sweet and bubbly angst

Consider the Source

2006-10-11T06:53:00.000-07:00

"I like your jacket."

"I like your hair."

"You have pretty eyes."

"I like your glasses."

I'd normally be thrilled to hear this from anyone in the female persuasion. I'm not exactly the kind of guy people notice.

But these were the compliments were from my 80-year-old, senile client.

Oh, great. So now I consistently attract chubby goth girls who want to show me their cut-up wrists and old women.

(My girlfriend, thankfully, is the gorgeous exception.)

She Who Loves Garfield

2006-10-09T13:08:00.000-07:00

The thing is, Delores is a really nice girl. You have to be some modicum of 'nice' in this industry, you put up with a lot. You also have to have a spine, and hers is firmly in place. I liked Florence from the moment I met her, dark-haired and straightforward and tattooed. Still, it's a disappointment when you first meet someone and you think you're going to be excellent friends, and it comes out in the fold that niceness and gumption do not a tolerable person make.

I would never judge Delores for having a 2 year old at the age of 21. I only barely know her situation, and well, I'm 'nice' too, that's why our paths are crossing. She and the other caregivers are very patient with me, so I was immediately endeared to her. Still, as I continue to do overlap shifts with her, I'm realizing that she's not nearly as cool as I first thought her to be.

She's the kind of person who always has to top your story. Look, I'm not trying to tell you that my life was sadder than yours, I'm just furthering a conversation about high school by noting I lost a dear friend in a motorcycle incident. That was the first time I'd ever been to an open casket funeral and hopefully my last. I didn't tell you how I shut down emotionally, how I still feel things are unfinished between he and I. All I said were that Christian funerals can be awkward.

I don't need to see you get teary about your cousin that died years ago, talking about how you can't go sailing because he loved sailing, hear the name 'Earl' in a song because it's his name or look out at the window at passing cars without sobbing because he did that occasionally… six times. The first time or three I'll nod sympathetically. After that, okay, I get it. It's a ridiculous form of logic but I get it. I suppose I should never eat because my Opa was doing that all the time before he died. Or breathe air. Come on now. I'm sorry you miss your cousin. I know he was like a brother to you. But is it the best way to honor his memory to avoid all the things that remind you of him and bring it up constantly to one-up someone in conversation and make them feel awkward and foolish?

She also has horrible taste in TV shows. Reba is actually pretty good, but Boy Meets World loses it's appeal after you hit puberty and you realize, hey, this is pretty fucking awful.

(Aside: When I visited Japan I saw an episode of Boy Meets World dubbed in Japanese. It was awesome.)

This bad taste came to a terrible head while she was reading the comics in the newspaper and expounded, "I love Garfield!"

I had to fight myself not to be sarcastic. Do you? Do you really? Are you eleven? I didn't realize anyone not eleven loved Garfield. I mean I suppose you could read it to our senile client and she'd get a kick out of it, but otherwise, are there adults who still read it? Really?

I wisely decided to shift the conversation. After all, there have been some good newspaper comics. "You know what I really miss? Calvin and Hobbes. It really captured my imagination as a kid, but now I read it and it's hilarious. I'm so sad that Bill Watterson retired."

Delores looked up from her paper and said, "You know what I miss? Marmaduke."

Fucking Marmaduke. Another comic featuring Crazy Animal Antics. I hadn't even noticed it stopped running.

I was pretty much staring her with abject horror at this point.

Slowly, I turned to watch the awful Some Like it Hot rehash that was the episode of Boy Meets World on the TV. I barely spoke to her the rest of the day.

I'm such an asshole elitist. Guess my 'niceness' doesn't extend to pop culture.

To a Japanophile

2006-09-24T11:47:00.000-07:00

This is a response I wrote to someone complaining of how boring her Slovak and English heritage are, and how she wishes she could be Japanese for just one day so she could experience the culture without being treated differently.

If you explored more things about your English and Slovak background, I'm sure you'd find amazing and interesting things to be proud of. Don't forget... Europe has many ancient structures and civilizations; there is rich history there to be explored if you're interested in it. My girlfriend who seems to have very 'typical' German background is related to Charlemagne, and had her family stayed in Europe she would've been royalty. Except not because probably there was enough danger that their family came here to poverty rather than stay. Interesting is a matter of perspective, and if America is so bad, why do so many Japanese students come here, and so many people immigrate here? In Japan, you're right. You'll never be Japanese, even if you're mostly Japanese. Landed Koreans will never be considered Japanese, and fuck if an outsider can even tell the difference. So even if you marry a Japanese guy you and your kids will be considered foreigners with varying degrees of respect and / or bad treatment.

The thing is, if you admire Japan's culture, their geiko and their kanzashi and their temples and rich history, you need to accept the fact that their xenophobic ways sprung from that. It's a whole package deal. Part of the reason Japan is this way is because it's always been insular, and it still is. They killed Christians, they drove out the Ainu, and they still won't apologize for the Second World War. Japan is populated by assholes, just like the United States, they just happen be Japanese. I'm not picking on you specifically when I say this, but I've just seen way too many people treat Japan like their own personal fantasy land where anime comes to life and Jrockers wander the streets making out. Not so. Japan is a real place with some real serious problems. There's doesn't even appear to be much interest in changing things, at least nothing like the revolutionary groups we have here to give voices to minorities.

America is an amazing country. Now mind you, I'm a liberal who is completely aghast at the state of many things we're involved right now, and this bozo we call a president makes me want to vomit on a nearly daily basis. But I can sit around and complain and not worry about how it reflects on my family or me. I'm not going to be hammered down for it.

I'm guessing anything your ancestors escaped oppression and poverty to come to this country. Did they go to Japan? No, they came here, because while we don't have castles we have this sweeping, idealistic idea of freedom. It's ephemeral and it's not always followed the way we'd expect it to be, if at all. But we at least pay lip service to finding a place for everyone. And it sounds like your relatives did.

I'm not saying you should stay here if it makes you unhappy. Maybe your destiny is to go back to Japan. But you'll still be you no matter what country you're in, and so here's my true advice: be proud of yourself. Once you're comfortable in your own skin you'll be happy anywhere. You have many good qualities, and your culture is doubtlessly steeped in interesting stories and cultural beauty if you'd only look for is. It seems like right now Japan has this huge 'grass is greener on the other side' aspect to you, and now that you're realizing that sitting in the greener grass means encountering something that's a natural fact of that yard, like the rain, you don't know what to do, you wish the rain would stop.

You are you and Japan is Japan. Slowly, maybe, Japan will change, but until then, you can complain about it like some people complain about the weather. Or you can enjoy the greener grass and shrug off the rain.

Captain Piss Pants

2006-09-22T22:42:00.000-07:00

Her name is Marlene and she is completely gone from this world. Bedridden, incontinent and bipolar in addition to being the throes of senile dementia, she requires two people to turn her over and change her diapers several times each day. I worked two 7-3 shifts this week.

My job has its perks. I can take whatever days off I want-- just tell them I'm not going to be able to work that day and it's fine. I don't have to deal with malcontent yuppies or stay on my feet all day. After I've done everything I need to do for the client, the client's pets, and the house, I'm free to watch daytime TV, or, as I did today, nap on the couch. But adult care is disheartening, and by no means is anyone who does it spared verbal abuse from demanding clients. Yesterday and today Marlene's behavior was fairly mild. During changing yesterday, she yelled she was hot until we put the blankets back on her, and today she was so belligerent that we decided not to bathe her despite the fact she hadn't been bathed all week, out of fear of being clawed.

"We'll just have to see if she feels a little better tonight," sighed Jamie, the pony tailed blond pre-med I did shift overlap with today. A few days ago, Marlene called her a cunt because she wouldn't let her go to the bathroom in the closet. Jackie shrugged and seemed cheerful about it, though underneath it I could hear a bit of an edge.

The young woman I worked overlap with yesterday, Dolores, is not so inclined to let things slide off her back, however. A dark-haired, opinionated body-mod fan, she relayed her story with gritted teeth: "She called me a fucking piece of shit, screamed and threw shit at me. I just told her my mother always taught me never to say anything if you couldn't say something nice, so I wasn't saying anything. That shut her up right quick."

It's a shame, because Marlene would have a lot of stories to tell if she had any mental capacity to tell them. Dolores and I flipped through her high school yearbook. We couldn't figure out which one was Marlene, as there were several and we didn't know her last name before she was married.

"Look at these hairdos," I said, looking over a photo of a pep rally or football game, some event where the students filled the risers. There's one of those rambling little speeches about the memories of high school filling the opposite page. The girls all wear structured curls and lipstick, and the boys are all so clean cut. "1939. I wonder how many of these guys…"

"Died in the war?" Dolores finished my sentence.

"Yeah. And to think… they're not that different than us. Well, no one in my graduating class has died in the war, but plenty have gone." My thoughts immediately turn to my friend Joseph, who is stationed in Afghanistan. He's returning on leave next month and I'm anxious to see him, to see if war has changed him. I haven't seen him since graduation.

If it had been me in that picture, I might've died on the banks of Normandy. Or it could be me in that bed, getting changed every day, stinking of urine, talking to people who aren't there and calling nice women horrible names.

The speech waxes poetic on high school memories and the smell of turpentine. The last line, however, is memorable. "Our destiny is heaven."

For those men who died in the war, their destiny was heaven sooner that they thought.

For Marlene, maybe it hasn't come soon enough.

Fun Games to Play on the Bus

2006-09-18T20:05:00.000-07:00

* Avoid Eye Contact With the Crazy Person!
* What Language Are They Speaking?
* Count the Starbucks
* Is That Person's Conversation Parter Real or Imagined?
* Drunk or High?
* Count the Businessman's Nervous Twitches

Upscale

2006-09-11T21:23:00.000-07:00

Downtown bustles with young, attractive people in suits chatting on cell phones. A sentinel stands at his post near the door of the Louis Vutton boutique, staring out the smudge-less glass window at them as they go by. I feel underdressed, like the sidewalk isn't even good enough for me in my K-mart jeans. The sentinel catches my eye as I glance in the boutique. He seems to understand my curiosity about shoes and purses that would cost me a month's rent to pay for. His eyes say it all to me: You don’t wear shoes and purses, and you don't belong in this store. Don't even pause here.

Blocks and blocks of the city are like that. My girlfish works for a fancy Belgian chocolatier and my roommate, K, is a barista in one of two Starbuck's in an upscale mall. As we wait for the girlfish's shift to end, K and I relax and talk about the day. The counter tops gleam brightly as new money, and a small box of chocolate is eight dollars. Tourists and girls with Louis Vutton purses peruse the chocolate and pay on credit.

Girlfish says the sentinel is always there. I stare out the window at the lavish hotel courtyard across the street and lines of cabs. "It's just so weird. All these people, how do they have so much money? I mean, I took the bus here."

"I took the bus here, too," says the girlfish, and K agrees. Girlfish looks at the clock. "Only one more hour of serving the cranky public."

"Then it's time to become part of the cranky public," I say with a chuckle.

"Yes, thank god."

I watch the sharply dressed designer people hurry by to whatever goals they have. Their numbers seem endless, the hassled business folk K serves and the mothers with foreign accents that spend hours picking out chocolate. Statistically, they upper class is a very small percentage of the population, and that's not counting people who live expensively and beyond their means. Yet upscale places seemed flooded, the baristas and cashiers and other service people only footnotes to their flurry of sharp-edged, shining consumerism.

We bussed in. We're not part of their world. We're only extras to their drama of glamour. I can't help but wonder if the sentinel has ridden the bus. I wonder if he can afford Louis Vutton. If that's his only suit.

All of these people have lives. Surely all of them aren't as self-absorbed as their financial standing would have me believe. Many of them are nice; many of them tip well, many of them worked hard for their money. Many of them were probably just as broke and idealistic when they were 21.

I wonder when the change happens, if it happens. When does dropping what was once a month's rent money on a handbag seem acceptable?

When do you stop seeing everyone else around you as anything but accessories?

Memories Bought Cheaply

2006-09-10T18:00:00.000-07:00

Thrift stores are the retail equivalent of rifling through your grandmother's attic. Except your grandmother is probably dead. Though the temptation of cheap and only slightly dust-smelling items is strong, I happen to find thrift stores depressing. I can't help think that there's a sad story behind each abandoned, unwanted item. I could easily spend a hundred dollars dragging home ragged, unloved stuffed toys, corroded silver vanity sets, and poisonously ugly furniture just because I want to give all these things a home.

For instance, I was perusing the framed pictures when amidst the fading amateur photographs I found a pen and ink sketch of two ferries at sea. The drawing was marginally skillful, pleasant enough to look at, if ordinary. What caught me was the inscription on one corner: Happy Birthday. '65

Some unknown person drew this as a birthday gift for someone else. It might've just been a brief sketch, possibly from a family member, someone who wanted to give that person a gift but couldn't afford or think of something nicer. Still, handmade gifts are meaningful, even if the sketch was cursory. It meant enough to its receiver to have it framed.

What happened to the person who was given this gift? Surely they didn't tire of it and donate it to charity thoughtlessly, it meant enough to them to put it in a frame. So did the picture owner pass on? Was this sketch tucked away somewhere in a closet before marauding children or grandchildren donated it, lost at the bottom of some cardboard box filled with tattered shoes? Likely whoever donated this picture didn't remember the story behind it, who it meant. To them it might've just been a boring picture in blue and white.

And what of the person who drew it? Are they alive? Do they still give sketches as gifts? Have their skills improved? Do they wonder what became of this picture? Do they even remember drawing it?

See? Depressing.

My parents keep every picture I've drawn for them, every poem, every card. Someday these boxes may be sifted through and set aside. All things committed to paper decay. All expressions we make may end up in a bargain bin for fifty cents.

On the Bus

2006-09-09T12:40:00.000-07:00

One of the things I adore about my hometown is the public transportation system. One of the best in the country, it is efficient, consistent, and cheap. For those of us who don't have a car due to philosophical or financial reasons, it's an excellent system, though it does have its kinks.

In the suburbs, an area tailor-made for soccer moms and SUVs, not having a car can be a suffocating thing. Even if there is bus system, much of travel will be punctuated by walking and almost getting run over in parking lots. The prospect of not owning a car becomes depressing as you trudge through fields of tar-smelling asphalt. But in the city, a public transportation system is invaluable. With rising gas prices, impossible-to-find parking, and traffic of nightmarish proportions, why would anyone even bother with a car?

Many a day when I'm running late I remember specifically why, but for the most part, I enjoy the bus. You can absorb local color (read: get yelled at by the mentally ill) and observe the sights of the city all while never having to pay for gas or worrying about obeying traffic laws. Also, if there's a wreck, who's going to walk away? That pissant sports car or the downtown metro?

They say the American Dream is the open highway, being able to just jump into your car and go anywhere. Buses only run to specific places at specific times, and maybe to some that's a hindrance. But a car can leave you wrecked and stranded in the middle of nowhere. When you take a bus somewhere, there's always a bus back if you get lost. Drivers are helpful if you get on the wrong line or you don't know exactly where you're supposed to get off. I find this extremely comforting, and this, aside from the fact that I do not own a car, is why I do 99% of my traveling by bus.