Of pride, mollusks and sex jokes (DTH Opinion column "Cries from the Peanut Gallery")

Well seniors, this is it: the point of no return. For those of us eligible to graduate -- whether you're a headstrong, dedicated junior or a boring, credit-conscious senior -- something fundamental is changing.

Of course, this isn't just starting now. Like divorce and puberty, this is a process that begins long before we see the telltale signs (e.g. a lack of sexual contact, emotional distance and rapid undesirable, hair growth).

You finally have your own Amazon account, you've gone from the fated, ancestral enemy with your siblings to close friends and your aunt no longer censors her sex jokes around you -- and if you're me, you're learning the right way to tie your shoes and graduating beyond skateboard-brand Velcro wallets.

But most of those are just arbitrary markers of adulthood, and I'm never embracing any transition that tells me I should stop filling my spare time with Lego: Indiana Jones for PlayStation 2, Wii or PC.

What I'm talking about is what's changing right now, in a direct relation to our advancement through this convoluted and quixotic process of self-improvement and sacrifice we call higher education: our connection to home.

Up until now, the command has been "Come home. Spend time with us. Bring us back our Tupperware." But the polarity is reversing; your parents' magnetic field is shifting to push you away. (English major here, sorry -- you might say electromagnetic metaphors are a little out of my field. I try to stay current, but I have to force it to make it quark sometimes. Well, it is watt it is).

Your family probably isn't even aware of it yet, but it's happening. Every visit home in the past was welcomed with much rejoicing. But pretty soon after graduation, even short visits might be tainted with a little shame if you're not rapidly moving on to the next big thing.

You might've already noticed this slow shift in orientation over break. Every night after my first day back, my mom would make oblique references to "whenever we'll see you next" and say goodnight like I'd be leaving before dawn to find passage on a freighter to Singapore.

And after just a week of being at home, my self-worth started to dry and curl into a shriveled, unrecognizable mollusk of an ordinarily healthy (albeit swollen) ego. That's exaggerating a little bit, but it was a paralyzing and dazzlingly unproductive venture (dealing with the parents' shock at finding me on the couch again every morning didn't help).

Now don't get me wrong -- moving back home can be a smart, if not inevitable option. But be forewarned: what it costs you in pride and self-respect might end up keeping you there longer than you want or expect.

But then again, we should feel blessed to even have that option, especially in bone-chilling, godforsaken, polar vortex weather like this.

Pride, self-respect and a warm place to sleep and eat? One out of three ain't bad, and that's a deal many don't ever get a shot at.

http://www.dailytarheel.com/article/2014/01/of-pride-mollusks-and-sex-jokes

Politics, jokes and ideas, oh my! (Cries from the Peanut Gallery DTH opinion column)

What's in a joke? An obligatory Shakespeare reference with any other noun would be just as cliche, overused and meaningless.

Dead linguistic tropes aside, it's still a good question. Humor is ubiquitous, and what with identity politics, bigotry and whatnot, it can get heated. We use "joke" to refer to anything and everything that might produce laughter or polite chuckles, so contents may vary -- but we can pick out the basics.

1. The punch line is where the funny is, whether it's intentional, bloody, accidental or just really not that funny when you finally say it aloud.

2. The setup creates the proper conditions for the funny, but -- and this is key -- the setup is not funny. The "funny," as such, is entirely exterior to the setup.

3. The last major feature of a joke is what we call "the butt." Not every joke has a butt, not all butts are created equal and it's not always clear what is or isn't actually a butt in particular circumstances, but let's put that on the back burner for a moment.

Bigger question: What do jokes do? Are they just meaningless, self-gratifying ends unto themselves, like masturbation or poetry? Self-deployed instruments of ideology for expressing and enforcing cultural mores? Crude interpersonal devices for forming self-contained social groups, marking boundaries of inclusion and exclusion with odd sociological phenomena we might call "inside jokes"?

Or maybe they're just defense mechanisms for coping with the low-budget Adam Sandler film we call human existence -- what's the point? They're all of these things at one point or another, but there's more.

Jokes are made up of information -- messages of a sort, made graspable by the easy, silly format that tells you how to deliver and receive the information. We laugh if the info meets expectations (Ralphie in second period is a sissy), and we laugh if it's new to us (a truck driver in Utah ate a badger).

If you can avoid being creepy, try watching elementary school kids at play -- human interaction rarely gets more elemental and uninhibited (even keggers have more normative social constraints).

Let's face it: Kids aren't given much help in the way of understanding the world. Parents help and kids ask questions, but there's only so much time in the day -- and the world is a fairly complex place (I'm still getting the hang of herbology myself). Jokes are the tools through which kids, (and everybody else), build an understanding of the world. It lets us play with the signifiers that make up our society, throwing them around and trying them on, breaking them down from every angle.

This can go wrong, of course, and in any given humor-producing social bubble, the lack of certain key concepts can skew or stunt the growth of the whole. Case in point: sheltered bigotry, etc.

But the solution here, then, is not to limit or censor humor. What you do -- the only practical, effective thing you *can* do -- is write some jokes and add to the discussion.


http://www.dailytarheel.com/article/2013/11/politics-jokes-and-ideas-oh-my

Violence: how does it work? Also cats (Cries from the Peanut Gallery DTH Opinion column)

I used to live with a cat.

His name is Simba, but I called him Cat for simplicity's sake. That was the role he played in my life, so it seemed silly to call him anything else.

Our relationship was mostly a healthy one. I'd pet him, he'd paw me in the face -- it wasn't my job to feed him or clean his poop-box, so to me he was just a furry, naked roommate who rubbed his butt on the couch and wasn't allowed to leave the house.

But life gets crazy and tense, and cats get annoying.

Sometimes it'd start with biting or clawing me as I waved colorful things in his face -- he was just playing, and I knew that -- but before I knew what was happening, I'd smacked him upside the head.

And sometimes I didn't even need that much provocation. Sleep deprivation and high levels of stress mean low pain tolerance and jumpy as hell. There were mornings when all it would take for me to fly off the handle was the slightest interruption.

He'd jump and tap me on the back like a toddler starting a game of tag and I'd hurl the closest notebook at him. He'd approach me, all of a sudden asking for attention, and instantly I'd retaliate -- pushing him away or gesturing violently until he'd leave me alone.

It's easy to dismiss -- he was never visibly injured or obviously afraid of me, but I knew I was doing something both wrong and irrational. And after hitting him, I'd immediately regret it.

Of course honest remorse doesn't excuse abusing another living, feeling animal. And earnestly repenting didn't stop me from doing it again.

But why? In no other situation am I anything that could be considered an angry or aggressive person. With Cat, however, I'd lash out without provocation or restraint.

Why? Because I can. I'm allowed to. Because my brain must know without my conscious go-ahead that there is nothing and no one to stop me.

I respect Cat as a fellow creature, equal to me in abstract terms; I even feel love for him; but I know he is weak, wholly in my power, a cuddly whipping boy on which to take out my momentary rage. I like play time with Cat, but this is not play time. Like the domineering older brother, I alone decide when it's play time.

That is a problem. I'm working through it, but let's leave my personal character out of the question for now. I might just be deflecting, but what's more concerning to me is what this implies about violence in general.

I can't help but wonder how this particular power dynamic must be replicated elsewhere. How much violence between siblings, spouses and nations must arise simply from this sense of control, this sense that one can act without fear of retribution?



http://www.dailytarheel.com/article/2013/10/violence-how-does-it-work-also-cats

Seattle Styles Find Fans at the 506 (Chapelboro music review)

My favorite thing about concerts in small venues (and simultaneously my least favorite thing) is that awkward semi-circle of vacant space that sometimes materializes in front of the stage. It's like a bubble of audience hesitation, a buffer that persists until the opening band is finished wooing--although sometimes it isn't until the next band comes on that people have started to get over themselves.

It's up to the band--the dominant actor in this particular culturally-structured relationship--to put the audience at ease, smile, demonstrate an interest in how the audience is feeling, and maybe pick up the bill for dinner. An effective band can quickly build that sort of intimacy, drawing the audience closer in spite of themselves, provoking them into holding up their end of the social bargain--by which I mean cheering, for Christ's sake.

Then that uncomfortable void of fans and participation, left open as if everyone in the bar is waiting for the "real" fans to get there, finally fills in, thus creating space for something one might call "enthusiasm" to begin to take shape.

It's even worse when the "real fans" really are few, and the fans serving as crude substitutes all happen to be students here for a graded assignment. But I guess that's the college town curse?

It's Sunday Oct. 20th, and Local 506 is swarming with students coyly tapping their feet. The bartender eyes my ID warily, graciously nodding and letting her guard down once she decides it's trustworthy, mentally sorting me into the "in crowd," as opposed to the underage liabilities most of the bar is crowded with. The overpriced PBR tallboy isn't worth it, but it feels good to be trusted.

The lead singer of the Mercators, the first band of the night, is understandably bitter about the crowd. "I'm looking forward to the next two bands, as I'm sure you are," he says in a desperate attempt to fill silence between songs, which comes off as a sad attempt at angry irony. He glances quickly out into the crowd, searching for a hint of participatory feeling to grasp onto--several students look down as if to avoid his glare, dutifully scribbling observations onto notepads.

The Mercators are a straightforward, no-frills rock band from Durham, and they manage to put on a fine show. Perhaps they could've coaxed a slightly less studious audience out of its collective shell? Who knows? But it's Seattle-based psych rock band Rose Windows that really gets the crowd rolling--the 30-minute sound check somehow works to get everyone amped up and expectant, but on its face it still seems like a risky venture.

With all of eight band members on stage, however, I suppose a 30-minute sound check might be worth it. Rose Windows, once they finally get going, really get going. With their eerily layered harmonies, spastic instrumentation and creepy lyrics and attitude, their music takes you in like a '60s acid trip laced with hard rock rhythms and distorted bass guitar.

And after nearly an hour of coasting on Rose Windows' edgy melodies like a hippie trapped in a groovy industrial age, the final band takes the stage. The Moondoggies are another Seattle band, but stylistically they come from a far different place than Rose Windows. A colder one. Probably with mountains, too.

If Rose Windows are behind closed doors, sampling mind-altering substances and penning high-minded, introspective lyrics, the Moondoggies are piling in a van and coming down from snow-capped mountains, writing words on the run and building a sound out of what they found in the trunk--namely, fire tinder and two-by-fours of modern folk and electric blues.

But the weirdest part is that the Moondoggies and Rose Windows, despite the different paths taken, somehow get to the same place. It's clear from their sounds and attitudes that they come out of the same scene, which just gives the listeners some interesting extra context to consider as they're enjoying the distinct flavors.



http://chapelboro.com/lifestyle/arts-entertainment/seattle-styles-find-fans-at-the-506/

Taking Stock of Shakori (Chapelboro music review)

How on earth are you supposed to communicate an experience with writing anyway? In a neat list of events, chronologically ordered? In one-word sentences and eclectic artsy sentence fragments? In a rapid series of photo captions and hash tags? Personally, I prefer the anecdote.

We were looking for a fire to warm ourselves on Friday, the first night I spent at Shakori, when we stumbled upon what we thought must have been the community fire pit we'd heard so much about -- I've never been good at reading maps.

We lay down our blanket and settled in, immediately welcomed by the variety of people already around the fire. We casually chatted with a neighbor about the bands we'd heard that day and his future career working with alternative energy sources (after getting his foot in the door of the industry by way of the nuclear sector, naturally), and just generally enjoyed the fire, their company and the oddly Halloween-y decorations in the trees all around us.

After an hour of chips and salsa and an extensive late-night meal of potato soup served in Solo cups (all courtesy of our friends at the fire), we went back to our tent to get some sleep, despite the loudly roving packs of teenagers wandering and the bands of baby boomers playing Creedence Clearwater Revival covers at all hours of night. But it wasn't until we started settling in for the night that we realized we'd just inserted ourselves into a random family's fire circle -- the shared fire pit was on the whole other side of the festival.

Like many families at the Shakori Hills GrassRoots Festival, they've been going for years. For many young adults there, they are simply carrying on a tradition they've participated in since childhood. For them, Shakori and its semi-annual music festivals represent more than a chance to soak up some music and finally get some use out of your coozies -- it's a piece of their childhood.

That's the most striking thing about the festival: the shockingly wide range of ages and demographics. From kids climbing on train cars and getting their faces painted, to elderly hippies dancing in nothing but oversized overalls, there's something for everyone. (And sometimes a little too much.)

All I wanted to do was wander through and around and soak it all in. I'd settle in at the porch of the Coffee Barn, sipping some wonderful caffeine (of Larry's Beans, the Larry of which dropped in and actually did some roasting workshops over the weekend sa well), and then I'd just enjoy the drizzle and my neighbors' conversation.

I drifted by the poetry slam in progress and the festival-goers gathering in the meditative Peace Park, all the while letting the music mix and clash in the air. All at once I'd hear the drum circle back behind me, further into the woods, I'd hear something slow and brassy coming softly through the trees from the main stage, and I'd catch a funky blues riff on guitar or a long mandolin run soaring through the air from the field upwind. All those elements and more, countless characters all chatting and jamming on their respective styles and instruments, all blended together around and for me. Then I'd separate them and pick one to trace, like one chain of dazzling lights among many, tangled in a monstrous, lit-up ball of hectic seasonal tradition.

All that color, all that commotion, all that personality. It's a bit overwhelming, but it's something special.

The next Shakori Hills GrassRoots Festival of Music & Dance will be in April. Healthy traditions in progress are like sturdy old trains in motion: they're oddly majestic and nostalgic to watch roll by, but nothing compares to the feel of being on board yourself. Everything seems so much less finite when your only angle is from the inside out -- and I wouldn't have it any other way.



www.chapelboro.com/lifestyle/arts-entertainment/taking-stock-of-shakori/

Step back from the plate (Cries from the Peanut Gallery DTH opinion column)

 Rest assured, your mom meant well. But she might have been unwittingly throwing you into a self-destructive path to compulsive overeating. But hey! No harm, no foul -- only diabetes, heart disease and high cholesterol, right?

I'm exaggerating, but what's a little hyperbole among friends? Maybe I should explain before I start throwing punches, accusations and yo' mama jokes. Well, here we go:

Overeating is like having to fire somebody. When you first try it out, it sucks. It's gut-wrenching, time slows down, you start to tear up a little and you wish you could take everything back because what are they going to do now? Your stomach and your employee's adorable children all cry out for mercy, but you have to do it -- otherwise you don't get dessert.

After a few more times through, it gets easier. You gradually grow numb to the desperate, helpless whining of your unsettled stomach/suddenly unemployed underling. Enough gorging yourself or corporate downsizing and you'll stop feeling even the slightest twinge of guilt or bloated nausea. You even start enjoying it.

Allow me to illustrate: Once upon a time I was in Spain, living with a wonderfully grumpy lady who liked to make fun of my Spanish and regularly scold me for the way I dressed myself.

But when she wasn't busy making my study-abroad experience the amazing, life-changing, paradigm-rattling, blah yadda blah, multiculturalism, etc. experience that it was, she liked to make me and my roommates enormous meals of ham and/or mayonnaise and/or olive oil. (Spanish national diet in a greasy nutshell. Drenched in gazpacho.)

Naturally, she stuffed us like burritos -- which is odd, because few people in Spain even know what a burrito is. At first I was acutely aware of my appetite, wincing with every superfluous spoonful of lentils and fried pork I shoveled down my convulsive oropharynx, anxiously attempting to act with some semblance of courtesy for my host mother. (She really was great, I promise.)

It got easier later on, but I realized something had changed inside me once I left Spain and returned to the land of more reasonable portion sizes. (France. Not America by any means.)

Conditioned to turn off my satiation signals like silencing a phone, I found myself overeating by default. I would try to listen to my appetite and gauge my hunger, but it was like looking for gelatin in a ball pit -- by which I mean challenging, and a far bit more slimy and queasy than a needle in a haystack.

I've worked hard to strengthen that instinct again since, but I can't shake the feeling that training our children from birth to ignore these sorts of messages from their bodies might be a bad idea.

It's also funny that we manage to use global poverty ("There are children starving in Africa/Asia/the streets of any major city") to help inculcate bad eating habits and lay the lipidous groundwork for later binge eating and obesity.

But maybe funny isn't the right word.




http://www.dailytarheel.com/article/2013/10/step-back-from-the-plate

Call me crazy, but then what? (Cries from the Peanut Gallery DTH column)

So we as a society see someone do something crazy, right? Crazy here meaning demonstrably irrational -- something we can't imagine ourselves doing, be it climbing a water tower, whispering madly to oneself about gophers, wearing clashing plaids or mass murder.

"Well, that's insane," we say to ourselves. "Totally senseless." We call it "crazy," and that's descriptive. It describes how alien the action is to us.

Then we look at the particular perpetrator of this act, and as with the act, we attempt to understand them -- not so much a conscious thing, but more of an automatic reaction where our brain sees something new and instinctively tries to wrap itself around it like white blood cells digesting a bacterial infection.

Failing to understand this person, we call him or her crazy. This is also descriptive -- we're noting that this particular person is in the habit of doing things we find to be eccentric, unnerving or horrifying in a conventional, logical or moral sense.

Here's where it gets tricky. Having bracketed off the actor and actions as "loony," our brain can simply stop trying to understand them. And then suddenly, "crazy" becomes more than descriptive. Now it's an explanation.

Now the "crazy" of the person is the reason and the origin of the "crazy" actions that we've been failing to comprehend. What'd they do? Oh my God, that's insane. Why'd they do it? Oh my God, it's because they're insane -- case closed, that's all there is to it.

This is misleading for a number of reasons. Also dangerous.

Up until now we've been using the word only to diagnose people and actions in terms of our particular view of the world. But this "crazy" can be easily conflated with the "crazy" that implies a professional medical diagnosis, which brings with it a greater sense of legitimacy.

But we might as well confuse the anecdotal and the medical crazies for now, because they're both a part of the same big fallacy.

We're assuming this irrational person is a closed system -- a little line segment of insanity unto itself that shares absolutely no points with any other ray, line or quadrilateral of earthly existence or humanity.

We can't even be parallel to the crazy line, because that would imply some sort of common trajectory, which is ridiculous because they're crazy and I don't know why.

And equipping ourselves with fancy medical terminology that attempts to do more than describe the crazy only perpetuates this problem. Oh, they have a disease -- chemicals in their brain made them do it.

But chemicals in our brain are responsible for everything we do. Every time I get angry you could simply ignore any of the possible causes of my anger and blame the chemicals in my brain -- and you'd be right!

But you'd be missing something. And it'd probably just make me angrier.



http://www.dailytarheel.com/article/2013/09/col-0919