Posts Tagged ‘new experiences’

Kent Skate (Yet)

Sunday, December 4th, 2022

As my last photos I posted indicated, I went ice skating for the first time on Friday. Ever since last year they’ve blocked off one of the streets by the campus’s barren, esplanaded edge and installed a rink for a few months in winter.

Friday was also the day the historic mill downtown caught fire. Before I went to the rink I was watching it being put out from a distance as blinking lights from the fire department’s vehicles punched holes in the black. Blocks away it was being pierced by cutesy Christmas lights they put around while I was home on break last weekend. They finally put the fire out yesterday afternoon. It made me angry at first. A seemingly eternal view, one that I had appreciated and even taken for granted, totally destroyed. I try to never take attending an institution with such a history attached to it for granted. I walk with the weight of a scholarship in memory of a man who worked his tail to preserve that history for future generations when he was alive; I can’t just take certain presences for granted, can I? But I still took that quaint Taco Tontos view for granted. Things are wack here.

Skating did help distract me, though. I had always wanted to try it out, and having roller skated on and off for a while, it was easy to pick up, as much as I clung to the wall. It felt satisfying and even empowering. I took a few knees and resigned with confidence (and one independent lap) to catch the last bus home. It just felt good, good to be out there doing something I had always wanted to, on a whim and without external limitation. Bruised knees are cool.

I skated for the second time tonight at the university arena, which has public skating sessions every so often. The lobby is excruciatingly wood panel, and it has the faint smell of popcorn from the snack bar. There is a party room where a bunch of little girls were having a party. Out on the rink I kept running into (not literally) a really adorable little girl with bangs, black leggings, and a slightly-too-big Nirvana shirt. I should’ve turned her on to the Melvins, but I had skating to do. Other than the small children (of which there were many), there were all kinds of people there, including funhaving college couples, cocky college boys, and a few seasoned vets who seemed to effortlessly glide across the floor. I kept looking at one guy, an older guy who looked kind of like David Crosby but not absurd in the facial hair department, who just casually sailed along with his hands in his pockets. He just seemed so cool.

I was not cool on the ice, or at least I didn’t feel cool, because my continued reliance on the wall got me trapped in a lot of traffic jams behind tiny children who didn’t really know how to skate, and I kept falling on my ass. My roller skating career ended when I was standing completely still in the middle of the street hockey court in a hometown-local park, lost my balance for a split second, fell on my ass, and sprained my wrist catching my fall. Obviously, I was overjoyed to keep falling on my ass. GREAT JOB.

I can tell I’m doing well just going out there at all, even if my confidence tonight lasted in spurts. It was just a different experience. It was admittedly a little hard to focus, especially when “You Don’t Know You’re Beautiful” segued into “Baby Shark” near the end of the hour and a half when the sound system had tired of Christmas music. (The downtown rink did supply “Simply Having A Wonderful Christmastime” at the same exact time as actual rain, but at least it stayed on theme.) I’m not sure if I made any progress tonight, really. But I don’t want to abandon it out of lack of immediate proficiency. Because when I do get into the zone, the things that weigh heavy are trivial, and I feel like I can do anything.

I think I can get the hang of it.

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Out Here

Tuesday, August 30th, 2022

I’ve been away from the homestead for over a week now adjusting to the trials and tribulations of college. I must admit, it’s a very liberating feeling being left to my own devices, mentally mapping out routes to dining halls and wandering around campus when I have free time. I’m already getting a lay of the land pretty easily, and I can’t believe I’ll be showing some out of state (and in one case, out of country) friends around this not-so-little old place in just a few weeks. (Seriously, DEVOtional cannot come quickly enough.) Maybe someday younger students here will be asking me for their way around, intimidated by the many routes of getting to Eastway or unable to not keep dropping their school issued ID cards. For now, I’ve been socializing with other members of my class who are in the same boat as me, though they happen to have friends from high school lingering in the area. I’ll always be an introvert, but talking to these brand new people has been strangely refreshing recently. It’s a nice, liberating feeling being a blank slate to a whole bunch of people who, like me, are also baby faced, weird, and anxious as hell.

Even as I make connections in the real world, I’m still checking my frequented sites and social media accounts. I expected I would do less of that as I transitioned into college life, but in retrospect I feel like I’ve been going through a mental transition regarding my time on the computer all along. Ever since I began making progress towards even attending Kent in the first place, I’ve been taking the digital world less and less seriously, and I didn’t even take it too seriously to begin with. Now I look at people getting into comment section flame wars sometimes and just feel a little bit sad. I feel sad that these people, apparently, have nothing better to do than insulting people on the internet for fleeting moments of manufactured superiority. They could be learning new things, opening their minds to new experiences, and actually engaging in the real world, but they aren’t. It’s frustrating sometimes, because it feels as if so much potential is being wasted on useless, stupid arguments when the participants could have been doing something more productive in the first place. (Hey, if me being a student makes me a vital part of the conscience of America, I gotta put my honest opinion out there.)

My year-long honors English course is centered around the theme of disenfranchisement, the act of being made into an outsider. But sometimes, strangely enough, I like to feel like an outsider. I like to look at inane arguments and know that I have no place there, that there’s something much better to be doing than fighting fire with fire. I’m learning that the type of fire that actually needs to be fought can be fought with words, expression, logic, truth. I’m really grateful to have the chance to hone these skills.

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Fun Times With Some Rowdy Guys

Tuesday, July 5th, 2022

My first log as a legal adult. Who would’ve thought! Yeah, I’m pretty hardcore. It’s definitely an interesting time to be going through so many rites of passage, from graduating to reaching adulthood last Sunday. It’s also pretty interesting how all these rites of passage seem to coincide with similarly wonderful concerts. I got an incredible DEVO show as a graduation party, which I’m still not quite over. This time around, it was the Melvins who brought me into adulthood on Friday, two days before my gestation completion anniversary. I wanted special for my birthday, dammit, and I ended up getting much, much more than I could have ever asked for. At the very least, I can check off my list seeing the mighty King Buzzo’s hair in person.

The concert also coincided with my first time to what was once a steel capital of the world, good ol’ Bethlehem, PA. Sounds quaint, doesn’t it? The town surrounding the venue and extending across the river itself is nice and quaint. The venue is located right by the old Bethlehem Steel plant, which was operational until, somehow, the mid-nineties. It now looms over a bustling little cultural spot, towering as a series of antiquated pagodas of rust and dead industry. (The morning after the Melvins my family checked out the self guided walking tour along the plant’s old material transport trestle, which allows for some incredible up-close action. It’s truly an incredible and fascinating sight to experience.) The venue itself also houses a movie theater and boasts an orange spiral staircase adorned with intricate blown glass art where we waited to get our tickets checked. Within the ballroom, concertgoers could’ve gotten a table at the also orange balcony looking out on the crowd and stage. The steel plant loomed behind the stage through the large glass windows and would later be illuminated in neon light when the sun set. All in all, it was very atmospheric.

I was initially positioned directly stage right, up against the security gate as I’ve gotten used to at shows that feature them, for openers Harsh Mellow (excellent name). I was impressed at their energetic, intense brand of noise rock, and I’m really excited to see what they do in the future. I had drifted back slightly and more towards the front of the stage to talk with some of my dad’s friends by the time the second band, Helms Alee, took the stage and proceeded to turn everyone’s minds to sluuudge. I actually wouldn’t be surprised if their set went on for longer than the Melvins’. I had a good view of their drummer, who was a total powerhouse in her own right and also very sweet at the merch booth before and after the show. Fun times.

And then, promptly as the headliners took the stage, I was shoved—or maybe something in my consciousness pulled me a little bit—right up against the gate, just slightly off-center from Buzz Osbourne’s microphone stand. What followed was something akin to my mind being blown—or maybe it’s more like my mind being unfolded and refolded, like origami. The more I think about it, the more I’m sure the triple threat of “Oven”, “Lovely Butterflies”, and “It’s Shoved” that opened the show flipped some sort of weird, hidden, primal switch in my brain. I feel like a reformed young woman now after having seen the Melvins. As a result of the weekend’s sonic therapy, I feel respectable and healthy urges to put myself out there more, engage myself more creatively, and try different styling techniques that would increase the volume of my hair. Well, maybe the latter is just the aftershock of getting to see Buzz’s incredible hairdo in person. I am being completely serious when I say that no photograph or video can truly replicate how absolutely incredible it is to see with one’s own eyes.

But I digress.

To put it simply, the band was relentless. Songs launched into each other with the beat of Dale Crover’s pounding, primal drums with barely any time to spare, blending the night’s sequence of events together like a syrupy sweet molotov cocktail. Yet sonic blasts of pent up punk rock fury still played ping pong with sublime, smirking moments of teasing quiet throughout the night—thanks, complex and diverse song structures. “Bob” bless their current bass player, Steve McDonald, who wore what I initially thought was an ironically awful white disco suit before realizing it was some sort of fancy kung-fu jacket accented with gold, elevated from it’s previous Halloween costume status. He was clearly having the time of his life up there, hopping around, crouching, and striking many an audacious pose throughout the night. And then there was Buzz, the one perhaps most appropriately dressed up for Halloween in July in his iconic skeleton robes. I can safely say I’ve never been more intimidated by a man than I was there in my spot in front of the vicious King Buzzo himself, and that’s a good thing. I was even too intimidated to take photos when he got probably as close to my part of the audience as he could’ve gotten as he hammered on his transparent-body guitar. I was that in awe. He and Steve thrashed surprisingly precisely around the place, making good use of the stage’s expansive floor area due to Dale’s drum kit being placed so far back. Dale emerged from behind his instrument of choice at one point to use one of his sticks as a sword in a brief fencing match against the neck of Steve’s bass, which was extremely entertaining. The same goes for Buzz’s liberal use of hand gestures during breaks in songs where he didn’t play guitar, which I will always find very, very amusing no matter who is doing it (and no matter whether or not their hands should actually be strumming those strings at that place in the song). Yes. I dare say the whole band took it to twelve.

I got more used to my surroundings as the night went on. I was marked safe from the inevitable pit the entire time, though I briefly considered joining it before remembering how lucky I was to have acquired the best view of Buzz in the house. Besides which, it was really funny glancing over periodically at the antsy, stingy looking security guy at the front of the stage, who was jerking back and forth as he watched the pit with much concern. It was pretty great to glance back at, too—imagine “Honey Bucket” tearing up such a clean, modern, composed establishment! At the beginning of the show there was some sort of country band playing on one of the complex’s outdoor stages, visible through the glass wall from my initial standing position. I wonder how those guys would’ve reacted to what went on inside. In terms of my reaction, I was mesmerized, pulverized, and totally hooked even after the band left the stage. They could’ve gone on another hour and I still would’ve been wanting more.

But hey, the band is pretty well known for their tour grind, so it’ll presumably be easy to see them again down the road. I slept contently that night knowing that.

Two days later I turned eighteen. If it were 1970 I’d be old enough to kill, but not for votin’. I’ll probably be woman enough to not be able to kill or vote at all soon if this country keeps going the way it is. 246 years this week, huh? I see so many people nowadays wondering how many years it’s got left with the way things are.

Based on their hypotheses, it’s probably less than the Melvins still have in them.

(I posted some more photos here, by the way.)

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In Some Sci-Fi Vein

Monday, June 13th, 2022

METAL. In terms of the material, I was always a big fan of it. Shiny, industrial, dignified—METAL. It’s pretty great. In terms of the music genre, I’m not really a metal person, despite my frequent punk persuasions. Between the two genres, metal is more known for long hair and being a bro and stuff, which isn’t my scene at all. But, alas, everyone has to go through certain rites of passage in their lives, including that of one’s first metal show. I got to go through that on Saturday.

I was kind of dragged (no offense) to see Voivod in Baltimore by my father, who is a big fan. He is so much of a big fan, in fact, that we ended up getting to meet the band before the show, and I am happy to know that they are all really nice people! I spent most of that time talking to their drummer, Away, who, as someone not very familiar with the band and its members, I did not expect to be a spry little dude with a heavy French accent named Michel. He also does all of the band’s dark, dystopian artwork (which is pretty awesome, by the way). He’s great. They all are!

I actually rarely listen to Voivod, but I’ve always respected them. Their lyrics are heavily influenced by science fiction and are a lot more intelligent and conscious than your average “I wanna rock n’ roll all night” metal group (no offense times-2). They also don’t succumb to the screamy or guttural vocals that I never cared for yet always associated with the genre (no offense times-3), and they did a great version of “Astronomy Domine” at the end of the show, proving their range of influences. And most metal shows do not involve a spontaneous snippet of “Stayin’ Alive,” which is probably the only time I’d be able to take that song.

They clearly put a lot of octane into their performance, taking on sped up punk with the same intensity as their more experimental, droning numbers. Most may not call them “punk” out of metalhead instinct, but they maintain that sensibility. They’re still out there, soldering on, and the crowd was visibly very grateful. I actually spent a good amount of the show monitoring the pit, which inevitably formed. With my beloved camera in my hand, my beloved purse stuffed with all my crap, and my beloved cellphone in my back pocket, I wasn’t going to risk joining it, but it was fun to observe. Luckily I was only ran into once during the one moment during the show where I looked down at my camera away from the action. Otherwise I was able to jerk and flinch my way out of contact’s way whenever someone would get too close, though others inadvertently shielded me from the pit at various times throughout the night. The no crowd surfing rule was broken six times.

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And, all in all, despite being displaced from my comfort zone for a night, it was a fun one. I’m glad I went!

One of the most recent comments on Voivod’s last.fm page reads as follows:

voivod restored my faith in humanity, watered all my crops, paid off all my cars and mortgages, cured all my ailments, fed my family and pets, kept the heater running during winter nights, attended my wedding AND my funeral all in the same day this is amazing. love them

which I think is a much better way of summing up the group than I ever could.

Those Canadians!

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On The Inside

Saturday, May 21st, 2022

“…are we not MEEEEEEEN?!”

“WE ARE DEEEVOOO!”

“DAMN right.”

On Wednesday night, the seaport district of New York City was overtaken by hordes of beautiful mutants. It would have been my third to last day of high school had I not taken two days off to throw down with some enlightened brethren to see DEVO, that de-evolution band who have been soldering on for forty-nine years now. The show they put on did nothing to dent the reputation they’ve built up for themselves.

We arrived in NYC a few hours before the show started and ushered our way down to the waterfront as quickly as we could to mingle with spuds. Energy domes of many colors and persuasions—classic red, blue, black, mirror ball—sat on many heads. (I wore mine on the way to New York, getting many compliments and side eyes in the process, but ended up leaving it in the hotel room due to its bulkiness.) I spoke to many friends I hadn’t seen in months and others that I had long anticipated meeting in person.

The show marked the first time I had ever taken an escalator to a concert. The herd was guided up a good three or four of them to the roof of the complex where the stage was located. The entire scene was very swanky, something DEVO deserve after years of toil and the steaming hot weather of the festival they played in California last weekend, which was a talking point among its attendees. The buildings of New York City towered in the distance. The noise they made probably echoed out over the water and over the city like the ring of a gun.

Thanks to my bodyguard duo of friends Chaim and Rachel, I was easily able to assume my usual DEVO position: right up against the guard rail. Much like my last fling in Chicago, I found myself directly in front of Jerry’s synth bass setup.

Rod Rooter’s sardonic address, familiar to us from Chicago, opened the show once more. And to quote the New York Dolls, something must’ve happened over Manhattan, because the sheer energy that DEVO brought was monstrous. Every member was absolutely in their fullest de-evolved element. I would have never expected to see Jerry smile so much during a DEVO show. He was clearly having the time of his life up there, especially during my favorite live offering of theirs, “Secret Agent Man,” when he let his tongue wag around like he was in autopilot ecstasy.

The guitars were sharp as usual—Bob 1’s sonic attacks at the audience came out very nicely, especially as he snapped his strings during his frazzled “Mr. DNA” solo. The stoic Josh 2 wielded a brand new custom axe that blended in well with his radiation suit while Josh 1 slammed the skins with alien precision from stage right.

And of course, Mark Mothersbaugh, certified birthday boy, gave a fittingly good show, even if the large speaker box in the way of my view reduced him to a disembodied head and sometimes obscured him entirely many a time throughout the night. The rest of the time, he came out far enough for my part of the audience to bask in his de-evolved glory.

And even when DEVO wasn’t singing, they had the crowd by the collar. Jerry gave a bitter, all-too relevant monologue to the “spuds, spudesses, and everyone in between on the spectrum” in the audience before “Jocko Homo,” lamenting the sad worldwide spread of de-evolution—when it comes to good ol’ DEVO, politic and stage presence are not mutually exclusive. Later, the certified birthday Booji Boy of the night came out at the encore to throw energy dome shaped cookies—wrapped in COVID-safe prophylactic baggies—at the crowd. He monologued about DEVO’s dead cool friends rising from their graves and crawling to the venue while Jerry looked on with the most glorious, bug-eyed face I’ve ever seen. And then it was over.

But not yet for me.

Shortly after arrival I learned that I alongside a few other young alien types were not only invited to meet the band in the dressing room but also to the after party (thanks, Michael!). The “dressing room” was a vast little room that everyone was crowded into one third of, by the door. It was in this space where I found myself face to face with Mark Mothersbaugh himself. Scared and intimidated by his form, I had to put my oft-neglected self defense skills to use before he could pounce first.

Not too rusty. After this photo he wanted to make sure it turned out well for the memories. That rascal.

I also got to remeet Bob Mothersbaugh, who remembered me from DEVOtional 2019, and talk to Josh Hager, who proved to be just as kind in person as he’s been to me via Fakebook. Jerry was in a rush—with “a lot of crap to deal with”—and I barely caught him.

After the room had cleared out, the after party was next in our targets. Set in a even smaller but equally swanky restaurant on the first floor, the room was packed with people, many of whom I didn’t recognize. I had never encountered such a busy, socialite, adult event, but I was able to mingle my way around successfully, talking to old friends and even a few new faces.

I bumped into Mark again, mentioning my plans to attend Jerry and his alma mater, Kent State University. He gave me a sticker of DEVO’s newest logo, a golden compass with energy dome accents that the band members wore on their chests during the show, as a sort of congrats cookie. I did the same when I caught back up with Jerry later in the night. By that time he had relaxed from whatever had been going on in the dressing room. He seemed very happy to hear about my plans!

As the night went on, much of the party became a delirious and beautiful blur to me, the result of a positive disorientation. More and more delicious looking food was placed on a sleek, long white table throughout the night, and numerous times servers with swanky snack foods asked me and whoever I was speaking to if we wanted to try. The cake for the birthday Booji Boy, adorned in energy domes that were apparently marshmallow, came out some time during the night as Jerry serenaded Mark very enthusiastically. I ate a slice, even though I wasn’t hungry. There was talking, talking, and more talking. And it was amazing.

And then I rode home the next day and attended my final day of high school the day after that, an undercover agent as my peers remained totally unaware of the events I had witnessed just hours earlier.

Best graduation party ever.

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Late Valentines

Thursday, April 7th, 2022

Just as I’ve gotten used to live concerts being resurrected in the past year or so, I’ve gotten used to them being called off, with the still relevant Miss Rona being the most common culprit. It’s become a surprise for a show I have tickets for to get cancelled for a reason that isn’t her persistent, lingering death dance. From Ticketmaster royally screwing over DEVO’s Radio City Music Hall date last year (which I’ll be making up for in May) to a band Melt-Banana was to play with postponing the whole tour due to visa problems, I guess I’ve just gotten used to shows getting cancelled in general. Most absurdly of all was definitely the reason why I had to wait until Tuesday to see indie rock outfit Snail Mail; the group’s tour was supposed to begin months ago, and we had tickets (at the behest of my dad). It was called off not because of a COVID case or travel visa problem but because lead singer Lindsey Jordan got polyps on her throat that kept her from singing, because life is just like that.

Luckily, her voice has healed and the band is back on the road. Tuesday’s show at Union Transfer was the first date of the tour, and the attendees of its upcoming dates surely have something to look forward to.

It was actually my first time in the City of Brotherly Love, good old Philadelphia, which greeted us with a law firm’s billboard that had the word “jawn” on it to declare that, yes, this is Philadelphia. To keep from straying too far from the venue, we sat down at the neighboring La Chinesca restaurant, which serves an eclectic fusion of Chinese and Mexican food. The eats were delicious and extremely fun. Who else would’ve thought to dip fried wonton chips in cilantro dip? Even better was that, inside and out, the place looks like you’ve stepped into a Californian mid-mod time warp to a future where radioactive space mushroom structures support stucco buildings and people eat in bubble structures bulging up from fake grass. I would’ve stayed much longer if I didn’t have a show to see.

Walking into Union Transfer afterwards, it felt strange being in such a large venue after many shows in cramped little clubs. But I got comfortable quickly. What we saw of opening band Joy Again were okay, with the highlight being a boxed cake being crowdsurfed over to a friend of the band who was having a birthday. But Snail Mail’s set was the real sweet treat everyone was waiting for, with the stage decked out in ivy-wrapped cupid statues. You wouldn’t have realized Lindsey Jordan’s previous sickness had she not mentioned it between songs (“I feel like I’m a eunuch, I’m like, EEEEEEEE”). Her voice—and a very unique one at that—sounded in top shape throughout the night. The rest of the band followed suit instrumentally, with each song coming out tight and precise with an appropriate amount of love for the good old nineties (they covered “Tonight, Tonight” during the second half of their set, and apparently their stage set up is In Utero inspired). From far back in the crowd, the light show was simply fantastic, with color palette changes between each song and occasional psychedelic effects that really made me smile. The band definitely had an atmosphere in mind, and they communicated it perfectly. I may not listen to them too often, but it was great to see.

The show’s encore began with Lindsey alone with her guitar, singing a solemn and beautiful song bathed in light. Suddenly, I heard a commotion behind me. I turned around to see, in complete contrast, a flailing woman being pulled off of someone else by at least two other people. We learned later that somebody got punched. I’m not quite sure what could have stirred that considering the mood of the performance, but I guess Philadelphia is Philadelphia for a reason. Luckily, I was safely socially distanced. It was worrying in the moment, yet hilarious afterwards. A catfight at a show where most of the songs being played were about longing for love. Life is like that.

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Fun-MUN

Tuesday, February 22nd, 2022

Last weekend was my second excursion to Fugaziland, otherwise known as Washington, D.C. Instead of engaging in punk rock rambunctiousness like last time, I had a much more formal mission: my first Model UN conference, the North American Invitational Model United Nations. I had always been interested in Model UN, but I never embarked on it until the beginning of the current school year. I’m very glad I did. Never would I have thought I would have an experience like I did at this past conference before I started college.

I wasn’t used to being around people my age who weren’t the same people I saw every day at school, and it was a little strange how everyone looked so familiar yet so unfamiliar. But I got used to my surroundings quickly. I joined the crowd of gussied up teenagers checking their notes and crossing their fingers, and I fit right in. Transplanted from my usual surroundings into a swanky Hilton hotel, I found myself representing Hong Kong in the C40 Cities Climate Leadership Group, working with other high schoolers to tackle the problem of urban greenhouse gas emissions. It was a lot less nerve-racking than it sounds, especially considering that the real world implications of those decisions weren’t actually weighing on us. It was a fascinating and enriching time hearing the stances of everyone else’s assigned city, which resulted in some heated debate despite the general consensus that climate change equals bad, and working out alliances and plans. Many sixty-second speeches were given and many notes were passed.

Our committee meetings were spread across four days with plenty of time to explore the hotel and the surrounding city (within the radius designated by our advisors) in between. On Friday my school’s delegation took the metro to see the Capitol building (from a distance) and the Washington Monument (which I got to lean against). It was slightly surreal being where a homegrown coup against democracy had been attempted, even if it was from afar. When you spend so much of your life picking up on worldly events from afar it’s interesting to find yourself at Ground Zero, even after everything seems to have settled. I felt similarly watching the news about Russian escalation in Ukraine on the flatscreen in my hotel floor’s lobby while waiting for the extremely congested elevators. So many monumental changes happening while everything else in life seems to remain just as it was…I read a good Tumblr post about this phenomenon the other day—diary entries from the past casually mentioning the beginnings of large-scale wars and man’s landing on the moon beside daily routines and boy gossip. There’s more than two sides to every story, I guess.

At least, the metro looked gorgeous.

But at the conference I didn’t feel like I was just sitting idly by while everything happened around me all at once. I had a role to fulfill and duties to undertake, and I engaged in them successfully. On top of that, socializing was easy considering that almost everyone else was a stranger. I met people from New Jersey, California, Mexico, and Puerto Rico to name a few, and everyone was friendly and open. No matter where we came from or what our committees were, we were all united by the same purpose: to solve some problems and flex some mental muscles. That uniting factor really opened up my horizons much more than being trapped in a high school I never made where everyone else has been BFFs since their elementary years. And in the end, through these alliances and plenty of teamwork, it did really feel as if we had gotten something done when our draft resolutions passed. We had shown our ability to take responsibility and work together. It was a truly liberating experience in every sense, and I almost wished it didn’t have to end.

The day after I got home, it was abnormally nice out, nice enough to take a walk through the neighborhood in a three-quarter sleeve cardigan and my favorite leather-y jeans. If only the weather had been so agreeable down in D.C. It was brisk the entire time we were there, and the winds almost bowled me over as I stalked the street down from the hotel for Thai food that Saturday. I didn’t actually think my group would be leaving the hotel throughout the weekend, so I didn’t pack a coat or gloves. I made do by layering the three blazers I’d brought along. I think it’s going to be a hip winter fashion trend next year for those who follow the philosophy that “beauty is pain.”

The attire of champions.

But upon returning home, I got to crack open my bedroom window (in February!) and let the fresh air float in without freezing to death. There’s something about the spring air that stirs something inside of me, that end of seasonal dormancy. It makes me feel as if things are happening as opposed to having to wait for the world to unthaw. I know things are happening for me, no matter how frustrating life may be at times. In the next few months, my concept of normalcy will be changing, and it will resemble the freedom I experienced last weekend more than what I’m going through now. I couldn’t be more jittery—in the best way possible, that is.

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The Government Failure Jig

Monday, December 6th, 2021

I crossed another city off my bucket list this weekend: Washington, D.C., this nation’s capital.

Despite the initially dreadful parking situation, I enjoyed what I experienced of the city, which was limited to its outskirts. At one point the silhouette of the Capitol building was visible from the car’s front window as we entered the city, but that was the closest we got. Still, it was interesting to be in the place where the government I live under has its home base. I listened to a lot of Jello Biafra on my iPod as we tried to find a parking spot.

Instead of seeing those usual obelisks and statues, we saw some very rowdy humans do their collective thing. Surfbort put on a lively and very fun show at the DC9 nightclub, full of yelping, stomping, and dancing. They shut out the December chill and proved themselves to be very nice people after the show. I hope the rest of their tour goes just as nicely!

It made up well for having had to cancel a Thanksgiving weekend roadtrip. Luckily, we were able to make the best out of out Mourning Turkey Day. The break had its fair share of ups and downs, and I’m grateful—even thankful—that it’s ups were so, well, up. That, alongside seeing from a distance the site of such a cruel and maddening attempt at a coup in D.C., reminded me of the stark contrast between security and discomfort, truth and manufactured reality. It’s becoming more and more frustrating how so many people hide behind facades of good intent. Maybe “facade” is the wrong word—it seems like almost everybody in today’s world wears their worst traits on their sleeves. It’s a transparent veil at best. From the highest ranks of society’s ladder to somebody on your block, goons are everywhere.

They try to make you feel appreciated when they really want to use you; they try to make you value meaningless things; they will suck up your time and try to justify it. They will place you into boxes, for categorizing humans as three dimensional takes up too much brain power that could be instead used towards contemplating the complacent nature of such cardboard cutouts. If you let society mold you in this way, you may gain popularity within some circle of equally fake people who will only show their true selves when they intend to harm you or at least wear you down. They want to reprogram your way of thinking, to make you think that the things that are harmful are harmless. The longer the frog boils in the pot, the more comfortable it becomes. You are reprogrammed to live a lie.

It takes work, courage, and awareness to stand your ground. It’s not easy to do alone.

If there was anything I was thankful for this last Mourning Turkey Day, it was the true friends I have for support. They provide more comfort and warmth than an early Christmas tree ever could, and they’re the people who remind me that there’s a few good eggs out there. If only they weren’t the 0.1 percent.

But not all is depressing, because life is full of fleeting absurd moments that really make living what it’s worth. I will never forget walking out of the DC9 as it transformed for the wee hours of the night from a punk club to, supposedly, a dance club for rich kids. Judging by the incredible lines outside other buildings we saw later as we drove away, this was not too uncommon. As we made our way down the stairs from the showroom to the small ground level tavern, a vaguely familiar synth melody came on over the speakers. I tried to put my finger on what it was, but soon enough the lyrics answered my question and a wave of pure confusion dawned on me: “Dog goes ‘woof;’ cat goes ‘meow.’” In the year 2021, a club was playing “WHAT DOES THE FOX SAY.” A million times better than Whamageddon.

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Super Sixteen

Saturday, June 26th, 2021

With my birthday rapidly approaching, I’ve been thinking a lot about the tight situation my age places me in. I currently stand on the edge of girlhood dipping my toes in the pool of womanhood through college visits and driving practice. Bound to an environment I’ve spent a good amount of my life preparing to be ejected from, I study and learn from the adults I hope to be like when I “grow up,” sophistication and immaturity mingling within my cells. It can be infuriating at times. I think to myself often, Why can’t I just start living my own life already? But I am already living my own life; I just need to gain enough experience to unlock the independence I crave, like a video game.

One year of being eligible to drive. One year until being eligible to vote. Seventeen.

As excited as I am for my seventeenth rotation around the sun to begin, I am also aware that the actual date of my turnover will not be the most splendiferous. This is because my calendar is already lined up with numerous exciting adventures, primarily concerts, extending even into next February. This more than makes up for the lost year of 2020, when all my plans had to be cancelled or moved online thanks to systems that place profits over people and people who have been brainwashed into agreeing with that.

I hope to, in a manner, undergo a more positive form of brainwashing in the coming months. It will be refreshing to have conversations with like-minded people in person and to be enlightened by live performances that no livestream can truly match. Experiences such as these are like hearty salads for the brain; faux news and fanaticism are McDonald’s. My teenaged brain is still being molded by the world around it, so I might as well ensure that my influences are positive ones. With each of these experiential gifts comes more of the know-how that I strive to harness, which is worth so much more than any physical object.

And now, we wait.

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Flash Flood

Sunday, June 13th, 2021

The five hour drive was worth it. Kent was a success!

From exploring the town Wednesday night to touring the campus the next morning, my time in Kent was a fascinating and eye opening experience. I was not sure what to expect, as judging a location’s current condition when most of your knowledge comes from its history can be difficult. Yet I was overall extremely satisfied while I was there.

Twelve beaming floors of library at Kent State.

My primary gripe: leaving so early. We stayed just one night, and a large part of me wanted to do nothing but continue wandering the campus in the burning heat, taking in the brutalish buildings and towering trees, fantasizing about undergraduate life. Chances to escape from my usual surroundings are often scarce and always short lived, making every drive home something to dread. Too often these excursions seem to zip by in a flash in retrospect, which is what I guess results from savoring something so much that you let go of some of the uptightness you’ve grown accustomed to and start living in the moment…not that’s a necessarily bad thing.

This temporary change of scenery extremely refreshing for my psyche, but it was also enlightening to spend time in a place that holds both historical significance and increasing relevancy, especially since learning of the massacre that occurred on campus in 1970 left a large impact on me. It was a genuinely sobering experience to walk where four young innocents had their futures obliterated decades ago, the same grounds where modern youths currently prepare for their own postcollegiate lives to unfold. Seeing markers for where protesting students were shot and the sectioned off areas in the nearby parking lot showing where the four were killed seemed unreal in the moment, and my emotions only began to really hit home after leaving. I was able to leave that campus with feelings of actual hope of an actual future. Allison, Jeffrey, Sandra, and William suffered a very different experience than what I would envision for myself or anyone else.

A memorial for the four slain students by the parking lot where they were murdered. The lot is still in use.

The abuse of illegitimate authority that resulted in the May 4 massacre remains the same today, albeit in more refined form. At Kent State, the memorials and informational placards are the most blatant reminder of why the good fight is still worth fighting, though the somewhat seedy wooded areas on the outskirts of the town that we got lost in upon our initial arrival also seem to serve that purpose. I remember reading that, during that period of turmoil and pain, Kent State’s liberal students considered the campus an “oasis” from the surrounding deep red territory. Living in an area where I am constantly bombarded by Trump 2020 signs alongside various less explicit methods of bigotry, I can’t help but feel for them. If only life was just and everything was easy.

Despite this, the chances of me joining their ranks as a “Golden Flash” have only become more likely since my visit. Kent State genuinely felt like a place I could worm my way into and find plenty nourishment. Brand new things and brand new places often have an atmosphere of impenetrability and intimidation, as they are associated with breaking out of one’s comfort zone and embracing a new world. But I didn’t feel as much like a fish out of water in Kent. Actually, my visit felt more like I was entering a comfort zone of sorts. It was a comfort zone formed by both the assertion of myself as an independent person and constant reminders of history and the experiences of others. But isn’t that a fundamental—albeit complicated and looming—aspect of the human experience?

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