Perhaps it’s because of the grey weather, or the general stillness of winter, but I’ve been having one of those self-reflective sort of weeks. It all started because the Vienna Forum for the Global Initiative to Fight Human Trafficking is occurring right now, and it’s the event nearly all my efforts at the UNODC went towards. It’s a little strange to work exclusively on an event and never get to see it come to fruition. It’s the plight of many of the short-term UN folks like us, but I’ve been talking to my friends and colleagues in Vienna regularly over Skype and email, and they’ve been keeping me abreast of the activities there.
I have such an assortment of feelings when I look back on Vienna. I don’t know if I could work on human trafficking exclusively – as one friend put it, I managed to find the only thing more depressing than cancer to work on when I went to work on human trafficking – but I loved every minute of working for UNODC, and feeling a part of a larger, global cause. This isn’t to say that I dislike my job at Yale. It’s just a very, very different world. When I think of possible life paths, I don’t regret what I’m doing or my decision to come to New Haven. I look at Todd every day and know I made the right decision. And most days I like my job quite a lot. I just sometimes think about the other paths life could have taken.
Really, this is all Jonathan’s fault. Let me explain. Jonathan is a friend and former colleague of mine from UNODC, and had the somewhat dubious honor of being the only other American in my unit. In addition, Jonathan was my “Northern Exposure” hookup, as he received periodic care packages from his Illinois parents that included DVDs of the Cicely, Alaska-based show. As my time at UNODC was ending, Jonathan’s consultancy contract had come to an end, and in classic UN style, his new consultancy contract was tied up on bureaucratic red tape. He ended up enjoyed a few weeks of unpaid, forced relaxation, and then was hired to head up UNODC’s anti-human trafficking efforts in Afghanistan. He now spends a couple weeks each month in Kabul implementing anti-human trafficking programs, which honestly has to be one of the toughest and most noble jobs I can imagine a person doing. He and I frequently chat via Skype, and there is something very strange about sitting in my office talking to someone who’s typing away in a UN compound in war-torn Afghanistan.
I realize I romanticize what Jonathan does. For one, to do the work that Jonathan is doing in Afghanistan -- but as a woman -- would be infinitely more difficult than it already is. He works long and tireless hours, often just shuttling between the UN compound and back home again because security is so abysmal. He doesn’t get to spend much of his spare time wandering around Kabul. But when he does, he finds the pleasure in life there and in the warmth of the Afghani people, despite the country being pulled apart by conflict. When one day he instant messaged me, I looked at the clock and wrote back, “Jesus, what time is it there?” He responded, “Mohammed, its 3:30 in the morning.” His sense of humor manages to keep things intact.
I don’t know if I could do exactly what Jonathan does, but I miss feeling truly connected to the work that I’m doing, and feeling like what it does makes a difference in the world. I’m not going to flatter myself to say that my work at ACS and UNODC had a significant impact on the ground, but I did get to interact with people who made me feel like what I did mattered to them – breast cancer survivors and team leaders, former smokers, and Active for Life participants who stuck with a physical activity a year after the AFL campaign. I have a great group of committee members and volunteers here at Yale, but it’s just not the same feeling. I try to create that feeling for myself as much as I can (for example, when I receive a gift towards a financial aid scholarship, I like to think that what I do matters to the student who will now receive this scholarship), but it’s just a completely different set of circumstances.
I’m sure my mood will change once the sun starts to shine. Go without sun for two weeks and you’ll start believing in seasonal mood disorder too. But for that at least I now have “sunshine in a box,” a collection of mementos that remind me of California and sunny days at the beach, courtesy of Todd for Valentine’s Day. And come reunion weekend, when I get to see the culmination of my efforts, and the great work that will come from my labors, I know it will all be worth it. Until then, I’ll just keep waiting for sunshine – and spring.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
Random melodic musings
I’m a sucker for cowbells. Accordions too. Clapping as a percussion tool, fiddles, even kazoos – if a song contains one of these elements, there’s a reasonably good chance I’ll like it. And anyone who knows me and my love of Rocket from the Crypt knows that I love me a good horn section too.
All these melodic musings stem from the fact that right now I’m sitting at my desk listening to a song I honestly haven’t heard in 10 years. Despite the length of time, the minute I heard the opening chords, I audibly sighed and said “Oh, I love this song!” and found myself sucked back into 1996. Literally. I swear if someone walked in on me right now they’d think I’d gone to some other world.
I’m always amazed at the ability music has to evoke such strong emotions and memories in me. For many songs, I have very specific and distinct memories and attached to them. Anytime I hear Kylie Minogue, I’m instantly transported to London, March 2003. If I hear Bob Marley on the radio, I feel like I should be driving on the 52 to the beach after school. And whenever I hear “This is the Day,” by The The, I’m back in Laura Kass’ or Steph Berry’s (formerly Hedeline) living room, watching a little-known, semi-mediocre movie called “Empire Records.” In the summer of 1997, this movie became the go-to movie for girls of a certain age, due in part to its cast of young, gorgeous starlets. “Empire Records” was a breakthrough movie for several then-unknown actors, most notably Renee Zellweger, Liv Tyler, and Anthony LaPaglia, and it tapped into the teenage dream of working in an über-hip record store, surrounded by lovable and good-looking men who secretly pine away for you. Let’s just say it hit a chord.
Now I’m not even going to get into the fact that someone was idiotic enough to name their band ‘The The.’ I’m sure the lead singer must have felt particularly profound when he pulled that name out a stoned haze. And I can’t name any other song by The The, but I will say that that “This is the Day” might be one of the great feel good songs ever put to record. An accordion, synthesizer, fiddle, and percussionary clapping – it’s a strange concoction of perfection. Seriously, if a nerdy 80s pop group and a jug band had a love child, this song would be it. And it would be one damn happy baby. Hearing the song makes me want to grab the one I love, look into their eyes and tell them how wonderful they are, and then start dancing. For other, semi-inexplicable reasons, it also makes me want to have a baby on my hip to dance around with. But I digress.
So here I am, stuck in an office, wanting to dance around but I know I can’t, lest I further the well-established stereotype here of what a Californian is.
Wait. I have a door to my office! If you’ll excuse me, I have an office dance party to attend to. But where’s a baby when you need ‘em?
All these melodic musings stem from the fact that right now I’m sitting at my desk listening to a song I honestly haven’t heard in 10 years. Despite the length of time, the minute I heard the opening chords, I audibly sighed and said “Oh, I love this song!” and found myself sucked back into 1996. Literally. I swear if someone walked in on me right now they’d think I’d gone to some other world.
I’m always amazed at the ability music has to evoke such strong emotions and memories in me. For many songs, I have very specific and distinct memories and attached to them. Anytime I hear Kylie Minogue, I’m instantly transported to London, March 2003. If I hear Bob Marley on the radio, I feel like I should be driving on the 52 to the beach after school. And whenever I hear “This is the Day,” by The The, I’m back in Laura Kass’ or Steph Berry’s (formerly Hedeline) living room, watching a little-known, semi-mediocre movie called “Empire Records.” In the summer of 1997, this movie became the go-to movie for girls of a certain age, due in part to its cast of young, gorgeous starlets. “Empire Records” was a breakthrough movie for several then-unknown actors, most notably Renee Zellweger, Liv Tyler, and Anthony LaPaglia, and it tapped into the teenage dream of working in an über-hip record store, surrounded by lovable and good-looking men who secretly pine away for you. Let’s just say it hit a chord.
Now I’m not even going to get into the fact that someone was idiotic enough to name their band ‘The The.’ I’m sure the lead singer must have felt particularly profound when he pulled that name out a stoned haze. And I can’t name any other song by The The, but I will say that that “This is the Day” might be one of the great feel good songs ever put to record. An accordion, synthesizer, fiddle, and percussionary clapping – it’s a strange concoction of perfection. Seriously, if a nerdy 80s pop group and a jug band had a love child, this song would be it. And it would be one damn happy baby. Hearing the song makes me want to grab the one I love, look into their eyes and tell them how wonderful they are, and then start dancing. For other, semi-inexplicable reasons, it also makes me want to have a baby on my hip to dance around with. But I digress.
So here I am, stuck in an office, wanting to dance around but I know I can’t, lest I further the well-established stereotype here of what a Californian is.
Wait. I have a door to my office! If you’ll excuse me, I have an office dance party to attend to. But where’s a baby when you need ‘em?
Friday, January 18, 2008
An Open Letter of Apology to my Tercel
Dear Tercel:
We’ve been through a lot together over the years. As the first car I’ve ever owned (the Infiniti G20 I had from 1998-1999 was, in fact, my uncle Lon’s car on loan to me), you were sort of my vehicular training wheels (no pun intended). I’ve learned a lot from you. And even if you aren’t the prettiest or newest car on the block, by God you are reliable, and that means more to me than any of those other things.
I feel like I’ve tricked you. When you rolled off the truck at Bob Baker Toyota, fresh from the factory, you looked forward to a charmed life of mild weather and ocean breezes. The most severe weather you ever thought you’d encounter was an overabundance of sea salt. But now, in your twilight years, I’ve subjected you to the harsh New England winter, and I’m not sure you’ll ever forgive me.
Let me back up for a moment. In truth, the hard road to New England began with your cross country journey. On the final leg from New Jersey to New Haven, the truck driver ‘hit a bump too fast,’ and for reasons I still don’t quite understand, the car wasn’t tied down very well. You flew up into the roof above you and got dented all over the place. It’s ok – I’m not mad. It wasn’t your fault. You suffered the humiliation of a sagging ceiling (it’s ok dear, it happens to all of us eventually) for over two months, until the auto shippers’ insurance company finally paid to have you fixed. Now, with a fresh lift and coat of paint, you’re good as new.
But then the cold came. And boy, did it come! In all your California life, the worst you experienced was mild ice on the windshield. I left you for 11 days at Christmas, only to come home to you completely frozen shut. I heaved, pulled, and grunted until the driver side door opened with such a sickening crack that I thought my superhuman strength had broken the car door off. And to add to the comic scene, with the final burst of strength I used to open the door, the momentum of the door flying open threw me flat on my butt in the middle of the street. I looked up to see your car door still intact (no super strength after all -- damn), and devoted the next 20 minutes to removing the snow and ice from you.
To add insult to injury, all this scraping, pulling, and general chaos occurred in -9 degree weather. Yes, that’s not a typo – it was negative nine degrees. Even the brightest, most youthful car would have a hard time getting going in subzero temperatures. It took you a while to warm up (again, no fault of your own – moving slower just comes with age), but you did start, and I can’t thank you enough.
The next stop in our Connecticut journey is a trip to the DMV next week, where you and I both must rescind our California driving identity and become drivers in the Constitution State. I think it will be a sad day for both of us to say goodbye to the Golden State identity we’ve known and loved (in fact, it’s the only identity we’ve ever known), but we’ll look optimistically forward to the next chapter in our lives.
Sorry Old Gal for the shock to the system, but know that I promise to be as good to you as I can be, and I hope we’ll have a nice long run together for at least several more years. And I promise the warm weather will return. Someday.
We’ve been through a lot together over the years. As the first car I’ve ever owned (the Infiniti G20 I had from 1998-1999 was, in fact, my uncle Lon’s car on loan to me), you were sort of my vehicular training wheels (no pun intended). I’ve learned a lot from you. And even if you aren’t the prettiest or newest car on the block, by God you are reliable, and that means more to me than any of those other things.
I feel like I’ve tricked you. When you rolled off the truck at Bob Baker Toyota, fresh from the factory, you looked forward to a charmed life of mild weather and ocean breezes. The most severe weather you ever thought you’d encounter was an overabundance of sea salt. But now, in your twilight years, I’ve subjected you to the harsh New England winter, and I’m not sure you’ll ever forgive me.
Let me back up for a moment. In truth, the hard road to New England began with your cross country journey. On the final leg from New Jersey to New Haven, the truck driver ‘hit a bump too fast,’ and for reasons I still don’t quite understand, the car wasn’t tied down very well. You flew up into the roof above you and got dented all over the place. It’s ok – I’m not mad. It wasn’t your fault. You suffered the humiliation of a sagging ceiling (it’s ok dear, it happens to all of us eventually) for over two months, until the auto shippers’ insurance company finally paid to have you fixed. Now, with a fresh lift and coat of paint, you’re good as new.
But then the cold came. And boy, did it come! In all your California life, the worst you experienced was mild ice on the windshield. I left you for 11 days at Christmas, only to come home to you completely frozen shut. I heaved, pulled, and grunted until the driver side door opened with such a sickening crack that I thought my superhuman strength had broken the car door off. And to add to the comic scene, with the final burst of strength I used to open the door, the momentum of the door flying open threw me flat on my butt in the middle of the street. I looked up to see your car door still intact (no super strength after all -- damn), and devoted the next 20 minutes to removing the snow and ice from you.
To add insult to injury, all this scraping, pulling, and general chaos occurred in -9 degree weather. Yes, that’s not a typo – it was negative nine degrees. Even the brightest, most youthful car would have a hard time getting going in subzero temperatures. It took you a while to warm up (again, no fault of your own – moving slower just comes with age), but you did start, and I can’t thank you enough.
The next stop in our Connecticut journey is a trip to the DMV next week, where you and I both must rescind our California driving identity and become drivers in the Constitution State. I think it will be a sad day for both of us to say goodbye to the Golden State identity we’ve known and loved (in fact, it’s the only identity we’ve ever known), but we’ll look optimistically forward to the next chapter in our lives.
Sorry Old Gal for the shock to the system, but know that I promise to be as good to you as I can be, and I hope we’ll have a nice long run together for at least several more years. And I promise the warm weather will return. Someday.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
When I count my blessings...
As the year draws to a close, the inevitable reflections occur on what has been, what might have been, and what soon may come. In my ideal world, this post would be occurring in a steady and regular stream of blog posts that occurred from the moment I reached Connecticut soil. The unfortunate reality – as so many of you know – is that I haven’t devoted the time to my blog that I would have liked. There are a variety of reasons for this: time, energy, and a feeling like there is a ‘lack of material’ for a Connecticut blog. You just don’t have the opportunity to flash the distinguished Ambassador from Japan in New Haven; or rather, if you do, I certainly don’t run in those circles.
I realize that this post comes in a string of repentant posts, asking communal forgiveness for the sin of a lack of writing. In truth I do this partly for myself. When I reflect upon 2007, one of the things that shines out for me has been the experience of writing this and the Vienna blog. In my heart of hearts, what I have always wanted to be is a writer. For financial reasons, and (let’s face it) a little bit of cowardice, it’s a dream I’ve never pursued. I like the romantic ideal of the Bohemian writer who subsists on nothing more than bread and a dream, but I like to have a roof over my head too. And I’ve been afraid of taking the risk of living on pennies a day in pursuit of a dream. It’s not something I’m proud of, but I think it’s something most people can understand.
I do find it a little ironic then that my love of writing found its voice because, in the midst of a quarter-life crisis, I quit my well-paying job and moved 6,000 miles away from the family and friends we love, all in pursuit of another dream. It started as an easy way to update our loved ones on our lives. It transformed into the creative outlet I’ve always longed for, and has become the closest thing I’ve ever had to my dream of being published.
And so, as I count my blessings this year, I’d like to thank you, blog reader. I know I haven’t been the most reliable, but I can’t begin to tell you how much it has meant to me to have an audience for my ideas. The quality of material has varied I know, but I appreciate your taking a few minutes each week to listen to my self-indulgent rants and ravings.
There are so very many things for which I am thankful this year, and in no particular order, I’d like to highlight just a quick few:
1) I am grateful for good snow boots. By extension, I am grateful to my cousin David and Aunt Chris for recommending I buy a good pair, and telling me where to buy them at a great price. When I slip-slide my way to work each morning, I think of both of them, and am grateful that I have yet to fall flat on my face. I may look like Nanook of the North (clearly demonstrating that “I’m not from these parts”) but at least I don’t have injury to go with the insult.
2) I am grateful for having the sort of loving and supporting family that never once told me how insane I was for leaving said well-paying job to work at the UN for a song. And I should take this opportunity to say if “me be funny one day,” they all played an instrumental part in it.
3) When my Grandparents Ogdon passed away in late 2004 and early 2005, my father gave each of us kids $8,000 from them. I used a chunk of my money to pay off part of my student loans. I then went and bought a fabulous dress at Anthropologie. After that I put the remainder of the money in my savings account, waiting for the day that I could use it to do something that would make my Grandparents proud. I like to think that I have. I also know that I couldn’t have done all of this without the $5,000 ‘seed money’ from them, and for that I am eternally grateful.
4) I am grateful for the amazing Tetris skills of a certain Colleen Carlson, who by the grace of God got more things to fit into the trunk of my Tercel than I thought humanly possible. More importantly, I am grateful to have the sort of friend who has been beside me for the past 15 years, and who offers to drive four hours from Fresno for a day, just to help me pack for our cross country move. In the process she not only saved my sanity, but showed me the truest and deepest meaning of friendship.
5) Joining the ranks with Colleen are the good friends we left behind, who made me feel like Todd and I weren’t alone in Wien, and aren't alone in Connecticut. If friends are the family you choose, then I’ve chosen some of the best around.
6) I am grateful for my health, and for the health of my loved ones. So simple, but so very, very important. If there is one thing I took away from my years at ACS, it’s this.
7) Waking up each morning next to the person who truly understands you, makes you laugh, brings out your goofy side, challenges you to be a better person, and loves you – warts and all – is one of the best feelings on Earth.
There are so many people and things that I am grateful for that I didn’t mention, but know that you all mean the world to me. Thanks for taking this journey with me, and I look forward to more merry misadventures with you in 2008.
I realize that this post comes in a string of repentant posts, asking communal forgiveness for the sin of a lack of writing. In truth I do this partly for myself. When I reflect upon 2007, one of the things that shines out for me has been the experience of writing this and the Vienna blog. In my heart of hearts, what I have always wanted to be is a writer. For financial reasons, and (let’s face it) a little bit of cowardice, it’s a dream I’ve never pursued. I like the romantic ideal of the Bohemian writer who subsists on nothing more than bread and a dream, but I like to have a roof over my head too. And I’ve been afraid of taking the risk of living on pennies a day in pursuit of a dream. It’s not something I’m proud of, but I think it’s something most people can understand.
I do find it a little ironic then that my love of writing found its voice because, in the midst of a quarter-life crisis, I quit my well-paying job and moved 6,000 miles away from the family and friends we love, all in pursuit of another dream. It started as an easy way to update our loved ones on our lives. It transformed into the creative outlet I’ve always longed for, and has become the closest thing I’ve ever had to my dream of being published.
And so, as I count my blessings this year, I’d like to thank you, blog reader. I know I haven’t been the most reliable, but I can’t begin to tell you how much it has meant to me to have an audience for my ideas. The quality of material has varied I know, but I appreciate your taking a few minutes each week to listen to my self-indulgent rants and ravings.
There are so very many things for which I am thankful this year, and in no particular order, I’d like to highlight just a quick few:
1) I am grateful for good snow boots. By extension, I am grateful to my cousin David and Aunt Chris for recommending I buy a good pair, and telling me where to buy them at a great price. When I slip-slide my way to work each morning, I think of both of them, and am grateful that I have yet to fall flat on my face. I may look like Nanook of the North (clearly demonstrating that “I’m not from these parts”) but at least I don’t have injury to go with the insult.
2) I am grateful for having the sort of loving and supporting family that never once told me how insane I was for leaving said well-paying job to work at the UN for a song. And I should take this opportunity to say if “me be funny one day,” they all played an instrumental part in it.
3) When my Grandparents Ogdon passed away in late 2004 and early 2005, my father gave each of us kids $8,000 from them. I used a chunk of my money to pay off part of my student loans. I then went and bought a fabulous dress at Anthropologie. After that I put the remainder of the money in my savings account, waiting for the day that I could use it to do something that would make my Grandparents proud. I like to think that I have. I also know that I couldn’t have done all of this without the $5,000 ‘seed money’ from them, and for that I am eternally grateful.
4) I am grateful for the amazing Tetris skills of a certain Colleen Carlson, who by the grace of God got more things to fit into the trunk of my Tercel than I thought humanly possible. More importantly, I am grateful to have the sort of friend who has been beside me for the past 15 years, and who offers to drive four hours from Fresno for a day, just to help me pack for our cross country move. In the process she not only saved my sanity, but showed me the truest and deepest meaning of friendship.
5) Joining the ranks with Colleen are the good friends we left behind, who made me feel like Todd and I weren’t alone in Wien, and aren't alone in Connecticut. If friends are the family you choose, then I’ve chosen some of the best around.
6) I am grateful for my health, and for the health of my loved ones. So simple, but so very, very important. If there is one thing I took away from my years at ACS, it’s this.
7) Waking up each morning next to the person who truly understands you, makes you laugh, brings out your goofy side, challenges you to be a better person, and loves you – warts and all – is one of the best feelings on Earth.
There are so many people and things that I am grateful for that I didn’t mention, but know that you all mean the world to me. Thanks for taking this journey with me, and I look forward to more merry misadventures with you in 2008.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
A Pictorial Update on Life
I apologize for being so remiss in posting to my blog. Since my last post, we've had a visit by Todd's Mom Linda and her Mom's friend Diane, as well as my birthday, three trips to NYC, Thanksgiving, and Justin arriving tonight for a two-week stay. I've found it hard to find the time to post, and I apologize. As a sorry substitute, I thought I would post a link to a pictorial journal of sorts from the past month.
You'll see that new words like "puffer coat," "wellies," and "Noreaster" have entered my vernacular -- and my wardrobe. The pictures come from our two weekends in New York, as well as our day trip to Mystic Seaport, CT (home of Mystic Pizza), and our first foray into making a full Thanksgiving dinner. It was an adventure to say the least.
I hope you enjoy, and I promise to write soon!
Here's the link to the photo album:
http://www.kristenogdon.shutterfly.com
You'll see that new words like "puffer coat," "wellies," and "Noreaster" have entered my vernacular -- and my wardrobe. The pictures come from our two weekends in New York, as well as our day trip to Mystic Seaport, CT (home of Mystic Pizza), and our first foray into making a full Thanksgiving dinner. It was an adventure to say the least.
I hope you enjoy, and I promise to write soon!
Here's the link to the photo album:
http://www.kristenogdon.shutterfly.com
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Requiem for Rocket
For most, today is a day of costumes and candy, jack-o-lanterns and things that go bump in the night. For me, All Hallow’s Eve marks another occasion – one that still makes me wistful and sad a few years later. On October 31, 2005, the world said goodbye to one of the greatest musical groups to ever grace the stage: Rocket from the Crypt.
I realize that it is strange to mourn the loss of a musical group, especially one that had only minor commercial success in spite of its overwhelming critical acclaim. I fear I’ll come off like one of those slightly crazed John Lennon fans still roaming the streets of Berkeley, espousing the virtues of his music while simultaneously decrying the acts of the current political administration. To me, the end of Rocket from the Crypt signaled not only the demise of an incredibly talented group, but more broadly, the death of local music, and the loss of so many bands who – like them – were exceedingly talented but underplayed on the radio. If a band as talented as Rocket from the Crypt met its end for no reason other than having given it a good run for 16 years and never finding commercial success, it’s a sad time for music indeed.
If you have never lived in San Diego (where they are music icons), chances are Rocket from the Crypt (RFTC) is unknown to you. Their blend of high energy alt-rock and horns suffered from radio station’s constantly saying they “didn’t know how to market them.” Radio execs apparently felt that listeners couldn’t ‘get’ a band with a horn section that wasn’t ska or swing. It’s such an incredible shame, because anyone who went to one of their live shows was instantly won over by them – for life. One of the best articles written about RFTC appeared in the bible of music magazines, Rolling Stone, when they named RFTC one of the best live bands in the history of rock ‘n roll. Too bad so few people had heard about them.
Indeed, Rocket’s live shows were legendary. In addition to the rotating selection of costumes/uniforms, Rocket made sure they put on a show instead of a mere selection of songs. They encouraged people to dance, let loose, and experience the “unconditional love of Rocket from the Crypt.” At one show I attended in San Francisco shortly after 9/11, lead singer John “Speedo” Reis encouraged the crowd to take a moment, turn to the person behind them, and shake their hand or give them a hug. To my surprise, the person dancing behind me was none other than crooner Chris Isaak. For the record, he’s just as handsome and charming in person. He’s also surprisingly hairy.
In fact, over time I found out that Rocket did have its fair share of high profile fans. I remember sitting on my couch in 2002, watching music videos on VH1 (they did show some videos on VH1 and MTV then…but that’s a whole other blog post). I was sick as a dog with a mighty cold. In between videos they showed a segment where they asked famous musicians what was in their CD player. Peter Buck of REM said, “I’ve been listening to Rocket from the Crypt’s “Group Sounds.” He spent the next minute praising it, and while I started muttering “Oh my God, oh my God,” wishing someone was home for me to share this moment with, they played a video on Rocket’s. In it’s entirety. The next few minutes are a blur. I think I called Jared and Todd, since they could appreciate the enormity of this moment. But I felt such a sense of pride and joy, because the band who met so much to me had a few minutes of well-deserved fame.
Rocket from the Crypt also provided me with some of the funnier awkward moments in my life. My freshman year of college Rocket came to San Francisco to play at Bottom of the Hill, an aptly named music venue located at the – you guessed it -- bottom of a hill in the SOMA warehouse district. I went to the show with the person I was dating at the time. To the side of the venue I could see several members of the band chatting with other people, so I sucked up my courage and decided to walk over and say hi. Wait. Let me back up for a moment. During my senior year of high school, while Editor-in-Chief of the school newspaper, I received one of the best surprises of my life. Our school’s computer teacher, Joe Austin, knew I was a fan of RFTC, and he was friends with the band. He arranged for two of the band members to come and surprise me on campus and have an interview. I spent over two hours talking with them about Rocket, and needless to say, interviewing them was one of the highlights of my high school experience, and I was forever in love with Paul (aka “Apollo”) and Jason (“JC”). So back to Bottom of the Hill. Paul was leaning beside the tour bus, and I walked up to him and started to say, “Paul, I don’t know if you remember me, but --.” He interrupted me, leaned in and coyly smiled, to say, “Did we make love together?” I started laughing, and told him that we hadn’t. He replied, “Are you sure?” I looked over to my date, who clearly didn’t find this funny, and had to convince Paul that our relationship had purely been ‘professional,’ and assure my date that I wasn’t conducting late-night trysts with members of my favorite band. Paul responded with, “Bummer,” which I found a strange sort of compliment, but my date definitely didn’t appreciate it.
Fast forward to Rocket’s farewell concert at the Westin on Halloween night 2005. I was attending their final farewell with a group that included Todd, Jared, and Brenda, and being that Rocket’s Halloween bashes were known for being fabulous costume events, we donned our costumes too. The costumes of Rocket fans did not disappoint – we’re talking seriously impressive, elaborate stuff. Inspired by our recent rental of Seasons 1-3 of Alias, I decided to dress as CIA Agent Sydney Bristow, in her iconic costume of a bright red wig and head-to-toe, skin tight leather. This was the exact moment in time that Valerie Plame was ‘outed’ by Scooter Libby, so to add a sardonic twist I made a sign affixed to my back that read, “Outed by Scooter Libby.” It got a few laughs, and since I had been working out, I was feeling pretty good in this outfit.
I left the group at one point to get a drink at the bar, and I noticed among the multitude of elaborate costumes the back of a tall man dressed in an enormous banana costume. I laughed and turned away to order my drink. Once I had my drink, I turned around to go back into the ballroom. At that moment I made eye contact with the banana man. Mr. Chiquita was none other than Joe Austin, the former computers teacher at my high school, whom I had heard through the grapevine was now the Vice Principal at San Diego High School. There’s always something a little awkward about unexpectedly meeting someone you knew as a youth once you’re an adult. Factor in that he’s a former teacher and you a former student, and he’s a giant banana and you’re in skin tight leather and a red wig, and you can imagine the awkwardness of the reunion. We both sort of looked down sheepishly and laughed, and proceeded to catch up with the more ‘adult’ versions of one another.
Rocket will forever be for me the music that gets me up, gets me moving, and makes me happy. I’m grateful that I found music that I connected with so deeply in my life – some people never will. For years now I’ve even been toying with getting a tattoo of Rocket’s insignia on me and officially joining “Speedo’s Army,” the surprising large group of fans who have permanently inked themselves in support of the band. Google it sometime to check out pages and pages of Rocket tattoos (you’ll even find Joe Austin’s bicep there). In return for this act, Rocket promised fans free admission into all their shows for life. Even though the group is now disbanded and I can never utilize the perks of being a member of the Army, I still feel the urge to pay homage to them, and say thank you for giving me so many amazing memories.
I’m trying to find out more about the local music scene here in Connecticut so that I too can support local music in the place where I’m now local. And for my Rocket fix, I can still turn to KEXP (http://www.kexp.org/), whom Sarah turned me onto and for which I am forever grateful. John, the Morning Show host, is also a fan of RFTC, and I think he and I have an unspoken thing going on now, because ever since I sent an email thanking the station for playing Rocket, he’s played them more -- I like to think just for me. Because Rocket clearly made a difference in his life too.
I realize that it is strange to mourn the loss of a musical group, especially one that had only minor commercial success in spite of its overwhelming critical acclaim. I fear I’ll come off like one of those slightly crazed John Lennon fans still roaming the streets of Berkeley, espousing the virtues of his music while simultaneously decrying the acts of the current political administration. To me, the end of Rocket from the Crypt signaled not only the demise of an incredibly talented group, but more broadly, the death of local music, and the loss of so many bands who – like them – were exceedingly talented but underplayed on the radio. If a band as talented as Rocket from the Crypt met its end for no reason other than having given it a good run for 16 years and never finding commercial success, it’s a sad time for music indeed.
If you have never lived in San Diego (where they are music icons), chances are Rocket from the Crypt (RFTC) is unknown to you. Their blend of high energy alt-rock and horns suffered from radio station’s constantly saying they “didn’t know how to market them.” Radio execs apparently felt that listeners couldn’t ‘get’ a band with a horn section that wasn’t ska or swing. It’s such an incredible shame, because anyone who went to one of their live shows was instantly won over by them – for life. One of the best articles written about RFTC appeared in the bible of music magazines, Rolling Stone, when they named RFTC one of the best live bands in the history of rock ‘n roll. Too bad so few people had heard about them.
Indeed, Rocket’s live shows were legendary. In addition to the rotating selection of costumes/uniforms, Rocket made sure they put on a show instead of a mere selection of songs. They encouraged people to dance, let loose, and experience the “unconditional love of Rocket from the Crypt.” At one show I attended in San Francisco shortly after 9/11, lead singer John “Speedo” Reis encouraged the crowd to take a moment, turn to the person behind them, and shake their hand or give them a hug. To my surprise, the person dancing behind me was none other than crooner Chris Isaak. For the record, he’s just as handsome and charming in person. He’s also surprisingly hairy.
In fact, over time I found out that Rocket did have its fair share of high profile fans. I remember sitting on my couch in 2002, watching music videos on VH1 (they did show some videos on VH1 and MTV then…but that’s a whole other blog post). I was sick as a dog with a mighty cold. In between videos they showed a segment where they asked famous musicians what was in their CD player. Peter Buck of REM said, “I’ve been listening to Rocket from the Crypt’s “Group Sounds.” He spent the next minute praising it, and while I started muttering “Oh my God, oh my God,” wishing someone was home for me to share this moment with, they played a video on Rocket’s. In it’s entirety. The next few minutes are a blur. I think I called Jared and Todd, since they could appreciate the enormity of this moment. But I felt such a sense of pride and joy, because the band who met so much to me had a few minutes of well-deserved fame.
Rocket from the Crypt also provided me with some of the funnier awkward moments in my life. My freshman year of college Rocket came to San Francisco to play at Bottom of the Hill, an aptly named music venue located at the – you guessed it -- bottom of a hill in the SOMA warehouse district. I went to the show with the person I was dating at the time. To the side of the venue I could see several members of the band chatting with other people, so I sucked up my courage and decided to walk over and say hi. Wait. Let me back up for a moment. During my senior year of high school, while Editor-in-Chief of the school newspaper, I received one of the best surprises of my life. Our school’s computer teacher, Joe Austin, knew I was a fan of RFTC, and he was friends with the band. He arranged for two of the band members to come and surprise me on campus and have an interview. I spent over two hours talking with them about Rocket, and needless to say, interviewing them was one of the highlights of my high school experience, and I was forever in love with Paul (aka “Apollo”) and Jason (“JC”). So back to Bottom of the Hill. Paul was leaning beside the tour bus, and I walked up to him and started to say, “Paul, I don’t know if you remember me, but --.” He interrupted me, leaned in and coyly smiled, to say, “Did we make love together?” I started laughing, and told him that we hadn’t. He replied, “Are you sure?” I looked over to my date, who clearly didn’t find this funny, and had to convince Paul that our relationship had purely been ‘professional,’ and assure my date that I wasn’t conducting late-night trysts with members of my favorite band. Paul responded with, “Bummer,” which I found a strange sort of compliment, but my date definitely didn’t appreciate it.
Fast forward to Rocket’s farewell concert at the Westin on Halloween night 2005. I was attending their final farewell with a group that included Todd, Jared, and Brenda, and being that Rocket’s Halloween bashes were known for being fabulous costume events, we donned our costumes too. The costumes of Rocket fans did not disappoint – we’re talking seriously impressive, elaborate stuff. Inspired by our recent rental of Seasons 1-3 of Alias, I decided to dress as CIA Agent Sydney Bristow, in her iconic costume of a bright red wig and head-to-toe, skin tight leather. This was the exact moment in time that Valerie Plame was ‘outed’ by Scooter Libby, so to add a sardonic twist I made a sign affixed to my back that read, “Outed by Scooter Libby.” It got a few laughs, and since I had been working out, I was feeling pretty good in this outfit.
I left the group at one point to get a drink at the bar, and I noticed among the multitude of elaborate costumes the back of a tall man dressed in an enormous banana costume. I laughed and turned away to order my drink. Once I had my drink, I turned around to go back into the ballroom. At that moment I made eye contact with the banana man. Mr. Chiquita was none other than Joe Austin, the former computers teacher at my high school, whom I had heard through the grapevine was now the Vice Principal at San Diego High School. There’s always something a little awkward about unexpectedly meeting someone you knew as a youth once you’re an adult. Factor in that he’s a former teacher and you a former student, and he’s a giant banana and you’re in skin tight leather and a red wig, and you can imagine the awkwardness of the reunion. We both sort of looked down sheepishly and laughed, and proceeded to catch up with the more ‘adult’ versions of one another.
Rocket will forever be for me the music that gets me up, gets me moving, and makes me happy. I’m grateful that I found music that I connected with so deeply in my life – some people never will. For years now I’ve even been toying with getting a tattoo of Rocket’s insignia on me and officially joining “Speedo’s Army,” the surprising large group of fans who have permanently inked themselves in support of the band. Google it sometime to check out pages and pages of Rocket tattoos (you’ll even find Joe Austin’s bicep there). In return for this act, Rocket promised fans free admission into all their shows for life. Even though the group is now disbanded and I can never utilize the perks of being a member of the Army, I still feel the urge to pay homage to them, and say thank you for giving me so many amazing memories.
I’m trying to find out more about the local music scene here in Connecticut so that I too can support local music in the place where I’m now local. And for my Rocket fix, I can still turn to KEXP (http://www.kexp.org/), whom Sarah turned me onto and for which I am forever grateful. John, the Morning Show host, is also a fan of RFTC, and I think he and I have an unspoken thing going on now, because ever since I sent an email thanking the station for playing Rocket, he’s played them more -- I like to think just for me. Because Rocket clearly made a difference in his life too.
So thank you John, Ned, Paul, Petey, JC, Adam, and Mario, and RIP RFTC. And for those of you not familiar with Rocket, Google them. Go on YouTube and type them in. Get a slice of the soulful brand of Rocket rock and roll. Hell, kick your pants off, dance around in your underwear, and feel the unconditional love of RFTC.
PS: I've fixed the settings so that anyone can post a comment to the blog -- even if you don't have a Gmail account. Google changed the settings and didn't notify me. Sorry!
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
The state of my heart is on fire
There are three times in my life that I have prayed to God to have my home spared from a fire. The first was in 1991, when a brush fire swept through the canyon that our home stood by. I remember Dad, Jason, and Jared, standing on the rooftop, hosing the house and yard down, doing everything they could to stop the fire from leaping across the narrow divide and onto our house. While they did this, my Mom and I packed up the valuables into the family minivan. Let me rephrase that. My Mom packed most of the 'real' household valuables, as well as the pets, and I was responsible for putting in the van what my brothers and I deemed the most important things to us. I recall packing Jared's baseball cards, and Jason's tapes and records. I can also recall the exact contents of my bag: some clothes, my photo albums, a hair brush, my stuffed rabbit Anne, and the book I had checked out from the library. Apparently even as a kid I was worried about late fees.
That day was also one of the few days I can ever recall my Mom getting really angry with a complete stranger -- in this case, the local TV news reporter who shoved a microphone in her face and said, "How does it feel to have to evacuate your family from your house because your home may burn down?" If looks could kill, that reporter would have keeled over onto her overinflated shoulder pads right there. But just as the fire came to our house and the tree in our yard caught fire, the wind changed, and our luck was our neighbor's misfortune, as is so often the case in these sorts of events. We lost a tree to that fire. They lost most of their roof.
The second time was, of course, the fires of 2003 -- the fires to end all fires, I thought., and the one to haunt my nightmares. The fires began the day of our Making Strides Against Breast Cancer walk in San Francisco, and while I should have been rejoicing in our record-setting results, Justin, Todd, Steph, and I were huddled together, frantically calling our loved ones as they were hurriedly forced to evacuate. Unlike in 1991, my mother was out of town while the fires happened, and like the current fires, the situation wasn't anything more than local news, so she hadn't heard anything. I had to be the one to tell her that the house was in real danger, and that she may not even be able to fly home early because of the fire conditions. We had nothing prepared in the house for this sort of thing -- no clearly labeled box saying, "Please take in the event of a fire." She and I could run through a mental list of things to get, but getting them was the near impossible challenge. It was the first time, though certainly not the last, that I would feel the gut-wrenching sensation of complete and total impotence.
I called my father, who though my parents are divorced agreed to try to drive to Mom's house to get the important documents out. When they blocked off the Tierrasanta exits on the freeway and he couldn't go any further, he called me with such disappointment, because he knew how much it meant to me to get there. I then called Steph's parents, asking them if they would stop at my Mom's house while they were evacuating out of Tierrasanta. They too ended up being turned away. Finally I called Jason, who in his law enforcement position could get behind barricades without a problem. For those of you who don't know my brother Jason, he's the physical embodiment of a 'tough guy' -- big muscles, tattoos, you get the picture. When I asked him what the situation was like, his voice choked as he said, "Kris, it's like Armageddon."
While Tierrasanta lost many homes in the 2003 fire, it was nothing compared to the complete and utter destruction in Todd's neighborhood of Scripps Ranch. It made the national headlines, just like this fire, but for most of the world it didn't mean much, which I guess is to be expected. It's a not a part of 'your world.' When you see the devastation of a tornado, for example, it looks just like the ruins of a home to an outsider. But to the person who lives in that community, those ruins represent the family that would go out of their way with Christmas decorations for the holidays. It's the home of the nice retired couple who could be seen out tending to their garden every morning. And now it's gone.
We drove down to San Diego immediately after the fires in 2003, and I'll never forget entering Scripps Ranch at 3:00am. There was no life. Of course there were hardly any people around, but there were no animals, no birds, not even insects. Silence. All that remained was the charred remnants of trees and bushes -- and of course ash. If you've not smelled a brush fire before, consider yourself lucky. It's the sort of smell that scars your senses, and for the rest of your life, when you smell that aroma -- a mixture of smoke, ash, and decay -- you'll get a knot in the pit of your stomach, because you fear what might be coming. Driving to Todd's house felt like entering a war zone. Entire streets were leveled, with only chimneys remaining of the homes that once stood there.
I don't think there is a single person in San Diego who didn't have a friend or loved one who lost their home in the fire. It may be why this week's fire hits such a raw cord in me. It's hard to imagine that only four years later that same sort of destruction has happened again. And for me, the feeling of helplessness I had four years ago has only magnified. I can't get in my car and drive down to help friends sift through the ashes of their home. I can't be there to make sandwiches for evacuees. Three thousand miles has never felt so far away as it does in this moment.
I feel grateful and blessed that most of my loved ones have been spared by this fire -- even if there were some close scares. Everyone is safe, which is the most important thing. I find myself wondering if there is a quota for prayers of these sort, and if one day my fire prayer will go unanswered because I've met my quota. San Diego is my roots. It is the place I grew up in, and where most of my family and so many of my friends still live. If I left my heart in San Francisco, then I left my soul in San Diego, in the good stead of those family members and friends. And this week it has felt like my soul's been ripped from me.
While walking to work yesterday I found myself inadvertently creating a San Diego playlist on my Ipod. I felt like if I was listening to Rocket from the Crypt, No Knife, or Nada Surf, I wasn't entirely disconnected from San Diego. Maybe -- just maybe -- if I just played the music loud enough and clicked my heels three times, I'd open my eyes to find myself back in my hometown. Needless to say, I'm still in Connecticut, which isn't bad, but it's not where I want to be. I heart you San Diego, and golly I wish I was home.
That day was also one of the few days I can ever recall my Mom getting really angry with a complete stranger -- in this case, the local TV news reporter who shoved a microphone in her face and said, "How does it feel to have to evacuate your family from your house because your home may burn down?" If looks could kill, that reporter would have keeled over onto her overinflated shoulder pads right there. But just as the fire came to our house and the tree in our yard caught fire, the wind changed, and our luck was our neighbor's misfortune, as is so often the case in these sorts of events. We lost a tree to that fire. They lost most of their roof.
The second time was, of course, the fires of 2003 -- the fires to end all fires, I thought., and the one to haunt my nightmares. The fires began the day of our Making Strides Against Breast Cancer walk in San Francisco, and while I should have been rejoicing in our record-setting results, Justin, Todd, Steph, and I were huddled together, frantically calling our loved ones as they were hurriedly forced to evacuate. Unlike in 1991, my mother was out of town while the fires happened, and like the current fires, the situation wasn't anything more than local news, so she hadn't heard anything. I had to be the one to tell her that the house was in real danger, and that she may not even be able to fly home early because of the fire conditions. We had nothing prepared in the house for this sort of thing -- no clearly labeled box saying, "Please take in the event of a fire." She and I could run through a mental list of things to get, but getting them was the near impossible challenge. It was the first time, though certainly not the last, that I would feel the gut-wrenching sensation of complete and total impotence.
I called my father, who though my parents are divorced agreed to try to drive to Mom's house to get the important documents out. When they blocked off the Tierrasanta exits on the freeway and he couldn't go any further, he called me with such disappointment, because he knew how much it meant to me to get there. I then called Steph's parents, asking them if they would stop at my Mom's house while they were evacuating out of Tierrasanta. They too ended up being turned away. Finally I called Jason, who in his law enforcement position could get behind barricades without a problem. For those of you who don't know my brother Jason, he's the physical embodiment of a 'tough guy' -- big muscles, tattoos, you get the picture. When I asked him what the situation was like, his voice choked as he said, "Kris, it's like Armageddon."
While Tierrasanta lost many homes in the 2003 fire, it was nothing compared to the complete and utter destruction in Todd's neighborhood of Scripps Ranch. It made the national headlines, just like this fire, but for most of the world it didn't mean much, which I guess is to be expected. It's a not a part of 'your world.' When you see the devastation of a tornado, for example, it looks just like the ruins of a home to an outsider. But to the person who lives in that community, those ruins represent the family that would go out of their way with Christmas decorations for the holidays. It's the home of the nice retired couple who could be seen out tending to their garden every morning. And now it's gone.
We drove down to San Diego immediately after the fires in 2003, and I'll never forget entering Scripps Ranch at 3:00am. There was no life. Of course there were hardly any people around, but there were no animals, no birds, not even insects. Silence. All that remained was the charred remnants of trees and bushes -- and of course ash. If you've not smelled a brush fire before, consider yourself lucky. It's the sort of smell that scars your senses, and for the rest of your life, when you smell that aroma -- a mixture of smoke, ash, and decay -- you'll get a knot in the pit of your stomach, because you fear what might be coming. Driving to Todd's house felt like entering a war zone. Entire streets were leveled, with only chimneys remaining of the homes that once stood there.
I don't think there is a single person in San Diego who didn't have a friend or loved one who lost their home in the fire. It may be why this week's fire hits such a raw cord in me. It's hard to imagine that only four years later that same sort of destruction has happened again. And for me, the feeling of helplessness I had four years ago has only magnified. I can't get in my car and drive down to help friends sift through the ashes of their home. I can't be there to make sandwiches for evacuees. Three thousand miles has never felt so far away as it does in this moment.
I feel grateful and blessed that most of my loved ones have been spared by this fire -- even if there were some close scares. Everyone is safe, which is the most important thing. I find myself wondering if there is a quota for prayers of these sort, and if one day my fire prayer will go unanswered because I've met my quota. San Diego is my roots. It is the place I grew up in, and where most of my family and so many of my friends still live. If I left my heart in San Francisco, then I left my soul in San Diego, in the good stead of those family members and friends. And this week it has felt like my soul's been ripped from me.
While walking to work yesterday I found myself inadvertently creating a San Diego playlist on my Ipod. I felt like if I was listening to Rocket from the Crypt, No Knife, or Nada Surf, I wasn't entirely disconnected from San Diego. Maybe -- just maybe -- if I just played the music loud enough and clicked my heels three times, I'd open my eyes to find myself back in my hometown. Needless to say, I'm still in Connecticut, which isn't bad, but it's not where I want to be. I heart you San Diego, and golly I wish I was home.
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