Living in a city, you'd think every moment would be an immersion in the melting pot; an unavoidable full-frontal with Humanity in all its forms. But the truth is, you can avoid the pot, most of the time.
There are different bars for different sorts: the metro bars, the dive bars, the frat bars, the wine bars. There are different neighborhoods: the gay district, the hipster ‘hood, the yuppie precinct. You can select a home in your zone of choice, frequent the most categorically predictable restaurants and bars on that same block, and for nearly all of your day, avoid those parts of humanity that make you feel uneasy or self-conscious or, simply, not quite cool enough. (For me, tattoos inspire all aforementioned emotions. They make me excited and envious and threatened, all at once.) You can stay within your tidy little box of human experience, no problem. Most of the time.
I spent two hours driving to a campground in Elk's Rump Oregon last week so I
could talk to sixty men about learning to lighten up and giggle like school
girls. This might intimidate a lesser woman, but I spend most of my spare time
at Home Depot in order to soak up testosterone (while searching for a
studfinder). So I just put on my hiking shoes , memorized some dirty jokes, and
applied my Lee Press-On boobs. When it comes to holding the attention of a large
group of men, I know the drill.
The best part of the experience was the ping pong tournament going on
when I arrived. The guys - most of whom work in the woods and can tell the
difference between bear scat and a leftover McDonald's cheeseburger - were
intense in their competition to find the best of the best. I guess when you
spend most of your day alone in the forest, it's hard to find anyone to show off
your athletic skills to. Deer and raccoons could care less if you can slam dunk
a basketball or make the perfect chip shot out of the sand. So the men were
taking the ping pong tournament VERY seriously.
The cover story
in an old issue of Time magazine I was reading recently is
titled "The Simple Life: Rejecting the Rat Race, Americans Get Back to Basics."
Symbolizing this on the cover is a picture of a pair of walking boots and a
bicycle, both looking like they cost a fortune, but what of it. It's the
thought that counts.
I don't want to
crow, but... ain't I
been living this way all along? Where's everybody been? Time surveyed 500
adults, and 69% said they want to "slow down and live a more relaxed life." And
so, we read about former corporate sharks who are now looking and acting like a
bunch of Amish. They're putting on aprons and plaid shirts and their old
knockabout pants and running little markets and cider mills. They're eating
cheese-covered casseroles. The men are shaving with brushes and soap instead of
Foamy or Edge. (For further details, see reruns of Green Acres on Nickelodeon every night.) Now I find myself on the
cusp of a trend.
Good day, readers, and I hope this story finds you well. This is the second chapter of the adventures of a comic who recently spent some time in Japan and Korea entertaining the troops. Better known as "Ten Days In Asia", our first scene last week had our protagonist at a ‘hell gig' in Chinhae, Korea. Today we find him in Osan, Korea.
TEN DAYS IN ASIA - DAY 2 - TOO MUCH-A-SOUND!
At first, I thought it was Cusan, but maybe that's because we originally flew into Busan. Anyway, the name of this place is Osan. The hotel we are assigned to for the next two days once housed "Naughty By Nature". Yeah! Jealous yet? (well by God, you should be) And to prove it, their fading promo shot adorns the wall that spirals up the stairs (and it's autographed by all the members). It's rumored that "The Beastie Boys" also stayed here. Slade swears to this, but I see no photo evidence. I pass it off as bullshit coming from another Texan.
Last weekend the city of Austin, Texas played host to an annual event
known as the Republic of Texas Biker Rally. While locals and annual
participants refer to the rally as “ROT Weekend,” the term “biker
rally” is a bit of a misnomer for what this thing really is.
You see, true bikers are a very specific breed of person. They are
individuals that exist outside of society. They don’t necessarily have
what most people would call a job. Instead they have skill sets that
they use to acquire funds that are usually given to them in the form of
cash, under the table.
They don’t vote or have social security numbers. They have
underworld connections and skin that looks like suede that has been
left out in the rain. Bikers don’t have bank accounts and some look as
though they haven’t showered since the Clinton Administration.
One
time, I knew a lady who hyphenated her last name when she got married, ending
up as Stickrod-Stewart, on purpose. No doubt she has the best sense of humor of
anyone I've ever met. It's like she wants people to make fun of her name.
Parents
should think long and hard about what to name their baby. My Mom didn't. In
fact, up until the moment I was born, I was to be named Jennifer. Legend tells
that five other girls were born that night, four of them were named Jennifer.
So, to ensure her baby girl would be unique, she Piper'd me on the fly.
"Piper?
Like, the Pied Piper?" "That's an unusual name." "Was your Dad a pilot?" "Hey,
I know someone named Piper!!"
I
hear at least one of those a day, and usually several times a day. I'm forever
being asked to clarify... "Phifer?" "Hyper?" "Pepper?"
I
work with many young people, and
I like to give them advice whether they ask for it or not.
I'm considerably older than many of these people, and while it's true
that I haven't gone anywhere or done much, I happen to have actual,
real-life experience - experience in the realm of human relations. You
don't need to crew on a fishing boat, work in a hospital emergency room
or spend a year overseas to learn this stuff. I learned most of it by
just hanging around and sitting on my ass.
Therefore I believe it's crucial that others benefit from my experience. As a matter of fact, I insist on it.
So one month ago, I launched myself into a new city. A new time zone. New coast.
New cardiovascular challenges. San Francisco's city planners disregarded all topographical factors when they plopped this city down on more than 50 hills, and my roommates apparently disregarded my atrophied lungs and calf muscles when they selected what would become my abode upon moving here - on the sheer face of one such incline.
These aren't the only adjustments. I have entered a sustainable utopia, where compost bins are cheerfully dealt out, gratis, to each residence, where recycling doesn't just refer to my best friend's annual closet clean-out (thanks, Janette!), and where I'm pretty sure the grocery clerk at Safeway gave me the stink-eye last week for buying inorganic fruit. (I believe in the environment! But I am on a budget!)
I'm not the kind of person who loses my keys. My
mind, yes, my keys, no.
So yesterday when I had to search for three hours
before I heard the sweet rattle of those keys, it was really upsetting. I just
don't have the appropriate key-finding skills that others – my husband, for
example – have honed with decades of experience. So I had a little meltdown. And
I don't think I can blame it on the hot flashes this time.
At first, I attempted to approach the problem
logically, as any good detective – Columbo, Monk, whoever is on any of the CSIs
I can't watch because just the theme music gives me nightmares – would do. I got
out a notebook and short pencil and started taking notes. I dusted the place for
prints. I patted down a few neighbors. Okay, that was just for fun, but it could
have led somewhere.
The Razor scooter, a child's best friend for many years! They go
zipping up and down sidewalks, streets, and parking lots looking for
places just steep enough for a sweet jump or a fast and smooth ride.
Days are spent cruising around the neighborhood picking up friends
along the way who are desperate to try that one last trick that they
were unable to land the night before. Dinner is ready and all the moms
and dads are calling for the return of their kids before the street
lights come on. There will always be tomorrow.
As a child I spent most of my youth jumping bikes off of ramps made of
plywood and bricks, riding my skateboard off of curbs, steps, and
sometimes just straight into the creek. A Razor scooter was not
something we had growing up in the 1970's, at least not in my
neighborhood. We had Big Wheels, dirt bikes, and skateboards.
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Living in a city, you'd think every moment would be an immersion in the melting pot; an unavoidable full-frontal with Humanity in all its forms. But the truth is, you can avoid the pot, most of the time.
The cover story
in an old issue of Time magazine I was reading recently is
titled "The Simple Life: Rejecting the Rat Race, Americans Get Back to Basics."
Symbolizing this on the cover is a picture of a pair of walking boots and a
bicycle, both looking like they cost a fortune, but what of it. It's the
thought that counts.
Good day, readers, and I hope this story finds you well. This is the second chapter of the adventures of a comic who recently spent some time in Japan and Korea entertaining the troops. Better known as "Ten Days In Asia", our first scene last week had our protagonist at a ‘hell gig' in Chinhae, Korea. Today we find him in Osan, Korea.
Last weekend the city of Austin, Texas played host to an annual event
known as the Republic of Texas Biker Rally. While locals and annual
participants refer to the rally as “ROT Weekend,” the term “biker
rally” is a bit of a misnomer for what this thing really is.
One
time, I knew a lady who hyphenated her last name when she got married, ending
up as Stickrod-Stewart, on purpose. No doubt she has the best sense of humor of
anyone I've ever met. It's like she wants people to make fun of her name.
I'm not the kind of person who loses my keys. My
mind, yes, my keys, no.
The Razor scooter, a child's best friend for many years! They go
zipping up and down sidewalks, streets, and parking lots looking for
places just steep enough for a sweet jump or a fast and smooth ride.
Days are spent cruising around the neighborhood picking up friends
along the way who are desperate to try that one last trick that they
were unable to land the night before. Dinner is ready and all the moms
and dads are calling for the return of their kids before the street
lights come on. There will always be tomorrow.
