also played on the football team, bore a startling resemblance to Kerry King, especially when he got tattoos post-graduation.
Even if you didn't know how to play anything else on the guitar, you knew how to play "Iron Man," and "Smoke on the Water." Every hardcore punk band I saw threw in a few bars of "Reign in Blood" when requested.
Maybe we Parmanians were just 20 years behind the times, but I'm sure there's kids sitting in a cafeteria right now listening to 70's punk, classic rock, and 80's thrash, just like we did. My little sister likes all this weaksauce indie, but her boyfriend's skater bros look just like my metalhead friends from back in the day.
I got the warm fuzzy feeling when I watched two teenage girls at My Mind's Eye buying pre- Blood Sugar Red Hot Chili Peppers albums on vinyl because I remember being that age and starting to delve into the underground gradually, or when my cousin posted pictures of his first electric guitar and is now presumably wailing away.
So boomers, thanks for Hendrix and Black Sabbath. We don't want to admit that we're still kind of like you (because who doesn't become their parents eventually?), because we insist that the sounds of our youth are the best they could be, but we have to give credit where it's due, and we have you to thank for spearheading the soundtracks and subcultures for disaffected and usually brilliant loners. Now, go retire so we can pay your pensions and stay employed.
Thanks.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
dino metal for the children
In America, the kids have Barney. In Finland, they have Hevisaurus. Finland wins.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
