Thursday, April 12, 2007
The Art of Suspension
I'm an anthropology major. I'm still an undergrad and I've always been interested in body modification, and figured I'd study that in some capacity as a grad student as well. This semester, we had to do a project and I chose to investigate body suspension, where people are held aloft by hooks though various parts of their bodies. I've become so taken with the subject, and there's so much to learn, so I'm realizing that this semester's project will be the basis of my Master's thesis.
I figured I'd put bits and pieces of my work here.
The following is an interview with my informant, the guy who's been amazingly helpful in this whole thing:
Justin is a professional body piercer on Milwaukee's East Side. I went to his shop on a Saturday afternoon to do observation, and since it was quiet and he had no customers scheduled, Justin suggested we interview then.
Not surprisingly, I wasn't prepared, but luckily I had my microphone attachment for my iPod. We walked through the back of the shop down into the basement. Judging by the spent cigarette butts on the stairs, the basement doubles as a smoking lounge during cold winters.
I find basements terrifying, and I focused on Justin's back as he led me around the corner and past washing machines. We walked into a room set up with table and mismatched chairs and a small sofa. Justin gestured towards some equipment, what I first took as a drill press and table saw.
"This is where I grind down hooks," He explains.
I sit in a wooden chair with a velvety cushion, and he perches upon a metal fold up table and lights a cigarette. I'm nervous and clumsy and I explain I'm not prepared and apologize. He shrugs nonchalantly. Justin strikes me as the type of person who isn't easily perturbed by much. He is open and friendly, but perhaps a little reserved. He is visibly tattooed, including his neck and blade like lambchops tattooed on his face. His ear lobes are stretched to 2 inches, and he has 4 gauge plugs in his nostrils. Atop his forehead sit two transdermal steel spikes.
He's very attentive, even as he speaks, constantly watching to gauge reaction and understanding. I wonder how much of this is just his personality, and how much comes from years of piercing. He's a self taught piercer, though he did undergo an apprenticeship when in 1996, at the tender age of 16. He's been doing suspensions for 8 years. When he pierces someone, he always checks them as he prepares, making measured eye contact between each step in the process. As he prepared his partner to be suspended at the show the previous night, after each loop through the rigging, he'd stop to look at her, or to peak to her.
I ask him the standard opener, "tell me how this started for you."
He talks about remembering shows on the Discovery Channel and National Geographic specials. We laugh, it seems like a lot of us come to body modification through those specials.
This part of our conversation is lost due to user error, I forgot to press record. He did find someone to suspend him and he got to go up on his 21st birthday. He remembers this with a smile, and the significance of his first suspension on his 21st birthday is clear. He stayed up for three hours that first time. He remarked that the pain didn't last long, that wasn't even an issue, because then he was flying.
I reach to press record as he tells me how suspensions became spiritual for him, a "therapy as a tool to get through certain things in life." Each one of his personal suspensions is different for him, sometimes he finds once he's up, it doesn't feel right and he'll come down. Other times, he'll suspend someone and then decide he "might as well go up."
I ask how many people work with him. He explains that he sometimes has six or more, but there are also people he brings in that aren't necessarily in his group. He explains that in order to be a part of the suspension group for performances, an individual must be experienced. He says that he'll "do a bunch of suspensions on one person over time." Justin needs to feel comfortable that the individual can handle being around a crowd. He talks about people having stage fright or panic attacks.
He becomes earnest talking about the responsibility for those people he suspends, both publicly and privately. He leans elbows on knees and says,
"You know, you're responsible for that experience. You're responsible if it's bad or good and where it takes them in life and for how many people I've hung, I've got a lot of fucking responsibility on me! ...Some people go downhill afterwards....What we call Post Suspension Depression...You're having such a great time and you're hanging and you're feeling so good and stuff, and you know, sometimes after a show or something, that feeling's gone and you can't quite get it back."
Suspension isn't only the physical thing, there's also a very real mental and emotional aspect. Justin is aware that as much as they toy with ways of suspending people and making a bigger, more spectacular show, it's also very serious, and he doesn't take his responsibilities lightly.
"We're not freaks," he explains, "People think we're absolutely crazy for doing this, or it's a slight against god...it's not...We're just going for our own experiences, enjoyment and, you know, putting on a good show!"
I figured I'd put bits and pieces of my work here.
The following is an interview with my informant, the guy who's been amazingly helpful in this whole thing:
Justin is a professional body piercer on Milwaukee's East Side. I went to his shop on a Saturday afternoon to do observation, and since it was quiet and he had no customers scheduled, Justin suggested we interview then.
Not surprisingly, I wasn't prepared, but luckily I had my microphone attachment for my iPod. We walked through the back of the shop down into the basement. Judging by the spent cigarette butts on the stairs, the basement doubles as a smoking lounge during cold winters.
I find basements terrifying, and I focused on Justin's back as he led me around the corner and past washing machines. We walked into a room set up with table and mismatched chairs and a small sofa. Justin gestured towards some equipment, what I first took as a drill press and table saw.
"This is where I grind down hooks," He explains.
I sit in a wooden chair with a velvety cushion, and he perches upon a metal fold up table and lights a cigarette. I'm nervous and clumsy and I explain I'm not prepared and apologize. He shrugs nonchalantly. Justin strikes me as the type of person who isn't easily perturbed by much. He is open and friendly, but perhaps a little reserved. He is visibly tattooed, including his neck and blade like lambchops tattooed on his face. His ear lobes are stretched to 2 inches, and he has 4 gauge plugs in his nostrils. Atop his forehead sit two transdermal steel spikes.
He's very attentive, even as he speaks, constantly watching to gauge reaction and understanding. I wonder how much of this is just his personality, and how much comes from years of piercing. He's a self taught piercer, though he did undergo an apprenticeship when in 1996, at the tender age of 16. He's been doing suspensions for 8 years. When he pierces someone, he always checks them as he prepares, making measured eye contact between each step in the process. As he prepared his partner to be suspended at the show the previous night, after each loop through the rigging, he'd stop to look at her, or to peak to her.
I ask him the standard opener, "tell me how this started for you."
He talks about remembering shows on the Discovery Channel and National Geographic specials. We laugh, it seems like a lot of us come to body modification through those specials.
This part of our conversation is lost due to user error, I forgot to press record. He did find someone to suspend him and he got to go up on his 21st birthday. He remembers this with a smile, and the significance of his first suspension on his 21st birthday is clear. He stayed up for three hours that first time. He remarked that the pain didn't last long, that wasn't even an issue, because then he was flying.
I reach to press record as he tells me how suspensions became spiritual for him, a "therapy as a tool to get through certain things in life." Each one of his personal suspensions is different for him, sometimes he finds once he's up, it doesn't feel right and he'll come down. Other times, he'll suspend someone and then decide he "might as well go up."
I ask how many people work with him. He explains that he sometimes has six or more, but there are also people he brings in that aren't necessarily in his group. He explains that in order to be a part of the suspension group for performances, an individual must be experienced. He says that he'll "do a bunch of suspensions on one person over time." Justin needs to feel comfortable that the individual can handle being around a crowd. He talks about people having stage fright or panic attacks.
He becomes earnest talking about the responsibility for those people he suspends, both publicly and privately. He leans elbows on knees and says,
"You know, you're responsible for that experience. You're responsible if it's bad or good and where it takes them in life and for how many people I've hung, I've got a lot of fucking responsibility on me! ...Some people go downhill afterwards....What we call Post Suspension Depression...You're having such a great time and you're hanging and you're feeling so good and stuff, and you know, sometimes after a show or something, that feeling's gone and you can't quite get it back."
Suspension isn't only the physical thing, there's also a very real mental and emotional aspect. Justin is aware that as much as they toy with ways of suspending people and making a bigger, more spectacular show, it's also very serious, and he doesn't take his responsibilities lightly.
"We're not freaks," he explains, "People think we're absolutely crazy for doing this, or it's a slight against god...it's not...We're just going for our own experiences, enjoyment and, you know, putting on a good show!"
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Ain't Livin Right
I've spent the last few bits of time fogged out. There's way too much for me to think about, and I don't know where to begin. All these thoughts spin themselves around in my head. Linking first to the next into this tapestry of impending doom.
I truly have no idea how I'm supposed to be living my life. I mean, obviously, I know the logical stuff, the things that everyone knows you should do. So, I'm in school doing the undergrad thing. I'm back at the work thing.
I work in investments, and I major in Anthropology. I want to be a writer. Somehow it could work, right. I could link it all together.
I've got myself down one path towards livin' right. At least the economics of life are lined up. 401k, IRA. fI'll be making a pretty comfortable living, to where I can actually save! That's a cool concept, being able to have more than $0.01 in my savings account. So, I'm thinking, put $X aside, and in n months, I might could move to a bigger space.
As much as I'm still intending on building my kitty cat paradise, a studio apartment and do fat cats do not mix. I've nowhere to stash them when they get annoying. They can pry the bathroom door open, closet's out now since Hector decided all those piles of clothing make wonderful piss catchers. And seriously, nothing ruins the mood quicker than "mmmMEOWWwww" and two cats chasing each other over and around you. But I digress.
A side effect of my "employee" status is sleep deprivation. Trying to manage work from morning:30 to dusk and school from dusk:30 to night SUCKS! Sucks. I wonder if people know I'm falling asleep while they talk to me. This woman is telling me that when I transfer Mutual Funds into a client's account I need to walk slowly across the savannah, else the meerkats will hear us and retreat into their burrows. Once they're down in that network of holes we can't transfer from a Simple IRA into a Roth because of federal regulations.
And on top of that, I'm feeling this increasing desire to be part of a couple. Why is this? Where is this coming from? I don't understand why suddenly this friends with benefits thing isn't enough.
I had it all figured out. Relationships are dumb, a waste of time. Love is lame. All I need are my kitty cats, a bowl and sex.
And how long did that last? 7 months?? 7 months after declaring my relationship-free stance, I want to be a girlfriend again. I'm disappointed in myself. I didn't even make it a year!! God damn, I guess I can't change that girly part of me. I can't deny that I want to be loved. And it sucks. Because if that's the case, I am doomed.
I suck at relationships. I do. I'm a mess as it is, but relationships through in a whole new set of crap to be neurotic about. Do I stink, does he like when I do this, I hope I don't burn it, did he like cans or bottles. Is he going to be mad if I don't want to hang out with him, does he snore? I'm clingy, then detached. Pull you close, push you away. Cry and fight. There's way too much at stake to be part of a couple, and I'm fairly certain I can't live up to those expectations.
And they just don't work! How can something founded on a fairy tale work out? Soul mates? Forever ever after in love? It doesn't happen, it can't happen.
But I still want to do it. How the fuck does that make sense?
Cue non stop circular thinking and whipping myself into a frenzy of insecurity.
I think I've figured it out, though. I'm going to keep going with school. Put aside money, so eventually I can move into a 2 bedroom place. Now, as for my Anthropology degree, I'm really feeling I'd like to get my masters, so I could go out into the field. There's a good two years before I need to worry about that, since I only can go to school part time. By then, I'll have a nice wad of dough saved up to take with me when I go to Africa to work on a Master's degree. I can totally buy a baby AND a Rhodesian Ridgeback. That should help press snooze on this biological clock thing. Maybe I'll even meet a nice native to bring back. He'll be so dizzy from the cultural shock to notice I'm a nut, and by the time he does, I'll probably be sick of him anyway.
I truly have no idea how I'm supposed to be living my life. I mean, obviously, I know the logical stuff, the things that everyone knows you should do. So, I'm in school doing the undergrad thing. I'm back at the work thing.
I work in investments, and I major in Anthropology. I want to be a writer. Somehow it could work, right. I could link it all together.
I've got myself down one path towards livin' right. At least the economics of life are lined up. 401k, IRA. fI'll be making a pretty comfortable living, to where I can actually save! That's a cool concept, being able to have more than $0.01 in my savings account. So, I'm thinking, put $X aside, and in n months, I might could move to a bigger space.
As much as I'm still intending on building my kitty cat paradise, a studio apartment and do fat cats do not mix. I've nowhere to stash them when they get annoying. They can pry the bathroom door open, closet's out now since Hector decided all those piles of clothing make wonderful piss catchers. And seriously, nothing ruins the mood quicker than "mmmMEOWWwww" and two cats chasing each other over and around you. But I digress.
A side effect of my "employee" status is sleep deprivation. Trying to manage work from morning:30 to dusk and school from dusk:30 to night SUCKS! Sucks. I wonder if people know I'm falling asleep while they talk to me. This woman is telling me that when I transfer Mutual Funds into a client's account I need to walk slowly across the savannah, else the meerkats will hear us and retreat into their burrows. Once they're down in that network of holes we can't transfer from a Simple IRA into a Roth because of federal regulations.
And on top of that, I'm feeling this increasing desire to be part of a couple. Why is this? Where is this coming from? I don't understand why suddenly this friends with benefits thing isn't enough.
I had it all figured out. Relationships are dumb, a waste of time. Love is lame. All I need are my kitty cats, a bowl and sex.
And how long did that last? 7 months?? 7 months after declaring my relationship-free stance, I want to be a girlfriend again. I'm disappointed in myself. I didn't even make it a year!! God damn, I guess I can't change that girly part of me. I can't deny that I want to be loved. And it sucks. Because if that's the case, I am doomed.
I suck at relationships. I do. I'm a mess as it is, but relationships through in a whole new set of crap to be neurotic about. Do I stink, does he like when I do this, I hope I don't burn it, did he like cans or bottles. Is he going to be mad if I don't want to hang out with him, does he snore? I'm clingy, then detached. Pull you close, push you away. Cry and fight. There's way too much at stake to be part of a couple, and I'm fairly certain I can't live up to those expectations.
And they just don't work! How can something founded on a fairy tale work out? Soul mates? Forever ever after in love? It doesn't happen, it can't happen.
But I still want to do it. How the fuck does that make sense?
Cue non stop circular thinking and whipping myself into a frenzy of insecurity.
I think I've figured it out, though. I'm going to keep going with school. Put aside money, so eventually I can move into a 2 bedroom place. Now, as for my Anthropology degree, I'm really feeling I'd like to get my masters, so I could go out into the field. There's a good two years before I need to worry about that, since I only can go to school part time. By then, I'll have a nice wad of dough saved up to take with me when I go to Africa to work on a Master's degree. I can totally buy a baby AND a Rhodesian Ridgeback. That should help press snooze on this biological clock thing. Maybe I'll even meet a nice native to bring back. He'll be so dizzy from the cultural shock to notice I'm a nut, and by the time he does, I'll probably be sick of him anyway.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Breaking Up is Hard to Do
The past few weeks I've spent hanging out with a nice African American fellow. It had been a long time since I've dated a black dude, so it was sort of nice at first.
No one paid any attention to us as we walked around. No dirty looks out in the suburbs.
It sounds terrible, I know, but I loved watching him dance. It angers me that I have no sense of rhythm. But him. Oh wow. I love to catch him unawares, lost in the beat while we waited for the light to turn green. He'd notice me watching, and he'd stop, confused. I sheepishly told him I liked watching him dance and he started doing it all the time, consciously, so it wasn't as awesome anymore.
He'd dance with me around my tiny apartment. I'd put on something from my meager hiphop collection, or he'd plug in his iPod, and we'd be off. I could almost believe that I could dance, I could have rhythm, if I'd only stop being so damn self-conscious. Then I'd stumble and giggle, and the dance would end.
Eventually, it became clear to me that we had nothing in common. It became obvious that I didn't want to put in any effort because aside from novelty value, I had no interest in him. It sounds so bad, but it's true. I like to talk a lot, and I couldn't find anything to talk to him about because I was so...uninterested.
I'd avoided his calls for a couple days because I wasn't sure of the protocol. I mean, we weren't really dating. He had a girlfriend and everything. We've only known each other a few weeks, so is it shitty to talk about it on the phone? And, what do you call it? Are we breaking up? How does one go about terminating whatever kind of relationship we had? Oof.
So, I called him. Since I told him the night before I'd call him back in a few minutes. Plus, I'm a wuss and the phone is easier. I thought it wouldn't be nice to make him drive to my house so I could dump him. I kinda suck.
Anyway. I tell him that I don't think we should hang out anymore, which leads to an hour long discussion. I swear, no telephone call in the history of my life has been so irritating and baffling and hilarious all at the same time.
He asked me why I hadn't been talking to him, what was going on with me, so I told him, I didn't think we should kick it anymore. (It's important in these trying times that I use words I felt he'd be familiar with.) I told him I felt bad about his lady.
I really thought I'd be ok hanging out with a taken man, because it would take the pressure off of me, right? No way could I fall in love with a dude who has a lady. And since he had a lady, why does he give a shit if I don't want to be his lady on the side anymore? I felt like an asshole.
He told me I shouldn't worry about that, she has nothing to do with us. I tried a different tactic. I pointed out the fact that we have nothing in common.
He replied, "How do you know? We haven't gone anywhere together to know that. We haven't taken a trip or spent any long period of time together."
Whaa?
"We've only been knowing each other for 3 weeks. This is like a 3 month conversation. You don't know all that yet. You're overthinking this."
I tried to explain our differences in values. He likes nice cars with rims and TVs in the visor. I think TVs in cars is ridiculously unnecessary. I told him the concept of buying Jordans was stupid. It's cool if that's the sort of shit you're into. I am not.
I don't know, it sounds very silly as I relay it. And kind of snooty, no? But, whatever, how can I kick it with someone who thinks a line like, "You can't see me. Nigga, you like 14 days, You too weak," is a dope line? Especially followed up by equally clever lines about 16 bullets to your dome. If that's your thing, awesome. I can only take so much...
So, on and on for an hour, wondering why I'm explaining to a dude who has a girlfriend why I couldn't kick it with him anymore.
Then he says, "So what do you want to do?"
"I already told you. I don't think we should kick it anymore."
"That's what you think. I asked you what do you want to do?"
"Uh. We shouldn't see each other anymore..."
"That's what we shouldn't do. What do you want to do?"
"Are you fucking kidding me?! Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously, what do you want to do?"
"I DON'T WANT TO KICK IT WITH YOU ANYMORE!!!"
"Is that your final answer?"
Seriously.
No one paid any attention to us as we walked around. No dirty looks out in the suburbs.
It sounds terrible, I know, but I loved watching him dance. It angers me that I have no sense of rhythm. But him. Oh wow. I love to catch him unawares, lost in the beat while we waited for the light to turn green. He'd notice me watching, and he'd stop, confused. I sheepishly told him I liked watching him dance and he started doing it all the time, consciously, so it wasn't as awesome anymore.
He'd dance with me around my tiny apartment. I'd put on something from my meager hiphop collection, or he'd plug in his iPod, and we'd be off. I could almost believe that I could dance, I could have rhythm, if I'd only stop being so damn self-conscious. Then I'd stumble and giggle, and the dance would end.
Eventually, it became clear to me that we had nothing in common. It became obvious that I didn't want to put in any effort because aside from novelty value, I had no interest in him. It sounds so bad, but it's true. I like to talk a lot, and I couldn't find anything to talk to him about because I was so...uninterested.
I'd avoided his calls for a couple days because I wasn't sure of the protocol. I mean, we weren't really dating. He had a girlfriend and everything. We've only known each other a few weeks, so is it shitty to talk about it on the phone? And, what do you call it? Are we breaking up? How does one go about terminating whatever kind of relationship we had? Oof.
So, I called him. Since I told him the night before I'd call him back in a few minutes. Plus, I'm a wuss and the phone is easier. I thought it wouldn't be nice to make him drive to my house so I could dump him. I kinda suck.
Anyway. I tell him that I don't think we should hang out anymore, which leads to an hour long discussion. I swear, no telephone call in the history of my life has been so irritating and baffling and hilarious all at the same time.
He asked me why I hadn't been talking to him, what was going on with me, so I told him, I didn't think we should kick it anymore. (It's important in these trying times that I use words I felt he'd be familiar with.) I told him I felt bad about his lady.
I really thought I'd be ok hanging out with a taken man, because it would take the pressure off of me, right? No way could I fall in love with a dude who has a lady. And since he had a lady, why does he give a shit if I don't want to be his lady on the side anymore? I felt like an asshole.
He told me I shouldn't worry about that, she has nothing to do with us. I tried a different tactic. I pointed out the fact that we have nothing in common.
He replied, "How do you know? We haven't gone anywhere together to know that. We haven't taken a trip or spent any long period of time together."
Whaa?
"We've only been knowing each other for 3 weeks. This is like a 3 month conversation. You don't know all that yet. You're overthinking this."
I tried to explain our differences in values. He likes nice cars with rims and TVs in the visor. I think TVs in cars is ridiculously unnecessary. I told him the concept of buying Jordans was stupid. It's cool if that's the sort of shit you're into. I am not.
I don't know, it sounds very silly as I relay it. And kind of snooty, no? But, whatever, how can I kick it with someone who thinks a line like, "You can't see me. Nigga, you like 14 days, You too weak," is a dope line? Especially followed up by equally clever lines about 16 bullets to your dome. If that's your thing, awesome. I can only take so much...
So, on and on for an hour, wondering why I'm explaining to a dude who has a girlfriend why I couldn't kick it with him anymore.
Then he says, "So what do you want to do?"
"I already told you. I don't think we should kick it anymore."
"That's what you think. I asked you what do you want to do?"
"Uh. We shouldn't see each other anymore..."
"That's what we shouldn't do. What do you want to do?"
"Are you fucking kidding me?! Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously, what do you want to do?"
"I DON'T WANT TO KICK IT WITH YOU ANYMORE!!!"
"Is that your final answer?"
Seriously.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
I Crack Myself Up
The other night, my new friend came over, and we were progressing to some intimate contact. There had been music playing in the background. I don't normally care about background noise, since I'm usually focused on other things anyway. But, the music ended while we were still in the beginning stages, and the silence apparently bothered my friend. He asked me to put something else on.
He's a hiphop head, and he said, "None of your music now."
"Oh, so I can't put on Nine Inch Nails?"
"Ha! No, none of that. Put on some hip hop."
"Ok. I got just the thing." I giggled as I said it.
"Oh no..."
I put on dead prez. They're a very political, black power kind of hiphop. They describe themselves as somewhere between NWA and Public Enemy. And they are awesome.
I picked "I'm A African" just because I love that song. It's heavy thumping drums, distorted machine gun sounds, yelling about being African. It's harsh, definitely not a sexy song. So of course I had to sing along...
"Nigga the red is for the blood in my arm
The black is for the gun in my palm
And the green is for the tram that grows natural
Like locks on Africans
Holdin the smoke from the herb in my abdomen..."
He just looked at me.
I laughed and said, "Come on now. Put it on me wi' yo' African ass!"
Sex should be fun, right?
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Smacked Up.
Apparently, I talk too much for the people over at italk2much.com
I asked to be reviewed, and mine was posted on Sunday. My template is boring, and for it, I received zero smacks. I'm apparently entertaining, but "way entirely too fucking long." So, no smacks, but two stars.
Cool.
In other news, I got The Polyphonic Spree's Together We're Heavy and OutKast's Idlewild. Both are awesome and fun and make me want to dance around. Wee.
I asked to be reviewed, and mine was posted on Sunday. My template is boring, and for it, I received zero smacks. I'm apparently entertaining, but "way entirely too fucking long." So, no smacks, but two stars.
Cool.
In other news, I got The Polyphonic Spree's Together We're Heavy and OutKast's Idlewild. Both are awesome and fun and make me want to dance around. Wee.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Benny & Joon: My Mom is a Nutcase - Vol. IV
"Has your mom told you about her newest scheme," my stepfather asked me one afternoon. I'd called to find out what I was supposed to bring for dessert that weekend.
"Oh no," I sighed. "What's she into now?"
"Well, there's been a parakeet flying around the yard the past couple days..."
"Aw! Poor birdie! He must have escaped from someone."
"Yea, your mom's worried he's going to starve to death, so she's trying to capture him," he chuckled a bit, "she was out there with a net the other day! She couldn't catch him, so she went out and got a great big birdcage to trap him in. It's hanging in a tree out back."
He laughed harder. This distinctive chuckle I've come to recognize as his my wife's so cute laugh. Often heard when she mispronounces American words in her little Italian accent.
"We bought some trouts from Door County. . .Those noisy kids are so obnochiss..."
When I arrived that weekend, my mom was outside waiting for me. After big hugs and kisses, I asked her to tell me about this parakeet.
She became very animated, "Oh, he's so cute! I heard him singing out there, and I thought poor thing, he must have gotten away from somebody. I've been trying to catch him, but he keeps getting away from me."
"Stepdad told me you set a cage out there?"
"Oh yea! I put food in there, and little toys. But he still wouldn't go in there! I don't see if he goes to the feeders either! Poor thing."
I laugh at the frustration creeping in her voice. And I understand, because I know I'd be trying to save the poor bird myself.
We had parakeets for most of my life. Tweety, who was green and white. I had him when I was probably 9 or 10. I tasted his birdseed. He lived in a cage suspended from the ceiling, and I didn't pay much attention to him. He died while we were away on vacation and he had to stay at my friend's house. I was pretty sure there was some foul play involved. How does a parakeet just die? Especially when he was fine before we left. They just gave us back his empty cage. Spotless.
Then I got Sassy a year or so later. I didn't know he was a boy until I got a book on parakeets from a rummage sale later that summer. Turns out, the ones with the bright, colorful feathers and the blue nostrils are boys. We kept his name Sassy, anyway.
My mom loved George Michael, and she would blast his magnum opus Faith while we cleaned the house. Sassy would go nuts, flapping his wings, running back and forth in his cage. He's shriek at the top of his little lungs for the duration of the song. We'd marvel at how much Sassy loved it.
My grandmother had come to visit the next summer, and she remarked that Sassy always sat in front of his mirror, singing to himself. She said he was probably sad and lonely, and we should get him a girlfriend. We bought Bianca. She was the muted blue female to his bright blue male.
Sassy was in love, and kissed and groomed her constantly. Sometimes she kissed him back, sometimes she thumped him on the head. They created quite a ruckus and shed a flock's worth of feathers everyday.
They stayed behind with my mom and my brother when I moved out. Sassy died when I was 19 or so. My brother called me after it happened. Poor Sassy was an old man.
Bianca came to live with my boyfriend and I about a year or so later. He decided Bianca was a stupid name, and named her Birdie. He thought Birdie should have a companion, so we bought George.
Birdie pecked George's head all the time. She attacked him when he tried to eat. She kept her foot on his back when she slept. George died a week after meeting Birdie.
Four years later, I woke up to Birdie sitting on the floor of her cage. She couldn't jump up on her bar, and made miserable squawking noises. I called a bird vet and they told me she probably had a stroke and she was going to die. She was an old birdie after all. And she did die a few hours later. I watched her take her last breath.
I could sympathize with my mom trying to catch this poor budgie. After all, he'll just die out there in the wild!
"Hopefully, Joon will help me catch him," mom says.
"June?"
"No, Joon! I bought a little girl parakeet to lure Benny in. I named the other parakeet Benny."
"OH! That Johnny Depp movie...I don't remember that much about it..."
"Well, I bought Joon and Benny has been hanging around her! It's so cute! They sing to each other. He sits in the tree right by her and serenades her."
We approach a cluster of short, dense trees. She's hung a large square finch's cage inside of which there's a smaller ornate parakeet cage inside of which is a little yellow parakeet.
Clever.
"Does he go in there?"
"Oh yea! Lots of birds do." She had food dishes inside both of the cages. "And then, at night I put her in the shed, so that if he goes in to sleep with her, I might be able to catch him. So far he's been to fast for me! He should get used to me soon, though."
"Then you're going to keep them in the cage? In the house, or what?"
"Well, yea, in the house at night and when it gets cold. But, they can stay out there for the summer days, that way they can listen to the other birds."
I called her a couple of days later to get an update on the Benny and Joon saga.
"I let them go."
"What?! You let them go?"
"I know! I felt bad...I was telling the doctor that I work with about the birds and how I tried to catch Benny so he wouldn't die. And he said something that really touched me...He said, 'would you rather live free for a few months or spend a few years locked up in a cage.' I felt so bad after that, I just went outside and opened the door for Joon to get out."
"Wow."
"I know...And you know what? I looked it up online, and I read that sometimes parakeets join groups of sparrows and migrate with them."
"I didn't know that..." I tried to look that up online, and I got nothing. I need to ask her what her search criteria were.
"Yup, isn't that neat? So they might be ok!"
"Maybe they'll come back next year with their babies!"
"That would be so neat!"
They didn't come back, and that made me a little sad. Maybe they liked it so much down south, they didn't want to come back.
"Oh no," I sighed. "What's she into now?"
"Well, there's been a parakeet flying around the yard the past couple days..."
"Aw! Poor birdie! He must have escaped from someone."
"Yea, your mom's worried he's going to starve to death, so she's trying to capture him," he chuckled a bit, "she was out there with a net the other day! She couldn't catch him, so she went out and got a great big birdcage to trap him in. It's hanging in a tree out back."
He laughed harder. This distinctive chuckle I've come to recognize as his my wife's so cute laugh. Often heard when she mispronounces American words in her little Italian accent.
"We bought some trouts from Door County. . .Those noisy kids are so obnochiss..."
When I arrived that weekend, my mom was outside waiting for me. After big hugs and kisses, I asked her to tell me about this parakeet.
She became very animated, "Oh, he's so cute! I heard him singing out there, and I thought poor thing, he must have gotten away from somebody. I've been trying to catch him, but he keeps getting away from me."
"Stepdad told me you set a cage out there?"
"Oh yea! I put food in there, and little toys. But he still wouldn't go in there! I don't see if he goes to the feeders either! Poor thing."
I laugh at the frustration creeping in her voice. And I understand, because I know I'd be trying to save the poor bird myself.
We had parakeets for most of my life. Tweety, who was green and white. I had him when I was probably 9 or 10. I tasted his birdseed. He lived in a cage suspended from the ceiling, and I didn't pay much attention to him. He died while we were away on vacation and he had to stay at my friend's house. I was pretty sure there was some foul play involved. How does a parakeet just die? Especially when he was fine before we left. They just gave us back his empty cage. Spotless.
Then I got Sassy a year or so later. I didn't know he was a boy until I got a book on parakeets from a rummage sale later that summer. Turns out, the ones with the bright, colorful feathers and the blue nostrils are boys. We kept his name Sassy, anyway.
My mom loved George Michael, and she would blast his magnum opus Faith while we cleaned the house. Sassy would go nuts, flapping his wings, running back and forth in his cage. He's shriek at the top of his little lungs for the duration of the song. We'd marvel at how much Sassy loved it.
My grandmother had come to visit the next summer, and she remarked that Sassy always sat in front of his mirror, singing to himself. She said he was probably sad and lonely, and we should get him a girlfriend. We bought Bianca. She was the muted blue female to his bright blue male.
Sassy was in love, and kissed and groomed her constantly. Sometimes she kissed him back, sometimes she thumped him on the head. They created quite a ruckus and shed a flock's worth of feathers everyday.
They stayed behind with my mom and my brother when I moved out. Sassy died when I was 19 or so. My brother called me after it happened. Poor Sassy was an old man.
Bianca came to live with my boyfriend and I about a year or so later. He decided Bianca was a stupid name, and named her Birdie. He thought Birdie should have a companion, so we bought George.
Birdie pecked George's head all the time. She attacked him when he tried to eat. She kept her foot on his back when she slept. George died a week after meeting Birdie.
Four years later, I woke up to Birdie sitting on the floor of her cage. She couldn't jump up on her bar, and made miserable squawking noises. I called a bird vet and they told me she probably had a stroke and she was going to die. She was an old birdie after all. And she did die a few hours later. I watched her take her last breath.
I could sympathize with my mom trying to catch this poor budgie. After all, he'll just die out there in the wild!
"Hopefully, Joon will help me catch him," mom says.
"June?"
"No, Joon! I bought a little girl parakeet to lure Benny in. I named the other parakeet Benny."
"OH! That Johnny Depp movie...I don't remember that much about it..."
"Well, I bought Joon and Benny has been hanging around her! It's so cute! They sing to each other. He sits in the tree right by her and serenades her."
We approach a cluster of short, dense trees. She's hung a large square finch's cage inside of which there's a smaller ornate parakeet cage inside of which is a little yellow parakeet.
Clever.
"Does he go in there?"
"Oh yea! Lots of birds do." She had food dishes inside both of the cages. "And then, at night I put her in the shed, so that if he goes in to sleep with her, I might be able to catch him. So far he's been to fast for me! He should get used to me soon, though."
"Then you're going to keep them in the cage? In the house, or what?"
"Well, yea, in the house at night and when it gets cold. But, they can stay out there for the summer days, that way they can listen to the other birds."
I called her a couple of days later to get an update on the Benny and Joon saga.
"I let them go."
"What?! You let them go?"
"I know! I felt bad...I was telling the doctor that I work with about the birds and how I tried to catch Benny so he wouldn't die. And he said something that really touched me...He said, 'would you rather live free for a few months or spend a few years locked up in a cage.' I felt so bad after that, I just went outside and opened the door for Joon to get out."
"Wow."
"I know...And you know what? I looked it up online, and I read that sometimes parakeets join groups of sparrows and migrate with them."
"I didn't know that..." I tried to look that up online, and I got nothing. I need to ask her what her search criteria were.
"Yup, isn't that neat? So they might be ok!"
"Maybe they'll come back next year with their babies!"
"That would be so neat!"
They didn't come back, and that made me a little sad. Maybe they liked it so much down south, they didn't want to come back.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Saturday In the Park.
My brother James calls up, impatience coloring his voice, "Where are you? We're downstairs."
"I'm halfway down the steps now." I forget how close he lives by automobile, and I always think I can run back and get one more thing, and oh! I forgot my Carmex, do I have my glucometer, I should bring some sunglasses. He's always downstairs waiting before I'm ready.
I hit the front door, and there's the car full of boys. It's Mike's car. Mike is James' high school buddy, he's a Spaniard. Call him anything else, and he might cut ya. But, he's a cool kid, if a bit quiet. He'd come to visit and stay for hours, not saying more than a few words the whole time. It's not a big deal, that's just Mike. He married his high school sweetheart. It would be sweet if they weren't so miserable.
Then there's Joe. Joe is James' roommate and he pisses me off. A lot. He's Korean, adopted by white parents. He's a conspiracy theorist. It's strange because he and I started out asking the same sorts of questions. Where's god? Does he give a crap? Why are people so fucked up? He went the conspiracy, fucked up government route, I went the scientific, cultural studies approach. He's a smart guy, but sometimes I want to punch him. Of course the government lies to us. There are some thing outside of your control, and I figure you should do the best you can to live life within those constraints. Or, at the very least, if you feel that strongly about it, do something! Crimeny, get involved in Amnesty International, or politics or something.
I hop in, and make my apologies. Mike is blasting some choice 80s music. Caribbean Queen to be precise. I laugh and the four of us start singing. Mike gets heated talking about how today's music sucks so much ass and sometimes he needs to go back to the fuckin' music he grew up with. He's 23. I laugh at how he already sounds like an old man, talking about kids these days. No wonder he and James are such good friends. They're both old souls. I can see them at 40 yelling at kids to get off their lawns.
I've never been a passenger to Mike's driving. He's not so quiet when he's on the road. I heard all manner of profanity delivered in the dulcet tones of a man on a murderous rampage. The freeway system is destroyed by construction, has been and will continue to be for a couple of years. Mike can't understand why people can't fucking drive when there's fucking construction on the goddamn road. It's not that fucking hard, it's too bad you can't just ram stupid motherfuckers. Like that idiot on the motorcycle in shorts and no fucking helmet. Jesus Christ.
We're heading to another city for Nate's party. He's moving to Alabama in a few weeks for work. This is another of James' friends that I've come to know over the years. It's about an hour drive, so we share a joint and sing. Mike and the Mechanics. Eddie Money. Dire Straits.
We pull into a public park. His family had rented the entire park, it seemed. They had two baseball diamonds, basketball courts, as well as the clubhouse available for us. They had all manner of outdoor games set up, footballs, frisbees and a beer pong table.
I'm excited for the beer pong. I've never seen it, only read about it. All I really knew was that it was a drinking game that may or may not involve ping pong balls.
It's amazing how complicated it all is. And disgusting. So, they have a table set up, with three triangles on either end. These triangles are the traced outline of the thing you use to rack pool balls. There are two teams of two, and two ping pong balls, which are to be bounced in the direction of opposing team's beer cup. If it lands therein, you must drink. When you lose, you drink all the beers left. There are some more rules pertaining to bouncing and catching, but it's a lot of extra effort to drink lots of beer.
Mike and I exchange the 'white people are so weird' glance that will become the theme of the afternoon.
Neither he nor I drink, so we sit off to the side to watch the first of many beer pong games. I gross out at how the ball bounces all over the ground, the guys pick it up, rub it all over their sweaty shirts, and throw it again. They fish the ball out of their cups with their grubby hands and drink! Guys are nasty.
On one toss, James grabs his cup, lifts it to his lips and stops suddenly to dig around in it. "There's a spider in here," he announces. He doesn't even take the spider out, he pushes it off to the side, drinks the brew, then whips the spider out afterward.
Later on some girls play. One girl gets a cup filled with water to wash the balls off after she pulls them out of her beer. This cracks me up. It just bounced all over the ground before it landed in your beer! Kids these days.
After the game, James announces he's not chugging anymore Pabst, and we go check out the other games.
There are several pitching games set up. A few with the bean bags that you have to underhand onto a platform. You make more points if the bag goes in the hole. We were meh on that one.
We get wrapped up in a ladder game. That's what I'm calling it, anyway. So, there are bolo like things, basically two rubber balls connected with a cord. You whip those across the field onto a ladder. If it wraps around the top, 3 points, middle is 2, bottom is one. We just whip the balls and laugh. Mike and I discuss how we feel like we're at carnival. All we needed were some stuffed animal prizes. A drunk and disheveled looking bear for the beer pong champions. A Brewers bear for the softball champions.
"It's so organized!" He exclaims, "Any other party in a park I've been to, the fuckin' kids run around all wild and the grown ups stand around getting hammered."
Then Nate shows us the game that would occupy us the rest of the day.
Washers. Great googly moogly this game is fun!
Two boxes placed about 20 feet apart. In the middle of these boxes is a cup. You have three 2 inch washers that you have to pitch into the box across from you. You cup your hand backwards like a chimp and lay the washer against your fingers, then whip them up and over. 1 point in the box, 3 in the cup. I know it sounds silly, but damn if the four of us didn't spend hours playing.
Nate briefly explained the exceedingly complicated rules and hurried off. We were playing kinda silly at first, throwing the washers, then walking across to retrieve them, then throwing them back. Joe suggested each team stay on one side, and we'd just throw the washers back and forth. Leave it to the Asian to find an efficient way to play Washers. Turns out, we were still doing it wrong, but who cares. James even tried throwing it overhand, basketball style.
I loved it because I get easily frustrated with games, and end up quitting after a while. I get entirely too pissed off and it's no longer fun. Then I whip the controller/ball/paddle whatever across the room and storm out screaming "I hate this game." But not with washers, oh no, this made me want to keep going. I must get that washer in the cup! I did feel kinda crappy that James and I were teamed up and I was stinking up the joint. He was a good sport about it, though. We decide that we need to take this game to the city! This is a game that should be shared with everyone, not just the suburban people who go camping.
James and Joe decide to play another game of beer pong. They ask if Mike and I are going to come.
"Nah dude, I'm about to hit up that playground," Mike says.
"Hell yea!" I chime in, "I love swings!"
James and Joe laugh at us as we scurry to the swingset. We hop on silently, and swing up and out. The swings are creaky and annoying, so we slow to a stop, marveling at how much playgrounds have changed since we were kids.
There is a nice squishy surface beneath the woodchips. The chains on the swings are coated in thick plastic. No more pinched skin between chin links. No more rust stains on your hands. There's a gazebo like building, which is an enormous sandbox, complete with fixtures for sifting the dirt. There's a jungle gym, set up to look like a ship, with periscopes, ramps, steering wheels and rope ladders. There's a monkey bar section with a handle that you can zip across from one end to another. A loop with circles for you to climb on to and across. There are three wheels mounted to the underside of the bar, so you can hang and spin. We lament that fact that there isn't a merry go round.
"Not enough fucking opportunities for kids to hurt themselves anymore." Mike declares. He swears a lot around the kids. I feel bad for them, but I'm sure they heard it before. I wonder, though, as the parents start shuffling their kids away from us and towards the pirate ship. I figure if it was that big of a deal, the moms would have spoken up, right?
Mike and I settle into our swings and commence to chat.
I get into how my last relationship ended. He's shocked and disgusted at how easily people are willing to let relationships go. Then we talk about his marriage. It's scarily similar to my first relationship. I was with him from 16-26. The difference is, I didn't marry him. Other than that, it's almost a rerun of my life. Slowly, he lets out that he doesn't know what to do. He's unhappy, and he's still at that point where he doesn't want to give up, but he's realizing that maybe that's his only choice. I know how hard it is for him to say it. It took me years to admit that to myself, and more years to make the choice to end the relationship.
That's a fucked up place to be. For years, this person is a part of your life. You essentially grow up together. Then you start to wake up to the fact that all you have left is familiarity. You don't have anything in common, you don't even really talk anymore. You just exist together. And you wonder if this is all there is. Is this how relationships turn out? It's sad, and it's a letdown, especially if you believed in romantic ideals when you started out.
Eventually we lapse into silence, swaying on our swings, lost in thought. James walks up, with a plateful of food.
"Lunch is here, fools!" He gives me a quizzical look.
"We were talking about how I ended up back in Milwaukee. He didn't know I moved back."
"That's what you were talking about this whole time? Ha. I thought you fuckers were over here falling in love or some shit."
Nate's dad asks me if I'd like to go for a motorcycle ride. Of course I would. Motorcycles are awesome. He tells me he'll be right back, and hurries away. I look at Mike and we laugh.
"It really is like a carnival! We have rides and everything!"
While we wait for Nate's dad, we talk about all the terrible motorcycle accidents we've heard about. Road rash and totaled bikes. But we all agree that we still think about getting a motorcycle someday.
Nate's dad comes around the corner on a BMW cruising bike. With smooth jazz blaring from the speakers. I'm suddenly embarrassed. It looks like I'm the only one going for a ride. I look at James and Mike, momentarily terrified.
"Is that Sade? Is Nate's dad hitting on me?!" I run off towards my ride. Turns out, he just loves his bike and jumps on any opportunity to make someone ride with him.
I feel like I'm in a movie, cruising around this subdivision with laid back saxophone as our soundtrack. We fly past wooded areas and well manicured lawns. While on our cruise, I decide I need a boyfriend with a motorcycle. It would be so much more fun if my driver was a hot guy for me to wrap my arms around.
As we come back around to the park, I see a Black fellow coming out to bring his puppy back inside. I smile and wave. He grins broadly and waves back. I love the instant camaraderie that comes from being the only brown people in an area. I think he was just as surprised to see me as I was him.
Back at the party, the family is bringing out dessert. Cake and watermelon. "Ice cold watermelon!" Nate's mom hollers.
As she walks past people, they take yummy slices off the plate. Everyone is slurping happily, going on and on about how terrific the watermelon is. And I want some, but I decline. I can't eat watermelon in public! How stupid is that? Every single person there had some, but I just couldn't do it. I'm an idiot. I really need to get over this racial fixation I have. It's summertime, everyone eats watermelon. Why would they be snickering, "look at the black girl! They really do love watermelon" when they're eating it too?
We then decide to play some more Washers. After a while, Nate comes around to get in a game with us. He and Joe were on one team, and Mike and I were another. James decided to be the photographer. The way it's set up, one person from each team is on one side, so Nate and I were paired up. I decide to tell Nate he has pretty eyes, because he does.
Nate has played countless games of beer pong at this point, so he stumbles a bit and says, "Really?"
Then he walks up, two inches from my face and stares at my eyes.
"Aren't my eyes just like yours?"
"Ha! No...Nate, my eyes are brown."
"So're mine! Look!" He opens them wide.
"Your eyes are green, babe." I say, laughing.
"Nuh uh!" He protests. He gets a bit closer. "Look! Brown, like yours."
"No, yours are green AND brown. You have a rim of brown by your pupil and then some green and then another ring of brown."
"Wow! Really?! I didn't know that, I'm gonna have to look in the mirror later."
At this moment it occurs to me we're standing two inches apart and the other three guys are 20 feet away wondering what's happening. I look over and Mike and Joe are confused and snickering. My brother doesn't seem to be amused.
He yells out, "Hey man! Back up off my sister!"
Now I'm flustered and blow my first three washer pitches. James abandons his photographer post and comes to stand by Nate and I. He's not saying anything, just standing there. He walks off to grab one of the bolos from the other game. He stands, watching Nate and I, flipping the bolo like some nunchakus. (I had no idea until today that it wasn't spelled nunchucks.)
"You can fuck somebody up with one of these things," he says offhandedly. He's 6'3 to mine and Nate's 5'5. And he has a second degree blackbelt. Very casually, he whips the bolo back towards the ladder.
I'm a little nervous, because I can't really tell if James is pissed off. At the same time, I think it's sweet that he's subtly threatening bodily harm to a dude he's been friends with for years.
Mike and I rally for the win. I am awesome at this game! I figure it's Nate's inebriation, not my brother's martial arts demonstration that ruins the game for him. Either way, victory is sweet.
I apologize to Nate. I tell him I hope my brother doesn't give him a hard time because I was flirting with him.
He stares at me for a second. "Wait. You were?!"
I laugh really long and hard. I hope James doesn't say anything to him. Poor guy didn't even know what was happening.
In the end, we all wish Nate luck, say to keep in touch. I give him a nice hug. I hope he realizes it means, "call me. Don't tell James."
"I'm halfway down the steps now." I forget how close he lives by automobile, and I always think I can run back and get one more thing, and oh! I forgot my Carmex, do I have my glucometer, I should bring some sunglasses. He's always downstairs waiting before I'm ready.
I hit the front door, and there's the car full of boys. It's Mike's car. Mike is James' high school buddy, he's a Spaniard. Call him anything else, and he might cut ya. But, he's a cool kid, if a bit quiet. He'd come to visit and stay for hours, not saying more than a few words the whole time. It's not a big deal, that's just Mike. He married his high school sweetheart. It would be sweet if they weren't so miserable.
Then there's Joe. Joe is James' roommate and he pisses me off. A lot. He's Korean, adopted by white parents. He's a conspiracy theorist. It's strange because he and I started out asking the same sorts of questions. Where's god? Does he give a crap? Why are people so fucked up? He went the conspiracy, fucked up government route, I went the scientific, cultural studies approach. He's a smart guy, but sometimes I want to punch him. Of course the government lies to us. There are some thing outside of your control, and I figure you should do the best you can to live life within those constraints. Or, at the very least, if you feel that strongly about it, do something! Crimeny, get involved in Amnesty International, or politics or something.
I hop in, and make my apologies. Mike is blasting some choice 80s music. Caribbean Queen to be precise. I laugh and the four of us start singing. Mike gets heated talking about how today's music sucks so much ass and sometimes he needs to go back to the fuckin' music he grew up with. He's 23. I laugh at how he already sounds like an old man, talking about kids these days. No wonder he and James are such good friends. They're both old souls. I can see them at 40 yelling at kids to get off their lawns.
I've never been a passenger to Mike's driving. He's not so quiet when he's on the road. I heard all manner of profanity delivered in the dulcet tones of a man on a murderous rampage. The freeway system is destroyed by construction, has been and will continue to be for a couple of years. Mike can't understand why people can't fucking drive when there's fucking construction on the goddamn road. It's not that fucking hard, it's too bad you can't just ram stupid motherfuckers. Like that idiot on the motorcycle in shorts and no fucking helmet. Jesus Christ.
We're heading to another city for Nate's party. He's moving to Alabama in a few weeks for work. This is another of James' friends that I've come to know over the years. It's about an hour drive, so we share a joint and sing. Mike and the Mechanics. Eddie Money. Dire Straits.
We pull into a public park. His family had rented the entire park, it seemed. They had two baseball diamonds, basketball courts, as well as the clubhouse available for us. They had all manner of outdoor games set up, footballs, frisbees and a beer pong table.
I'm excited for the beer pong. I've never seen it, only read about it. All I really knew was that it was a drinking game that may or may not involve ping pong balls.
It's amazing how complicated it all is. And disgusting. So, they have a table set up, with three triangles on either end. These triangles are the traced outline of the thing you use to rack pool balls. There are two teams of two, and two ping pong balls, which are to be bounced in the direction of opposing team's beer cup. If it lands therein, you must drink. When you lose, you drink all the beers left. There are some more rules pertaining to bouncing and catching, but it's a lot of extra effort to drink lots of beer.
Mike and I exchange the 'white people are so weird' glance that will become the theme of the afternoon.
Neither he nor I drink, so we sit off to the side to watch the first of many beer pong games. I gross out at how the ball bounces all over the ground, the guys pick it up, rub it all over their sweaty shirts, and throw it again. They fish the ball out of their cups with their grubby hands and drink! Guys are nasty.
On one toss, James grabs his cup, lifts it to his lips and stops suddenly to dig around in it. "There's a spider in here," he announces. He doesn't even take the spider out, he pushes it off to the side, drinks the brew, then whips the spider out afterward.
Later on some girls play. One girl gets a cup filled with water to wash the balls off after she pulls them out of her beer. This cracks me up. It just bounced all over the ground before it landed in your beer! Kids these days.
After the game, James announces he's not chugging anymore Pabst, and we go check out the other games.
There are several pitching games set up. A few with the bean bags that you have to underhand onto a platform. You make more points if the bag goes in the hole. We were meh on that one.
We get wrapped up in a ladder game. That's what I'm calling it, anyway. So, there are bolo like things, basically two rubber balls connected with a cord. You whip those across the field onto a ladder. If it wraps around the top, 3 points, middle is 2, bottom is one. We just whip the balls and laugh. Mike and I discuss how we feel like we're at carnival. All we needed were some stuffed animal prizes. A drunk and disheveled looking bear for the beer pong champions. A Brewers bear for the softball champions.
"It's so organized!" He exclaims, "Any other party in a park I've been to, the fuckin' kids run around all wild and the grown ups stand around getting hammered."
Then Nate shows us the game that would occupy us the rest of the day.
Washers. Great googly moogly this game is fun!
Two boxes placed about 20 feet apart. In the middle of these boxes is a cup. You have three 2 inch washers that you have to pitch into the box across from you. You cup your hand backwards like a chimp and lay the washer against your fingers, then whip them up and over. 1 point in the box, 3 in the cup. I know it sounds silly, but damn if the four of us didn't spend hours playing.
Nate briefly explained the exceedingly complicated rules and hurried off. We were playing kinda silly at first, throwing the washers, then walking across to retrieve them, then throwing them back. Joe suggested each team stay on one side, and we'd just throw the washers back and forth. Leave it to the Asian to find an efficient way to play Washers. Turns out, we were still doing it wrong, but who cares. James even tried throwing it overhand, basketball style.
I loved it because I get easily frustrated with games, and end up quitting after a while. I get entirely too pissed off and it's no longer fun. Then I whip the controller/ball/paddle whatever across the room and storm out screaming "I hate this game." But not with washers, oh no, this made me want to keep going. I must get that washer in the cup! I did feel kinda crappy that James and I were teamed up and I was stinking up the joint. He was a good sport about it, though. We decide that we need to take this game to the city! This is a game that should be shared with everyone, not just the suburban people who go camping.
James and Joe decide to play another game of beer pong. They ask if Mike and I are going to come.
"Nah dude, I'm about to hit up that playground," Mike says.
"Hell yea!" I chime in, "I love swings!"
James and Joe laugh at us as we scurry to the swingset. We hop on silently, and swing up and out. The swings are creaky and annoying, so we slow to a stop, marveling at how much playgrounds have changed since we were kids.
There is a nice squishy surface beneath the woodchips. The chains on the swings are coated in thick plastic. No more pinched skin between chin links. No more rust stains on your hands. There's a gazebo like building, which is an enormous sandbox, complete with fixtures for sifting the dirt. There's a jungle gym, set up to look like a ship, with periscopes, ramps, steering wheels and rope ladders. There's a monkey bar section with a handle that you can zip across from one end to another. A loop with circles for you to climb on to and across. There are three wheels mounted to the underside of the bar, so you can hang and spin. We lament that fact that there isn't a merry go round.
"Not enough fucking opportunities for kids to hurt themselves anymore." Mike declares. He swears a lot around the kids. I feel bad for them, but I'm sure they heard it before. I wonder, though, as the parents start shuffling their kids away from us and towards the pirate ship. I figure if it was that big of a deal, the moms would have spoken up, right?
Mike and I settle into our swings and commence to chat.
I get into how my last relationship ended. He's shocked and disgusted at how easily people are willing to let relationships go. Then we talk about his marriage. It's scarily similar to my first relationship. I was with him from 16-26. The difference is, I didn't marry him. Other than that, it's almost a rerun of my life. Slowly, he lets out that he doesn't know what to do. He's unhappy, and he's still at that point where he doesn't want to give up, but he's realizing that maybe that's his only choice. I know how hard it is for him to say it. It took me years to admit that to myself, and more years to make the choice to end the relationship.
That's a fucked up place to be. For years, this person is a part of your life. You essentially grow up together. Then you start to wake up to the fact that all you have left is familiarity. You don't have anything in common, you don't even really talk anymore. You just exist together. And you wonder if this is all there is. Is this how relationships turn out? It's sad, and it's a letdown, especially if you believed in romantic ideals when you started out.
Eventually we lapse into silence, swaying on our swings, lost in thought. James walks up, with a plateful of food.
"Lunch is here, fools!" He gives me a quizzical look.
"We were talking about how I ended up back in Milwaukee. He didn't know I moved back."
"That's what you were talking about this whole time? Ha. I thought you fuckers were over here falling in love or some shit."
Nate's dad asks me if I'd like to go for a motorcycle ride. Of course I would. Motorcycles are awesome. He tells me he'll be right back, and hurries away. I look at Mike and we laugh.
"It really is like a carnival! We have rides and everything!"
While we wait for Nate's dad, we talk about all the terrible motorcycle accidents we've heard about. Road rash and totaled bikes. But we all agree that we still think about getting a motorcycle someday.
Nate's dad comes around the corner on a BMW cruising bike. With smooth jazz blaring from the speakers. I'm suddenly embarrassed. It looks like I'm the only one going for a ride. I look at James and Mike, momentarily terrified.
"Is that Sade? Is Nate's dad hitting on me?!" I run off towards my ride. Turns out, he just loves his bike and jumps on any opportunity to make someone ride with him.
I feel like I'm in a movie, cruising around this subdivision with laid back saxophone as our soundtrack. We fly past wooded areas and well manicured lawns. While on our cruise, I decide I need a boyfriend with a motorcycle. It would be so much more fun if my driver was a hot guy for me to wrap my arms around.
As we come back around to the park, I see a Black fellow coming out to bring his puppy back inside. I smile and wave. He grins broadly and waves back. I love the instant camaraderie that comes from being the only brown people in an area. I think he was just as surprised to see me as I was him.
Back at the party, the family is bringing out dessert. Cake and watermelon. "Ice cold watermelon!" Nate's mom hollers.
As she walks past people, they take yummy slices off the plate. Everyone is slurping happily, going on and on about how terrific the watermelon is. And I want some, but I decline. I can't eat watermelon in public! How stupid is that? Every single person there had some, but I just couldn't do it. I'm an idiot. I really need to get over this racial fixation I have. It's summertime, everyone eats watermelon. Why would they be snickering, "look at the black girl! They really do love watermelon" when they're eating it too?
We then decide to play some more Washers. After a while, Nate comes around to get in a game with us. He and Joe were on one team, and Mike and I were another. James decided to be the photographer. The way it's set up, one person from each team is on one side, so Nate and I were paired up. I decide to tell Nate he has pretty eyes, because he does.
Nate has played countless games of beer pong at this point, so he stumbles a bit and says, "Really?"
Then he walks up, two inches from my face and stares at my eyes.
"Aren't my eyes just like yours?"
"Ha! No...Nate, my eyes are brown."
"So're mine! Look!" He opens them wide.
"Your eyes are green, babe." I say, laughing.
"Nuh uh!" He protests. He gets a bit closer. "Look! Brown, like yours."
"No, yours are green AND brown. You have a rim of brown by your pupil and then some green and then another ring of brown."
"Wow! Really?! I didn't know that, I'm gonna have to look in the mirror later."
At this moment it occurs to me we're standing two inches apart and the other three guys are 20 feet away wondering what's happening. I look over and Mike and Joe are confused and snickering. My brother doesn't seem to be amused.
He yells out, "Hey man! Back up off my sister!"
Now I'm flustered and blow my first three washer pitches. James abandons his photographer post and comes to stand by Nate and I. He's not saying anything, just standing there. He walks off to grab one of the bolos from the other game. He stands, watching Nate and I, flipping the bolo like some nunchakus. (I had no idea until today that it wasn't spelled nunchucks.)
"You can fuck somebody up with one of these things," he says offhandedly. He's 6'3 to mine and Nate's 5'5. And he has a second degree blackbelt. Very casually, he whips the bolo back towards the ladder.
I'm a little nervous, because I can't really tell if James is pissed off. At the same time, I think it's sweet that he's subtly threatening bodily harm to a dude he's been friends with for years.
Mike and I rally for the win. I am awesome at this game! I figure it's Nate's inebriation, not my brother's martial arts demonstration that ruins the game for him. Either way, victory is sweet.
I apologize to Nate. I tell him I hope my brother doesn't give him a hard time because I was flirting with him.
He stares at me for a second. "Wait. You were?!"
I laugh really long and hard. I hope James doesn't say anything to him. Poor guy didn't even know what was happening.
In the end, we all wish Nate luck, say to keep in touch. I give him a nice hug. I hope he realizes it means, "call me. Don't tell James."
