See a gallery of pictures from the Oberlin trip.
oday I had a hangover. It made working on my musings an impossibility. Furthermore, because the Mac lab was closed when I wanted to do some internet work, I was forced to use Windows 3.1 machines. I dislike that operating system with vehemence. I'd rather just use DOS. An additional obstruction resulted from the fact that the machines would do nothing short of Telnet without being given a valid Oberlin account name (thankfully, for some reason, no password was requested). So I was forced to Telnet to Atlas back at Comet and finger @oberlin.edu to get a list of valid user names. Oberlin still uses cryptic user names that are composed of "S" (for Student) in front of the first and last initial, followed by the four last digits of the student ID number. My user name was SKM1955 back in the day. That isn't a valid user name anymore. Examples of valid user names: SWW0260 and SHL4633.
I finally managed to visit Rippy while he was home. He'd just woken up, and was thinking about food as usual. Eating and fucking are the only joys in life, so he says.
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I also went outside and found a bit of Norway Spruce pitch to "rosin up" the spindle.
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He made pancakes for us both while I fixed an old 4 track tape recorder. The problem with the four track was that the motor spindle was slipping under the rubber band used to drive the main fly wheel. I fixed it by scoring little vertical grooves in the spindle to increase traction. I also went outside and found a bit of Norway Spruce pitch to "rosin up" the spindle. The combination was successful.
Rippy eats very slowly. He likes to savour his food. He's the same way about driving. Road trips with him take much too long. He also claims to be the same way with sex. Music, on the other hand, should go fast. He was a fan of Hüsker Dü back when I was listening to Pink Floyd. We always discuss music whenever we meet after being apart for a long period. Independently Rippy brought up Guided by Voices, saying that it was some sort of new Oberlin music sensation. GBV, which is "local talent" from Dayton, had apparently played at the Oberlin disco not so long ago. Rippy had heard GBV albums and been interested, but he wasn't so impressed by their live performance, which he'd paid $8 to see. They'd played very loud and all their songs had sounded the same. Furthermore, Rippy (who doesn't smoke, take drugs, or drink alcohol or caffeine) was not impressed that Bob Pollard, the vocalist, was terribly drunk on stage.
was craving French Fries and I was wanting to cruise around in my Dart. The day had turned out to be sunny and warm, apparently the first day of real spring Oberlin had seen in weeks. Rippy likes quaint local road trips and little diners. So we went off to find my Dart, which was parked on the side of Tappan Square across from the Conservatory on College Street. On the way, we went into Harkness, perhaps to see if others would join us. We soon stumbled across Eriq Schliqer.
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He was famous for not flushing the toilet and for creating epic kitchen messes.
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Let's see. I first met Eriq in the Fall of 1991 when he was a Freshman living in Harkness. He was not the sort who endeared himself to my best friends at the time, Heather Bissel and Jeff Brecko. You see, Eriq is mostly a pleasant dreamy hippie; he considers himself an herbalist, though he also likes crystals and beads and African drums. He's not particularly famous for his hygeine or tidyness. When he lived in "The House With Nuts In It" way down near the south end of Oberlin, he was famous for not flushing the toilet and for creating epic kitchen messes. Eriq also has a strongly anti-authoritarian loyalties. When a Harkness employee of Campus Security was responsible for my arrest for trespassing in the Harkness kitchen (Fall, 1992), he denounced her in a way that came across as a threat to the Director of Security. There are many other things to be said about Eriq, and lucky for you, I've written a story that features him as the main character.
Eriq has been staying in Harkness rent-free this semester as a non-student.
Eriq was amazed and pleased to see me (how else do I account for that moment?). He went on to express concern about some hippie girls who had set out from Harkness on a walk to a quarry to the west of town. The girls had been given bad directions by a guy named Cory. Eriq said he was going to go on a drive and find them. I suggested that we search for the girls in the Dodge Dart and go get "french fries" once we found them. Rippy and Eriq liked the idea. Not only would it be a road trip to get food, but now there was an erotic element suitable for fantasy: we'd also be picking up maidens in distress!
We spent a long time and much gas cruising all over western Lorain County. We went down Quarry Road and up Baumhart Road and to and fro on Ohio route 511, but we couldn't find the girls. I had no idea who these girls were, but I found the adventure of looking for them exciting, and I didn't mind driving so much even after it was clear to me that they would not be found.
After we were all satisfied with the thoroughness of our search, we went to a little ice cream place on Ohio Route 113 on the Erie County Line. It's one of those mom and pop fast food vendors that only operates on warm days and sells food through sliding screen windows. Most of the employees were nubile girls, though there was an older woman back in there too and she had an impatient attitude.
Unlike Rippy, I eat my food as quickly as possible. This is something I learned to do long ago at home, where the food tended to run out for those who lingered over it. And in Charlottesville, he who eats slowly is defenseless against the scavenging of slacker friends. I inhaled a foot long chili dog in record time and then ate some overpriced greasy french fries. Meanwhile, Rippy lingered over, prodded and studied his tiny cup of ice cream. Eriq complained that his mint and chip icecream tasted like it had carob (not chocolate) chips.
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To relate what had transpired in the intervening years seemed essential.
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I had a subtle feeling of alienation from Eriq and (to a much lesser extent) from Rippy. I felt as though I had changed a lot since they saw me last. Maybe it wasn't that I changed that much, but that I had been through a lot, much more than I could ever talk about. To relate what had transpired in the intervening years seemed essential. Otherwise what they knew of me would be unacceptably incomplete. I wanted them to understand my new Internet-based life, and I wanted them to understand Big Fun and Charlottesville culture. But where could I start? Ever since arriving in Oberlin, I'd been discovering that the awareness my old Oberlin chums have for the Internet is not nearly as developed as it is among most of my Big Fun and Charlottesville friends. None of them have "surfed the web" and they don't appear to know the significance of search engines or URLs. Eriq claims to make use of email, but I have my doubts. I pleaded for Eriq and Rippy to check out my web site so that they can KNOW, but I have my doubts they are capable of such things, or even if so, if they ever will. Especially in Oberlin I see aspects of a familiar and annoyingly luddite aversion to "computers." Such an aversion rather reminds me of the Amish sticking with their horses and buggies; it seems like more trouble than it's worth.
Another thing that makes me feel alienated from my old Oberlin chums is that I feel I have to bend my interests, ideas and desires too much to hang out with them. Most of them (with the exception of Rippy) listen to appalling amounts of Reggæ. It's not just Reggæ either, it's Bob Marley, the single most overplayed music in the college world. In the mostly-punk Charlottesville world in which I dwell, novelty (being different from everyone else) is assigned high value. It's okay for friends to borrow from their friends, but it's far better when new fashions, music, and ideas are explored. Most valued of all is the person who can occasionally completely re-invent himself while maintaining the social structure in which he dwells. In Oberlin, all the hippies dress alike, talk alike, think alike, smell alike and listen to Bob Marley. They all seem like relics of a bygone (and frankly) boring age. Like I say, I've moved on.
As indicated above, none of this can be said about Rippy. He is most certainly not brain dead hippie. He might be depressed a lot of the time, he might be fussy and compulsive, he might involve himself in ridiculous and exploitive sexual relationships, but he's sober, alert and drug free. And most of all, he is one of a kind. Furthermore, he can be credited as one of the guiding forces in the slow maturation of my musical interests away from late 60s/early 70s "progressive rock" to the "alternative" stuff I listen to today. Rippy was alternative at least a decade before alternative was cool, at least 15 years before it was passé.
dropped Eriq off at Harkness and continued with Rippy around to the south-east sector of Oberlin. I parked the Dart at the beautiful and historic yellow gothic revival house on Groveland street known as Banana House. I'd hung my big painting Hormone Prisoners there a year and a half ago and I was hoping it was still there. You have to understand that crazy parties, often of a twisted fetishistic sexual nature, are known to happen at Banana House.
I was pleased to look in the window and see the painting still hanging there. Knocking at the door, we were eventually granted admission. I knew the girl who came to the door from a year and a half ago. The two guys were strangers, but Rippy and I managed to chat with them about trivial little matters, such as the history, both ancient and recent, of Banana House. When I'd last been in Banana House, the resident I knew best was Dirty Josh, a plump guy with long straight blond hair; he and his girlfriend Laura had hung out with the residents of Dirtyville during commencement (May) 1995. With the help of an ocean of champagne, we Dirties had all gotten to know each other rather well. With only a little embarrassment I admit that my tongue has been in the mouths of both Dirty Laura and Dirty Josh.
I'd thought Josh was kind of cool until I started hanging out with him at Banana House. There, I found him and his Attention Deficit Disorder-provoked antics (mostly little fights and wrestling matches with the other ADD victims Dirty Ray and Dirty Josh) to be highly irritating. My opinion of Josh (and his housemates) hit rock bottom when I discovered that everybody in Banana House plays Dungeons and Dragons. Anyway, apprarently Josh was in actuality so irritating that he was irritating even to the other dorks living in Banana House. The others managed to kick him out and replace him with someone much cooler.
I found that Hormone Prisoners fit easily in the back seat of my car. It's so nice to have a big classic American car. I'll pay for the gas if I can drive in such luxury.
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I've showered with my share of girls of all descriptions, and it is only rarely an erotic experience.
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fter parking my Dart behind Harkness, I went inside and took a shower at my favourite shower head, the southmost one in the second floor showers. I've been using that shower head since 1986. The Harkness showers are single rooms with many shower heads. They're also coed. That means there is a chance of seeing a member of the opposite sex in the buff. There's a cardboard E that can be positioned to say M, W, or E for "Men," "Women," or "Everyone," or else "3" if you want to shower by yourself. I've seen it in "W" and "3" position quite a few times. But it never is ever set to "M" for some reason. Mostly it is set to "E" and that means you could end up showering with any gender. I've showered with my share of girls of all descriptions, and it is only rarely an erotic experience. Of course, if it's your girlfriend, well you might as well set the cardboard E to "3."
I didn't have a towel, so I dried myself off with a super-absorbant maxi pad.
Rippy and I hung out in front of Harkness, something we are both rather practiced in. He's almost 40 and I'm almost 30, but there's no stigma attached to age. Still, I had a trace of a feeling that I was out of place, like in those dreams where I find myself still fucking with my locker in high school, having been forced to return to the public school system many years into my adulthood to finish some incomplete requirement.
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I found them to be original, revolutionary, refreshing, even sexy.
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I was introduced to a good number of hippies. There's nothing noticeably different between the hippies of 1986 and those of 1997. They wear the same clothes, they like the same music, they're equally impressed by how cool Rippy is. The difference is me. In 1986, I'd never seen a hippie up close. I found them to be original, revolutionary, refreshing, even sexy. Now I'm wondering what they possibly have to offer the world that hasn't been offered already. I have to add, though, that I like these hippies. They are Harkness people, thus they are stewards of a culture that I cherish, a culture that is largely responsible for the person that I am now. I want these hippies to like me too. They seem to. They've all heard about me. When I introduce myself unpretentiously as being "Gus," they always pause for a moment, look at me with a familiar intensity, then a spark comes to their eyes as neurons make use of poorly-traveled but flatteringly-prepared synapses. That's when they say, "Are you the Gus?" They always expect me to look much older than I do.
One such incident played itself out nicely as Rippy and I strolled by the Conservatory today. Two buxom and not especially attractive hippie girls, part of the female contingent we'd been driving all over western Lorain County to find earlier today, came upon us and started chatting with Rippy. I was standing there as a complete stranger, but there was a fraternal connection none the less. My appearance said I was one of them: I was barefoot, I had homemade jewelry. They don't know I (still) have three Pantera and two Sepultura CDs. One of the girls glanced at my big silver rings (made of a bent fork handle) and introduced herself as "Chucky." I said I was Gus. She became very excited at this point, since she's the girl who wants to buy my painting Life has no Heaven. Her haggleing skills, however, reminded me of a scene from Kids in the Hall. She went from saying $50 to saying $52 while I went from $180 to $70. But finally we agreed on $60. That's not exactly money in my pocket, however. She couldn't get any money on a Sunday, and I'd be leaving Ohio tomorrow, so she'll have to pay Rippy and I'll have to get money from Rippy on an unspecified date. Sigh... I should have just kept my painting; it's a good one.
e were tired so Rippy and I both took naps back at his place. I slept out on the back porch on a little bed there. While I slept, a huge thunderstorm kicked up. It was the first thunderstorm of the season, and it was extremely electrical. I have a number of phobias, and one of them is lightening. There is something about the cruel randomness of the death that lightening deals that is terrifying. Maybe it's my atheism (or subtle lack thereof) that has me feeling I'm sure to be God's next victim.
When the rain finally abated (to an extent) I went to Mudd A level (the basement of the library) and printed out a complete copy of the Big Fun Glossary for Rippy. Paper is the only media he will ever read, and even so, he says it's unlikely he will ever read any more books. He explains that there is a stack of books in his closet that have been suggested to him but that he never approaches. The fact that the BFG has pictures, however, may make my epic work more digestable.
While Rippy cooked a rhubarb pie, I went to the Féve with my video camera.
Catfish, Oberlin's most notorious male womanizer, came by as I sat drinking my coffee. He expressed a common sentiment, that he was bored. Just in case I didn't know what he meant, he later elaborated that he hoped to get laid tonight. He went upstairs to the new Féve bar room. I shot a little video, did the same in the basement pool room, then went upstairs and shot some in the bar.
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My response was to ask if he was a Virgo.
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Some fashionable guy was seated with a diminuitive pretty girl, and he suddenly piped up that he didn't want to be on videotape. I cooly asked if he was worried I was stealing his soul (a common fear among ignorant Mexican peasants). No, said the fashionable guy, he just didn't like being photographed. An anger was growing in his voice and I was enjoying the moment enormously. The girl he was sitting with was becoming noticeably less impressed with him as he went on and on. Suddenly the fashionable guy irrelevantly mentioned that I was not wearing shoes and that he didn't like being in a restaurant with someone not wearing shoes! (I have never heard such a complaint from anyone except a health official or someone concerned that a health official would show up.) My response was to ask if he was a Virgo (astrology is extremely useful for making an argument suddenly disarmingly surreal while keeping the tone nicely sardonic; for that weapon I am endlessly in debt to Jessika). The fashionable guy turned to the bartender and asked if it wasn't true that barefoot people had to leave the bar. The bartender was a cool unassuming blond guy with an eyebrow ring; he and Catfish had been watching in dismay as the fashionable guy had suddenly burst out in assholes. But still, the fashionable guy was technically correct: no bare feet in the restaurant. The bartender agreed with the fashionable guy while shooting me an apologetic look. I left without complaint, "thinking of the musings."
Later I ran across Catfish (in his vehicle) on the corner of Cedar and College just outside Weasel House. I wasn't surprised to learn that Catfish considered the fashionable guy to be an asshole. I wondered what had been the problem with my videotaping. Perhaps his girlfriend would see him chatting with the diminuitive pretty girl. Catfish found that unlikely; in fact, he thought the fashionable guy was, in all likelihood, gay. Hmmm...maybe he feared he'd be exposed as a closet heterosexual.
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Only after she went off and Catfish said, "goodbye Nicole" did I recall I'd spent the night with her back in October of 1995!
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While Catfish and I talked, a girl drove up and proceded to go visit some friends upstairs in Weasel House. She stopped to talk with us briefly and she gave me an enthusiastic hello, acting as if she knew me. She looked familiar, but I couldn't recall where I'd seen her. Only after she went off and Catfish said, "goodbye Nicole" did I recall I'd spent the night with her back in October of 1995! I hadn't even been drunk when that happened. I'm getting pretty bad with the whole names and faces memory issue. By the way, Catfish said he has spent "many nights" with Nicole. He looked as though tonight he'd like another.
ack "downtown" I ran across an old friend, Lisa Lefkowitz. She's a photographer from New York City who I met in the Fall of 1994 when she and I both hung works in Annie's Pizza. Her photographs are highly original; most of them are "meta photographs": a slide is taken of some object or texture, it is projected on a nude female form and the nude is photographed. The result can be disturbing: girls with treebark skin or light switches in the middle of their backs. Lisa and I "hung out" and once went on a "date" to a graveyard (a common "date" location for me) but nothing overtly romantic came of it. There was much more sexual tension (and action) with her extremely beautiful hometown friend, Liz. Now Liz works at the Féve. She looks the part. She's got that New York City kind of cool about her. Tonight she'd be working the 10pm-2am shift.
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He was drinking straight vodka out of a communist-era Soviet-made metal flask, complete with hammer and sickle logo.
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I recovered my painting Pizza Bomb Crisis from Annie's Pizza, where it had been placed in a discrete unflattering location. I also got a slice of pizza, which I ate partly in the Féve. I was joined at this point by an already intoxicated Dirty James. He was drinking straight vodka out of a communist-era Soviet-made metal flask, complete with hammer and sickle logo.
He was making sort of a scene in the Féve, but the folks there are as tolerant as any coffee shop. "Wait and it will blow over" seems to be their attitude. I was given an extremely warm reception by Biff, a rather plump friend of Dirty Coon's (of Dirtyville fame). I couldn't remember who she was, which isn't so bad, considering I barely knew her. I was embarrassed by how much she fussed over me. She even kissed me on the forehead.
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Through the years we've stolen kegs, eaten all their food, destroyed their kitchen, and even sacrificed their mascot, Earl the Cat.
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I drove Dirty James and that guy Sean who laughs like Bad Beef out to Keep Co-op for some reason. I think the idea was to "see what was going on there." Keep has always been at the bottom of the Co-op heirarchy. The students there have a reputation for being the dorkiest. For my Harkness friends and me, this always gave us license to exploit and ransack the place. Through the years we've stolen kegs, eaten all their food, destroyed their kitchen, and even sacrificed their mascot, Earl the Cat. The night of April 29th, 1989, each of my friends ate a bite out of each apple in a tray of apples, turning all the apples bite-side down so no one would know until the next day. We were full of care-free spite in those days.
I didn't want to relive those days, but Dirty James (who was just a kid in those days) seemed intent on getting us arrested. He kept kicking things and shouting.
We joined up with an old friend named Aaron (he was the boyfriend of a girl who I once had a shameful crush on) and Dirty Ray, as well as a tiny girl I take to be Dirty Ray's girlfriend. I hope she gets to be on top, if you know what I mean. From there we acted as a convoy, driving around campus, going to the piles of stuff students give away at the end of the year. Among the things I got were: a nice jacket, a comforter, lots of pants, some tee and flannel shirts, a coffee maker, and (for when I have an even more hectic social life) an answering machine.
I was certain I'd be getting drunk tonight, so I dropped Sean and Dirty Ray off at the Disco (the basement of the Student Union) and parked the Dart near Weasel House.
t Disco tonight was a phenomenon known as "Quarter Beer." That means every beer costs a quarter. That's cheap, but you have to be a student to get in. My solution (the one used by my non-student friends as well) is to march in like you own the place. Then disappear into the mass of people.
It was a big sweaty mass of people. The air was a horrid dose of heat and humidity. The girls were all in tank tops and their bra straps were all akimbo. I didn't know anyone except my male friends. It was lonely situation really, made all the more depressing by the expectations being placed on the evening by Catfish (and now) Dirty James.
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In his world, a night without play is a night wasted on earth.
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Dirty James calls sexual activity "play." He'd already said he was hoping to "get some play tonight." In his world, a night without play is a night wasted on earth. His bluntness about such matters is refreshing in this politically correct wasteland, but it's also irritating to have him keep wanting to drag me from one place to the next as he continually comes up with poor assessments of the chances for his getting play.
Not that I don't have the conditioning, genes and gender that set similar unrealistic goals for every night. But Oberlin is not the place to go to get play when you have allowed your possibly-sexual connections to evaporate through neglect. The best that I could do was play eye tennis with some hotties that I didn't know and never would.
There was a peppy jazz band playing live music at the Disco. It wasn't my kind of music, but drink improved the sound.
After the Disco, Catfish drove a fairly large sausage-party contingent to another party on Park or Pleasant street. Catfish was not in a good mood; his prospects for getting play were growing ever dimmer.
The party was a bore, but I stayed awhile. What else could I do? As it wound down I walked back to Rippy's place and crashed on the back porch under my new comforter.
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See a gallery of pictures from the Oberlin trip.
