Music Begets Madness

For 2 years now, travelling the Orem-Lehi stretch of I-15 freeway---particularly at Pleasant Grove where it starts to smell like poo, and at American Fork where it morphs to the stink of skunk (from Lehi to Saratoga Springs, you can expect the musk of mink farm to linger longer in your unoffending and unsuspecting nostrils)---has been a time of pondering and contemplation. Mostly over typos in billboards and trying to decode the secret messages in drivers' personalized license plates, but contemplation nonetheless.

So it is fitting that I was driving northbound along this very same path to intellectual enlightenment on Friday when I conversed via cell with one of the brilliant minds of our time (nevermind that his initials are B. S.), bemoaning my fate that one of my favorite bands, The White Stripes (one of the last bands I really have to see before I die, or get married and my husband won't let me go to shows anymore, which would kind of be like dying), had just cancelled their tour due to the drummer's recent struggle with acute anxiety. To which he posed the burning philosophical question keeping us all awake at night: are musicians people with tendencies towards mental instability, or does musical obsession drive one to madness? It is not difficult to show correlation between the two, but to prove causation, well, let's see how close I can get to that through my ramblings.

Exhibit A: My Kingman side of ancestors is filled musicians, yet is beleaguered with mental illness (I'll spare you the details, supposedly my great-grandfather was so crazy that no one will even talk about him). My mom's Whitney-side contribution to the genepool is rock solid---almost to the point of boring---mental stability, but no mad music skills (forgive the pun).

I remember as a kid, if I were upset, I'd go play on the piano and vent out my frustration (probably getting caught exploiting my younger siblings as I was wont to do). Music was an easy escape from things in my life I found upsetting. However, in college, the pursuit of making beautiful music itself became upsetting and hard, stress and work. Definitely more tortured. It didn't help that the practice rooms were underground and had no windows.

Despite not having turned to a life of drugs and alcohol, I was thus considerably more insecure, neurotic and vitamin D-deprived after finishing my tour of duty in the HFAC (building for music, art and theatre students at BYU). I did love my course of study and the music making, but it was bittersweet; I swore that I would not get another degree in music (ha). Yet it was comforting to realize just how different I was from most of the other students that studied there. I found 2 other "normal" music major girls who liked working out and listening to hip-hop, and though we were ostracized a bit for NOT breaking forth publicly into song or soliloquy whenever the impulse hit us (oh, and was it ever hard to kick against those pricks!), we had a great time making fun of all of them while we were at our kickboxing class, extolling the virtues of A Tribe Called Quest and debating whether 2Pac really were alive or dead.

I remember the reactions I'd get when I told people I was a music major. There was definitely a social stigma attached to that, and not an entirely positive one: though people kinda admired you---for your talent, for your dedication to an art that would most likely not financially pay you back---they secretly thought you were slightly insane. (kind of similar to my friends who have to introduce themselves as therapists, they say there's one of two reactions: people clam up, or they launch into a confession of every dyfunctional thought they ever had about their mother.) Even now, when people ask me what I studied in college, and I tell them that I was a music major, after a short pause I often add, "Oh, but I was normal." And they laugh! They know that I know what they were thinking all along. Which brings up another point: are musicians crazy as part of some self-fulfilling prophecy that society has projected onto them?

There's a Seinfeld episode in which a reference is made to a musician who went crazy because he kept playing a certain note over and over. Actually, I'm pretty sure that that particular musician went loco from having untreated syphilis (I knew that masters degree would come in handy someday), but. . . I might be in trouble if the proposed hypothesis that repeated exposure to specific auditory stimuli drives one to lunacy happens to be correct. Do you know how many hundreds of times I have listened to certain songs, over and over and over again (i.e., Sigur Ros' Untitled #8, My Bloody Valentine's Sometimes, Radiohead's Everything in Its Right Place and The Beatles' Tomorrow Never Knows)? It might also depend on if this composer liked this note and was obsessed with it, or if he couldn't stand it and it kept him singing all the way the the asylum. I, for one, happen to LOVE these songs, so if repeated listening happens to land me into a straight jacket and padded cell, at least I will be one happy loon.

Let's go back to The Stripes' drummer Meg White. Okay, the girl is a drummer. No melody. That could get perhaps get grating on the nerves after awhile. And though the girl may be cooler than cool and probably trying her darndest to do her best, she's no Neil Peart. And the problem is that everyone knows it. Not only to you have to live in the shadow of the amazing Jack White, you have to deal with the fact that everyone is always talking trash that you're a crappy drummer who can't keep a beat. Yeah, I might start to get a little anxious myself.

In conclusion, I've failed to prove anything. But since you're holding the gun to my head, I'll hop off the fence and take a side: I think music makes people crazy. It's this pursuit of beauty and perfection that you undertake and the closer you get to reaching it, the more you realize you can never attain it. Which, of course, leads to greater obsession, because nothing is more desirable to us than that which we cannot get. The pressure can be external, but I think the yearning for this music is largely an internal struggle and leads you along a disturbing path away from reality. I think I've escaped full blown craziness to a point because I have never let myself get fully immersed in the depths of artistic genius. I've walked up close to see my own distorted reflection in the pool and obviously didn't like it. And because of that, my music is probably not nearly as good, but people sure do enjoy being around me more and don't call me crazy. At least not to my face.

Back to School Dance!

I'm fully convinced that the inventor of line dances was a junior high teacher. Anything to take away the pain that comes from watching the awful awkwardness. And the reason it make you wince so is because you've been there. You've bumbled your way through the mating rituals. And hopefully you survived. (Perhaps you mated?) But as ungainly and uncouth as you most certainly were, I've never once heard someone say that they wish they could go back to do it again.

On Friday, August 31, I chaperoned the Back to School Dance at Orem Junior High. In case you don't know where Orem Junior is, you can see it easily on 800 North in Orem, UT by a triangle leopard print marquee---even though we are actually the Jaguars. Never mind that though, because the triangle has faded in the sun to an unusual pink hue, which makes the sign look like a ginormous pink leopard print thong. So, what was I saying? Oh yeah, welcome back to school kids!

So it is in the benevolent shadow of larger-than-life, rosy-colored, animal-print underwear that we begin our narrative.

About 10 minutes into the dance, I was talking to 2 of my favorite comrades in the junior high trenches---Mr. Sigafus, the German teacher and a math teacher, Mr. Hart---when a rather portly and socially savvy (as you will no doubt discover) 7th grader came up to Mr. Sigafus and burped, no, belched right in his face, only to back away with a smug, over-bitten chortle (picture Dudley Dursley from Harry Potter). Rest assured, it was all done in the spirit of fun: Mr. Sigafus is one of the coolest teachers at our school (even though he wears cowboy boots). Correction: it was done in the spirit of trying to be cool. How we manage to get anything accomplished in school with people who think that letting loose with bodily functions impresses those higher up on the food chain. . . (And the public is complaining that test scores are down. Do you see what we have to work with here?)

And then there's Jonathan (who would make a fascinating subject for a blog entry), the unnaturally sweet and yet socially-challenged English-as-a-second-language student in my homeroom (yet his lack of interpersonal ease is not related to his sometimes barely intelligible, heavily accented English), who asks me if it's okay for students to dance with teachers. I'm relieved that the answer here is clearly no, even though it makes my heart a little heavier that I know he won't dance with anyone this afternoon.

When I was taking in a nice panorama of the soiree at one end of the gym, the dee-jay announced a "ladies' choice" slow dance (You know, to this day I don't think I've ever had the guts to ask a guy to dance during "ladies' choice."). All the girls gravitated to the center of the dance floor while all the boys made a mad dash, as casually as possible, to the nearest wall. The image was almost scientific. Remember way back in the day when in biology you had to learn the stages of mitosis, which at this point I would venture to say is cell division? (I really can't remember anymore and truthfully had not thought of until this afternoon at the dance.) The scene unfolding before my eyes was JUST like that one slide with the "stuff" polarizing at different ends and the motion and stretching illustrated by horizontal lines. Do you remember? Not only was the physical image so striking, the tense emotional state of all those in attendance charged the room so, that I swear if someone had lit a match the whole place would have gone up in flames. It was enough to make me, a mere spectator, want to run for cover. Or at least to the middle of the room (where all the girls were, you know, because of the mitosis and such).

It was most likely during this very same dance that my emotionally delicate friend Hannah arranged to have a her friend ask the boy she liked if he would dance with her. His reaction: "Oh G*d, anyone but her. Could she be anymore friggin ugly?" She was cowering by the wall, alone, almost too upset to speak when I found her.

Other vignettes of crushed hopes at the junior high dance would include my teacher friend Lindsey helping a boy in the corner crying because his glasses were stepped on and broken. Another seventh-grade girl was sobbing because she was terrified and positive that some ninth-graders (whom she had never seen, nor did they even know her) were going to make good on their empty threat that "they were going to make her life miserable."

Although the junior high dance as I have portrayed up until now may seem like the optimal stage to spotlight all that is tragic and flawed in the world, it can draw forth that which is most admirable and kind in all of human nature. For example, however much it was slightly annoying that students couldn't resist giving me the eye and shooting fake guns with their hands "go get 'em tiger" style as I innocently stood and talked shop with Mr. Hart, a happily married man of probably 25 some odd years---I realize in retrospect that my students just want me to be happy and to find love (they are obsessed with my love life---funny, I don't ever recall caring about my teachers'), even if it is with someone who is unavailable and probably old enough to be my dad.

There is a crowd of funny, FUNNY eighth and ninth grade skater boys that go to my school. All of them happen to take my men's choir. Funnier still. I can never get them to stop moving or jumping off of things or making noise (unless it's on stage where they happen to freeze up like Greek statues). Here at the dance was another brief moment in time in which they stood strikingly still---awkward spectating wall flowers in contrast to the student body's mass swing dancing to Hairspray's "You Can't Stop the Beat." Though they were "cool," they certainly were fish out of water in this scene. I happened to see some of the cute girls they hang with and told them to go drag those boys onto the dance floor. A sweeter sight I had heretofore not seen this afternoon: these gangly skaters swing dancing with adorable girls decked out in goofy blue and silver school spirit clothes.

The best moment of the dance for me was seeing a student council member named Jill inviting a boy to slow dance. Now this boy was definitely not the coolest or the funniest or even the smartest, nor was he quite the nerdiest or the homeliest; he did seem to have any kind of "-est" designation to set him apart from the rest, which is actually the loneliest. And you could tell that he himself knew it. I could tell from their exchange that she did not know him, nor would he have ever presumed to approach someone of her status. He tried to get out of the invitation by saying that he didn't know how to dance, but Jill led him on the dance floor just the same and showed him where to rest his hand on her shoulder and how to move his two left feet. I was inspired, while I secretly chastized myself for all the times in my life I hadn't, but could have, done the same.

What is it exactly that fuels junior high to make it so exciting that all of this could go down in 45 minutes? Maybe it's because these little people don't make decisions rationally. They make them reactionally. It's the archetypal showdown between brainstem and frontal lobe, adrenaline versus critical thinking. And the winner is . . .

Are you kidding me? Brainstem everytime. In junior high, we live in "fight or flight." Eat or be eaten. We're just looking to survive through the day. The wonderful relief that you discover in junior high, though, is the realization of that first breath and just how good it feels after the wind gets knocked clean out of you. After each defeat, the feel of the sweat on your brow or the taste of blood on your lip means one thing, and that is ultimately that you did win and you did survive because you're still alive and feeling and tasting. And you'll go to bed and wake up the next morning to do it all over again. And this is what will sustain you through the rest of life's inevitable humiliations.

My tender little friend Hannah who had fled to the wall most likely thought that her fight had been lost. Perhaps, but it had only been a battle, so to speak; definitely not the war. In fact, I'd wager that losing a lot in junior high just might increase your winning odds as you get older. While Hannah was recounting her story, I was frantically thinking about what in the world I could possibly have to say that would be of any consolation when the oddest thing came to me. When she finished, I stretched forth my hand and clutched hers in a firm handshake. "Congratualtions and welcome to the club," I said. "You are now a woman."

Deep Thoughts

Deep thoughts considered in sunny Portland over Labor Day weekend with Dad:

Is having a rest stop named after you really considered an honor? (There are several in Oregon named after people, yet I must have missed the Martin Luther King, Jr. Rest Stop.)

Why do you always feel healthier eating outside than inside, especially at restaurants? (it doesn't matter what you're eating, seriously.)

Could the rose really be used as a symbol of intimidation (refer to the rose used in the Portland Police Bureau's logo, unfortunately I couldn't find it)? Does it really deter crime?

After looking at her wedding pictures, I've deduced that my cousin is actually Celine Dion. (I now believe that Celine Dion was replaced with a skinnier, ickier robot version of herself.)

If your body were used for a Body Worlds exhibit, how would it be posing? (Yes, that is a real human cadaver. Dad and I took in the Body Worlds 3 exhibit at the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry and it was unbelievable.)

Over the River and Through the Woods

This is my 85-year old Grandma (my dad's mom) and she is a real kick in the pants. I always have wondered how it must be to keep up with the quick wit of Gordon B. Hinckley, and my grandma, though not Mormon (Calvinist, she calls it, actually), MUST come pretty close to hitting that particular mark. Here's some fascinating stats about my grandma:

She's survived 2 divorces and 3 husbands (who all happened to die within 3 months of each other). Additionally, she lived in the same house with each husband.

She's also survived a bout of lung cancer, though her dog Bodie (who probably weighs more than her!) is about to succomb to bone cancer. Grandma is like the "Unsinkable Molly Brown" reincarnated.

When she was in nurses training in the early 1940s, she got married on the sly to my Grandpa and kept it a secret for her last 5 months of school. She would have been kicked out of school had they found out (there was a rule that the girls couldn't get married while they were in training---?!).

She never learned to drive a car.

She used to be 5 feet, 3 & 3/4 inches tall. She's now 4 feet, 10 & 3/4 inches tall.

This December will mark 40 years of sobriety for Grandma, after having overcome a serious battle with alcoholism.

When my dad was a little boy, she accidentally killed a cat when it climbed in the dryer and she unknowingly turned it on. She STILL feels bad about it.

When my cousin got married last year, my uncle took the mic at the reception and called my grandma, asking her for some impromptu advice for the newly-weds. Without warning and completely on the spot, she came up with this gem (no doubt to be cross-stiched and placed above the mantle): "Stick with the first one; they just get worse."

Grandma is a killer joke teller. Her comedic delivery is unparallelled. Here's a few funnies she shared with me (mostly transcribed here so I can remember a friggin joke for once in my friggin life):

Why was the duck embarrassed?
He realized that his pants were down.

A blonde woman, determined to ride first class on a flight to New York with only a second class ticket, took a seat in the first class section.
A stewardess approached her and said, “I’m sorry m’am, but you’re going to have to move back to second class.”
Still determined, the blonde answered, “I’m blonde, I’m beautiful, and I’m going to New York,” and remained in the seat.
Scratching her head, the stewardess left and sent another stewardess over to try to resolve the problem. A similar exchange of words followed: “I’m blonde, I’m beautiful, and I’m going to New York.”
Now the pilot overheard these two stewardesses talking and stepped in. “I think I know just how to handle this,” and proceeded to walk over to the woman.
After he asked her to move and she refused, the pilot whispered something in her ear. Immediately the blonde got up and moved to the second class section.
Now the dumbfounded stewardesses had to know: just what exactly had the pilot said to get the blonde to move?
“Easy,” he said. “I told her that first class wasn’t flying to New York.”

One day, a leprechaun approached a man on a golf course saying, “You’ve been a good guy, why don’t you let me grant you 3 wishes?”
To which the man replied, “No thanks, I’ve got everything I need.”
But the leprechaun wouldn’t take no for an answer and said, “No really, I’m going to give you a better golf game, as much money as you want, and a great sex life.”
A year later, the leprechaun returned to the man and asked him how things were going:
“How’s the golf?”
“Never been better!”
“Do you have enough money?”
“Oh, I’m making money hand over fist; I have more than I know what to do with!”
“So, how’s your sex life?”
“Well, I have sex about 2 times a week.”
And the leprechaun responded, “Really? That doesn’t really seem that good.”
And the man said, “Well it’s pretty good for a Catholic priest in a small town!”