|
|
|
keep the introverts introverted
Tuesday, June 5 2001
I've descended from a long line of non-superficial people, folks who never gave two shits about what the neighbors thought of the length of grass in the lawn or the nature of the transportation in the driveway. Indeed, my grandfather's strange habit of jogging to work was merely part of the training regime that allowed him to win the Boston Marathon more times than any one else ever will. That said, I actually do think about my appearance more times than I'm comfortable admitting. I glance at myself in windows and mirrors and at any one time there's usually some defect of my appearance that factors into my sense of insecurity. Interestingly, this thing, whatever it is, changes over time. I think it's mostly related to the bathroom mirror in which I gaze most often, the one which I use to formulate my self-image. The mirrors in my Shaque were the kind I had to stand very close to and, because they were lit by the sun, they tended to make me obsess about my complexion. As a consequence, back in those days I tended to abuse my face in fruitless skirmishes against deeply-burrowed bacterial outposts. The battlefields that resulted were far uglier than the awkward peace I should have tolerated. No wonder I spent so much time working on solitary projects in those days. More recently I've been concerned mostly about the yellowness of my teeth. I'm sure one of the reasons I think they look so yellow is the sheer whiteness of the undecorated bathrooms I use. But I also drink a lot of tea, and there's no getting around the fact that they actually are fairly yellow, no matter what backdrop drapes behind them. Yet something about the way I was raised, something about the dismissive way with which cosmetic concerns were discussed in my family, has given me a deep-seated aversion to actually doing anything about my teeth to make them, say, movie-star white. If I came back from a tooth bleaching session with beautiful white teeth, frankly, I'd be embarrassed.
Since this time of year is pretty much the same as any other in this part of California, I'd sort of forgotten that now is the season for picking up abundant quantities of college student loot. At the end of every school year, you see, the kids just want to get the fuck out of town, and they tend to abandon their loot in the alleys. Because my house isn't too far from UCLA, there are a rather large number of students living in my neighborhood. So this evening I decided to take a little walk through the neighborhood alleys over to the east of Bundy.
I didn't find anything of interest, but the walk gave me a chance to think about things, especially how my view of Los Angeles has matured since I first started taking such walks. I remember a little less than a year ago thinking that there must be a grand network of community in West LA that I'd been missing under the tyrannical yoke of Bathtubgirl. In those days I thought I'd stumble into the West LA scene if I just got out of the house and walked around a little bit. Only gradually did it occur to me that West LA is nothing but a vast two-story human warehouse, a place where people park their cars in gated carports and immediately retreat into their superfluously air-conditioned condos hoping to catch Drew Cary before that incomprehensible animated show comes on.
As I walked the streets and alleys of West LA, I found myself thinking about what it would be like if someone dropped a massive nuclear bomb on the city and every one of us died in an instant, our shadows permanently etched into the concrete. It was a terribly futuristic Armageddon to comprehend. But the odd thing about this scenario is that it's actually been possible now since 1945, since cars were plump like sausages and all radios contained vacuum tubes. You know, if it was possible to build nuclear bombs with 1945's technology, why can't an eight-year-old build one today using nothing but a Palm Pilot, a chemistry set, and pile of old smoke detectors?1
In the evening John came home and immediately suggested we rush off to see Rufus Wainwright at the Virgin Megastore in West Hollywood. We'd both heard Rufus this morning on KCRW's Morning Becomes Eclectic and sort of liked his sad, folksy tunes. We also got a kick out of the difference between his effeminately gay speaking voice and his Elvis-Costello-soulful singing voice.
But when we got to the Virgin Megastore, Rufus (what a pretty boy he is!) was about halfway through his last song "California," the one he wrote back when he hated Los Angeles and wanted to sleep all day. Now, of course, he loves the place. And who wouldn't, with so many adoring fans (some with copycat knife-blade sideburns) gathered around to hear you sing?
We went into a coffee shop to get drinks so we could validate our parking. John was, as usual, very outgoing with the staff. He tried to get the coffee guy to tell him the gossip he'd just been sharing with a coworker, but the coffee guy wouldn't say anything. "I got shut down!" exclaimed John as we left the place. Honestly, though, I'm surprised this doesn't happen more often. It's the risk an extrovert takes. It's the risk that keeps a lot of introverts introverted.
1As I was writing that, I had no idea that there was an elaborate story just now emerging on the web about a young man (though somewhat older than eight) who did just this for a boyscout project.
For linking purposes this article's URL is:
http://asecular.com/blog.php?010605 feedback
previous | next |
