I Played Cello in the Bobo Orchestra

IN CASE anyone (i.e. either one of you) is wondering, I had a nice time out on the town on Wednesday night. I saw the sorts of people that I wanted to see, and none that I didn't, and I suppose I'm not the first person in history to realize that stuffing is one of the best hangover cures of all time, but I sure do feel like I am. Anyway.

ON BEING HUMAN: I was listening to NPR today and I heard a segment about a famous trumpet player. When asked whether he still practiced, he said that he practices every single day. Have you ever tried to list the things that you know for certain you have done every single day of your adult life? Mine is a rather sparse, mundane collection of tasks. It reads kind of like a human's list of the biological and physiological necessities for life.

Every day of my adult life, I know I have done the following:

• Drank water
  
• Breathed
• Eaten food (well, maybe there was the occasional stomach virus/prom)
• Clothed myself
• Sheltered myself
• Spoken (maybe sometimes to nobody in particular)
  
• Walked from one place to another
  

Why can't the list be longer? I wish it were. I wish I could say that I did something "meaningful" each day, like looked at the stars or wrote in my journal or called home, but I would be lying. Looking at that measly list makes me wonder about the human capacity for doing anything with any semblance of predictability or, dare I say, fidelity, besides the absolute basics.

We leave our childhood homes in the suburbs to move into apartments far away, but only until we can afford houses in suburbs different from the ones we grew up in. We quit our jobs for better jobs, and then leave those a few years later. We end our relationships with boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, wives, and start over again with someone new. Even the permanency we bring upon ourselves - tattoos, scars, implants - can be removed when they become unwanted reminders that conjure regret.

What if the trumpet player needs to play the trumpet the way you or I need to eat or breathe, and is there something else that each of us non-trumpet players is meant to do other than just survive? If we could find that thing, that one thing we are each meant to do, would we stop all of our running around?

MAYBE, THOUGH, being an ordinary human is not as bleak as I've made it out to be here. I do sometimes derive a sense of comfort in knowing that my list is the same as so many other peoples' lists - the 275 pound NFL linebacker I'm watching on my TV right now, the 50-something year old woman with braces who bagged my groceries yesterday, my stripper neighbor who sleeps until 2:30pm most weekdays - however different our lives might in every other way.

And there is something poignant in knowing that there are people who do not or cannot do those basic things that most people do every day, almost without thinking. Walking home from the gym tonight, the bitterly cold wind whipping through my wool coat, I envisioned my toasty warm apartment and the two slices of leftover homemade pizza waiting for me in the fridge. Then I passed a man outside of the 7-11, the same man I see every day in that same spot. He can't be more than 10 years older than I am. And there he was again, laying on his side, his bare face pressed against the icy pavement, brown bagged bottle still in his hand. What I have, he does not.

I wonder if, each time he wakes up in that spot, the air in his lungs comes as a surprise to him, and I wonder how alive he must feel every morning when the sun bleeds through his eyelids and coaxes him into a new day. I walked past him tonight and thanked God for the simple things in my life that make the sheer act of living easier for me. I wonder if the man on the sidewalk gives thanks, too, for his human-sized rectangle of land, for his cup full of coins and the tattered clothes on his back. Perhaps today, that gratitude is what he and I have in common.

Thanks for the Memories

IT'S THE NIGHT before Thanksgiving and I'm back in my hometown. Ordinarily, I would be an hour away from going to bed. Instead, I am listening to Kelly Clarkson. You know why? Because I'm going out tonight. I've heard that the night before Thanksgiving is the biggest "going out" night in my hometown, and yet I've never had the pleasure. You know why? Because I don't really have any friends in my hometown. I think I peaked in college.

"Walk Away" is a great song to listen to when you're getting ready to go out, because of the "build" factor. You know what I'm talking about. It really gets you jazzed, which is important on the night before Thanksgiving if you happen to be one of those people who woke up at 4:40am to catch the Amtrak and spent the next 5 hours trying to write quarterly financial analysis reports while squeezed next to a snoring hung over college student.

But in addition to the sweetness of the build factor, I like the song because it reminds me of its corresponding music video, which is so good it sometimes makes me cry just a little (not kidding). So of course I immediately felt the urge to watch the video, and now is the moment in our program when I give thanks for YouTube.

Not only is K. Clark smokin' hot and moomoo-less, but the video itself strikes a chord because I sometimes (read: every single time I listen to my iPod) wish scenarios like the ones depicted in this video could occur in real life. Also, that cube looks exactly like mine... coincidence? I doubt it.



After I relished in those three minutes and four guilty seconds of pure pop bliss, I was reminded of another video of a strikingly similar genre, which I don't think ever made it big in the 'states. I was first introduced to it while studying in Florence, and TRL-Italia played it about 4 times an hour. Apparently the Italian version of the FCC does not mind American swear words.



After a nostalgic replay, I must say it this video not have the timing down to as pin-neat of a science as K.Clark's, but it will do in a pinch to get you pumped to go out, especially if you are either rebounding from a relationship or are slightly intimidated by the notion of hitting your hometown bar scene for the first time, ever. Note: Puddle of Mudd also rocks the "build" factor, and no moomoos.

If I have my way, in a few hours I will be using a bottle of Miller High Life as a microphone and belting out The Long Way Around, Chemical Party (the stripped version), or if they're really lucky, a little Dirt Off Your Shoulder. Create your own visual.

Inquiring Minds Need to Know

HERE ARE some conundrums (conundrae?) that have been plaguing me. I spend more time than I would like to admit thinking of the answers to these, and I have none.

• On my walk to work each morning, I pass a bus shelter with an eight foot tall billboard-like advertisement bearing a picture of a humpback whale tail receding into the ocean. Plastered across the poster are the words: "STOP WHALING." I'm sorry - who is still whaling?
• Who uses the "other" setting of the stapler, and what for?
  
• This one is a biggie: What does a radio announcer do if he or she has to sneeze in the middle of a broadcast?
• And finally (or at least for now), where do all the pigeons go at night????

My sincerest apologies if you, like me, cannot provide any insight into these mysteries of our world, for they will torment you hereto forth. Ponder on, my friends. Ponder on.

I'd Like You to Meet My Special Friend

I WENT OUT last night. I wound up at a slightly sub-par drinking establishment that thinks it's high end/exclusive but, in fact, is not. It's also the kind of place that never really intends to host a dance party, but if the music gets loud enough and the ladies in the place are on their fourth or fifth round, a few will stumble towards a less-crowded corner of the room to "dance" (i.e. teeter in place, wave their arms "sexily" above their heads, shriek if a Beyoncé song comes on, and maybe get groped). Gradually, the rest of the people at the bar get tired of making fun of the dancers and decide to migrate to the newly dubbed dance floor.

I suppose it's apropos that I spent a considerable amount of time dancing at such a place last night, since I didn't really intend to go dancing. I was wearing flats, you know? I think I understand why most men can't really dance that well. Dancing in flats is like trying to look hot while you are dancing in your work clothes (which, incidentally, I was also doing).

I do love dancing, so my solution to this momentary wardrobe/lifestyle conflict was to dance anyway but to abandon all hopes of looking even remotely cool. I went spastic. I went tribal. There was a lot of jumping, spinning, arms pinwheeling around, a lot of thumbs, some shimmying... I may have spanked myself at one point. I think I looked a lot like my dad at a wedding, or Ellen DeGeneris on speed. I did this for maybe two hours, much to the amusement of my drinking partner who watched me from the bar while talking with a guy she had just met.

Not surprisingly, it was very liberating. It was also, perhaps less predictably so, an interesting social experiment. For one, when I took a break to check on my friend, her new acquaintance eyed me with some degree of bemused sympathy, and when I introduced myself he responded in too-loud, one-syllable words as if he were trying to communicate with someone who didn't understand English. After a bit of awkward conversation, I thought, "Waaaiiit a second, does he think I'm mentally challenged?" At that moment, Dee Lite's "Groove Is In The Heart" came on, and unable to resist the urge to flail, I ran back to the dance floor, leaving my friend to explain.

DURING THIS FREAK OUT SESSION, however, I couldn't help but notice the glances in my general direction. It was a lot of the same: bemused sympathy. I started to get defensive, my internal voice firing off retorts such as, "Hey, I'm not nearly as drunk as you, a**hole," or, "Please, you think what you're doing looks normal?" and, "Oh will you just stop looking at me like I'm retarded and go back to your red bull vodka, you d-bag."

Alas, the operative word in the weary adage, "Dance like nobody's watching," is like, because inevitably if you do go so far as to take that cheesy coffee mug advice seriously, people will watch. My inner victim was throwing off my mojo, so I shut her up with a rousing celebration of Sir Mix-A-Lot's one and only chart topper.

A few men did seem interested and approached me on the dance floor (on a dare?) but were, for the most part, too shy or intimidated to attempt to upstage me. I must give credit to the guy who danced up to me with a conversation-starter that was arguably as unique as my bodily movements.

"SO," he shouted over J-Hova, "what are the five things you want to do before you die?"

(Maybe he wanted to be on the list? In any case), I thought for a minute and came back with,

• "See the Hagia Sophia,
• Try absinthe,

• Meet Tom Petty,
  
• Go scuba diving with sharks, and
• Write a book."
  

(I thought it was a pretty good list. "Clever AND a good dancer - I am a catch," said the reformed inner voice. In retrospect, though, absinthe would probably be a bad idea).

My style of dance did attract a few followers, and for this I was grateful, not because I was trying to gain approval, but because I wanted someone else to experience just how fun it could be to shed the bartifice (ˈbär-tə-fəs n. the false or insincere social behavior put on by bar goers seeking attention from the same and/or opposite sex).

At the end of the night, the music changed to the undanceable variety, signaling last call. As we filed out the door, one man turned to me and inquired, "So, what do you do?"

"Why do you ask?," I said, out of curiosity.

"You just looked pretty hyper out there. Are you a lawyer or something like that?" I'm not.

I laughed. "Something like that," I lied. I leaned in, lowered my voice to and said in a serious tone, "Actually, I work for the government." I don't.

"OH," he nodded knowingly, "That explains everything."