:: Quiche of the Day ::

:: 02.22.2004 ::

For those of you who were desperately craving more poetry, here’s something me Faye and Ed wrote the other night. I claim responsibility for only half of it. The half that’s good.

P to the Enguins
Have you seen a penguin?
It’s nothing like a cat.
Have you seen a penguin?
They’re really where it’s at.

Danny Devito played on in a movie,
If I had a penguin I’d name it Lucy.
Purple is not the color of a penguin,
If I were purple my name would be Menguine.

Hooray, fulfillment!

:: Aaron Humphrey 1:00 AM ::
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:: 02.21.2004 ::

I’m really sleepy and should just go to bed, but I’ll update anyway. When I sit down to write I’ve been having a hard time because I have a lot I want to say and it would be like opening the floodgates, except that words aren’t like water - they have to come one letter at a time, not in a gigantic tidal wave. Well, I don’t think I’ve built up enough for a tidal wave, but maybe a . . . I don’t know, I’m tired, I can’t think of a better analogy.
So yesterday I saw a slam poet. In the promo pictures he had dreadlocks, but I guess he cut them since then. His hair was short. He had a lilting accent and a large presence. For some reason I imagine him smelling musky, although I don’t actually remember smelling him. Maybe it was only me and I didn’t put on deodorant.
I’m tired, I’m not trying to write well, ok? Slam poetry is poetry that’s meant to be read outloud, usually for a competition, and this guy won the National Slam Poetry Contest or Whatever in 1999, so it’s like he’s famous.
Afterwards I came back to the dorms and this band called Vacation (I think? That’s what I overheard after the show) was playing in Braden for Chapman Radio Presents. I’m going to have a radio show later on this semester, I’ll tell you guys when later when I can actually remember. Anyway, when I bopped in with my friend Joey the lead singer looked like he was hanging off of the celing, even though it was only that the ceiling was low and he was standing on a stage, acting all Iggy Pop with the microphone. There were Christmas lights strung up, and in general the whole place rocked out to green and blue lights shining from somewhere near the stage. The music was tight, body-shaking rock + roll, and sounded . . . attractive, so I was attracted into the lounge. Stood behind the pool table and watched the singer, who was thin like he’d been doing unhealthy things all his life, and possibly wearing girls’ jeans at the time, jump onto the couch in front of the stage, in the middle of three girls who had come to watch and were probably hoping they wouldn’t have to participate. He was cigarette-thin, and when he was on stage one of his legs would pump up and down, vibrating like a fast bass line. His arms actually tapered out at his joints, which seemed to be the only thing holding him together. He drummer cascaded over his kit, bearded, smiling at the relentless rhythm, watching each unstoppable thump and crash with open-mouthed wonder. The bassist I don’t remember. It’s possible he hid behind his hair. And I couldn’t tell if the guitarist was growing a beard or not, but his teeshirt had a name on it (Steve?), possibly his own. Both of them sang back up in a way that was both urgent and organic. The lyrics were “Yeah, oh yeah, it’s all right,” but they were spitfire and in that compressed little lounge with low head room, the band was unleashed electricity and chaos. When I left I had a headache, and when I was there I was almost frightened. I didn’t know what was going on in these guys heads, a lot of sparks and feedback I suppose, but what came out of them sounded good. I usually feel compelled to bounce or at least head-bob at concerts, but here I just stood with my arms crossed - they didn’t need to feed into my energy, and I preferred to observe rather than absorb theirs. My druggie friends on the couch in the corner were going crazy, though. And when the guitar solo came the kid on the ground in front of me bowed down, and worshipped, Wayne’s World style. The poet earlier in the evening had raged righteously about the injustices done to Afro-Americans, and injustices really is a word that doesn’t do his words justice; he fumed and burned with pride and indignation, and woe be to thee who gets in the way of the black people. But up here, what I see afterwards are four white boys playing rock and roll (which was in fact originally swiped from the blacks) and working the other white boys into a frenzy. I’m not worried that they’re racist, I don’t think that they are, but I wonder what their message is. The poet had power and a message. These kids have power, but the words are screamed with such nihilism, I can’t tell what their message is. I only see their shadows projected huge on the wall behind them, and think of the bold silhouettes of thunderclouds cast by lightening. Norse mythology was all about thunder and lightening. And Hitler was all about occultist Norse stuff I was told the other day. So where do these guys fall? Are they reacting to that or against it? I was honestly thinking those things then. They don’t seem to make a lot of sense here, especially when I’m tired, and I don’t want to get into something as tricky as race issues when I am having trouble keeping my eyes open. I guess the question is this: if the poet, whose name I’ll remember tomorrow, was identifying with black history and celebrating and reflecting on that, what was the band identifying with and what were they celebrating?
This won’t make any sense when I go back and read it tomorrow. I’m always far less satisfied with the end result that what is in my head. For example, I just realized today that the last entry has comma cancer - there is no way some of those sentences should be punctuated like they are. Maybe the comma key is just touchy and I keep brushing it on accident. Whatever, it’s bedtime. My mouth tastes like cucumber from lunch.

:: Aaron Humphrey 1:22 AM ::
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:: 02.18.2004 ::

I got back from visiting Erin in Minneapolis on Monday, and I know that I still haven’t adjusted to being back in California yet because when I got ready to walk to class this morning after taking a shower I was mentally preparing to have my hair frozen as soon as I stepped out the door. But no, even though it’s a bit cloudy and overcast here, it’s still far, far warmer than Minnesota. Out there it would be the most sunny, gorgeous day in the world and if my hair was even just a little wet it would frost over into solid little ringlets. It’s a good way to prevent frizzing I guess. I can see the marketing campaign now: “Don’t frizz, freeze!” As long as you don’t walk inside and thaw out, it’s better than hair spray!
Seriously, though, Minneapolis was a lot of fun. I surprised Erin by showing up for Valentine’s Day and a few days surrounding it, and her life, thankfully, didn’t fall apart as a result. We mostly bummed around her school, which, except for a few resident halls and the book store, is an entire college campus contained indoors - library, cafeteria, classrooms, dorms, deli, study rooms - all connected by a labyrinth of skywalks and stairways that even on my second visit amazed me. It’s a Christian school, too, so boys and girls are only allowed in each other’s dorms during specific visiting hours on the weekends. As a result, public space is used a lot differently than it is here at Chapman, or I imagine most schools. If you want to be co-ed, you have to find a lobby or classroom to meet in. It’s a lot more social, and requires a lot more thinking, as there aren’t dorm rooms as a default place to hang out.
Erin didn’t have a car either, so we had to walk everywhere we wanted to go off campus, including about two miles to an art museum on Valentine’s Day. Now two miles isn’t that far to walk, but remember what I said about freezing hair earlier? It’s that temperature (about fifteen degrees) all the time. We kept close together and sang and hummed to keep out the cold. Not bad at all, actually. Having someone to hold you up when you slip on the long frozen, snowy sidewalk, takes the bite out of the bitter breeze. When we got inside, though, we definitely wanted to stay there. After the museum we trekked further to a pizza place and got a large cheese pizza, which was on sale. We ate half of it, and brought the rest back as leftovers. The great thing about going out with Erin to restaurants is that we manage to split everything - later that night we dressed up, me in a three dollar shirt and ten dollar blazer from Goodwill, her with a rose in her hair, borrowed a car, and went downtown to a fancy Italian place I’d made reservations at from back in California. I was told to expect to pay at least thirty dollars there, but Erin and I shared a pasta dish, and even with the tip it was less than half of that. And we had leftovers again for later in the week. Meanwhile, waiter told the kids at the table next to us, “I asked you guys if you were hungry, and you said yes - don’t complain to me about all this extra food!” Take that, large portion sizes!
I’ve got to go to class now, more adventures later!

:: Aaron Humphrey 11:23 AM ::
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