Friends and Failure

Rey Rey's Broke Ass

My good friend Reshma celebrated her 21^st birthday (so she gets a shout-out and a pic!) last Monday, so I called up Rey, Anna, Mike, and Chin and we kicked of the week the best way I know how: dirty girl scouts and green line at Muldoon’s. Rey had class the next day, so we kept things pretty low-key, but it was a blast hanging out with everyone. I, for one, am certainly glad that Reshma was born twenty-one years ago, even with all the grief and grey hairs that our delightfully unconventional friendship has brought me. But jokes aside, she has a kind heart, and I’ve cherished every shed-climbing, car-crashing, ginger-bread-constructing (above) moment.

The mix of celebrators was eclectic to say the least. Anna and Rey and I had hung out throughout the majority of freshman and sophomore year in high school, but we had never been all together again for at least a couple of years. And with Mike and Chin (who are stellar Muldoon’s companions, by the way, just great all-around guys), I had just met them working at Shane’s, and it wasn’t until recently that we started spending time together that did not consist entirely of cold-cut assemblage. I’m not exactly sure how these two distinctly different groups, relative opposites of the friend continuum, came to be sharing drinks in that mahogany nook, but it worked out.

Despite my undeniable enjoyment of the night, the reunion of old friends always manages to evoke a nostalgic melancholy for me. It’s the kind of feeling I picture accompanying the exhumation of a back-yard time capsule: a postmortuary air of concern over the contents’ intrinsic value having seeped into the soil. The effort it takes to rouse dormant emotion- it just seems sometimes more like rehashing than reminiscing. This admission might seem strange, or overly pessimistic, but I can easily trace the origins of this sentiment to this last year, a period marred by the indecision and ambiguity from being in between schools. It shaped an underlying fear that my life has become a terminal for the people in it: a constant shuffling of relationships old and new, wearied and indifferent. Amidst the hustle and bustle around me, I’ve come to a standstill. It’s a sentiment effectively summarized in Jonathan Safran Foer’s Everything Is Illuminated: “She felt a total displacement, like a spinning globe brought to a sudden halt by the light touch of a finger. How did she end up here, like this? How could there have been so much - so many moments, so many people and things…- without her being aware? How did her life live itself without her?”

As most of my friends seem to be moving forward, towards aspirations and careers, I’ve regressed in muddled passivity. This has no doubt put a strain on my current interactions with long-standing friends, as I feel hesitant to initiate a phone conversation or small talk in which my response to their accounts of festivity and prodigious accomplishments is invariably limited to the latest episode of high school drama that I’ve snatched from my athletes or the most recent mechanical malfunction at the deli. I find myself showing further disdain for optimism in my perception of new relationships; as most people still residing in Wheaton are in a similarly transitory state, even the most meaningful of these interactions seem hopelessly fleeting.

While the gradual events (or non-events) of this last year that have molded this fear, it was the Wednesday before last (April 27^th) that brought this concern into the forefront of my thoughts. Two years from that day, my close friend Ryan passed away, and as I have wrote about before, it was a crippling loss. But as tragic as it was, it was also the most instrumental moment in my life in shaping who I am, and in drawing our group of friends together. The bond that connects us was forged in a turmoil so strong, that I could think of nothing that could ever break it completely.

That being said, I am quickly learning the inevitable nature of friends growing apart. As our respective paths are starting to become more pronounced, the heterogeneous nature of our group that once made us so inseparable is now causing significant divergences in the near future. My friend Kimmy’s recent post reminded me of a Dave Eggers quote from A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, and indeed, I can’t help but fell like I am losing friends in the same way we lose weeks: “like buttons, like pencils.” For a completist like myself, this process feels about as subtle as a riot, the tearing-apart utterly seismic.

        

         The deterioration of friendship is every bit as pervasive and inescapable as our physical atrophying, but my fear of this natural process is paralytic. I find myself, as a result, jaded towards others; at times there is nothing in me that wants to invest in new relationships, to go through the vulnerability of becoming acquainted with that new person. It’s the same juvenile mentality that we all have experienced: Why should I make my bed if it’ll just be messy again, or for the more feral of children, why should I brush my teeth if they will just be sugar-coated again? Looking at it rationally, I can understand the seperation as progress, but I guess I’m just too immature young at heart to embrace it.

         To call this feeling an undying loyalty would be giving myself far to much credit, as a significant aspect of this perspective can be chalked up to egocentricity. As I admitted, I’m a completist, and with this pettiness comes the more egregious tendency to “collect” my friends. Instead of accurately perceiving the strengths and flaws of my peers, and accepting the whole in its beautiful complexity, I frame the traits that I find to be most congruous with and beneficial to myself, and carelessly toss the rest. 

         This self-centered compartmentalization is in large part due to finding the vast majority of my worth in the perception of others. As my priorities have gradually shifted over the last several years from loving/fearing God or religion to loving/fearing people, I’ve grown increasingly in tune to the scrutiny of others. This theological shift has also produced a life perspective centered more on the present, and that adds exponential importance to daily, interpersonal interactions. In other words, the erosion of a friendship during high school might have seemed inconsequential from my macro-spiritual viewpoint, but identical occurrences from this micro level now seem glaring. As irrational as my fear may initially sound, I don’t have much trouble seeing why I would take the petering out of a friendship so personally after heeding my current existential convictions.

         It was the shift in friendships that first made this fear plain to me, but this concern transcends mere camaraderie. I’ve always placed a lot of stock in my friendships, but I am also threatened by shifts in things of more practical importance. I have already elaborated on my personal feelings about running and its weighty effects on one’s self-esteem, and as a consequence I have seen my personal aspirations in the sport dwindle. Countless changes in my major and career path over the last few years have also resulted in significant stress, and even now, there is much uncertainty with the direction I plan to take. It is the doubt that crosses my mind every time I toe the starting line, every time my cursor hovers over the “Publish Post” button- it is, simply put, the fear of failure.  

        

            In the words of Dessa Darling of Doomtree in her song “Mineshaft”, I feel ashamed that “the list of things I used to be is longer than the list of things I am: ex-lover, ex-friend, ex-communicated atheist, ex-patriot living in the heartland.” Just as I’m hesitant to start a new friendship that’s bound to end sometime, I worry about starting something new (like writing), when some level of failure is inevitable. And odds are when that failure comes, it will detract from whatever modest attributes I possess, and tip the scales that much further towards the things I am not. 

Micachu- Fine feat. Brotha May and Baker Trouble

Stumbled upon this song after reading about Micachu's latest mixtape, Filthy Friends. Micachu is an English singer-songwriter and producer, and is best known for her band Micachu and the Shapes, and their critically-acclaimed album from 2009, Jewellery. She does a whole lot of crazy, artsy shit like inventing instruments that I don't really care about. Lackluster description, but the song more than makes up for it. 

download here

Coinkydink

Minutes after my last blog post came one of those moments that makes the world seem so small you could drop it in your pocket. I have a special place in my heart for these semi-remarkable happenstances and coincidences, and I think it's because it reminds me of literature and television. These rare moments makes the world seem so uncharacteristically comprehensible and palatable that they must be scripted, artificially produced somehow. In the grand scheme of things, these events transpire unnoticed, but they feel to me like a delightfully kitschy souvenir. It's the powers of the universe coming together incongruously like those Brookfield zoo plastic molds, steaming and shaking for a few moments before spewing out a matte turquoise figurine of that person sitting next to me on the plane who happens to be the brother of the professor of my introductory philosophy class (No way!). And I, mesmerized from behind the bubble-top, nearly opaque from finger smears, waste little time in reaching in the grimy slot to claim my prize. And how fucking dope were those things? Kids in my kindergarten class wanted to grow up to be firefighters and actresses, but I wanted (past tense?) to be a Mold-A-Rama machine. 

Anyways, I had just caught my buddy Kyle's latest blog post (great stuff, check that ish out here) ten minutes after he posted it, and he was writing about how he met this really cute girl at Muldoon's, and went over and started talking to her. Now, you're probably thinking, how in the could this possibly relate to me, and, granted, the whole talking-to-a-cute-girl thing is not necessarily my forte- or even the being-in-close-proximity-to-a-cute-girl thing for that matter. But, in talking to Chin more about this girl- he referred to her comically as "Mousey", because of her delicate physiognomy- I started thinking that this girl sounds familiar. Cautiously, I started asking more about where Mousey is from and what she looks like, each question escalating with giddiness as I realized, I totally know Mousey! This girl was, in fact, my friend's ex-girlfriend. It was a bit of a moral quandary at first, because I'm close with my friend, and he's one of my all-time favorite people. But being that the breakup was- from what I hear- mutual and in the past, and, just as importantly, that Kyle's a stand-up guy, I felt like it was a safe move to try to do somethin!. 

So Chin and I met up on Friday to talk strategy. This threw me off a little bit because I was already at the library, tucked away reclusively in the record player section, plodding through Infinite Jest and listening to obscure Louisiana folk records (I usually search through the vinyl covers for the most senescent Cajun man, preferably sitting on a porch or rocking chair, with a similarly decrepit companion with a harmonica. Then I know I've got a winner.) But, with the cancelation of Wheaton North's meet the next morning, I decided to roll with it.  I walked over to Muldoon's from the 'brary and caught up with Mike and Chin, right as Fabian was heading out. As I was saying what up to Fabian, I noticed an advertisement for the 3$ Green Line special for that night, and I quickly realized the direction this night would be inevitably heading. 

After a few brews and thanks to some sage-like advice from Drabik, we decided that I would initiate a casual text to Mousey and get the ball rolling, digging deep in the arsenal of nonchalance with a statement like maybe we could all meet up next time you guys happen to be at Muldoon's. Notice the ambiguity: words like maybe, and next time make it a totally non-binding agreement, and who exactly is we and you guys? The uncertainty gives the whole thing a slight air of aloofness and apathy, which is the definition of cool. I feel it necessary here to add, once again, that I do not think I am cool; merely, my sober (I repeat, sober) texting skills I wield with tact and pride on my camera-less, tank of a cell phone. But, as apparent with my hesitance of leaving the library, in an actual social setting, I am rendered helplessly inept. 

An increase in the Green Line-intake, motivated in part by said ineptitude, soon made the night a little more interesting. The conversation was getting more and more abstract with each beer, and soon after Drabik left, Chin and I regressed to a Rudd/Segelian back-and-forth, full of bromantical bromides ("No, you're a great guy, Kyle"). Because of the significant consumption of brew, I was also making frequent trips to the bathroom, and on one of my more unsteady returns to the table, I was approached by a middle-aged woman, her arms flared outward, excitedly and expectantly. And, naturally, I responded in the worst possible manner: I froze, mid-stride, and looked over both shoulders, thinking I had oafishly wandered into the path of this woman and her friend. This notion was soon dispelled as the woman gave me an enthusiastic hug.

Fortunately, this woman's exuberance was matched in her level of intoxication. Not to say that she was by any means sloppy, but rather she had that delightful twinkle in her eye that comes with skillfully managing the fine line of drunk/not drunk. That same line which I myself had utterly annihilated earlier that night, and which also makes the Cross-Country mother-son dinner such an uproarious success each year, as there are some mothers, much to Andrew and Justin's chagrin, who have a charming disregard for that line altogether. But this mystery woman, in her state of contentment, cared little about my apparent ignorance. 

In the infancy of our small talk, I managed to pare down the possible identities of this woman to a handful of my friends' moms.  And then, the gods threw me a bone, as the woman mentioned how she was at the track meet I was working a couple days prior. It then finally dawned on me that she was my friend Jackie's mom, a great lady who I've met on several occasions (it was not so much that I didn't remember her, but more the potent combination of the occurrence being so out of place, and after so many drinks). The conversation really flowed from there, and the only hiccup being when I mentioned former Iowa standout Rachel Marchand getting busted for EPO by the NCAA, and how that must've been weird for Jackie being on her team. I just meant how odd that would be, but Jackie's mom seemed to think I was insinuating that Jackie was doping, which is just a laughable allegation. The situation was cleared up, though.

After that, Chin took care of the tab (what a guy!) and we started walking back home. Sure, our paths were by no means linear, but all-in-all we were fine, certainly not disruptive (keep this in mind). Yet, after I chucked up a deuce to Chin and headed down Madison, my night became full-on Shamalanian with another unexpected turn. I'm close enough to my house that I'm visualizing crashing face-first on my bed, but then, not one, but two police cars, with sirens, pulled me over (Is it still being pulled over if you're walking?). Having only recently turned twenty-one, I still find myself irrationally nervous after a night at the bar, so I had a moment of panic before I realized I wasn't doing anything wrong. I immediately walked over to the cop and handed him my i.d., and told him that I had been drinking, and that I was on my way home, pointing to my house, which was literally thirty feet away. He was pretty cool about it, he said that somebody had called the cops saying someone was being loud and disruptive (again I emphasize, nothing about my walk back could've been possibly construed as disruptive), and that he didn't have any problems as long as I was heading home. The worst of it was definitely seeing my roommate watching the whole thing transpiring from the window of our living room, a look of judgement and incredulity so intense on his face I thought he'd never be able to pick his jaw off of the ground. And then when I went to the front door, he wouldn't unlock it! What an asshole.

More later....

Gangsta by tUnE-yArDs

One day after giving NPR an exclusive stream of her full album, Merrill released W h o k i l l of 4 AD records on tuesday in the U.S., and it is almost as cool as Garbus herself. Haven't had time for it to all really sink in yet, but most importantly she didn't lose any of her, to say the least, unique style from BiRd-BrAiNs, adding a refined and fuller sound to her wild-things-when-they're-bound howls and delicate coos. It's a nice balance of growing as an artist, but also sticking to one's roots. The song that has been absolutely irresistible to me (even more, dare i say, than when her first single Bizness caught my eye) has been "Gangsta". Seriously, when she says "What's a boy to do if he'll never be a gangsta? Fire in his heart, but he'll never be a gangsta", she has managed to sum up in two sentence the distress that has robbed me of countless hours of sleep. But then again, I did just get pulled over by two cops just strolling down the street....

I was tempted to put the whole album up for download, but I just can't do that to Merrill. I sure as hell didn't buy it, but if you want it, I'll at least make you work for it like I did. She deserves at least that.

Edit: download link is broken, I'll try and fix it and repost

Double Edit: download here