You’re a savvy Internet hound.
The time has come to combine the two.
For the fun.
For the juju.
You’re a savvy Internet hound.
The time has come to combine the two.
For the fun.
For the juju.
There is nothing to kill a crush like meeting them in person.
In the case of Brandon, he of the now-retired BBE (Best Blog Ever!), he of the mysterious, undisclosed location in the PacNW, he of the curly poet locks and genius pen (and no, that’s not code for anything), my crush crashed hard. Not because he doesn’t live up to the promise of his silken prose or those sex-ay eyes (see above), but because you can’t objectify someone who emanates such a deep-rooted kindness. I mean, I tried, but you really can’t. Brandon was probably the person I talked to the least at TequilaCon (out of, you know, the people I actually did speak to) because he was the one I wanted to talk to the most.
There. I’ve said it.
When I found his blog, I read everything. Every thing. When he put it down and took up guest posting, I immediately fired off an email requesting a post here. I got a polite response, but no post, and I didn’t want to be a nudge.
So I was beyond thrilled to awaken this morning not only to sweet, sweet reality (note to self: do NOT eat a pound of butter just before bed, no matter how good it makes the rapini taste), but to a humbly worded semi-request and a really, really long-ass post.
But it’s good. And it’s about love, and service. And as the world needs a lot more of both right now, especially combined, I cannot think of a more perfect thing to gift-as-a-verb you with on this crisp and sunny California morning. This is a speech Brandon will give today to an extraordinary group of young people. You get it here first.
Brandon, it’s all you…
* * *
I want to start off my remarks by saying I like all of you, each and every one of you, including the ones of you who have had years 10 times as productive as mine when I was an AmeriCorps member 10 years ago, although you have to take inflation into consideration if you want to make a fair comparison of our accomplishments, because remember, in 1997, a gallon of gas only cost a buck fifty seven, a movie ticket was less than 6 dollars, and the ed award was only $4,725. So really, and I’m just doing the math in my head, so bear with me, carry the 4, cross the ‘T,’ press and voila, the 20 volunteers I recruited would be the equivalent in 2007 dollars of 537 miscounted votes in Broward County Florida. Go figure. I guess what I’m saying is 1. A meaningful comparison between your accomplishments and mine from a decade ago is difficult, and 2. I like what you’ve done with the place.
Just because we cannot compare your apples with my oranges, or as they say here in Wenatchee, your aplets with my cotlets, however, does not mean that we cannot pat each other on the back and stumble out of the grizzly cafe tonight at 2 am singing “It Had to Be You,” because we totally can, it’s just that, well, I’ll be honest with you, looking at all of you out here, knowing how far you’ve come, how much you’ve accomplished, I must confess to breaking that age old commandment against envy. I envy you, not only because of your accomplishments, but because you have had the good fortune of being able to broadcast, podcast and vlogcast your good deeds, all while listening to inspirational music like Hillary Duff to get you through the really down times, and post all your photos to flickr, with the images photoshopped just enough to actually make you look good while hand pulling scotch broom or stumbling out of the Grizzly cafe at 2am after a long day of tutoring, mentoring, grant writing, firefighting, fundraising and googling that weird guy who sent you a message through myspace. Yeah, he is kind of cute. You know his photo, anyway. Looks a lot like Jake Gyllenhaal. Go figure.
You even multitask, which in my defense, wasn’t even invented until after we technophiles discovered the ability to log onto the internet without hanging up our telephones first. Or after we realized that text messaging wasn’t just a new name for Morse code. I tried to fax my resume recently and the person on the other end said she’d look up that word, FAX, on urbandictionary.com. I hung up before she found out, very, very afraid of what she might think my intentions were. It’s scary out here, and I don’t just mean outside the grizzly cafe at 2 in the morning. I mean, you know, it’s scary in the 21st century.
But I also envy you because you are all here still smiling, reasonably un-medicated and not nearly as naked as I remember AmeriCorps members how they used to be, back in the 20th century. You remind me of a friend I once had in high school, the only kid I ever knew who liked to work. When he was 16. He would invite me to spend the night, and we would go fishing until late in the evening or hunting morel mushrooms or finding a swimming hole off the Mississippi river, mind you this was Missouri, so all of this is perfectly normal, and no the story does not end with me doing a pig imitation to a banjo reprise, but don’t think I wasn’t worried about it at the time, either.
Yet, after packing 20 hours of adventuring into a single day, he was still up at 4 in the morning, two 10 gallon buckets of water in each hand ready to water the horses and the cows, but not the rooster, because the rooster wouldn’t be awake for another hour and a half, and I just hated him, his enterprise, his determination, his EXAMPLE. And I hated the way he smiled, especially when he would get excited about the prospect of shucking beans in the afternoon. You could tell he liked work in a way that would mean I would have to work, too, or be called lazy, and there’s nothing that hurts like the truth, so you work. In essence, he turned me into nothing more than a big fat liar. Although at least I’m not trying to convince you that the corn has eyes and the potatoes have ears.
I later learned that my friend wasn’t normal, that he suffered from something known as ‘work ethic,’ and the only cure is something they sell over the counter at the Grizzly Cafe. And I felt blessed to have eventually escaped this bizarro town where Tom Sawyer fools you into running off with the carnies just so that he might paint the fence all to himself and the convenient store clerks actually check non-laminated driver’s licenses in a desperate attempt to keep you from self medicating back into wellness, and this is the part of the story where there are years of peace and harmony, the weather is unseasonably mild, your passions are held in a reasonable check and the path of least resistance is finally free from traffic, you can now afford a car with cruise control and settling is just another word for nothing left to choose.
The calm shattering storm made landfall of course in 1994, the politicians apparently dragging my old friend away from his morning chores long enough to engineer a super virus from the blood the sweat and the tears sampled from what I hope was an upper body garment, and this new hyper disease they named ‘ethic of service,’ and they made it far more infectious than any previous ethos, so much so that the first victims, in a catastrophe later renamed the Summer of Service, were in essence blinded by the desire to volunteer. In fact, the first time they discovered service, it reminded me of the first time my 2 year old son discovered, really, truly discovered his own pee pee, and for days, weeks, even it was all we could do to convince him that there are other things you can and probably should do with your hands, such is the curse of ethic of service that those who suffer believe, truly believe that they aren’t just engaging in an act of altruism, but they are helping themselves. Self service they call it, and it’s not pretty. I hear it’s against the law in Oregon.
I’m sorry to tell you this, but soon you will all suffer from ethic of service, too, and I would tell you what the cure is, only all those people who need tutoring, mentoring, grant writing, firefighting and fundraising would google me and start flooding my myspace account with messages of adoration and pictures of Jake Gyllenhaal getting my hopes up only to bring me crashing down when I see what they REALLY look like when we decide to meet at the Grizzly CafÃ© at two in the morning, and what they really look like is all kinds of angry, hurt and meanness all wrapped up into one big mob of a package.
So I’m not going to tell you. Yes I realize I’m being selfish about this, but I like the way I look, what with the non-broken nose and non-blackened eyes and non-bloodied lip. I like my hair, too, especially after I try a really good conditioner, like Sebastian potion 9. You all should get you some of that.
I also speak to you as an ethic of service survivor, and I have to admit, after a lot of embarrassment, pain, humiliation and itchy redness, I eventually learned that I wasn’t dying from ethic of service, but was in fact living with ethic of service. What helps, of course, is that I am surrounded by fellow sufferers who have made this, rather ironically, wouldn’t you say Quinn, into the one terminal disease that actually improves the quality of your life, actually makes you better, funnier, more resilient, more interdependent. Yes, you rely on each other, and would not survive long if you were the only ones of your kind.
There is a 2200 acre honey mushroom colony underneath the blue mountains of eastern Oregon. It used to be known as the largest living organism in the world. Until all of you came along, joined hands in a common cause and became one living being with a single heart and 100,000 hands. You used to be like me before I came down with the beautiful disease, constantly at the point where you were more afraid of success than failure, and now you are starting to realize, thanks to your illness, that this is some awful point to reach. It’s what climbers refer to as a Himalayan point, a point Himalayan in its mortality rate, not everyone can return from such a point, and those who do often lose their extremities.
But you don’t need your hands, your feet or even your eyes, not when the person next to you beats with the very same heart, not when you all share one life giving organ, pumping that gloriously infected blood, the way we as children were so desperate to do when the world was too terrible, and we’d hide behind the fence of the convenient store, shattered pieces of glass, cutting the skin on our thumbs and binding them to our friends, hoping to reach a day like what you have all discovered when you took that oath of service surrounded by people you’ve really, truly known all your lives but have only now just come to meet, face to face.
I had the distinct privilege of watching you, the performers and the audience, at the talent show last night. I adore your abilities, I adore your smiles, and even listening to your laughter, I adore your fears and your worries. I adore your ability to laugh at how poor you are. And I adore your ability to understand how rich you are in good fortune. I adore that you will write and sing torch songs for the members you served with, that you will one day mourn an unrequited love for the heart they put into this intentional poverty, this walking in each others’ shoes, this following in downtrodden steps, this softening of jagged points of view.
Look around you and see the poorest people you will ever see with that greatest of good fortune, that disease known by the one four letter word that is sometimes hardest to say above all others. This love is your good fortune, you are your good fortune. And it is sickening, the happiness it brings me to point this out.
When it comes to a Toastmasters meeting, the hands-down favorite event is usually our extemporaneous speech feature, “Table Topics.”
One person takes on the task of coming up with a slew of questions which she then springs on a series of unsuspecting (but, for the most part, secretly hopeful) victims, who are given a short window of time (1 minute minimum, 2 minutes maximum), to answer their particular question. It can be great fun, especially if the Table Topics Master (or “Mistress”, as I insist upon being called, “Madame Table Topics Master” being more ridiculousness than I can stomach) chooses a good theme.
It’s my favorite role at a meeting, so much so that I don’t let myself volunteer for it anymore. I figure that I should spend my time learning new skills and getting better at things I suck at, and letting other people discover how much fun it is to be Table Topics Mistress. On my first at-bat, I chose the theme “True or False…and WHY!?!?”, comprised of a series of classic quotations from my files with the framing question. Another time I ran with an international theme of sorts, giving each player a proverb from a different country and letting them speak on the topic (pro or con is a pretty typical Table Topics gambit).
But my favorite Table Topics session was the simplest, hearkening back to those old, fourth-grade discussions at sleepovers or on the playground. You know, the “would you rather be blind or deaf?” type of grammar-school-philosophy arguments.
In case you want to play along at home, I’d thought I’d include the batch of questions I wound up using that night. Yes, every one of these puppies has been road-tested by an Actual Toastmaster, who came up with a 1â€“2 minute speech on the spot.
If you had to choose, would you rather…
…be a little overweight and not be able to lose it or extremely underweight and not be able to gain it?
…go without dessert forever or go without fruit forever?
…be the President of the United States or the Vice President of the United States?
…get an extra hour of sleep per night or an extra 20 hours’ pay per week?
…be an identical twin or a fraternal twin?
…go to the most exciting show in the world or stay home and read the greatest book in the world? (NOTE: You’re getting ONE chance to do either, i.e., you can’t say “I’ll go to the show tonight and read the book tomorrow,” as our beloved Miss Ida did.)
…wear really comfortable shoes that made you feel dumpy or really beautiful shoes that made you feel uncomfortable?
…own the house of your dreams or be able to buy someone really deserving theirs?
…have a perfect memory or be able to truly forget the worst things in your life?
…have your dream color in a color you hate or an ordinary car in a color you love?
…have mild colds the rest of your life, or one month when you had all your colds at once?
(HINT: for you non-Nerdmasters, these also make fantastic blog post ideas …)
As most of you know, I’m off the dating train, too far off to write a book or a blog that would be of use, and yet I cannot stand for my hard-won knowledge to go unused.
So when I came across this random list in my mini-purge-fest, I figured that at the very least, I could slap it into a blog post without looking ridiculous.
There are whole books, nay, shelves upon shelves of books these days, you can read on the topic of dating. If you’re looking for more, I’d suggest If the Buddha Dated. (There’s some good advice in He’s Just Not That Into You, too, but it’s mostly in the title, with a few extra tips easily extracted in a half-hour, in-store read.)
Okay, on with the list.
The communicatrix’s Top 10 Tips for Dating If You’re Doing It to Find a Happy and Successful Relationship (as opposed to just sex, which is also great)
Remember: you may need to switch up your shampoos until you find one that leaves your hair shiny and manageable. Once you do, I advocate cultivating brand loyalty.
I can tell things are going awry
when I want new things
better faster prettier sexier cleaner newer older things
that will make the problem
(whatever the problem)
they don’t, of course
(as if you didn’t know)
all the new things do
is make it harder
to find what you were looking for
under the other things,
the original things
FUBAR horsepokey assmonkey facacta things
because the thing is
you do not learn from a thing
you thoughtlessly discard
or haphazardly shove aside
or even lazily disregard
you learn from the things
you measure carefully
you turn around in your head
and your hand
feeling their heft and weight and oily accumulation of dirt
whether to keep or scrap or somehow alter
comes from the considering
so when you hit a wall
and you NEED NEED NEED a new thing
to get you out of an old corner
and love up what you got
and you’ll get it all back
in spades, my friend,
I came, I saw, I got conquered.
Seriously, Portland kicked my everlovin’ city-girl ass. It’s green, it’s filled with books and really good coffee, the neighborhoods are adorable without tipping over into twee and, joy of joys, it’s schlub-friendly. I mean, I love New York and L.A. and London and Paris and Rome and lots of other fancy-schmancy places, but I feel at home in places like Chicago and Ithaca and San Simeon and Austin and Bloomington, places with a little less gloss and a little more underarm stubble. Provided, you know, there’s good food and wine and such. Which Portland has in spades, along with old buildings, trees and (woohoo!) free WiFi in the airport.
TequilaCon was fun, too. I’m really glad that I’d already met Neil and Sophia and Jenny and DeeDee, since there were so many new faces and I tend to get a little shy around new faces. And exhausted, did I mention exhausted? The BF and I had to call it a night way before (apparently) it was actually a night. Meeting a whole slew of new people is tiring for an introvert, even when the people are very, very nice. And while our TCPacNW07 venue, The Kennedy School, was every bit as fabulous as promised (and more!), old people like me need places to sit where we can hear the young people talk or we start to lose it. (Although I did not actually “lose it,” unlike some other poor soul on the McMenamin’s patio, thanks principally to the ninja drinkers’ one-two practice of Pacing Oneself and Never Mixing.)
But it was delightful finally meeting some of my longtime blog crushes, and getting exposed (literally!) to a slew of other local-to-their-localities talents. Your friendliness and high-level social skills were awesome, if intimidating. The BF took tons of wonderful photos to document the wonderfulness, the best of which I’ll post to Flickr when he quits futzing with them in Photoshop and hands them over.
And Dave? Dave, you crazy, mad, lovable genius of design deliciousness? Those lanyards are THE TITS, baby…THE TITS!!!
Once again, I’m heading for climes I have no proper gear for. Soon there will be more pictures of me in hiliter-yellow 1980s outerwear (hey! puffy parkas are in again!) or looking like a MacMichelin Man in my ridiculous layers.
Or perhaps I’ll just get stinky-drunk, buy a crapload of books and see you all next week.
That’s what’s great about life, my friends: it’s one great big fucking adventure, innit?