The fascination with Devo...

There is something undeniably intriguing about Devo; their repetitive lyrics, the overbearing synthesizers, the kooky barking voices and of course the costumes. As a child, I was obsessed. My aunt played me some of their stuff and I enjoyed them but it was not until seeing the “Whip it” that I became a devotee (eek, pun not intended). They became the band I most wanted to play my birthday party and maybe adopt me and at least give me one of those red hats.

I wanted to be in Devo so badly that I learned all the lyrics, constructed a futuristic hat out of paper towel rolls and mastered Mark Mothersbaugh’s diction and mannerisms. I was missing one key element: a whip.

My father, an antique dealer, had a whip. It was not ideal. It was designed for horses for buggy driver. It was stiff at the end and significantly taller than three year-old me. (The video was in syndication a long time, for the record. I am in my twenties.) The last few feet of it were loose and, well, whip like.

I would go outside and play Indiana Jones with it and never manage to hurt anyone, myself included. That involved mostly whipping carves into trees and soda cans off of the back deck. Devo gave me a new idea: whipping clothes off of people. That idea was shot down immediately.

The idea that followed was whipping a cigarette out of a person’s mouth. My father smoked at the time and I began begging him to let me try. He quickly denied me. I told him I had practiced and had gotten my precision down. That was probably false. I was only three. What sensible person would let a three year-old whip a cigarette out of their mouth? I would offer him incentives like doing well in school and not bothering him. The answer was still, “No. The whip is bigger than you are. I will not let you hit me in the face with it!” Promises and assurances followed these words. No go.

My grandmother, Mimi (I will talk about her a lot more later) was the only other potential candidate. She smoked and was kooky and up for anything. I asked her if she would let someone whip a cigarette out of her mouth if they knew what they were doing. She cocked her head to the side, which usually indicated momentary thought.

“I suppose.” She replied in her airy Southern voice.

“Suppose, I knew how to use a whip pretty well. Would you let me do it?” I trembled with anticipation.

Again, she cocked her head to the side and was silent slightly longer than longer. “I would.”

I took this conversation as a formal contract and made plans. As I was going over to my great grandmother’s, I tried to hide the whip unsuccessfully. Think of a three year-old with a four foot whip behind her back.

My father instantly saw this, “What ARE you doing?”

Lying failed me so I told the truth, “I was bringing it to Mimi’s house.”

He snatched it out of my hand, “No, you are not going to hit my mother in the face with a whip. Give me that!”

It is rare that I say this but my dad was right. I was not master enough to whip a cigarette out of either of their mouths. I probably still can’t. It makes for comic fodder though.

As always, I will still rock it out Devo Style and maybe learn how to use a whip. It seems like one hell of a cool party trick.

Spokes in my craw

There is nothing I enjoy more on a stressful day than to go for a walk around Midtown. I love to watch the trees changing colors and losing leaves. I love the various dog walkers and their curious pooches, sniffing everything in sight. I love the craggy old men stumbling along, lost in thought. Most of all, I love going to Sutter's Fort and feeding the ducks who are always ecstatic to see me. That short walk is the perfect de-stressor to life and can elevate my day from so-so to good. The only thing that majorly detracts from this is the bicyclists.

First of all, I would like to state clearly that I have the utmost respect for those choosing walking, bicycling and using public transportation in lieu of driving a car. Gas lately, has been exorbitantly expensive plus the exhaust from cars is a major pollutant. The car symbolizes independence for the individual. Having a car means you can go anywhere at any time you want and provides the security of your own personal escape route. Walking or riding a bike flips the middle finger to this contention. Pedestrians and cyclists also have the liberty of going wherever we want at any time (albeit at a slower pace) and we are not doing it at the expense of the environment.

I have no problem with responsible cyclists that ride in the bike lanes. Those of you reading are completely expempt from this complaint. I also give leeway to the parents teaching their children how to ride their bicycles sans training wheels on the sidewalk. I was a kid once and it took me a really long time to get it. If my mother had thrust me into a bike lane as training, I may very well not be writing this now. As an adult, I ride in the bike lanes and feel very anxious of the cars speeding behind me.

What I do have a problem with is the experienced cyclists crowding the sidewarlk for the pedestrians. It is a common occurance that I see a group of pedestrians approaching a bicyclist going the opposite way. Rather than to give the pedestrians room, the cyclist flashes them a dirty look and whizzes past, nearly hitting them.

The sense of entitlement these cyclists have is inexcuseable. Most of Midtown has very nice, clearly defined bike lanes for them. I understand that the sidewalk is roomy and inviting for the cyclists and I understand that being in traffic with cars is daunting, to say the least. Drivers can be unpredicatble and pull into the bike lane to double park, causing the cyclist to halt or be forced on the sidewalk for safety.

I have also witnessed experienced cyclists whipping past the eldery using walkers around Sutter Hospital on numerous occasions. This confused the elderly. It often led them to comment to me about how rude it was to ride on the sidewalk when they had bike lanes. I have seen the same with parents holding the hands of toddlers, already unsteady on their feet. The cyclists whriled past the toddlers with barely any room between them and sped away. Toddlers are unpredictable. Who is to say that one might move over to look at a flower in a yard. The cyclist would collide with him.

A friend of mine is a devoted cyclist. She treks well more than a mile to work every morning. When I brought up my concerns, she was equally outraged. She stated that she always followed the bike lanes to work. However, she pointed out that the bike lanes were not as nice as I perceived. She said that they were often polluted with leaves and debris as well as double parked cars. In spite of all of this, she followed the rules.

I encourage bicycling wholeheartedly. I just want you bicyclists to reevaluate your sense of entitlement to the sidewalks of Midtown. There are many pedestrians- some of us with disabilities- and we deserve respect. Those angry looks you flash us for being on your sidewalk are unwarranted. You think you're the shiz-nite because you're green. Well, pedestrians are green as you are and it is our sidewalk too.

On Beauty and Nothingness...

"It has done me no good; to be pretty... to be admired... I want to be different!" -- Eugenia "Angels and Insects"

When I was a girl no older than four, my distant father sat me down for a talk. It had been discovered that I was a genius of sorts and much hullabaloo was made about that. My father rarely talked to me at all, so I assumed the conversation would have something to do with the recent events. He leaned forward and motioned me to do the same. He told me that he was glad that there was something that I was good at. Not being a pretty girl, being a smart one made up for it.

Why did he feel the need to put his four year-old down? Was it because he really felt that way? Did he feel threatened by me and want to tear me down? I tried to tell myself that was the reason but the conversation called other things to my attention. For example, no members of my family, with the exception of my aunt Deedee, ever mentioned my appearance. They discussed others’ looks; i.e. “Your Aunt Neth was a great beauty.” They also went on about my being clever and amusing.

The children at school were worse. Some claimed I was “ugly” simply because my hair was black. They mostly called me fat, ugly, etc. I tried to get in their good graces by dressing in haute couture. I styled my hair in the most fashionable ways and they still ridiculed me.

Again, we can say that they felt threatened and preyed on my insecurities. Teachers made no secret about my success in academics and often pointed me out as an example, something I never wanted.

Over all these years I have given much obsession to the concept of beauty; being beautiful, becoming so. I assess the qualities I have and would at any time give them up to be beautiful. I know that my sense of humor and intelligence are rare and may make me “beautiful” to some. I don’t want that. I want the real head-turing deal. I know it fades. I know it is in the eye of the beholder. I don’t care. I want it.

Maybe I already have it. I see the way I get treated versus others and the better quality of treatment my friends receive when with me. I get sometimes double and triple takes. I have never been rejected or had an unsuccessful date (the humor helps). I get groped often. It usually happens in public places by men with kids. Talk about sleazy! I get hit in by parades of lowlifes. Is it because of my rare qualities? Am I pretty? Is it both?

I am different and all I really want is to be appreciated for my looks. Guess we want what we think we can’t attain.