Furniture? Furniture.

"Objects are made by men, and used for many purposes...but we never love objects." - James Franco

KB and I love having people over, especially when sharing a meal.  Even though it sounds slightly pretentious, we really do love to entertain.  It's fun, it builds friendships, and it's always a good excuse for making an over-the-top meal.

When we got married, I did not actually own a table.  As a bachelor, I just chose to hold my plates steady what shoveling food into my mouth with the other hand.  Once KB and I got married, she first introduced me to the concept of "manners", something I had obviously long since forgotten.  Through her diligence and patience, seven and a half years later I can honestly say that my manners are somewhat marginally better.  Kudos, KB!  Hard work pays off!

But I digress.  One thing she brought to the marriage (other than brains, culture, and Clancey) was her awesome table.  She had a great 2-4 person table from Crate & Barrel, and I was in awe.  On one of our first nights in our Houston home, we decorated the table, set out the fine china we got for our wedding, and had grilled cheeses (two youth ministry salaries gets you that level of gourmanderie, if that is in fact a word).  Since then, it has been a workhorse.  And a sawhorse, for that matter.  It's been used for crafting, so it's still got glitter on it.  It's got footprints on it.  It's been used, abused, and has hosted some (frankly) awesome parties.  We always found a way to cram more people around it, and it never let us down.  Now it gets to retire, and will likely be used as a desk, which I think is the equivalent of being put out to stud.  I'm sure at least one food story will be written on it, so you know...circle of life and whatnot.  It's a fantastic, well-loved table. 

Our new table and chairs arrived on Friday, and they are for sure the new hotness...

For God's sake, use a coaster!

Leaves!  Matching chairs!  Appropriate size!  I'm proud of us for making the leap into the early 20th century.  There will be many more happy meals around this table, so stop on by anytime.  We'll eat hot dogs off the fancy china.

Signage.

One thing that my weekly commute affords me is the time to notice signs along the highways I drive.  Most are forgettable enough, but one this morning made me think of two other signs that have stuck in my mind for the better part of a decade. 

This morning, I passed a Ramada Inn outside Giddings, and their sign read "You are in our prayers."  Insofar as I did not see it last week, I know it went up recently.  It is addressed to no one in particular.  I wonder what prompted this outward display of...what?  Faith?  Love?  Concern?  Does the motive even matter?  Of course not.  At 65 mph, its message is simple: Someone, somewhere is praying for you.  It reminds me of two other signs I've seen around Texas freeways.

The first (and second, actually) was a changeable roadwork sign.  It simply said "God bless you."  There's no commentary I can make on this.  Again, it's a simple message, just trying to bring a ray of hope or joy into some passing motorist's life.  The second, however, rattled around in my brainbox for weeks...really, still to this day.  It read "This Is Your Life."

My first thought was that is was a message of empowerment...this is your life.  Take control of it, make it yours, don't allow others to dictate what you think or feel.  Of course, being me, that optimism passed quickly and lead to an overwhelming sense of dread.  I was sitting in my car (at the time, my Altima with a broken turn signal and no AC).  On the freeway.  Stuck in rush hour traffic.  That sign was not empowering my to anything.  It was mocking me. 

"THIS is your life.  This, right here.  Traffic.  Smog.  Not moving forward.  Just look at me!  I sit here for a few days, send out a message that informs people of a construction zone, and then roll on to my next task.  I'm useful!  I'm changeable!  I'm not only solar powered, but look how slender I am!  What is that you're eating?  A doughnut?  Nice.  I'm out in the sunshine, and you're sitting in your car, eating a doughnut in traffic."

Once I finished accusing the sign of plagiarising L.A.Story, I then realized that I was having an argument with a highway sign.  It obviously couldn't hear me.  1) It's a sign, thus no auditory function, and 2) I was in the left lane, too far away to be heard (though with no AC, my windows were down). 

I have often seen both versions of that sign scroll across my mind at various points in my life.  Sometimes the sentence ends in a question mark, sometimes an exclamation point.  Who knows how it will look today, but having passed by the Ramada, it will undoubtedly be a little more hopeful.

You are in my prayers.

Thanks For That, Steph.

So for anyone that is not already aware, my first year of college did not go so well.  One could even say it was...well terrible, frankly.  My GPA didn't matter so much as the fact that the few credits that I could transfer were still not that great.  It was not a banner year for yours truly.  I returned home to Beaumont in a depressed daze, but eventually made it through to greener pastures (namely, Houston).

Flash forward to now-ish, and I live mere blocks from The University.  I'm also considering pursuing my MBA.  Because of sheer proximity, it makes absolute sense to try for enrollment at UT's business school.  Thus, I perused their website to sign up for an information session.  To do this required an electronic ID for their system.  No problem; I sign up for things very well.

Oh wait...problem.  It seems that the University of Texas, in their wisdom, had converted my old UT email account into their new IT system.  This would be fine if I had any idea whatsoever what my old password was.  So I went through their process of calling the helpdesk, only to find that as a "former student" I would have to verify my identity to the supervisor on duty.  Since this all happened before the days of "security questions", I would have to answer questions about my time at UT.

In The Lord of the Rings, when The Fellowship descends into the Mines of Moria, Gimli is eager to see his kin that owns the Mines; upon finding the remains left by orcs he lets out a painful wail of mourning.  When I was told I'd need to answer questions about my academic career, my brain let out a similar wail upon viewing the decayed visage of my pride. 

I wish I could say that I partied an appendage off, or was just up to my eyeballs in pretty ladies, but I can't.  I went to a few awesome concerts, went to exactly one (1) party (and hated it, for the record), and got a lot better at playing the guitar.  I don't really remember anything about that year, because I have tamped those memories down.  The only thing I really choose to remember about my time as a Longhorn is the sole A that I earned, in a class that I would gladly revisit on any given day: The History of Rock Music. 

It followed the same basic structure every Tuesday and Thursday; come in, listen to a weird or unique cover song, listen to our professor lecture about something totally awesome, listen to more music, leave.  It was great, I made an A, and I got exposed to some amazing music.  If only my Chemistry and French classes had been the same!  So I flunked out, went home and licked my wounds.  I also tried very, very hard to forget the entire ordeal.  For the next thirteen years, I did a pretty good job of that.  That is, until Stephanie decided to give me the third degree.

"What was your first and last semester?"

A sigh, and then "Fall '97, Spring '98."

"Were you ever on academic probation?"

"Obviously."

"Did you ever receive a degree from The University?"

"OK, clearly I did not."

"What was your address?"

"Ummm...dorm room in Jester...ground floor...I don't really remember"

"How about your mailbox number?"

"Seriously, are you just screwing with me here?"

And on it went.  Five of the most mortifying minutes of my life.  Not because of anything other than it was something I was not proud of.  I hadn't spoken much of this out loud in the better part of a decade, and now I was considering a graduate degree form the same university that dumped me.

But that's over with now, and maybe I can move on fully.  Maybe trying for a graduate degree from UT will help close that circle.  As long as I can top my first semester GPA, I'll be fine.

For the record, my first semester GPA was 1.466.  I honestly cannot remember how I ended the year.  I challenge anyone to top that!

Pseudonymity.

There's a theory, nay an outright axiom, that deals with the nature of the internet and the behavior of its denizens.  Anonymity combined with an unlimited worldwide audience leads people to write things they would never dare say in public, and maybe not even in private, thereby creating a world of pure id.  The converse of this axiom is essentially that if people had to post comments using their real names, they would never in a million years write some of the heinous, awful things they do.

There was a story on NPR the other day about people fighting to be able to use pseudonyms on social networking sites like Facebook or Google+.  It's one thing to sign up for an account with the New York Times and post your horrible thoughts about their stories on vegan cooking classes on the Upper East Side (zing!) using the name "MeatLvr" or "PETAsux", but to actively fight for more anonymity seems to highlight some deeper issue.  What in these person's minds is so base and callous that they not only need to express it publicly, but are so ashamed of it they need to hide it?

Winnicott was one of the first to write about The False Self, the mask that we put up to meet the expectations of others.  Each of us at some point in our lives has a False Self that we present to the world; someone (some thing, really) that we think is better than out true selves.  Someone that is...what?  Smarter?  Funnier?  More confident?  Less affected by criticism?  We all do it, but at some point you grow up, you drop the mask, and you realize that you are a wonderful, lovable, complete person (yes, YOU!).  You allow the True Self to be the dominant personality, and discard the mask. 

And now there's a group fighting to remain anonymous.  Fighting to keep their masks in tact.  What must they think of themselves that they need to hide?  What must they think of others, to want to hide?  Maybe it's  case of arrested development.  Maybe they just have so much hatred in them that they can only expel it on message boards in disguise. Or maybe they lack the surety of their friends loyalty that they can express themselves without fear of wounding a relationship. 

I count myself amongst the lucky that I know my friends love me enough to put up with my ravings, and that I need not present a False Self to the world.

Sincerely,
Wilfred Q. Krackenback

First Dates and Date Firsts

As previously mentioned, KB and I tried out Cherrywood Cafe in Austin and enjoyed our burgers and beer.  In addition to interesting sartorial statements, we also had the privilege of sitting next to a couple that was almost certainly on their first date.  Adorable.  Obviously I had no choice but to eavesdrop with all my might.  You know you would have too...don't judge.

I had a decent view of Girl Dater, who seemed to be quite nervously chatty, which was okay because Boy Dater seemed to be a good listener.  He had his back to me, so I couldn't read his body language.  She talked quite a bit about hr family, their lake house vacation home, the fact that they weren't really rich, and the fact that she had pets.  When she asked if he liked dogs, he responded positively.  t was this point that we focused our after-dinner conversation on the drive home.  According to KB, asking a boy if he likes dogs is akin to asking how he deals with commitment.  When she explained this to me, I felt as if I had just been given secret knowledge that single guys are never told, for fear that it would upset the natural order of things.

As a guy, I can only view this piece of information a few way.  1) It's a test of loyalty and fidelity in some way.  Dogs are the Platonic ideal of loyalty, and perhaps if a potential suitor identifies with those traits, he sees part of himself there. The other choice is 2) Girls really do not understand guys.  I think most guys like dogs because they are much more like men in general.  We're driven by attention, a regular feeding schedule, and rewards for good behavior.  We're generally averse to aloofness, being scratched for no reason, and very picky eaters.

I think most men like dogs, some just on principle, so I'm worried that the single women of the world my have some misinformation.  If a guy doesn't like dogs, yes he terrible, but liking them doesn't mean he's great. I hope that Girl Dater probed into Boy Dater's psyche a little deeper, asking his opinions on the world in general.  KB has also posited that the best relationships are those in which people move from discussing people, places and events and on to ideas.  I can honestly say that we are very lucky to have the friends we do because the sharing of ideas, beliefs and opinions is something we are all passionate about.  We dialogue, share, and are made all the better for having known each other and spent even small amounts of time together. 

So Girl Dater, I wish you all the best.  Ask Boy Dater about his opinion of the state of education in America, his opinions on the evolution of popular music, and whether or not PETA has a moral footing to stand on.  If his answers compliment yours, then ask if he likes dogs.  He'll know what you mean because I've already spread the word.

PS The titular "date first" was watching someone back into a scooter and phone a friend for advice, only to discover that sad friend was inside and that it as her scooter.  Oh, Austin...you and your scooter gangs.

Bizarro, indeed.

I've written about t-shirts before (this blog doesn't have enough history for me to link back to it - don't be lazy), but I don't consider another t-shirt-inspired post too soon.  I mean, who doesn't like t-shirts?

Anyway, while testing the neighborhood hamburger joint waters yesterday evening with KB, I saw a gentleman enter wearing a purple t-shirt with a backwards purple "S" on a yellow shield.  Using my super powers of geekery, I knew that this was meant to evoke the DC comics supervillain Bizarro.  He's like a mirror-opposite of Superman.  Whereas Superman is good, Bizarro is evil (though clumsily so).  He also uses inverted adjectives to emphasize his oppositeness.  Where Superman might say "Up, up and away", Bizarro would say something like "Down, down and here".  Superman fights for truth, justice, and the American Way, so Bizarro stands for Lies, Injustice, and...I don't know, a Parliamentary Monarchy?  You get the idea.  Bizarro is everything NOT Superman.

It seems to me that wearing a shirt with some sort of recognizable logo inherently proclaims that you identify with that logo in some way.  I have a t-shirt that has the cover of Orwell's "1984" printed on it.  I love that book and have no problem being identified with it.  I also have a Freebirds t-shirt (or two).  I love burritos...again, you get the idea.  But what does it say if you are wearing a Bizarro t-shirt?  I don't think that guy was evil, from another dimension, or allergic to Blue Kryptonite.  I think his statement was supposed to be something like "I'm weird, I'm defiant, I'm not within the mainstream."

How defiant and unique can you be if you're purposefully acting that way (or identifying as such)?  It seems to me that the most truly unique individuals are those that are unique simply through living their authentic lives, and being themselves without any (maybe a little) pretense.  Joseph Beuys, Jackson Pollack, Andy Warhol.  They were (mostly) authentic in their art and set out with a specific goal in mind; the changing of perception about what art (or culture, or pop culture) could be.  But if you're out there just being defiantly weird for no other purpose than to be unique, how unique is that (also, how defiantly weird is it to take your Mac to a coffee house and surf the web with their free wifi?).  For me, the guy in the Bizarro t-shirt summed up the thing about Austin that I find most difficult to get my head around.  Being "weird" because that's what you're supposed to do.  It's almost as if there was a group of unique, idiosyncratic Austinites that roamed free a generation ago, and now all we have left are these echoes and shades of what it used to be like.  It's a difficult position to be in, and to watch from the outside.  I want to embrace our new city, but it's rather prickly at times.  Bizarro, unlike Superman, hates hugs.

The search for authenticity strikes me as a "dark night of the soul" for a lot of people, especially those still being formed (read: in their 20's).  In the vernacular, I believe this might be called "keeping it real".  Holden Caufield called out everyone that came across his path for being "phony." So what is it to be a fully authentic person?  I would argue that the real fakery we see is actually a form of mimicry.  Take "foodies" for example.  If someone is truly passionate about food, then their enthusiasm will show, and they will tell you about where the animal was raised, where the vegetables were grown, etc.  That kind of infectious enthusiasm will naturally inspire imitators (as flatterers), but perhaps their enthusiasm and passion are a bit diluted.  Now imagine this chain of imitators keeps going, so that the food discussion becomes de rigueur and loses its original passion and life.  That's the place I see too many people living.  That's Bizarro-world.  They sell t-shirts.

So that's that.

So we totally live in Austin now.  Why the heck does the water taste like burnt rubber?!  I mean, it's supposed to be so pretty and natural, etc, but man...that's some nasty, nasty water.


The move went better than I expected.  The last time KB and I made a move without assistance from friends was moving her entire third floor apartment into my third floor apartment on the other side of Houston about a month before we got married.  It was a bit fraught, to say the least.  Since then we've both admitted to sharing the same thought at different points in the day. "Well, this is it.  I'm moving (his/her) stuff, but then leaving (him/her) on a curb somewhere."  Lessons learned?  1) Hire movers, and 2) Eat lunch, for crying out loud.  We both get cranky if we're a little too hungry.  I like to think that my heroic build and mirth are directly related, so pass the cupcakes he said joyfully.


Our new house is fantastic, and we can't wait for people to come visit.  You know who you are.  Heck, you're probably reading this.  Both of you.  It's weird to think that it took KB going to seminary for us to get a bigger, better house. That seems entirely incongruous, but then again, when have we ever done things in a predictable fashion?

One of the funnier parts of moving was getting boxes out of the attic.  Okay, maybe not the actual act of getting in the attic to retrieve them (that was terrifying; the attic on 22nd is like the boiler from Home Alone), but seeing the treasure trove of things we stored up there.  An entire library of CD's and DVDs, at least one wedding present, pictures galore from ages past, and a lot of great memories.  We got rid of a lot (a lot) and kept a lot.  I was suprised at how simultaneously cathartic and costive (emotionally speaking, of course) going through the attic turned out to be.  On the one had, it was the lifting of a burden about things we had stoed up there, but at the same time a reminder of things we may have tried to forget.  I imagine it's the same way with any great purgation of things; we imbue our treasure with so much emotion and connect them to so many memories that ridding ourselves of them or even just going through them can open the floodgates.  If one were in seminary, this would be the opportune time to insert a small homily about storing up treasures in Heaven.  However, since one is not...

I really wanted to take a picture of KB standing on the porch holding her lunchbox with both hands for her first day of school.  She gave me a withering look and told me to go back to bed.  That's good wifin', y'all.