Rev. Horton Heat.

Or: Interrobangs and Sports Legitimacy

When I was 20 and first discovering the joys of live music, I found my way to a concert by the famous “psychobilly” (punk rockabilly) musician The Reverent Horton Heat. While the show was entertaining on its own merits, two particular things stand out in my memory: 1) The terrible sunburn that made me want to be in the thick of the crowd because the pain from the contact dulled the terrible itch (neither here nor there) and 2) The incredible cross-section of cultures present. At “The Rev” ‘s show, there were people with black eyeliner who shop at Hot Topic ; people with pompadours, horn rimmed glasses, bowling shirts with flames on them; punk rockers with mowhawks; Lacoste shirts and expensive watches; and general hipsters, among whom I fancied myself. All together, sweating in the same small music venue.

That’s what the roller derby was like yesterday: a beautiful menagerie of Americana. It was the first time I’d been to a roller derby, and it was exactly what you would expect: Women hip-checking each other in roller-skates. That said, it was a lot of fun. Fun like monster truck rallies are fun: indulgent but a little tongue-in-cheek at the same time.

The crowd was very Horton-Heat-esque: fratboy d-bags; dreadlocks and braded beards; families with young children; the elderly; friends of the skaters; and me. The participants were even more entertaining; two announcers, one dressed as a pirate and the other dressed as Don King; players with names like MissLead, Babyface Assassin, and Legzibionist; Teams called the Burlesque Brawlers and the Psych Ward Sirens…
My personal favorite was “Money Man” whose role I can only deduce is to enthusiastically play a kettle drum and hand out Mardi Gras beads, dressed head to toe in pink and black riot gear. At least I understand who was on the cover of Black Sabbath’s Paranoid, now.

















At one point, one of the players was injured, and the announcer passed the time with a little diatribe, which can be summarized as: “Don’t listen to popular opinion; roller derby is a legitimate sport because people really get injured.” We, in turn, passed the time following that thought to it’s logical conclusion: Dentistry also a sport. So is middle school, because emotional injuries are injuries, too. Carpal-tunnel and other repetitive stress injuries legitimize my office work as a sport. I am now a professional athlete.

Finally, I was introduced to the wonderful interrobang by Adriana. From Wikipedia:
"The interrobang or interabang is a nonstandard English-language punctuation mark intended to combine the functions of the question mark (also called the interrogative point) and the exclamation mark or exclamation point (known in printers' jargon as the bang). The ligature is a superimposition of those two marks. A sentence ending with an interrobang (1) asks a question in an excited manner, (2) expresses excitement or disbelief in the form of a question, or (3) asks a rhetorical question."

Here is a picture of Adriana expressing our inherently conflicting reactions to the wildly entertaining but slightly trashy slice of Americana. With an Interrobang.

Abinadi Ayerdis

From the desk of
Jesse Ormsby

February 6, 2009
The Office
Abinadi Ayerdis
123 My Heart
Anytown, USA

Dear Abinadi:

Today at 3:52 P.M. you posted the following on my facebook wall:

Essay question: In no less than 250 words, describe the profound effect the film Legally Blonde (2001), starring Reese Witherspoon, had on your decision to enter law school.Please have your answer on my desk no later than 5pm.

I’m already 73 words in, and haven’t yet addressed the question. 82. I resent the fact that you did not give me a page limit instead, so that I could play with the margins and font size to further minimize my effort. The heading space really makes a proportionally larger dent when you’re counting space, not words. 128.

As you know, I have a very complicated relationship with Legally Blond. By that I mean that I have not seen the film since its video release in early 2002. I did not see it in theaters because I didn’t know what a good job Reese Witherspoon would do mimicking June Carter Cash’s Virgina accent or that Wes Anderson movies would make me so fond of Luke Wilson. Or that I was going to law school.

206.

Now we are getting to the heart of the matter. I never wanted to go to law school. My dad was a lawyer. It seemed boring, complicated, and was why he couldn’t perpetually play with me. However, I‘ve slowly realized: I am my dad.

250.

Love,

Jesse Ormsby

Chuck Palahniuk

A few weeks ago, I was out running some errands and needed to stop for gas. I ended up at a truck stop (both for it’s geographic proximity and it’s clean restrooms). As I was in line with a sugar-free RedBull, the guy in front of me (a trucker) realized that the guy who had been in front of him (a trucker) had left his key on the counter.
“Hey, that looks like a GM key. Is that a GM key?”
“Why, no, it’s actually an International key.”
“ Is it an original, or a copy?”
“A copy.”
“Oh, yeah? I like to get my keys copied at Wal-mart. I’ve got a Chevy at home, myself, and I feel like they do a good job. Their Chevy keys are actually 1/16th of an inch shorter than the master key, but it still works fine and I save some money having my keys copied there…”

They seriously talked about the minutia of automobile key copies. Both seemed in so much need of human interaction that they leapt at this simple pretense and absolutely exhausted the subject matter before going their separate ways. Although sympathetic, I was relieved when the first trucker left, as I was both closer to paying and removed from a situation that was both curious and a little heartbreaking, until the guy still left in front of me (trucker) said to the guy behind me (trucker) [note: I’m sandwiched between he two]

“Hey!!!!!! We’re wearing the same pants!!!!!!!!”

I nearly cried trying not to laugh and… cry, but ultimately left with an increased understanding of the importance of human contact.

Remember that scene in Fight Club when Tyler Durden gives out homework assignments? In completing his own assignment, he holds up a convenience store. Dragging the clerk into the alley where Edward Norton is waiting, Tyler takes the clerk’s wallet. Instead of stealing his money, he takes out the clerk’s community college ID. This bit from the somebody’s transcription of the screenplay picks up right after Tyler establishes that Raymond, the clerk, once had aspirations of being a veterinarian, but has since dropped out of school.

Tyler moves the gun right between Raymond's eyes.

RAYMOND
NOOOOO!

Tyler UNCOCKS the gun, lowers it.

TYLER
I'm keeping your license. I know
where you live. I'm going to check
on you. If you aren't back in school
and on your way to being a
veterinarian in six weeks, you will
be dead. Get the hell out of here.

Raymond staggers to his feet, heads down an alleyway. Jack
and Tyler watch Raymond flee, then Tyler looks at Jack.

JACK
I feel sick.

TYLER
Imagine how he feels.

Tyler brings the gun to his own head, pulls the trigger --
CLICK. Empty.

JACK
I don't care, that was horrible.

Tyler walks away.

TYLER
Tomorrow will be the most beautiful
day of Raymond K. Hessell's life.
His breakfast will taste better than
any meal you and I have ever tasted.

That’s how I feel today. After spending ten to fifteen hours a day in the law library for a week and a half, just about everything I’ve done has tasted better than any meal you have ever had. Including my homemade breakfast of skillet potatoes (one full baking-sized potato’s worth), two eggs, and two pieces of toast w/ some of Pete’s honey (sorry, Pete). Or, the char-grilled half-chicken with charro beans, grilled onions, tortillas, lime, salsa, and a half-liter Mexican coke that I had for lunch from a taco truck. Or, the peanut butter sandwich I had for dinner, made with Pete’s bread (sorry, Pete).

The food was delicious because I’ve been eating Whataburger twice a day. There’s one near campus. It’s unfortunate when a bacon-cheese Whataburger with jalapenos makes the transition from treat to chore. Sometimes I spiced it up a little bit with a brown-sugar-and-cinnamon pop-tart. Or, Frenchy’s Fried Chicken. Frenchy’s is right off of campus, and right off campus has a drastically different ethnic demographic than on campus. Frenchy’s provided me with both A) delicious fried chicken and B) the unique opportunity to be the only white person in the establishment. Which, I think, adds a little authenticity to the food. Does that sound racist? I’m constantly scared of saying something that will unintentionally sound racist in a Frenchy’s Fried Chicken full of black people. Every time the flirtatious girl at the register asks me if I want white meat or dark meat, and I say “white,” I’m unreasonably terrified.

But, it’s not just my non-Whataburger food that tastes better. Everything tastes better. Going to Target tastes better. Sitting on the couch in just my towel tastes better (sorry, Pete). Listening to music tastes better.

I listened to my ipod for the first time in weeks. Everything that came on Blew. My. Mind. The Format, Flight of the Conchords, Elton John. I played “My Beloved Monster and Me” like four times in a row. It didn’t even matter if it was a good song. I sang along with an Offspring song like it was the national anthem. Everything had this renewed texture and vibrancy, like I was listening to it for the first time but keeping the pleasure of something familiar. If a Beatles song had come on, I might have died.

I also can’t stop talking, and my speech sounds like a structured answer to a First Amendment rights writing prompt. I’ve been kind of delighted by this hyper-verbal turn. It probably comes off as verbose, even a little ostentatious, but the word geek inside of me has been tickled pink by how accurately and thoroughly I’ve been able to articulate the policy points of my opinion. I like to imagine that it’s the natural result of flexing my word-power muscles ‘till they were too tired to lift the soap in grey-matter-gym’s shower afterward. I felt proud… until I bragged to my girlfriend about it and she said that all those hours cloistered in the library had just turned me into a lonely trucker.

Jessica Hagy

Like a candybar for dinner:
Here's some webcandy to fill my blogless void.

I've been enjoying a great blog called Indexed.
Here are some great examples

(for further entertainment, check out Sleeveface).

Jim Henson

I love people who go all out, even overboard, for little things. It’s a good thing to spice up and excite the monotony of everyday life. A few good examples:

Last night, for FHE, we carved pumpkins. Mine was stenciled to look like The Count from Sesame Street. There was going to be a prize for the best one (two tickets to a haunted house). Not to be outdone, a friend of mine went out and purchased an electric pumpkin carving knife. Way to step up your game.

A few weeks ago, I played Rock Band at a friend’s house. Another friend of his brought with his a custom made bass-drum foot pedal, made from an actual drum pedal! Because the factory one was just not responsive enough. They also owned real microphone stands for exclusive game use.

My First Amendment professor writes and performs songs to recap chapters from our textbook. We recently finished going over cases dealing with obscenity.

OBSCENITY – I KNOW IT WHEN I SEE IT
(to the tune of “Modern Major General” from “Pirates of Penzance”)

I know a dirty picture from a gem by
Michelangelo

I know a verse by Shakespeare from
descriptions of fellatio

In dealing with obscenity and matters
scatological

My teaching of this subject is not strictly
pedagogical

When prurient appeal is made the standard
Of obscenity

We’ve got a court-made doctrine more mysterious
than the trinity

To understand the Burger Court’s conception of
pornography

You need to have the wisdom of a doctor
of cryptography

I think that those who peddle porn lack mental
versatility

They’ve reached the lowest point of intellectual
sterility

But as a way of life the stuff is almost
institutional

And forces an analysis of matters
constitutional.


I’m pretty fond of going all out on elaborate practical jokes. As a lesser example: three years ago, for April Fools Day, I played a joke on one of my roommates. He had a beta fish whose bowl was prominently displayed in our house. We nicknamed the fish “Job” because he was so poorly taken care of that we were thought he should “curse God and die.” So, for April Fool’s day, I went to Petsmart and procured a bowl identical to his with matching rocks and plant and two goldfish. At midnight, I snuck downstairs and swapped my bowl for his. It took him nearly a full day to realize that there were two goldfish where Job used to be. For good measure, I kept his fish hidden behind a stack of textbooks on the bookshelf in my room for an additional week. Both of those fish, being pet store goldfish, died shortly thereafter. But, my girlfriend thought that I had so much fun with them and bought me two more for my birthday (along with a really cool belt buckle and a toy stegosaurus). We named him Groucho for the black mark on the top of his fish lips (a la Groucho Marx’s mustache).

Groucho went the way of the buffalo this past week. He was a good goldfish. Lived for an astonishing three years in spite of three moves, my sister’s cat’s love of goldfish flavored water, and a teency-weency bit of occasional neglect. He was a real trooper and came back from the brink of goldfish death more often than a goldfish ought to be able to. He will be missed.

Groucho the Fish, RIP.

Freddie Mercury

I love singing along with the radio. Recently, I haven’t been listening to a ton of music in my car. A series of car battery failures have erased my programmed radio stations (and keeps erasing them again once I’ve painstakingly found and re-entered stations that I don’t mind). As often as not, I’m listening to an audiobook, or a This American Life podcast, which you can’t sing along to. This past Friday, however, I had someone in my car. I was taking her to the airport, which meant that we had maybe 30 min in the car together. I’m sick of the six cds that I have in my trunk, you have to have SOMETHING on in the background, she hadn’t read the vampire novel I’m re-listening to, and I wanted to talk to her. So, I put some Queen on in the background. It’s familiar enough that you can ignore it, but fun enough to add something nice in the spaces between conversation. What’s better than singing along with the radio? Two people singing along to the radio, together.

Saturday night I went to the movies with my dad to watch a western that just came out. The most enjoyable part of the movie was the terse, tough-guy dialogue between the two central characters. I LOVE tough-guy dialogue. Who can forget when Princess Leia said “I love you” to Han Solo, and all he said back was “I know.” It’s one of the things that keep me going back to westerns, noir, and pulp. A texbook example would be Humphrey Bogart’s Sam Spade from the Maltese Falcon.
(please read aloud in your best Bogart voice)

Joel Cairo: You always have a very smooth explanation...
Sam Spade: What do you want me to do, learn to stutter?
___________
Spade: I hope you're not letting yourself be influenced by the guns these pocket-edition desperadoes are waving around, because I've practiced taking guns from these boys before; so we'll have no trouble there.
__________
Sam Spade: All we've got is that maybe you love me and maybe I love you.
Brigid O'Shaughnessy: You know whether you love me or not.
Sam Spade: Maybe I do. I'll have some rotten nights after I've sent you over, but that'll pass…. I hope they don't hang you, precious, by that sweet neck. Yes, angel, I'm gonna send you over. The chances are you'll get off with life. That means if you're a good girl, you'll be out in 20 years. I'll be waiting for you. If they hang you, I'll always remember you.

Now, I think that I understand why dialogue like this appeals to me. The speakers are independent, assertive, confident, but still principled (even if it’s their own code they follow). They’ll fall for a woman, but don’t let her influence adversely affect them. They’re cool and capable under fire. I sometimes work quips like these into my conversation, but it’s always a little tongue-in-cheek or self-deprecating. Why? Because, among other things, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s not a very efficient way of going about my affairs. And, I just have too much to get done. That doesn’t mean that I can’t be tickled pink by seeing it on the silver screen.

Lastly, I’ve been reminded of the cyclical nature of things. Recently, life has been a bowl of cherries. It turns out, I may actually have some career potential after all. (whew). Weight off my shoulders. Additionally, some of the social stress common to being a young, single LDS student has been alleviated. This combined stress reduction and enjoyment infusion has made the last week and a half of my life a joy. In the back of my mind, though, was the itch of a thought that things can’t be that breezy forever. Life is still good. Great. The good things are still there and still good. But, I am starting to feel a few of those existing life stressors slowly slipping their roots into the space left by the recently vacated stressors, bringing life back to a grounded, but not entirely unpleasant, normal.

Julian Casablancas

When I was nineteen, I was living at my parents house, not paying rent, attending community college, and waiting to serve my mission. This means that I had a lot of free time. This was post Napster’s hayday, but peer-to-peer file sharing was not being prosecuted, and I spent a lot of my spare time like every teenager since the prevalence of radio and record players, discovering myself by discovering music. A quintessential American experience.

I would download just about everything that I would hear a reference too. Old stuff like The Coasters, classics like Johnny Cash and the Sex Pistols, and any indie band that I read about in Rolling Stone. This, in turn, lead to frequent concert attendance. I had just about enough spare cash for one show a week (and maybe a t-shirt if they were really good).

I thought that I was pretty cool. I had long, shaggy hair and a well broken in pair of converse sneakers. In spite of how hip I felt I was, it was a pretty lonely time for me. My friends were all at good universities, living in dorms, making new friends. I was living at home, but not in the town that I’d grown up in. I had a brief stint w/ a girlfriend, but she was C-R-A-Z-Y, with a capital C-R-A-Z-Y (there’s nothing for your self esteem quite like a girl talking about going home and killing herself as you walk her to her car after kissing all evening).

There was a group called The Strokes who I had heard over the radio and whose first album I quickly learned inside out. I was so proud of being into them. I felt like I had discovered them myself. I recognized, on my own, something good and new. This was not listening to The Clash because every rock critic said they were influential or Stairway to Heaven because it was the high school class song of all of my friends parents. I felt like I had accomplished something. Later, music writers would call this stretch of popular music “new Garage Rock”, and it produced groups like The White Stripes and Kings of Leon. But, I didn’t know it was a movement then. I recognized something new that I liked, all by myself.

Excitedly, I purchased two tickets for their first US tour. One for me and one for my brother, who I was just beginning to realize was a real person worth spending time with. Imagine my shock when we walked into the venue and discovered that everybody in there looked JUST. LIKE. ME. Thick shaggy hair. Form fitting denim jacket. Thick, black framed eyeglasses. I felt like the end of the Where’s Waldo book where he’s in a world full of Waldos. Not only did I recognize something good, but hundreds of other people came to the same conclusion. Not just about the sound, but about outerwear and lexicon. Some might have felt their identity questioned, but I felt reinforced. What I decided that I likes MUST have some merit if all of these other people recognized the same thing that I did. And, for the first time, I felt like I was in tune with something. This must be why people join gangs. Or go to Star Trek conventions.

This was a major defining moment is Jesse-dom. It’s influenced a lot of my interests, from college courses in the dynamics of popular culture to an extensive record collection. There are a lot of reasons why I love going to the Austin City Limits music festival every year, but this is a big one. I get to spend three days in the sunshine surrounded by a self-selected audience of people just like me. People who have independently recognized and enjoyed the same things that I have. It’s reinforcing. Comforting. And, most importantly, a lot of fun.

Post Script
I’ve received some feedback that the picture at the head of my last entry was confusing. It’s a picture of president Eisenhower (Ike) ‘s head photoshopped onto the eye of a hurricane. That picture with that caption was the cover of a weekly publication I’m fond of here in Houston, and perfectly expressed my sentiments at the tail end of a week and a half without electricity.