No Bad, Just Different Shades of Good

Adverbs be damned. I've been frequently, frustratingly unemployed this year. One job here may give me a few hundred clams. Another job there may give me a few hundred more. There comes a time when you have to ask, "what's wrong with me?"

But my story isn't uncommon. That's both a relief and a cause for alarm. Young people are looking at each other, scratching their heads, and asking "what's wrong with us?" What makes our generation so underqualified? Why are college grads being forced to return to part-time jobs they once held back in high school?

Here's an article my friend Matt Brandenburgh brought to my attention. It does a far better job explaining the situation:

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/11/21/AR2009112102372.html?hpid=topnews

Guys, there is something wrong here. People say "fix the system" as if that phrase was some simple solution. Of course we should fix the system. That's obvious. The question is how do we fix things? Where do you start?

But what is most frustrating is how few people, besides that unlucky minority, really care about the situation. The other day, an employed friend told me that "unemployment was not that bad" and that the "bad times were over." What?!

Friends, this is partially what is wrong. Some of us are looking the other way. The water is on the stove, but it hasn't reached the boiling point. We can't assume there is no problem since it's not affecting us at the time. This is irresponsible and foolish and, besides the curious rise of the Twilight phenomenon, I can't think of a bigger problem plaguing our generation. Where's the fire, guys?

My father once said that the goal of each generation should be to make the next one better. That's great advice, as it provides a singular, motivating idea to drive our days. However, following that advice is might prove difficult for this generation. The problem ranges further than next week's paycheck, so much further than you care to think.

When we were young, we were told that if we stayed in line and got good enough grades, we could be "anything that we wanted to be." Well, now that we've delivered on our end of the bargain, can they, in good conscious, really say that they delivered on theirs?


Flippo

The Detour As The Destination

This week, I am compelled to look back at the four years I ran cross country in high school. That was a special time for me, one I think grows in stature as time separates it from me. Now, if baseball can "unite a nation" and a rag-tag team of misfits can "bring a town together," I don't see why my cross country days can't themselves possess a larger, mythic quality. You may not much care to hear me reminisce about events you weren't even present for. That's fine. This one is probably just for me anyway. However, I'd appreciate a companion if you have the time.

Everyday the school bell sounded for a final time at 3:15. However, a few of us weren't quite ready to call it a day. Not always eager, we threw on a pair of cruddy old sneakers and a dirty T-shirt, and we soon began a steady run around the school. We were free to run around the grounds, going wherever we wanted to as long as we achieved and maintained a steady pace.

Together, we were content enough that there was no real destination, happy to bid our time with our friends at a reasonable speed. As a metaphor for youth, that may seem a little on-the-nose. It's one I enjoy anyway.

I've never engaged in odder conversations. Youthful naivete mixed with an exhausted delirium to create one-of-a-kind exchanges. That's a fancy way to say that, more than half the time, we didn't know what the hell we were saying. I learned to joke with a quick, ferocious focus (my longer, more roundabout humor didn't work well between heavy breaths).

After a couple of years, I shed my middle school fat and was at my leanest. I became fast, something my elementary school teachers never thought possible. My mile time was eventually lowered to about five and a half minutes. That's an achievement that may seem small to some runners, but it certainly felt life-changing to me at the time.

But I started off horrible. Most all of us did. There's a learning curve. Stiches. Unexpected belly-aches. The occassional vomit. Long-distance runners experienced it all and were, in fact, glad to be experiencing it. In the moment, you were weak, but in the greater context of our running careers, we were becoming stronger by the day.

What I remember most about running is those times where you've found that steady rhythm, and all you have is your thoughts. It is the most meditative of sports. As a teenager with normal teenager problems (problems which now seem so small in context of the world at large), I had all the time I needed to sort them out. Many times, you were out there with nothing but your troubles and the steady beat of your tennis shoes on the pavement.

I love the small moments especially, those moments that still remain so vivid. They're moments that really matter only to me, which, in turn, is why I love them so much. They're those moments between friends, and those conversations you can only have after knowing a person for years. They're those times I ran alone, still overwhelmed by all I had in front of me (I'm not entirely talking about the sport here). They're those sweet, fleeting moments after the race, when the euphoria would kick in and the world's hidden threats felt distant and inconsequential.

Those small singular moments, in the context of a life, do not register with the same urgency as other, more important milestones, the ones a photographer finds fit to capture. Taken one at a time, those small moments don't mean anything. Taken together, they become the world entire.

As (most) always, here's some videos I'm digging this week.

My friend Alex alerted me of this Charlotte Gainsbourg/ Beck music video. It is called "Heaven Can Wait," and it's fairly brilliant. Watch it a few times. It's one of those neat videos where funny details and images lurk in the background, waiting for you to discover them.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KP-nVpOLW88

Here's a song that sort of moves me, though I can't fully explain why (you'll just have to click to find out the song). Boy, those lyrics are sheer nonsense, aren't they? However, since I'm a fairly nonsensical person myself, this song seems to be speaking my language. Never underestimate the nonsense. There is poetry inside.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AzlMeTxVdH8

Well, that's it for this week. Not much else to report. Down and Yonder continues and is now not just a series of scenes and notes. It's a story, Dear Reader, one I would be glad to tell you if you'd be willing to hear. Now that the connective tissue is finally showing itself, I've returned to the goal of having it done before the end of the year. For the first time in a long time, I'm hopeful and ambitious, confident but ever cautious. Feels good to be back.

Feels better to have you there with me, Dear Reader.

Flippo

And The Known Empires of the Mind

This week, I was working on Down and Yonder (60 pages in!) and listening to Nirvana's Live At Reading. It's a substantial album, fueled by both the power of the music and its own tragic context. As I was listening to it, I began to think about the albums I've played while working and the unexpected ways I may have been influenced.

Last spring, I began working on Trailer Trash Kidnapping after hearing the song "Trailer Trash" by Modest Mouse. The lyrics go like this:

Eating snow flakes with plastic forks

And a paper plate of course, you think of everything

Short love with a long divorce

And a couple of kids of course

They don't mean anything

Live in trailers with no class

goddamn I hope I can pass high school means nothing

Taking heartache with hard work

Goddamn I am such a jerk, I can't do anything

And I shout that you're all fakes

And you should have seen the look on your face

And I guess that's what it takes

When comparing your bellyaches

And it's been a long time

Which agrees with this watch of mine

And I guess that I miss you, and I'm sorry if I dissed you

I love those lyrics. They're at once universal and heartbreakingly intimate. I love the fact that it takes a lower class set of people and makes their lives mythic and large and sad. It's a nice change of pace from dumb Larry the Cable Guy-style bathroom humor. From those set of lyrics, all of Trailer Trash Kidnapping began to fall together.

Other albums I listened to during the period were MGMT's Oracular Spectacular and The Killers' Day and Age. Never in a million years would you ever be able to pick those as influences (in fact, to expect that would be absurd). However, I can feel it, rather it be a character's misplaced optimism or this knowing inevitablily that I hope can be felt throughout the entire work.

Of course, this is not a new practice. Last year, I wrote Anywhere, Illinois and Wastelanders and I feel that they were in many ways shaped by Beck's Modern Guilt, The Hold Steady's Stay Positive, and The Black Keys' Attack and Release. These albums have a youthful (though not necessarily naive) way of looking at things, and I think it shows.

Though I can't find the quote to save my life, there is a filmmaker (whose name I won't give since it may affect the way you judge the quote) who says that you have to bring everything you have to the table when writing. If someone just broke your heart, use it. If you're frustrated in your career, use it. Life is the fodder. Maybe that's all good writing is, a collection of our experiences, our influences. Maybe it's all just brain soup.

I hate it when people say they don't write about "personal things." That's silly. Writing is one of the most intensely personal things in the world. That's why so many people hate to do it. You're putting your whole self on the page, and a rejection of that feels like a rejection of you. So, if you're reading this, lighten up a little bit on the writers you know. It's tough out there, and we're a sensitive breed anyway.

Flippo