Flashback: Pizza party

When I was a freshman in high school, my friend T. and I were invited to a pizza party by a guy whom we barely knew. It seemed like a strange invitation, but I was curious. I asked: Who else will be there? What's it for? What do you guys do? "It's just a bunch of kids our age from my church. We eat pizza, hang out and talk." I had some misgivings because I knew most of the churches in the area were more conservative than I was, but I also didn't want to pre-judge a bunch of people I'd never met. And it sounded casual enough; if it didn't turn out to be our thing, T. and I could just leave.

We went. In addition to seven or eight other kids our age, there was one older guy. (At the time he seemed ancient, but he was probably only in his 30s.) "Get your pizza and come sit down," the older guy said. Little alarm bells went off in my head; already this was less casual than I'd anticipated. But we were here, the pizza was served, and I was dependent on T. for a ride. We each took a slice of pizza and a paper towel as a plate and joined the circle of people sitting on the floor.

A few bites into our slices, the older guy began to sermonize about the evils of homosexuality and the inescapable damnation of homosexuals. T. and I gave each other sideways glances - he'd recently confessed to me he thought he was bisexual - but we felt trapped. We'd taken the free pizza, were in the circle, and getting up now went against all my parents' teachings about what it meant to be a good person and a polite guest. So we stayed until he was done speaking and we were dismissed.

On some level I blamed myself. I knew already that almost nothing in this world is free; if someone you don't know very well offers you pizza, they're bound to have an ulterior motive. On the other hand, the guy who'd invited us hadn't been completely honest, either. I felt like he'd purposefully withheld information from us, which meant we couldn't make an informed decision.

I felt duped. Manipulated. Betrayed.

I had a similar experience last week with a novel I read, which I wrote about on my business blog.

The marks of civilization

I've been watching a lot of Downton Abbey lately, so I'm feeling rather snooty. I'm always affected in some way by the things I watch or read that I get really into. As a result of watching that show and of traveling out of Portland for the holidays, I've come to realize that there are certain signs that help me recognize when I'm in a civilized (or less civilized) place.

In Downton Abbey the marks of civilization include running water, electricity, and a telephone (or two, if you're really rich). Some of the characters also define civilized as having enough footmen to serve dinner without bringing the maids into the dining room and having spare valets available for overnight guests.

I am not content with running water, electricity and a phone. Those things are important, of course, but I take them entirely for granted and assume that even uncivilized places have those things. And I don't care two figs for having a bunch of servants. (To tell the truth, I would be made uncomfortable by the idea that someone else was to help dress me and serve me dinner, as Matthew was when he first came to Downton.) Even so, what I consider to be the marks of civilization are still heavily influenced by my socio-economic class and the customs in my particular geographic location.

The Marks of Civilization, According to Sione:

Random thoughts (12/11/12)

Random thought #1
I believe that everything happens for a reason.

Which is another way of saying that I am (more or less) the sum of my experiences.

Which is another way of saying that the present moment is the direct result of every previous moment.

Which is another way of saying that I believe that there is something to be aware of and to learn from in any situation.

I'm usually pretty successful at deriving one or more lessons from an event in my life, but every so often something will happen that causes me to ask, "But what does it mean?" (Yes, in this respect I may resemble the double rainbow guy a little bit.)

Lately I've been reflecting on those things that happen that seem to be going somewhere but then don't and then I'm like, "Okay, what was the point of that?"

A good-bye letter

"Fumar puede matar."

Dear C. L.,

Over the years we’ve had our ups and downs. I first met you when I was seventeen, but we flirted from afar and didn’t really get to know one another until I was nineteen. Once properly introduced, however, we quickly got serious and remained inseparable for five years. Then I called it off for the first time. We didn’t see each other for a couple years after that. We slowly got to know one another again, dated off and on for a few years before getting serious again three years ago. I thought I might be strong enough to do things differently this time. But it’s become clear to me recently that I was right the first time, and we never should have gotten back together. You haven’t changed. This isn’t a healthy relationship for me; it never has been.

Part of me doesn’t want to say good-bye. If not for you, there are people whom I never would have even met, much less would have become good friends with. My relationship with you has led to experiences I never would have had. You are the key to a whole world that would otherwise be shut to me. Saying goodbye to you means saying goodbye to that world and some of the friends I've made in it.

After-dinner stroll

He had some time to kill before he needed to be at the airport, so my dad and I teleported to Prague for an after-dinner stroll. Neither of us had ever been there before, and I wished we could hear the street-noise and smell the city-smells, the din and odor being essential to the travel experience. But there were other delights. A few steps was all it took to bring on a change in strangely ordered seasons: bare branches now obscured by the fullness of summer's leaves; a few more steps and spring's new buds and early green abound. The sun shone eternal. We began near the National Museum and wound our way--past graffiti'd doorways and people whose faces never came into focus--to the Old Town Square, where the tops of buildings hung disembodied in the sky like heavy clouds. Next to the copper sculpture green with age, the tree, hung with streamers and balloons, suddenly here now gone.

Threaded memory

I'm in Ashland this weekend with my soul sister Carly. This morning we ate at Brothers, a restaurant my parents used to take us to for breakfast from time to time when we lived in Medford.
 
My freshman year of high school I made National Honors Society, and as a treat they brought us down to Ashland from Bend for the Shakespeare Festival. Then too we ate at Brothers. There was a vintage clothing store across the street from the restaurant where I bought a yellow silk brocade men's shirt that was too big for me.

Later, in art class, a classmate accidentally marked the back of that shirt with a fine-point Sharpie. He felt horrible about it, and I shrugged it off. It was this same art class in which, for the first time in my life, someone publicly expressed interest in me. My classmates burst out laughing, so I did too.

From the time of the marking I only wore the shirt under my dad's corduroy vest that had been part of his suit for playing shows, the same suit I imagine (but do not know) he wore the night he met my mother at a coffee shop in Ashland. The vest was also too big for me.

Once I went into my place of work wearing the yellow brocade shirt and asked my supervisor where the store manager was. He told me, and then said, "Pretty sure." I repeated back to him, "Pretty sure?" He said, "Pretty sure" again, slowly, as if correcting me, and he looked sincere. I was confused, so I said again, "You're pretty sure he's up at the registers?" and my manager said, more slowly and loudly, "That's a pretty shirt." I blushed and looked and the floor. "Oh. Thanks," I murmured, and my manager was blushing too, and I walked away.