Jeremiah's School of Levitation
Upsy-Daisy!
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Misty Watercolored Memories
Back in my ambitious, idealistic, grandstanding youth, I used to write a column for an alternative newspaper back in the south, as well as serve as its music editor. It was a fairly popular rag--it had a circulation of 30,000 and was pretty much the only paper that served the local underground arts scene. I wrote an entire page of music happenings, which was one-third calendar, and two-thirds opinion. I also wrote about two pages of concert and record reviews and band interviews, all more about me than the music.
What that meant was that, each week, I could publish drunken, rambling, old-man-waving-a-cane diatribes of my choice, on a subject of my choice, without much fear of being edited since my editors were themselves drunken, rambling guys who were often not in a state to drive, much less edit. I did, somewhat, have to fear public repercussion from members of the local music scene, should I write something scathing, which I, of course, did frequently. My in-your-face-ness got me some scorn, but it also got me some measure of fame that, in turn, got me free drinks and adoring ladies sidling up to me at the bar, which, at age 24, are pretty much the only things I required to stay alive (well, at age 41, I can't say that I don't require the same things, but now I just don't get them...).
I did it all, now that I think on it, for no other reason than the fact that being a butthead got you more attention than being a flowerhead. Hell, I don't even know what a "flowerhead" is. I got a chance to be a grumpy critic, a curmudgeonous socialite, and a psuedo-thoughtful wordsmith, with the world as my subject matter. Everything, except myself, was a potential target.
I am reminded of this because, just yesterday, I was listening to a Depeche Mode song, "Leave In Silence," and I chuckled. Not because of the song, but because of how I floridly described the song back in my music reviewer days as "displaced, clinical, dark funk" that left you "shivering in your groove." Jeez, I loved myself. I went on to remember how I described The Sundays lead singer as having a voice that "was like having an ice cube rubbed all over you" and how I said that A Tribe Called Quest was "a little Afrocentric" with rapper Q-tip being able to "drop the temperature in a room by 10 degrees everytime he raps." I was in a full-on guffaw at myself at that point.
I then decided to pull out some of the old copies of myself and read, and wince, at my bold, alterna-literary equivalents of throwing paint against a wall and calling it genius. I did a whole column tracking the etymology of the word "fuck" (which is interesting, and which I ended by saying that "I read one quote that said it is a word that 'should not be used in polite company.' That doesn't mean that you should watch what you say. It just means that you should avoid polite company.").
I wrote a column trashing my girlfriend's ferret, which turned out to be one of the dumbest things I've ever done. It wasn't until voluminous apologies and kisses on the ferret that I was forgiven for that one--I nearly got my wish of having the ferret move out, except, she would have gone with it.
I wrote an article about a local guitarist who liked raga, except, since I never heard of raga and didn't quite hear the pronounciation right, and because Google didn't exist then, so how the heck was I going to research anything, I referred to as "araga" the whole article. His friends laughed at me the whole week (I blush to this day).
I was all over the place, and, by the time I left the paper, I had about 15,000 people glad to see me go so that they could stop entertaining thoughts of killing me (my likeness was actually burned in effigy at one local concert), and I had about the same number of people wishing me well.
My only point here is that I see that I've posted 112 times on the School of Levitation, and I will post at least 112 more and then will stop one day and then will come back and read the postings.
I wonder if I'll do the wincing I did when I read my old printed postings in the local alternative rag. I wonder if I'll go "500 words on Denise Richards! Man, that must have been a good martini." Or will I say, "Now why did I have to mention going to the toilet, of all things?" and, "I misspelled something every post!"
Don't know. But, if nothing else, just like reading my old ambitious, idealistic, grandstanding, pseudo-thoughtful self, I think I'll laugh and sprout goosebumps of embarassment at the same time. And, I'll probably realize, with some odd pride, that after all these years, I really haven't changed at all.
What that meant was that, each week, I could publish drunken, rambling, old-man-waving-a-cane diatribes of my choice, on a subject of my choice, without much fear of being edited since my editors were themselves drunken, rambling guys who were often not in a state to drive, much less edit. I did, somewhat, have to fear public repercussion from members of the local music scene, should I write something scathing, which I, of course, did frequently. My in-your-face-ness got me some scorn, but it also got me some measure of fame that, in turn, got me free drinks and adoring ladies sidling up to me at the bar, which, at age 24, are pretty much the only things I required to stay alive (well, at age 41, I can't say that I don't require the same things, but now I just don't get them...).
I did it all, now that I think on it, for no other reason than the fact that being a butthead got you more attention than being a flowerhead. Hell, I don't even know what a "flowerhead" is. I got a chance to be a grumpy critic, a curmudgeonous socialite, and a psuedo-thoughtful wordsmith, with the world as my subject matter. Everything, except myself, was a potential target.
I am reminded of this because, just yesterday, I was listening to a Depeche Mode song, "Leave In Silence," and I chuckled. Not because of the song, but because of how I floridly described the song back in my music reviewer days as "displaced, clinical, dark funk" that left you "shivering in your groove." Jeez, I loved myself. I went on to remember how I described The Sundays lead singer as having a voice that "was like having an ice cube rubbed all over you" and how I said that A Tribe Called Quest was "a little Afrocentric" with rapper Q-tip being able to "drop the temperature in a room by 10 degrees everytime he raps." I was in a full-on guffaw at myself at that point.
I then decided to pull out some of the old copies of myself and read, and wince, at my bold, alterna-literary equivalents of throwing paint against a wall and calling it genius. I did a whole column tracking the etymology of the word "fuck" (which is interesting, and which I ended by saying that "I read one quote that said it is a word that 'should not be used in polite company.' That doesn't mean that you should watch what you say. It just means that you should avoid polite company.").
I wrote a column trashing my girlfriend's ferret, which turned out to be one of the dumbest things I've ever done. It wasn't until voluminous apologies and kisses on the ferret that I was forgiven for that one--I nearly got my wish of having the ferret move out, except, she would have gone with it.
I wrote an article about a local guitarist who liked raga, except, since I never heard of raga and didn't quite hear the pronounciation right, and because Google didn't exist then, so how the heck was I going to research anything, I referred to as "araga" the whole article. His friends laughed at me the whole week (I blush to this day).
I was all over the place, and, by the time I left the paper, I had about 15,000 people glad to see me go so that they could stop entertaining thoughts of killing me (my likeness was actually burned in effigy at one local concert), and I had about the same number of people wishing me well.
My only point here is that I see that I've posted 112 times on the School of Levitation, and I will post at least 112 more and then will stop one day and then will come back and read the postings.
I wonder if I'll do the wincing I did when I read my old printed postings in the local alternative rag. I wonder if I'll go "500 words on Denise Richards! Man, that must have been a good martini." Or will I say, "Now why did I have to mention going to the toilet, of all things?" and, "I misspelled something every post!"
Don't know. But, if nothing else, just like reading my old ambitious, idealistic, grandstanding, pseudo-thoughtful self, I think I'll laugh and sprout goosebumps of embarassment at the same time. And, I'll probably realize, with some odd pride, that after all these years, I really haven't changed at all.
Elliot, 5:37 AM
2 Back at me:
You are SUCH a wonderful writer. I'll bet those drunken, rambling diatribes were great. I mean, you have to BE somebody to be burned in effigy. Would you consider posting your column tracking the etymology of the word "fuck" here in your blog. Sounds like an amusing read.
Misty: My post started with the word "misty" and you, Misty, were the first person to comment, and your compliment makes me get a little misty-eyed. That's cosmic. But, yeah, looking back is interesting because the stories reshape themselves with time and what was significant seems laughable, yet, what I thought at the time was just a passing fancy actually turned out to be The Way I Ended Up. Freaky, especially to think that in a dozen years, I'll be saying the same thing.
Lucia: Ok! I'll transcribe it one of these days. It isn't genius, and the info is dated because you can now find all of that out with a few flicks of the Google wand, but, it reads alright, so, yeah, I'll do it. And, thanks for the compliment.
Susiebadooz: My mom doesn't even know I have a blog. Anything I write besides "My wife and kids did just the most adorable thing today..." will get me a phone call.
Lucia: Ok! I'll transcribe it one of these days. It isn't genius, and the info is dated because you can now find all of that out with a few flicks of the Google wand, but, it reads alright, so, yeah, I'll do it. And, thanks for the compliment.
Susiebadooz: My mom doesn't even know I have a blog. Anything I write besides "My wife and kids did just the most adorable thing today..." will get me a phone call.
