Why I Oughtta

It would be inaccurate to say that Idlewild's second CD “100 Broken Windows” was the only album I listened to during my junior year of college, but it wouldn't have been that much of a stretch.

The summer before, I had spent the summer taking classes abroad in Cambridge and during one of my afternoons off I strolled into a record store and got onto one of the listening booths. I chose the album seemingly at random after I decided I wasn't interested in Graham Coxon's record and I was immediately struck by the opening notes of “Little Discourage.” The guitar line sounds elastic, almost as if it was being played backwards, and soon leads to the subtle pounding of drums and Roddy Woomble's nasal croon.

I didn't buy the CD right then, but downloaded it illegally when Napster was in its heyday. I burned a copy, printed out a hand-selected picture as the album art and it quickly became the CD I took everywhere.

Just recently I got a wild hair and played the sixth track, Let Me Sleep (Next to the Mirror), and I was reminded — Jesus Christ, what an album.

Putting the record in context, Idlewild's first album (”Hope Is Important”) is kind of shit. There are inspired moments like the acoustic strummer “I'm Happy to Be Hear Tonight” and the bratty snarl of “Everyone Says You're So Fragile.” But for the most part, it's very screamy and lacking a lot of memorable melodies. On the other side, after 100 Broken Windows, the band really went off and running with all the REM comparisons that people had been bandying about. They got some mandolins. They had poet Edwin Morgan read over the dense guitars on the closing song to their third album. Their most recent album, while lovely, is dancing on the line between reputable major label rock and adult alternative.

The band has really found their voice with the third and fourth albums, “The Remote Part” and “Warnings/Promises.” They have literate, worldly lyrics, pleading melodies and a mixture of light acoustic fare with screechy electric numbers. Lately, they lean toward the acoustic.

But “100 Broken Windows” is the sound of a band who hasn't yet found its voice, but is heading there quickly. They're playing their instruments well, but don't know what kind of noise they want to make yet.

The sound palette for the record is limited. There's nary an acoustic guitar on the album and almost all of the parts are distorted. Every once in a while, they feature some electric piano. All of the songs are rockers except the last one, the mournful “The Bronze Medal.”

The thing that just gets me every time about the album is the band's ability to sell a chorus. Take “These Wooden Ideas.” It's got one of the catchiest choruses I've ever heard on a song, but it isn't a huge chorus. It's no “why'd you have to go and make things so complicated.” But the youth of the band and the urgency of the sound just bring it home.

I can't imagine anyone is still reading at this point, as I nerd out on music. But listen to the album. Hopefully you'll like it.

It's angular.

Today was the grand Ekrobi moving day. We picked up and moved all her stuff from Alexandria to Mt. Pleasant. After we finished moving the first round of stuff, we stood in front of the apartment complex and chatted. I can't remember the specific context, but I referred to one of my ineptitudes and indicated that I wasn't GT.

No one knew who that was, besides the other person in the group who actually works for Fairfax County Public Schools. GT means Gifted/Talented and was used to distinguish the special from the ordinary in elementary school.

In fact, I was not GT. And I was bitter about it. In second grade, they began taking the GT kids out once a week to a trailer behind the school. We were never privvy to what went on in the trailers, but I can only assume that spoons were distributed and the children spent the two hours concentrating in order to bend them. I remember that the whole thing seemed sinister — but I was mainly just jealous that the kids got to get out of class, leaving the regular kids to contine tasting various acrylic paints and pastes.

All labelled non-toxic for kids just like us.

My burgeoning competitive nature was once again tested when my teacher, a stern German woman (is there any other kind?), divided us up into reading groups. Mrs. W was a mean teacher. Here are the things I remembered about her:

1. She had at least one grown daughter. I thought that was weird. Because if she hated children so much, why would she want one of her own.
2. She had a Weekly Folder system for discipline. If you did something bad, you got a checkmark. If you did something kind of bad, you'd get two checkmarks. Three checkmarks were grievous offences that resulted in having to sit out at recess. If you went the whole month with no checkmarks, you got free ice cream from the lunch lady. I managed to get a three checkmark-worthy offence once a month with stunning regularity. I'd obssess over my behavior for weeks and then fuck it up in a foolish moment of error. This made me resentful of all of the well-behaved children.
3. One time Mrs. W had her sunglasses on top of her fluffy “this is what it sounds like when doves cry” hairdo. She wore her regular seeing glasses on her face. At this point, one of the children called her “six eyes.” I thought this showed wit beyond the youngster's years. Mrs. W failed to see the humor.

There were three reading groups in my class: one for the advanced kids, one for the regular kids and one for the slower kids. The reading group names were, respectively, The Puppies, The Kittens and The Redskins. You see, we were allowed to choose our own group names at the beginning of the year and the system went that all of the members of that group got one suggestion and the winning name was drawn out of a hat. People-pleaser that I was, I figured everyone's suggestion would be covered if we named our reading group The World. And that was my contribution. Sadly, things didn't work out.

As you might suspect, I detested The Puppies. Not only was the name better (The Kittens? Please! Cats are for girls.), but I didn't enjoy the fact that I was with the proletariat of elementary literature. I was destined for greater things, and I felt a twinge of anger every time The Puppies were called over to the reading table.

I did take solace, however, that I wasn't a Redskin. Whereas the Puppies and Kittens composed about 10 or 15 kids each, the Redskins had only two members: a raspy-voiced, skinny kid named Matt and a girl with unfortunately cut blonde hair named Tammy. Thus began my life-long habit of coping with my inadequacies by comparing myself to the disadvantaged.

On my lunch break today, I was walking around and I saw:

a) a man urinating into a Mountain Dew bottle.

b) two of my co-workers holding hands

c) Ellen Burstyn

Answer in the comments.

Last night I did some political volunteering.

I got a call during the work day from a certain progressive organization (the one you probably delete a lot of e-mails from — I think I may have signed a disclosure sheet saying I wouldn't talk about them). They were looking for volunteers to come help out at their Farragut Square office. I couldn't think of a good reason to say no, so I set up an appointment to come in.

I wasn't sure what to expect when I walked in. It was in a fancy office building — or at least looked fancy from the outside. Inside, it was full of fresh paint on brittle drywall and industrial carpet. It reminded me of my Hebrew school classroom. I went into the office and it was mostly empty, save three women who were making calls.

I was hoping that there would be a scruffy gay man in his late twenties with floppy hair. A whip-smart, firebrand intellectual — wearing his uniform of a worn sweater with a crisp collared shirt poking out underneath — who I would have a casual flirtation with all evening. We'd exchange glances until it was quitting time, at which point: babies.

No such luck. Since I got there early, I was in charge of letting people into the elevator and sending them to the 6th floor. Here's who I let in, in order:

– Ed. Late forties, I'm guessing, but looked a little older. He came in wearing overalls, a windbreaker and a bumper sticker on his belly reading “Defeat the Republicans.” Long, tangled, thin hair pulled back into a hair tie. Halfway through the volunteer session, he offered everyone strawberries.
– Jeff. Handsome, poised man in his fifties. Wedding ring. Dressed head-to-toe in Eddie Bauer or some sort of sporty outdoor store. I'm guessing he's the kind of guy who goes to look at Civil War battlefields on the weekend now that the kids are in college.
– Jenny. Substitute teacher-looking woman with a mom haircut.

When we all regroup in the meeting room, it's explained that we'll be making calls to Florida's 9th congressional district. I guess I knew this all along, but when the coordinator (a twentysomething woman in a green turtleneck) mentions that we'll be on the phone I instantly regret signing up. The thing I hate most in the world (not counting the music of Dave Matthews and smoked salmon) is asking people for money. Luckily, we weren't asking people for money, only time (for volunteering). For some reason, this is better to me.

We also introduced ourselves to the group by saying our name, where we're from originally, and what we hate the most about the current administration. I said “the way they manipulate hatred of gay people.” Ed said “everything.” Jeff said “their arrogance.” Jenny said their environmental policy/global warming stance.

The coordinator gives us our scripts and tells us how to recruit volunteers. What we'll be doing is asking people in the hotly contested district to make calls to people who might vote in presidential elections, but not mid-term elections. She gives us tips and pointers and tells us to smile when we're on the phone. The people we're calling are members of the organization, so it's not like we're calling at random.

I go through the first two pages of phone numbers and no one's home. Or the number's disconnected. At first, I'm overjoyed. I'd love to not get ahold of anyone and legitimately be able to upturn my hands and shrug my shoulders, saying I gave it the old college try, but — gosh darn it — no one was home. After a while, however, it all gets really effing old. In fact, I get into a sort of trance of phone calls and unanswered rings. It hits me that if I actually got somebody to pick up, I'd be completely unprepared.

Finally, I get a hit. The man answers my questions with trepidation at first, because he's not sure what I'm all about, but when he realizes I'm with a partisan organization he launches into a tirade.

“Who you're talking to is a free-thinking republican. If it were up to me, I would throw all the sons of bitches out. I wouldn't support a republican and I wouldn't support a democrat.”

So I gave up on that one. Even marked him a future “Do not call.”

Yikes.

More calls. I get a few 'no's. Then I get a woman who is enthusiastic about hearing from us, but nervous about volunteering. I sign her up for the more minimal volunteering option.

More calling. More unanswered rings.

Then I get Bob. When I begin to chat with Bob, I realize that he is really chatty. He's a grandfatherly sort. Super nice and very excited to talk with a progressive organization.

I ask if he wants to help out and he says “sure.” He'd even be willing to do the more active option (you can either make an hour's worth of calls to start or commit to what amounts to 9 hours worth of calling). Then he drops the bomb.

“I'm an engineer and I lost my job, so I've been sitting around the house a lot.”

I say that hopefully with a regime change the economy will get better.

“Yes. I remember in 2000, my son shook Al Gore's hand and I just thought 'this is amazing.' This man is going to be president of the United States.”

I say that it's a shame things didn't work out that year.

“Yeah. My wife died about a year ago, so I don't have a lot to do.”

I'm stunned. I sputter for a minute before saying something along the lines of it being good to stay busy and proactive.

I finalize the arrangements for his volunteering and he keeps talking to me. Meanwhile the coordinator is looking at me from behind because we're having our mid-session check-in and it's time to get off the phone.

I'm super-depressed. Eventually I tell him that I have to make more phone calls and we say goodbye.

At the end of the night I had signed up three people total (two nine-hour people and one one-hour) and that felt good. That was, in fact, the goal that we had been given. I knew they were going to high-pressure me into signing up for another session and I visibly irked the coordinator when I filled out “TBD” as my next appointment to volunteer. I don't know if I will. Maybe if I get a sudden urge — it was pretty hellish.

From: Keigh
To: Dan
Sent: Thursday, October 12, 2006 11:11:38 AM
Subject: is it national coming out day?

is it national coming out day?

From: Dan
To: Keigh
Sent: Thursday, October 12, 2006 11:11:38 AM
Subject: Re: is it national coming out day?
Yesterday was.

Oh, and i'm gay.

From: Keigh
To: Dan
Sent: Thursday, October 12, 2006 11:46:51 AM
Subject: Re: is it national coming out day?

really? me too.

glad we had this little talk.

same time next year?