Category Archives: Teenage memory

On parade floats

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Does anyone other than myself think that parade floats are a very strange cultural phenomenon? As a five-year-old I was fascinated by the floats in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade or in the New Year’s Parade out in Pasadena with all those red roses. My first experience with a float, up close and personal, was a float built by a fraternity from the local college. I got to play with the gold and black crepe paper, which is very cool if you are five. I know that homecoming floats are about school spirit, or that a Thanksgiving Day float is all about Santa Claus, but other than putting some pretty girls or some little kids on a float, I have no idea what the social function of a float is. Are we celebrating something or commemorating something? And if we are, why? One fraternity I know of builds an anti-float, which is just a flatbed truck with a bunch of broken down sofas on it. Would that be the example of an iconoclastic float? Or an anarchy float? I have never built a float, nor do I understand float lore or craft. I suppose floats need to be thematic, have paper mache caricatures of self-important political figures, sport several winsome lasses, threaten the opposing team with some soporific metaphor concerning destruction and loss, and sport the conquering team’s mascot. Or children. Or Santa Claus. Or a strange dancing group. Today I’m even more concerned than ever that I still do not understand the cultural materialism involved in the grotesque manifestation of school, team, or city spirit. Floats are a very public spectacle designed to draw attention to something, but they are still a short-lived, transitory, if not temporary, simulacra of life designed of materials with a limited life-span, so in a real sense, they are ephemera.

On parade floats

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Does anyone other than myself think that parade floats are a very strange cultural phenomenon? As a five-year-old I was fascinated by the floats in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade or in the New Year’s Parade out in Pasadena with all those red roses. My first experience with a float, up close and personal, was a float built by a fraternity from the local college. I got to play with the gold and black crepe paper, which is very cool if you are five. I know that homecoming floats are about school spirit, or that a Thanksgiving Day float is all about Santa Claus, but other than putting some pretty girls or some little kids on a float, I have no idea what the social function of a float is. Are we celebrating something or commemorating something? And if we are, why? One fraternity I know of builds an anti-float, which is just a flatbed truck with a bunch of broken down sofas on it. Would that be the example of an iconoclastic float? Or an anarchy float? I have never built a float, nor do I understand float lore or craft. I suppose floats need to be thematic, have paper mache caricatures of self-important political figures, sport several winsome lasses, threaten the opposing team with some soporific metaphor concerning destruction and loss, and sport the conquering team’s mascot. Or children. Or Santa Claus. Or a strange dancing group. Today I’m even more concerned than ever that I still do not understand the cultural materialism involved in the grotesque manifestation of school, team, or city spirit. Floats are a very public spectacle designed to draw attention to something, but they are still a short-lived, transitory, if not temporary, simulacra of life designed of materials with a limited life-span, so in a real sense, they are ephemera.

On unpacking my library

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Dedicated to the memory of Walter Benjamin. I moved from one office to another last week, which means I had to take down all my books, put them on carts, and unpack them in my new office. A simple enough task, but handling each book, picking a new location for it, tugs at the heartstrings and stirs old ideas from hibernation. You see, no one remembers all of the books that they have. This particular copy of “1984” was left on my desk in chemistry by someone–never knew who–in the spring of ’76. They had written my name it. My copy of “Ghost Story” came from the English book section of Casa de Libro in Madrid in 1979. Over the course of even a few years, one forgets individual volumes that were acquired in odd ways in dark, smelly, book shops off of equally dark and smelly streets deep inside a grimy urban setting. A copy of Borges’ short stories was a birthday gift from a beloved friend and still bears her dedication. I found a copy of Dante’s “Inferno” which was inscribed “To Helen, completely unforgettable, London, 1961.” I had completely forgotten several titles which I had never gotten around to reading, but I was warmly surprised to see old friends that I had indeed read, albeit decades ago. Having an analogue library, though quite superfluous today, appeals to my medieval sensibility of scribe. The physical presence of the books reminds me of how much there is to think about just being human. Flipping through familiar pages, reading familiar passages, gazing on forgotten book covers, I am often reminded of other periods, other times in my life when I lived in other towns and knew other people. My worries and concerns were different when I first read “Don Quixote” or “The Name of the Rose.” While I was unpacking I was assailed by both nostalgia and pathos, remembering a warm rainy afternoon in Madrid when I found that one book about Cervantes that I always wanted to read. Or perhaps it was a copy of “Cien años de soledad” that I found abandoned in a train station in Toledo (Spain). Some books had been gifts, and others had been borrowed by me, but never returned. I found an old, beat-up paperback of “Dr. Zhivago” that I bought for fifty pesetas from an outdoor vendor in the plaza of Alonso Martínez, which I read during the winter of ´84′-’85, one of the coldest winters in Madrid’s history. My copy of Shakespearean sonnets which was bought for less than a dollar out of a remainders bin at a mall in Mankato, Minnesota over thirty years ago which still bears my innocent marginalia of my youth. I had to throw away, with much regret, several books with broken spines and molding pages. At one time this would have horrified me, but these works are easily recovered given the digital nature of the internet. I noticed that I now have two copies of “The Lord of the Flies,” but that I still haven’t read it after all these years–I suspect I know what it’s about and don’t want to stare at the horror of humanity unleashed. I have dropped an ancient copy of “Beowulf” on my desk–a discard from my high school library. I first read this book when I was fifteen, so it will be a new read for me when I pick it up later this week. I will donate three boxes of books to the local library sale to make way for new titles because space is always finite for a book lover.

On unpacking my library

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Dedicated to the memory of Walter Benjamin. I moved from one office to another last week, which means I had to take down all my books, put them on carts, and unpack them in my new office. A simple enough task, but handling each book, picking a new location for it, tugs at the heartstrings and stirs old ideas from hibernation. You see, no one remembers all of the books that they have. This particular copy of “1984” was left on my desk in chemistry by someone–never knew who–in the spring of ’76. They had written my name it. My copy of “Ghost Story” came from the English book section of Casa de Libro in Madrid in 1979. Over the course of even a few years, one forgets individual volumes that were acquired in odd ways in dark, smelly, book shops off of equally dark and smelly streets deep inside a grimy urban setting. A copy of Borges’ short stories was a birthday gift from a beloved friend and still bears her dedication. I found a copy of Dante’s “Inferno” which was inscribed “To Helen, completely unforgettable, London, 1961.” I had completely forgotten several titles which I had never gotten around to reading, but I was warmly surprised to see old friends that I had indeed read, albeit decades ago. Having an analogue library, though quite superfluous today, appeals to my medieval sensibility of scribe. The physical presence of the books reminds me of how much there is to think about just being human. Flipping through familiar pages, reading familiar passages, gazing on forgotten book covers, I am often reminded of other periods, other times in my life when I lived in other towns and knew other people. My worries and concerns were different when I first read “Don Quixote” or “The Name of the Rose.” While I was unpacking I was assailed by both nostalgia and pathos, remembering a warm rainy afternoon in Madrid when I found that one book about Cervantes that I always wanted to read. Or perhaps it was a copy of “Cien años de soledad” that I found abandoned in a train station in Toledo (Spain). Some books had been gifts, and others had been borrowed by me, but never returned. I found an old, beat-up paperback of “Dr. Zhivago” that I bought for fifty pesetas from an outdoor vendor in the plaza of Alonso Martínez, which I read during the winter of ´84′-’85, one of the coldest winters in Madrid’s history. My copy of Shakespearean sonnets which was bought for less than a dollar out of a remainders bin at a mall in Mankato, Minnesota over thirty years ago which still bears my innocent marginalia of my youth. I had to throw away, with much regret, several books with broken spines and molding pages. At one time this would have horrified me, but these works are easily recovered given the digital nature of the internet. I noticed that I now have two copies of “The Lord of the Flies,” but that I still haven’t read it after all these years–I suspect I know what it’s about and don’t want to stare at the horror of humanity unleashed. I have dropped an ancient copy of “Beowulf” on my desk–a discard from my high school library. I first read this book when I was fifteen, so it will be a new read for me when I pick it up later this week. I will donate three boxes of books to the local library sale to make way for new titles because space is always finite for a book lover.

On Jean Harlow

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She only lived twenty-six years. Born in 1911, she was dead by June 7, 1937. Perhaps it is those stars who burn the most intensely, cannot burn for very long, and she did burn brightly. The paradigm for all platinum blonds, she wasn’t the first female star to take advantage of her sex appeal, but, excluding the special category “Mae West,” she was perhaps the most shocking actor of her time, more often saying just what she meant, skipping the euphemisms, metaphors, small talk, and double entendre. I first stumbled upon her in several short films she did with Laurel and Hardy as a comic spoil, a comic femme fatale. She dyed her hair platinum blonde, and it glowed like a halo in those black and white films. There is no doubt that her physical presence in films was notable, and all the big stars wanted to work with her, regardless of the material, regardless of how bad the film might be. Her shower scene in “Red Dust” is astonishing even by today’s standards. Part of her legend has it that she often refused to wear underwear. In her public personae, she was pure feminine sexuality unleashed, and many of her films were boycotted by religious and conservative groups, but those boycotts only served to make her more popular, and they never hurt her box office numbers. She starred in six films with Clark Gable, including the already mentioned “Red Dust.” In most of her films she played the “original” bad girl, and both Marilyn Monroe and Madonna admired her work enough to emulate the platinum blond look. In the ’80’s sitcom “Night Court” a framed picture of Harlow hung behind Judge Harry Stone’s desk in his office. In 1937 while filming “Saratoga” with Clark Gable, she became ill, and suddenly died of kidney failure. The star burned brightly and was gone. According to the Internet Data Movie Base, “[Harlow] is portrayed by Gwen Stefani in The Aviator (2004), by Carroll Baker in Harlow (1965/I), by Susan Buckner in The Amazing Howard Hughes (1977) (TV), by Lindsay Bloom in Hughes and Harlow: Angels in Hell (1978) and by Carol Lynley in Harlow (1965/II). She once said, “Men like me because I don’t wear a brassiere. Women like me because I don’t look like a girl who would steal a husband. At least not for long.” If you ever get a chance to watch one of her films, you won’t ever forget it.

On Jean Harlow

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She only lived twenty-six years. Born in 1911, she was dead by June 7, 1937. Perhaps it is those stars who burn the most intensely, cannot burn for very long, and she did burn brightly. The paradigm for all platinum blonds, she wasn’t the first female star to take advantage of her sex appeal, but, excluding the special category “Mae West,” she was perhaps the most shocking actor of her time, more often saying just what she meant, skipping the euphemisms, metaphors, small talk, and double entendre. I first stumbled upon her in several short films she did with Laurel and Hardy as a comic spoil, a comic femme fatale. She dyed her hair platinum blonde, and it glowed like a halo in those black and white films. There is no doubt that her physical presence in films was notable, and all the big stars wanted to work with her, regardless of the material, regardless of how bad the film might be. Her shower scene in “Red Dust” is astonishing even by today’s standards. Part of her legend has it that she often refused to wear underwear. In her public personae, she was pure feminine sexuality unleashed, and many of her films were boycotted by religious and conservative groups, but those boycotts only served to make her more popular, and they never hurt her box office numbers. She starred in six films with Clark Gable, including the already mentioned “Red Dust.” In most of her films she played the “original” bad girl, and both Marilyn Monroe and Madonna admired her work enough to emulate the platinum blond look. In the ’80’s sitcom “Night Court” a framed picture of Harlow hung behind Judge Harry Stone’s desk in his office. In 1937 while filming “Saratoga” with Clark Gable, she became ill, and suddenly died of kidney failure. The star burned brightly and was gone. According to the Internet Data Movie Base, “[Harlow] is portrayed by Gwen Stefani in The Aviator (2004), by Carroll Baker in Harlow (1965/I), by Susan Buckner in The Amazing Howard Hughes (1977) (TV), by Lindsay Bloom in Hughes and Harlow: Angels in Hell (1978) and by Carol Lynley in Harlow (1965/II). She once said, “Men like me because I don’t wear a brassiere. Women like me because I don’t look like a girl who would steal a husband. At least not for long.” If you ever get a chance to watch one of her films, you won’t ever forget it.

On fitting in

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To fit in or not to fit in, that is the question, whether it is better to suffer the slings and arrows of unpopularity or to bow down to popular pressure and conform. This is a particularly dark problem for young people, especially teenagers trying to make it through junior high and high school. Fitting in is mostly about identity, and this question of identity is really dependent on a series of factors–social, sexual, economic–of which the teenager has little control. Often, most of the parameters are in place long before the person has any say about any of them. Whether you are a brute who loves to play linebacker or an egghead who thinks Beowulf rocks, you are going to be very different people. Maybe your passion is the bass guitar, or building race cars, or digging in ancient ruins, or speaking another language, or patching up a broken arm, or whatever, but these interests will make you stand out, perhaps the worst thing that can happen to a teenager who is only trying to fit in. Are your interests the same as the other teenagers or are you different? Maybe books were not your thing in school, but maybe they were. Were your clothes the right clothes? Did you have to wear glasses? Were you thin or fat? Were you a part of the beautiful people in school, but you were always full of doubt and afraid that someone might find you out as a fraud? Did you pay the high price of changing or sacrificing your identity in order to fit it. Were you cruel to others in order to gain the approbation of your social group? Most of life is a series of compromises about identity, some have a higher price than others. There is always the nagging question about whether or not you did the right thing. Fitting in is always about whether your chosen social group will support you or not. The line which demarcates the difference between the individual and the group is not at all clear, and fitting in and the issue of fitting in straddles a fine line between what the individual gives up versus what they keep for themselves. The vast majority of people are willing give up their individuality in order to fit in smoothly and quietly, not making waves, not standing out. The teenager, the blossoming rose of youth, constantly fights to find their voice while trying to fit in and find acceptance with their friends. Fitting in is about the fear of not fitting in, about the real possibility that one is different. And that is the epiphany that everyone fears, popular and unpopular alike: the realization that one might not be normal, that one is different, that society will fear you and ostracize you, and label you a monster. So we struggle to fit in, we compromise our values, mistreat or hate others, and tremble at the thought that others might find out that we are really a fraud after all.

On fitting in

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To fit in or not to fit in, that is the question, whether it is better to suffer the slings and arrows of unpopularity or to bow down to popular pressure and conform. This is a particularly dark problem for young people, especially teenagers trying to make it through junior high and high school. Fitting in is mostly about identity, and this question of identity is really dependent on a series of factors–social, sexual, economic–of which the teenager has little control. Often, most of the parameters are in place long before the person has any say about any of them. Whether you are a brute who loves to play linebacker or an egghead who thinks Beowulf rocks, you are going to be very different people. Maybe your passion is the bass guitar, or building race cars, or digging in ancient ruins, or speaking another language, or patching up a broken arm, or whatever, but these interests will make you stand out, perhaps the worst thing that can happen to a teenager who is only trying to fit in. Are your interests the same as the other teenagers or are you different? Maybe books were not your thing in school, but maybe they were. Were your clothes the right clothes? Did you have to wear glasses? Were you thin or fat? Were you a part of the beautiful people in school, but you were always full of doubt and afraid that someone might find you out as a fraud? Did you pay the high price of changing or sacrificing your identity in order to fit it. Were you cruel to others in order to gain the approbation of your social group? Most of life is a series of compromises about identity, some have a higher price than others. There is always the nagging question about whether or not you did the right thing. Fitting in is always about whether your chosen social group will support you or not. The line which demarcates the difference between the individual and the group is not at all clear, and fitting in and the issue of fitting in straddles a fine line between what the individual gives up versus what they keep for themselves. The vast majority of people are willing give up their individuality in order to fit in smoothly and quietly, not making waves, not standing out. The teenager, the blossoming rose of youth, constantly fights to find their voice while trying to fit in and find acceptance with their friends. Fitting in is about the fear of not fitting in, about the real possibility that one is different. And that is the epiphany that everyone fears, popular and unpopular alike: the realization that one might not be normal, that one is different, that society will fear you and ostracize you, and label you a monster. So we struggle to fit in, we compromise our values, mistreat or hate others, and tremble at the thought that others might find out that we are really a fraud after all.

On Watergate and Charles Colson

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Watergate co-conspirator Charles Colson, one of Nixon’s right hand men, died over the weekend. Much controversy surrounds Colson, who, during his short stint in jail for his role in the fiasco, turned to God and started a prison ministry which he has worked at ever since. I admire both his faith and dedication, but I don’t think anyone should forget the first Colson who pretty much wrecked the presidency of Richard Nixon. You see, Watergate did bother me, mostly because it was so unnecessary. Nixon was riding a strong wave of popularity in ’70 and ’71, even though the country was torn up about Vietnam. It looked like he and his henchmen were finally getting a handle on the peace talks, and the war might soon be over. The democratic candidate, McGovern was perhaps the weakest opponent that the Dems could put up for the ’72 election. Nevertheless, a paranoid Nixon was worried and wanted to know what the other side was planning in terms of strategy. It would be really interesting to know whose bloody idea it was to burglarize the Watergate where the Dems had their offices, take a look at their documents and bug their headquarters. Liddy, Colson, Haldeman, Erlichman, Hunt, Dean, McCord, Mcgruder, Mitchel would all become household names, a sort of Committee to Re-elect the President (CREEP) rogue’s gallery of inept and paranoid clowns. In 1972 there was no chance that Nixon was going to lose, with or without spying on the Democrats at the Watergate. The real truth about who did what in the planning stages will never be known. I suspect that the plan was cooked up between Liddy,Mitchell, Mcgruder and Colson regarding possible information that Democratic chair, Larry O’Brien, might have had regarding Nixon. But all the involved parties have lied so much that ever finding out the truth about any of it is impossible. Nixon was paranoid and worried, but he should never have allowed Colson, his chief Whitehouse counsel, or Mitchell, the attorney general of the United States, to even suggest such a thing. Nixon was eventually forced to resign his presidency, and most of the clowns opted for plea deals and reduced sentences. As a fourteen-year-old teenager I was thoroughly disgusted by the whole sordid affair, with Nixon unceremoniously booted out of office as an un-indicted co-conspirator in this disgraceful mess. Burglary and wiretapping are low and vile crimes and the office of the president should not be involved at any level. A dozen men could have put their foot down and ended Liddy’s insane plan at any moment along the way, but nobody did. Colson could have, Mitchell could have, or even the president could have. What was so disappointing about the break-in was that nobody said, “no.” So I still blame them all and Colson was right in the middle of it. They thought they were above the law, and if they hadn’t been so bad at breaking and entering, they might have gotten away with it. In the end, they all should have known better, but I guess it was easier to pay Nixon lip service than to tell him that Liddy’s idiot plan was exactly that, idiot. As an end note to all of this, I would like to give my thanks to Gerald Ford. When he pardoned Nixon, I was furious, as were a lot of people, but later on in life I realized that he threw himself under the bus, forsaking a chance to be elected president so that the American people could put Watergate behind them. He was a real man. Anyway, this June will be the fortieth anniversary of the arraignment of the original burglars.