The Celestial Trampoline
from an email by Peter Nagy
A time like this makes the most atheist of us wish for an afterlife in which the contaminants that fowled life one are banished. Who knows, the Christian version of it may just be the correct one, although it should contain something more inspirational than the prospects of floating around on a cloud all day and telling God how great and wonderful He is. The recent introduction of string theory makes it possible for small waves of energy to form around a person and to form a replica of his memories and personality. These would remain bonded together indefinitely unless some unexpected force dismantled them. Thus, The Brother may be up there now, leaping off a galaxy-sized trampoline.
Having known The Brother I felt devastated by his untimely passing. I cried on the way to the service, and barely got myself under control as I parked the car. Perhaps we may yet see him again in accordance with the observations above. Alex was too adventuresome to be limited by physical realities. He needed the protective mantle of immortality to pursue his curiosity without harsh consequences. Rest in peace, The Brother. We miss you sorely.
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In Memory of Alex Davis: May 11, 1986 – December 9, 2008
My mother’s friend recently described Alex as a troubled genius. The tragedy behind his sincere compassion and overwhelming intellect was that it existed in direct proportion to a thorough comprehension of all the sadness in the world well beyond his years. Along with his depth and an incredible capacity for kindness and empathy, Alex carried with him a heavy heart. The one relief death brought was the unloading of this incredible burden from his mind and soul.
Carson McCullers, another brilliant yet disturbed soul, wrote The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter in her early twenties. In one of the novel’s pivotal passages, Reverend Blount reflects:
“There are those who know and those who don’t know. And for every ten thousand who don’t know there’s only one who knows. That’s the miracle of all time – the fact that these millions know so much but don’t know this. It’s like in the fifteenth century when everybody believed the world was flat and only Columbus and a few other fellows knew the truth. But it’s different in that it took talent to figure that the earth is round. While this truth is so obvious it’s a miracle of all history that people don’t know.”
“Know what?” We might ask. Alex “knew,” and the burden of truth exists in the answer therein.
Alex always wanted to start a family of his own. In fact, my parents thought he would give them grandkids before I ever did. For two summers, Alex worked as an aide for Humble ISD’s Extended Year Special Education Program. After spending a delightful Fourth of July with the students, Alex recounted the experience to his grandmother, Tita: “We had a blast as we celebrated the holiday with a parade!” “A parade?” Tita asked, “How did you have a parade on a school day?” “Well, we marched through the hallways of the school, banging on classroom objects as if they were musical instruments. The pure and simple joy these kids showed on their faces, Tita, it was incredible.” From that point forward, Alex considered a career in special education.
Alex sometimes displayed intellectual and emotional depth in mysterious ways. In high school, Alex had to research the artwork of a famous person who wasn’t known for being an artist. He came home that day and showed me various online images of Hitler’s paintings. “Did you have any idea that Hitler could paint?” he asked me. “No,” I replied, “but that doesn’t change the fact that he was responsible for the Holocaust.” “I know that,” he retorted, “but just imagine what might have been if he had applied his creative energy toward art instead of hatred.” Alex then threw himself completely into the project and produced a brilliant paper on Hitler’s hidden talent. He always reflected upon alternative possibilities instead of tragic realities.
We are on the brink of a revolution, and, at first, I felt immensely regretful that Alex would not get to experience the events in their entirety. But now I think about the huge role he has already played: by voting this November, by graduating at the top of his class from the University of North Texas with a sociology degree, by adamantly expressing his desire for world peace and a more equitable distribution of wealth, by touching so many people with such a limited time frame. Alex loudly and unequivocally demanded so much from those he loved. And it puts me at peace to say that somehow, someway, we gave it to him.
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The (Out of) Shape of Things
For the first time in my life, I have tits.
Don’t get too excited: I’m not filling up shirts with a set of 36Ds, but I think I can safely throw away my training bra. That’s what happens when a person stops working out obsessively. So, unlike the loons on tv, I’m telling all my friends to throw away their running shoes, quit the South Beach Diet, and park it for a while.
We are constantly hearing that obesity is a HUGE problem in America (which I don’t deny), but I think it’s more accurate to identify the discordance between body images and body realities as the bigger epidemic. As a collegiate athlete at a prestigious university, I was once surrounded by a population with a higher risk of eating disorders than the general public: I wasn’t out of place with my obsessive compulsive tendencies or relentless drive toward “perfection.”
A look at my training log would have suggested I was in the best shape of my life when I ran cross country and track in college. I averaged about 60 miles per week, supplemented with pool workouts on Monday and Wednesday mornings and weight training on Tuesdays and Thursdays. During each of the three seasons (cross country in the fall, indoor track in the winter, and outdoor track in the spring), races occurred on Fridays or Saturdays. A lot of endurance coaches use an athlete’s resting heart rate as a barometer for aerobic fitness. The average adult female has a resting heart rate of 75 beats per minute. Mine dipped as low as 44.
The epitome of cardiovascular fitness, I still couldn’t honestly call myself “healthy.” My muscles were constantly sore and my joints achy. I began seeing a psychiatrist for bulimia during my sophomore year, and he required me to take weekly blood tests to make sure my iron and electrolyte levels did not drop too low. I tricked him by chugging Powerade the night before each test and by taking over-the-counter iron pills with my meals. He always seemed confounded that my levels appeared normal, and I found his naïvety discouraging.
One of the events that precipitated my resignation from the team occurred at the end of my junior year. My assistant coach pulled me aside after a track workout and asked me “if [my] bulimia had improved.” Apparently, one of my teammates had told her about my eating disorder. Why she let over a year pass before approaching me about it seems baffling and irresponsible, especially considering her similar past. Her expression of concern came too late, and it reinforced my belief that many members of the running community tacitly accept (even promote) the prevalence of eating disorders among female endurance athletes.
After I quit competing, I slowly weaned myself from pounding the pavement. Now I rarely run more than two days a week, and I am proud to say that that’s OK with me. If I run more than a few miles, the burning sensation in my chest feels unfamiliar and surprisingly delightful. I have come a long way since the time when I ran over 1,000 days in a row or did at least 800 daily sit-ups. It’s taken me months of being low-key to begin to refuel the passion I had when I started running over a decade ago. I’ll train seriously (but not compulsively!!) again when I’m ready, and I think that day is quickly approaching.
I just hope I don’t lose my nice rack.
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Excerpt from “Those Bright College Years”
“Where do you go to school?”
“In the Northeast.”
“Where in the Northeast?”
“Connecticut.”
“Where in Connecticut?”
“New Haven.”
“What college do you go to?”
“Oh…Yale.”
“What?”
“Yale.”
“Did you say Yale?”
“Yeah.”
“Yale?!”
“Yale.”
“Wow…you must be smart. How do you like it there?”
“Um…”
I knew I could cut such a conversation in half by providing the answer outright, but I felt rather embarrassed to reveal my college’s identity. And there’s something about the slight inflection that automatically occurs at the end of that monosyllabic word that makes it difficult to understand, awkward at best (“Harvard” and “Princeton” roll off the tongue much more easily). I also resented the superficial expectations that came with such a confession and the predictability of the entire dialogue to follow. Uncomfortable throughout, I feared sounding arrogant or insincerely modest. An unavoidable sense of pride always lined my end of the interrogation, and I highly resented my inability to avoid that inner half-smile. After months of half-heartedly responding that my Yale experience was “alright,” I finally decided to tell the truth.
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The McPalin Conundrum
Four years ago, a vote for Ralph Nader essentially represented a vote for George “W” Bush because a vast majority of Nader’s supporters would have chosen Kerry if given no better alternative. If Nader had had more than a snowball’s chance in hell to win, I would not have had an issue with his running against Kerry: Besides being the first Arab American and Lebanese American (holla!) to run for President, Nader espouses refreshingly progressive ideologies and has an impressive résumé of activism (not the least of which includes his efforts to pass the 1966 National Traffic and Motor Vehicle Safety Act). All that said, I have to agree with The Atlantic Monthly‘s 2006 article on the most influential Americans of the 20th century: “[Ralph Nader] made the cars we drive safer; thirty years later, he made George W. Bush the president.”
Now we sit in the same quagmire…except that this time the threat comes from-of all places-a vice presidential candidate. A vote for John McCain is a vote for Sarah (I call her “Scarah”) Palin. Besides opposing Democratic nominees, Ralph Nader and Senator McCain have something else in common: Both men are septuagenarians. At 74, Nader has aged relatively well, but 72-year-old McCain looks like he’s been on Medicare for several years. Statistically speaking, he could very feasibly die in office if he wins. This does not bode well for the American people.
While I disagree with most of his positions, I respect McCain’s refusal to subscribe to a hard-line conservative platform. He has reasonable views on immigration, such as expanding social programs for legal immigrants, and his work on campaign finance reform is commendable. Unlike his running mate, McCain believes that abortion should be legal in certain circumstances (e.g. rape, incest). And while he’s not the greenest candidate (in more ways than one!), he supports the further development and use of alternative energy. Over the past few months, McCain has come across as a clone of George W., but his voting record says otherwise.
Sarah Palin, on the other hand, is an absolute terror! I’ve dubbed her “Satan with a Snatch.” She thinks schools should employ abstinence-only education (which clearly worked for her unwed 17-year-old). But the pro-life label would be a misnomer because she does, indeed, support the dealth penalty. According to Governor Palin, we should teach creationsim in our public schools (wonder if she’s ever heard of separation of church and state?). She opposes stem cell research, which McCain supports to an extent, and she feels that global warming is not man-made. With an estimated net worth far exceeding the seven-figure mark, Sarah and Todd Palin have no right to constantly identify themselves as middle Americans. The list goes on and on, but I am becoming increasingly nauseated.
Obviously I’m voting for Barack Obama, but I advise so-called moderates to consider the fact that Palin is literally and figuratively “a heartbeat away” from the presidency. Without Governor Scarah fettered to his wrinkly ankle, John McCain wouldn’t be the worst man in history to enter the Oval Office. But because the Arizonan senator chose the incompetent Alaskan to campaign by his side, the possibility of an electoral victory for the McPalin package is more horrifying than finding a bloody razor in your Halloween candy.
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The Wet Frog
I’m sure it’s not scientifically-proven, but have you ever heard the story about the frog in the boiling pot? Apparently, if you put a frog into a pot of water and gradually turn the heat up, the frog will not die, even once the water has begun to boil. The poor amphibian has become acclimated to the water’s temperature, thus surviving the ordeal. If, however, you were to quickly turn the knob, causing the water to boil much sooner, the frog would die.
The fate of the wet frog serves as a metaphor for the current socioeconomic climate. I acquired my driver’s license less than 10 years ago and could fill up my Toyota Tercel on about 10 bucks. Gas prices have almost quadrupled, but wages have not risen accordingly. We should have seen this coming: Over the last 8 years of Bush’s flawed reign, gas prices have – for the most part – risen incrementally until topping out at over four dollars a gallon. We only began feeling the “heat” in a big way when prices crossed the three dollar line. And it’s been less than a year since car companies across the board began airing commercials geared toward fuel efficiency. As figurative frogs, we have been sitting in boiling water for months now with no real plan for hopping out.
Fuel prices are the easiest thing for me to point out, but the temperature is rising in multiple arenas. The problem is that we’ve learned to stand the heat, so we are not getting out of the kitchen anytime soon. Until the pressure cooker boils over, things will continue to worsen before they get better. In the meantime, the wealthiest five percent of Americans will sit on their lily pads and watch as the rest of us suffer second-degree burns.
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Reprise
WARNING: Some people may take offense to the sexually-explicit language in this entry.
(written May 2006)
Save the applause
For someone more eager
Like the fake lesbians or
Half-assed whores
The ugly girls
Who think they’re hot
(They really exist)
I’ll not field any questions
Concerning my curt departure
Or participate in
Nostalgic fucks
I masturbate with sandpaper
These days
And choke on my own vomit
(You’ve washed your hands of me
Don’t soil them again
With my human stain)
Farewell, faithful voyeur
You fast-forwarded to the
Gratuitous sex scenes
But didn’t stick around for
The after-after-party
So let the credits roll
And skip the encore
Because – let’s face it –
Neither of us wants a
Repeat performance.
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Green Republicans and Patriotic Democrats?
This afternoon I pulled up to a policyholder’s long, gravelly driveway out in the country. Judging by the overwhelmingly GOP billboards and picket signs throughout the community, I figured most of the people I would run into would not be on my side in November. That was OK with me because I do my best to keep religion and politics out of my professional interactions. The house sat on several acres with a brand new seafoam green Toyota Prius parked out front. A few months ago, a conservative co-worker opined (not without contempt) that people only drive hybrid cars to make a leftist political statement. I begged to differ at the time, but, from that point forward, I couldn’t help but notice the number of hybrid cars on the road with Obama or Clinton bumper stickers. (I have yet to see a Prius with a McCain endorsement). So, needless to say, I had a hunch that the policyholders I was about to see were themselves democrats. Good thing I didn’t open my big trap.
To make a long story short, this family possessed very conservative political views, going as far to say that this country was being overturned by Communists (which is interesting, considering the fact that the U.S. has only had 1 democratic president since I was born and that even the power players on the left are veering more toward the center). And as far as Mother Earth is concerned, the policyholders went off onto a tangent about how the environmentalists are brainwashing their constituents with a money-making agenda.
I came to the conclusion that the policyholders had either a) inherited the car or b) decided that saving gas money trumped putting off any kind of political image by a vehicle.
Do green republicans and patriotic democrats exist? Absolutely, but the media doesn’t want us to think so. I know just as many gay people who plan to vote for McCain as I do pro-lifers who support Obama. The Republican party doesn’t just consist of WASPy, affluent, heterosexual, gun-toting, traditionalists. And my fellow Democrats aren’t necessarily working class, pro-choice, eco-friendly, pacifistic minorities who support big government. If we were to create a venn diagram of American politics, we would find that a lot of ideologies don’t easily fit into a certain party. Lofty generalizations pit us against each other when, for the most part, we’re all moving toward a common goal.
In 2004, my aunt hung a gigantic American flag in her front yard – a typical half acre lawn in the suburbs of Dallas. With respect to her patriotism, Aunt Denise’s neighbors didn’t know whether to feel confused or jealous. The only Kerry supporter on the block, Denise wanted to make a statement that she could be just as patriotic as anyone else. Like me, my aunt opposes the war but supports our troops. I’m sure she’s honoring the seventh anniversary of 9/11 the same as everyone else. Patriotism takes on multiple forms.
And now that I think about it, I’ll have to ask her if her rightmost neighbor, an NRA card-carrier, has a Prius parked in his garage.
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“The Dutchess” is D to the E to the L-I-C-I-O-U-S!
Fergie’s solo debut album, “The Dutchess,” came out in September 2006, but several of the singles continue to dominate on top 40 and hip hop stations. I received the CD in the mail a few months ago as a sort of gag gift and ended up enjoying it more than the sender or I could ever imagine. As far as hitting a home run track after track, I would put it on the same shelf as Alanis Morrisette’s “Jagged Little Pill,” Eminem’s “The Eminem Show,” or Lucinda Williams’s “Essence.” Here’s a track-by-track analysis of what this album has to offer:
- “Fergalicious” – This light, upbeat track kicks off the album with Black Eyed Peas band mate, will.i.am, making his first of many cameo appearances. Fergie flexes her rapping muscle by rhyming “promiscuous” with “suspicious,” “fictitious,” and “kisses.” Those who enjoyed Black Eyed Peas’s “My Humps” will definitely dig “Fergalicious.”
- “Clumsy” – Reminiscent of the soda shop pop of the 50s and 60s, “Clumsy” captures the fun and fresh vibe of a different era while still adhering to hip hop standards. Released as the album’s fifth single, “Clumsy” was the first track that reached out to me from the radio waves, luring me in with its clever coyness.
- “All That I Got (The Make Up Song)” – This song gives us a glimpse of Fergie’s vulnerable side as she asks, “Would you still love me if I didn’t workout or I didn’t change my natural hair?” It seems a bit odd coming from someone who boasted, “And I know I’m coming off just a little bit conceited / when I keep on repeating how the boys want to eat it,” two tracks before, but it showcases some of her vocal talent.
- “London Bridge” – The album’s first single came across as annoying at first, but it grew on me. If nothing else, it has a good beat, and the cockiness of the lyrics gives the song a lot of energy.
- “Pedestal” – Co-written by Fergie (like all the songs on the album), the song aptly begins with, “Your pedestal is falling down,” to the tune of the nursery rhyme, “London Bridge is Falling Down.” With clever angst, Fergie dishes out her opinion of haters in the industry.
- “Voodoo Doll” – I think this song is about the difficulty of coming to grips with sexuality, feminity, and biology. Fergie laments, “This body’s a temple of doom,” and a lot of my ladies probably understand where she’s coming from. No, being a sex symbol is not all it’s cracked up to be.
- “Glamorous” – Although it’s not one of my favorite tracks, I can see why it became such a huge hit. There’s something glamorously ghetto about the way Fergie spits out her rhymes.
- “Here I Come” – Fergie and will.i.am sample “Get Ready” by the Temptations and, in doing so, produce a fresh and modern hit. While Fergie’s vocals fit the song, will.i.am steals the show on this one with his rapid rhymes.
- “Velvet” – This track is more sensual than Fergie’s backside with romantic poeticity (<-yes, that’s really a word…I found it hard to believe at first myself) and lyrical smoothness throughout. The last 10 or so seconds are nothing short of arousing: There’s a reason this one wasn’t played on the radio.
- “Big Girls Don’t Cry” – This smash success really allowed the world to see that Fergie was more than a pretty face and rockin’ bod. Unfortunately, I still can’t get over the following line: “And I’m gonna miss you like a child misses their blanket.”
- “Mary Jane Shoes” – It’s a little bit reggae and a little bit rock ‘n’ roll, and everytime I listen to it I want to throw on a baby doll dress and some matching mary janes. I appreciate the simplicity of this song, and it’s a welcome departure from the sexed up vibe of most of the other tracks.
- “Losing My Ground” – As she did in “All That I Got,” Fergie displays a bit of vulnerability in this ballad.
- “Finally” – Stacy Ferguson could be mistaken for Christina Aguilera because of her range and vocal control throughout this song. I must admit to having chills run down my spine the first time I heard it.
- “Maybe We Can Take a Ride” – Keep listening for this ghost track: It’s worth the few moments of silence.
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Lost in the Woods
Call me the Gingerbread Woman
Freshly iced and
Dripping
Flat tummy (yes!)
And over-baked appendages
Putty
In the hands
Of Gretel and Hansel
With a shelf life
Measured in Nabisco units
A trio of pink curly-cues
Flashed by me the other day
As I relieved myself
Behind an oak
The pilfered porridge was too
Hot
And further shriveled my raisin grin
(Two-dimensional characters
Lack peripheral vision)
So I slid off the Crisco-covered baking sheet
And into the campfire
Unable to look
Behind
Do I go well with marshmallows?
Whether I’m consumed
Following a meal of singed hot dogs
And Lays potato chips
Or disintegrate after tripping
Into a field of morning dew
I’ll still vanish like the horseman’s
Head
But it wasn’t until you offered me your hand
In crossing that double-logged bridge
That I realized
What sharp teeth you have.
The Lollygabber 
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