Moojinorbit

I woke up this morning to the most curious infusion of music. The “shuffle” function on my iPod was off, which meant that when my iPod-driven alarm clock went off at 6:15, it started through my music collection alphabetically by artist. Thus, songs by the following paraded into my dreams:

Abba
Aerosmith
Aimee Mann
Air Supply
Al Green

It’s strange to be taken from Dancing Queen, into Sweet Emotion, into Wise Up and then Lost in Love, but somehow it all made sense.

Marshall wants to hear about “the process” and the “insights,” and I got that for ya.
Mom wants to know how my dad’s 80th birthday party in Cheyenne went, and I got that too.
This morning, however, I gotta get back on the professor horse and find a way through week 8 of 10, so I can get this quarter closer to over, when what I really want to do is crawl back into bed and cycle through

Alana Davis
Alanis Morrisette
Alicia Keyes.

I’ve been dying to post about some stuff I’m working through, but haven’t been able to figure out a way to do it until, perhaps, now. (And I may regret this.) For the last couple weeks I’ve been on what you might call a “steep learning curve” about my relationship choices, and for reasons you might be able to guess at, that’s a potentially sticky topic for blogging. A lot of these (you) truly beautiful folks remain in my life–a fact for which I’m grateful. The challenge, as I see it, is to write meaningfully about the me-part without seeming to launch a smear campaign against the them-part. Believe me, the only person truly relevant to this analysis is moi.

But here’s maybe one way to approach the topic: via analogy.

We might say, for example, that if the stock market were a place where I sought payoff via dividends in healthy, committed relationship, I’d've lost a hell of a lot of funds in ill-chosen investments by now. If Vegas were the venue, I’d be that mascara-smudged lady gambling until 6 a.m. until even her gas card was at its limit. If chocolate were the (primary) demon, I’d be 400 lbs with a third-eye zit in the middle of my forehead.

To give it a visual, if the culmination of 15 years of my major relationship choices were encapsulated in a celebrity, she might look like this:

Yeah, that would be Michele Rodriguez. Hot, tough, tomboy pretty, and (drum roll…) recently caught red-handed in a DUI. Her third DUI, which means girl’s gon’ be doin’ some time (and one cellmate’s going to win the lottery). Given such data, I’m thinking that in celebrity-dating-fantasy-land, my girlfriend version of Michelle–after the routine eighteen months of dating, right before she promptly bails the relationship to chase after some random–would look a little like this:

Yup. I’d, so to speak, eventually find myself looking down the barrel of her gun. (Quiz for Nanny trivia masters: what ex girlfriend who doesn’t read this blog does the photo above most resemble?)

Okay, but let’s say my relationship choices (what my therapist calls my “mastery experience” patterns–i.e., the repetitive behavior I keep seeking out until I LEARN THE BLOODY LESSON ALREADY) could be likened unto a male celebrity? Hmm…who would it be. Well, two come to mind. There’s this guy:

Note the cocky smirk, the bedeviling eyes, edged with charm, humor, seductive inaccessibility. Think of the endless tabloid images of said celebrity happily throwing the frisbee on the beach in Malibu, doing sit ups in the sand, pounding up Malibu hills with Lance Armstrong. It’s not like he’s a drug addict! He’s a healthy guy! The very picture of masculine vivacity. He’s just a free spirit, not one to be chained. That guy.

Or maybe it’d be this one:

Owen Wilson, funny guy with wounded soul.

But, nah, that’s way too obvious for me. If I were going for obvious wounded-soul guy I’d take the brilliant daddy of ‘em all, hands down:

Robert Downey Jr. would kick Owen Wilson’s ass at a karaoke party, and mama likes that.

So, you may be wondering, which celebrity are you, Miss Smarty Pants? What celebrity baggage are you going to claim on that emotional turnstile?

Well, I was thinking about that on the way home today. Sometimes I feel like:
You know, just a bumbling idiot of a train wreck, banging into wall after wall of her own bizarre psyche.

Sometimes I feel like Cher,
holding onto the wheels of her dignity, or whatever you’d call that, despite it all. (Cough.) Being willing to laugh at the bumps in the road with a toss of the wig and continue to reinvent herself (and her vag). But still kind of, you know, not getting it right even as the years pass.

Mostly, heartfully, though, it’s Sheryl Crow I’d like to have a glass of wine with. I feel like I get that one.

You remember, the 40-something Aquarius smart-creative girl, who keeps getting so close but never quite finds the deal sealed? One minute she’s cheering her soulmate on from the tops of the French Alps, and the next she’s kind of, you know, standing there with her head spinning? And so she goes back to the drawing board and makes another album and survives some serious surgery and then decides to quit waiting and adopt her own kid. Never married; Sheryl Crow! Unbelievable.

I’m thinking she’s working through a whopper of a Mastery Experience, because if someone that beautiful and talented can’t seem to figure the partner thing out either, well…But, then again, what are the ‘right’ choices? I don’t fricking know.

I do know, though, that while we’re trying to figure that out, Sheryl’s a good guide to me because she keeps on doing this, really, really well, and that’s gotta count for something–doing the things you do well even when you’re half-blind on the other paths. Also, I would kill for her collection of bell bottoms.

Finally, I’ve got to give a shout out to a celebrity who has gracefully made it through more than I can imagine. This one (also an Aquarius) has lived through what would for me be “worst nightmare scenario”–multiplied by a million, advertised around the world. I don’t care how  much money she’s got in the bank; there’s no way it could compensate for the way her life’s disappointments have been plastered on every tabloid in sight for years. And if she has to face all that as somehow a product of her choices, her responsibility…well, damn, that seems like an awfully bitter pill to swallow. Girl, more power to you. I know you deserve so, so much better, Jennifer Anniston.

Anyway, so there’s a start on that topic.

Yes, I realize it’s been awhile since the last post. As much as I love the blog–one of the great things I look forward to in life– I’ve had some other priorities elbowing out my post time. For example: grading, course prep, more grading, taking students on religious field trips on weekends, painting in my new “creativity center” in the basement, grading, sketching a super-skinny nude guy in a life drawing session with Andria last night, and, oh, bartending at the Magnolia.

Which is what I want to post on as I sneak time in between classes today.

I know I’m still an amateur in the bartending field (though I’m getting much smoother, I must say), but I’m not an amateur in the practice of social observation, and, let me tell you, being behind the bar at weddings is one prime vantage point for watching the social rituals of the fascinating cultural environment that is American weddings. Well, I should be more precise: the weddings of white Anglo Saxonish Protestants, which, from what I can tell, are the only ones I’ve had the opportunity to observe at the Mag so far. (Yes, there’s been one African-American groom at that first wedding, and his people added a touch of soul that has been lacking at the subsequent events I’ve attended, but the rest of the party was way WASPy, so I lump it in that category.) I haven’t done a Jewish wedding yet (can’t wait), or a Latino one, or an African immigrant one, but I promise to post when I get that lucky.

Meanwhile, four weddings down and I’m observing some distinct social types–characters that emerge repeatedly in the ‘white wedding’ milieu. The bartender position, while not allowing for participant-observation in the central circle of the event, does provide a unique node for ethnography, a lens from which to observe these types. People’s “bar moments” are interstices in the wedding–moments in which the flow of the event is temporarily paused or shifted from the perspective of the participant. S/he comes to the bar for a drink, and in those moments, takes a few breaths, glances at the wedding from a couple steps “outside,”has an opportunity to engage with someone separate from the wedding circle (the bartender), maybe concocts a new strategy for reentering the scene, and in that “crack” in the event, frequently, briefly lets down his/her guard.

In these interstices, we bartenders get a glimpse of who people ‘really are’ (for the moment) and how they are relating to the wedding psychologically, socially, emotionally. Yes, they are just moments, but through a series of such moments over an arc of four or five hours, you really start to see fascinating patterns. Now that I can make most drinks without fixating on whether I will be successful or not, I can enjoy them.

So, tell me if you recognize anyone in these types:

SDG - Stonefaced Drinker Guy. At the last wedding I worked on Saturday night, this was the guy who ordered 5 or 6 double Jack and cokes over the course of the evening and never for a moment seemed drunk. He was also the only guy not wearing a tie, he had a shaved head, and looked like he was going to ride off on a Harley. Oddly, he was probably the most dignified person in the room.

YWW - Young Working on Wasted. When the bride and groom are under 30 and not rabidly religious, this category encompasses almost everybody in the room, and this is true whether or not there is an open bar. I did not realize, prior to this job, how much weddings function for so many heterosexuals as open season on being as wasted as possible on their friends’ dime. I thought frat parties were bad, but they’ve got nothing on the manic, get-me-another-drink-ASAP vibe of weddings full of young people. The YWWs are the first to the bar and the last to be pried off it, sticky fingernails digging in for dear life. Only maybe half of them tip decently and about 10% get increasingly aggressive with their orders as the night wears on. Female YWWs are fun when they start using your name and come to you to help give them soda water to sop up the stains on their cute dresses.

GOG - Generous Old Guy. This figure is a prize for every bartender. Usually an old friend of the bride or groom’s father, this guy is, I think, looking for inconspicuous ways to demonstrate his loyalty to the family. He casually strolls up to the bar, tips a twenty or two, thanks you for your service, and wanders off, maybe with a Scotch on the rocks. I love that guy.

FSTG - Fat Slutty Tipsy Gal. At this point, I think I could pick out this one from across the street. Not much to notice at first, just a chubby, usually young woman ordering, say, a Captain Morgan’s and pineapple and politely pulling the tip out of her cleavage. But fast foward to after dinner and girl’s getting her buzz on. By the time the dancing starts (three drinks later) she’s got cannonball energy, blasting recklessly through the crowd and colliding with men of all shapes and sizes. Shaking her shimmy with mighty abandon, curvy parts bounding out of low cut dresses, she sweats and winks and flirts her heart out. Some guys bite, some flatten against the wall. Nevertheless, I think this girl gets taken home from weddings a lot by male YWWs, but I worry about what happens after that and how she feels about herself in the morning.

ARP - Anxious Recovering Person. This male or female approaches the bar solemnly and in precise 45-minute intervals to order their Shirley Temple, Diet Coke, or soda water. The wedding thing has got to be a nightmare for them; how to live through all this free flowing alcohol, all these drunk idiots, with handcuffs on? It’s a brutal realism, and I admire the stamina.

SDGG - Self-Designated Groomside Guy. You know the guy who drags five groomsmen to the bar and makes them all hammer shots? That’s this guy. He feels he’s failed as a friend if he doesn’t organize this time-tested ritual, and even if 60% of the guys are gagging visibly as they choke down their shot of Crown Royal (?), he’s gonna make it happen. He also, always, is yelling.

SABB - Self-Appointed Bridesmaid Bitch. I see this one coming and I reposition myself, let the other bartender take her. Good Lord, she’s bossy. She barks her own drink orders and insists that all service come to a halt when the bride needs a drink. Okay, fine. But later she’s the one causing the drama when she doesn’t feel appreciated or hasn’t gotten enough attention. This usually means flirting unabashedly with one of her friends’ husbands, then frothing about something unrelated or tearing up and woefully apologizing when her needy ass gets called on it.

MOB - Mother of Bride. Anxious, tightly strung, tight updo, ordering water most of the night, until she slings back a glass of hard stuff at the end.

BUL - Bitter Unmarried Lady. The strange thing is that these women are often some of the most attractive ones in the place, or at least I think so. Usually 40-ish and gorgeously styled, they can be obnoxious or not; it depends. But there is (if I’m not just projecting) an underlying exasperation bubbling under their smooth surface, which isn’t disguised (or is perhaps revealed) in the cool, determined way in which they dispense with their drink of choice–usually vodka martinis. Also, BULs are reliable and generous tippers even if they may wait until they’re done drinking and tip a ten at the end. I often see them engaged in what appear to be intense conversations with men, but leaving alone in the end.

DCG - Drunk Crazy Grandma. Last week the DCG was shaking her bahdumpadump up against men 50 years her junior–to Timbaland beats, throwing her head back and cackling with pleasure. LOVED her.

Okay, I don’t want to make you tired by going on, because Lawd knows I have categories to add to this list and more tales to tell. Let’s just say that if a wedding is a fishbowl with a lot of fish and a big plastic castle inside, I’m having a heck of a time peering into that universe, suckers and all. Weddings are joyful celebrations, sure. But they are also a vortex of anxiety, insecurity, bravado, and social awkwardness. A total circus. I can’t wait for the next one.

I got a last-minute free ticket through a colleague to see Al Gore doing An Inconvenient Truth in person at the Convention Center two nights ago. Rode my bike downtown, and home in the dark thanks to my new head and tail lights. Pretty Sweet.

I’d been avoiding seeing the movie, fearing it would spiral me into one of my famous apocalyptic fixations, like the one that woke me in the night with nuclear holocaust nightmares for about 10 years of my life, or the one about earthquakes before that. Armageddon despair at the insanely distructive capacity of humans. And I was pretty much reminding myself to breathe throughout Gore’s presentation, so I got through it semi-intact. I only lost it at the end when he answered a question written on a card by a 7 year-old girl named Kate in the audience:

“Will there be polar bears when I grow up?”

Let’s just say that even with his hope, the answer wasn’t good. 

At this point in my life, I can handle the possibility of humankind being wiped off the planet from our own collective irresponsibility. There’s some master karmic logic in that; we (at least we in the so-called West where we’ve set loose an unhinged capitalism to ravage the world in the name of profit) deserve it. We know better than to pile filth in our own home. There are just repercussions. I trust that the earth would survive us and repair herself if we parasites were eliminated. What’d we ever do for her anyway? We’re like a bad case of scabies. Or leprosy.

But bringing innocent wild animals down with us? I can’t deal with the polar bear and penguin stuff. It kills me to see polar bears at the edge of floating icebergs wondering what the F has happened to the very ground beneath them. Frogs disappearing, fish becoming extinct. It’s too much.

I won’t take you any further down that dark road Kate’s question led to.

Pedaling home through the dark streets, though, I nursed a fantasy: There’s got to be some way I can unplug from everything I’m doing now and join the revolution. Go where people are paying attention, where people are organizing, where I might be of some use. Ditch the job, the mortgage, the student loans, the ridiculousness of academia, the complacent students, high tail it to somewhere I could really matter. Join up with the radical vanguard, help bring on The Shift. Turn all energies to the thin possibility of collective turnaround.

Yeah, Revolution. Stop the insanity and turn all energies to one goal. I’ll sleep wherever, with the comrades. Fight the good fight. Unplug from all this oblivious business-as-usual. Get my hands dirty.

Several black blocks flew by under my blinking bicycle lights. Panting, listening to The Call to Action.

And then a gentle voice in my head (not Jesus, silly; maybe Nanny-Jesus) reminded me: you already are on the front lines. Stay there for now. The revolution may need you later, but for now you’re answering the call. What do you think all that training was for, Stupid? You stand before dozens of young minds every day, raising their consciousness, teaching big ideas, human social change. It’s not glamorous, it pays for shit, but it’s a gift, it’s your calling. It’s key to The Shift. Duh.

So yesterday morning I took a deep breath and wrote a prayer, for my own state of mind, for my nation-state, for us humans in our varying states of consciousness and oblivion, destructiveness and wild creativity. Then I took my tea and my books and went to class where we talked about the inconvenient truth.