A Culture of Cold: Part I

The backstory: it's 2:30 in the afternoon, and -13 degrees outside.

One thing I don't have to say about New England is that it's cold. It's cold cold cold, and it's cold for a long time. Most people who've lived here for a long time are pretty flippant about it, especially when I mention something. In fact, they love laughing at me when I say it's cold. "You don't know cold," they snort, "you're from Tennessee."

I ask you this, though: when is -13 degrees NOT considered cold? That's cold, I don't give a rip who you are.

The cold permeates everything here. It's a way of life. Even the locals' reactions when I say "it's cold" is fairly cold, in and of itself. "You don't know cold"? Harsh. Frigid. Conversation is frozen on contact. Don't get me wrong; these are, in general, just about the nicest people you could ever meet. As nice as any venerable, hospitable old Southerner I've ever met. They're just closed-lipped about it, by and large. If a Yankee likes you, he or she just goes ahead and takes you in and doesn't make a big deal about it. You maybe have to have a little ego strength and some good insight, but you're in. A New Englander will always give you a chance, but doesn't always have the time to make you feel all warm and cozy.

And you know why?

Because it's fucking cold out there.

You Got Poison In My Whiskey.

Cross-post from my old LiveJournal, circa 5/11/2009, that I think bears repeating.

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I was listening to Coast to Coast AM last night, and a guy called in and asked Ian Punnett if saying the word "dalma" had any sort of satanic implications. Ian Punnett was confused for a minute, because 1) he hadn't heard the word "dalma" and 2) because he's not exactly the one to counsel people in such things. But the guy kept talking and said that when he gets drunk, like really drunk, the word "dalma" comes into his mind, and he just says it. And he was afraid that this made up word might actually be satanic, and that he might actually be invoking some evil spirit through his drunken made-up word without even knowing it.

I am so that guy right now.
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Maybe I'm just going on the old adage that the least common denominator in every failed relationship I had is me. Or maybe I just feel like it's the truth, that without even knowing it, we bring with us wherever we go a poison that we cannot fully understand until we open our mouths. But by then it's too late, and you're ass-deep in demons without the skills to disperse them.

Passing the Buck, and Other Stories to Tell in the Snow.

If I listened solely to my Tennessee friends, I'd be halfway convinced that the apocalypse is creeping slowly north, and that we're all destined to die in a snowy explosion, our frozen hands making flailing slapping motions at the old lady trying to wrangle the last jug of milk from the dairy cooler.

I called my mom last night, and she picked up the phone crying, which is usually not just bad news, but outright identity shattering, if recent history has taught me anything. "Is everything okay?" I prepared for anything.

"Yeah, just....just, are you safe?"

"Am I safe? Well," I looked around in my kitchen, where I'd been attending to some beef stew that had been simmering peacefully for three hours, "I mean, yeah."

Turns out, the drive from her job in downtown Knoxville to her house in South Knoxville took about two hours to make because of the icy snow that started at noon and continued into the evening. This is a drive that should have taken no more than fifteen minutes on good old Chapman Highway. I could understand anxiety, but the woman had been pushed to the crumbling edge of her sanity. I could also understand if I was actually living in or near Tennessee; however, I sat in two feet of snow myself in the great state of Vermont, one thousand very long, very safe miles away.

She shakily relayed her tale of the drive home, the deadlock in front of the Kroger on Chapman Highway, the cars gnarled up like pretzels on the side of the road, the usually decent people of the town gnawing at the fleshy calf muscles of the weak or sick. "I don't know if they're going to make us go in tomorrow. It's so snowy, you can't even drive on it. I guess it's about at two inches now. How much do you have?" I told her. "Oh my God," she said, "oh my God. Well, has it kept you from anything? Did they call off your work, or what happened?"

"I think they're pretty used to dealing with it up here," I said, "and if they called off work or school for every day where over five inches of snow fell, the town would have to shut down until about late March." She was quiet. "But that's just a conservative estimate, I guess. Maybe mid-April."

When I talked to Will D. later, he told me that the clinic he was rotating through in Rogersville had closed its doors at four in the afternoon to the great disgust of the patients needing care. "I guess it was just too snowy for us to say," he said, "and goddamn, there is nothing on the shelves at Wal-Mart right now, you should see this!"

I don't want to be one of those smarmy people that says "Guys, get it together, it's just snow!" but apparently I am, since I used that very phrase more than once tonight. I remember what it was like driving in Tennessee during snow days, and it was quite the harrowing experience, but as someone who's now schlepped to work in fresh powder, smacked a blizzard in it's snow-face at 3 in the morning, and dug my car out from under almost 3 feet (all within the same two-week span), I can't help but want to scoff a little (just a little). And do you want to know what I blame for my new smugness?

Snow tires.

The day I put snow tires on my car is the day I lost my snow-complaining privileges in the world at large. I don't even have the good, studded kind - I have the regular cross-your-fingers kind. But when you have them, you have them, and that's it. "God, can you believe it? I couldn't even see the road this morning, I saw three dead, frozen people." "You got your snows?" "Yeah." "Oh, well, you're fine then."

But I suppose if you live in a place where you need snow tires, you lose the privilege to complain about snow tires. Where does this end? When can I complain again?!

In fact, today I have to go to Wal-Mart in Williston, as my olive oil has gone rancid and I have five dollars left on a gift card for there; somehow find a new headlight for my car; and return some stuff to various stores on Church Street. I'd ask Jesus to take the wheel, but he sees that I have snow tires, so he says I'll be fine.

Hay, MMX, How U Doin?

First things first: two thousand ten. I don't care if you're bored by the end of saying it. And screw your linguistic continuity between "nineteen" and "twenty." Listen, if people cared so damn much, why didn't they cry about it in 2001? No one called it "twenty-aught-one" except for I will when I tell the youths of the future about the good old days when ye mee-maw was leaving cryptically-grafittoed pumpkins on the doorsteps of her poor, poor professors at Halloween-time. I digress, as I do love referring to my future self as ye mee-maw.

Back to the monologue at hand, I suppose everyone was still so proud of themselves over coming up with the very chic "Y2K" that they didn't even notice it turned into "Y2K+1" real fast. So, in Bear Country it's two thousand ten. Trust me; I'm a linguist.

Now that unpleasantness is out of the way, and I feel better.

Burlington found itself on the business end of the lake effect this past weekend. I think the final total was 33 inches, or as I now know it, "Dude, where's my car?" Rookie mistake: I left the snow on the car instead of being a good little worker ant and clearing it off. Thus, my car and I had a rough morning. Have no fear: I got the little snot running just in time to make it to work, where my first patient was crumpled up in a ball on the floor and my second looked like an unholy hybrid between Robert Goulet and John Waters. They do not cancel Monday on account of snow here.

I tell this story for a reason. In 2010, this bear is dead set on diversifying, and along with her, she's bringing the Country. Because all sitting around on your dump watching the snow fall gets you is a dead car. And even if at the end of the road, nothing is waiting for you but pain and a room that smells like 'Lectric Shave, you gotta get up and dust it off, man.

Among the more exciting stars to which Bear Country intends on hitching her wagon is the deadly charming Jack Will Travel, two self-described "knuckleheads from suburban New Jersey" who specialize in jetsetting on the cheap, outing the secrets thereof, and all-around fast-talkitude. What's not to love?

And then there's AppyLove, just a-shinin' away in a part of the country that I left not too long ago. What can I say? The girl can pull the homesick out of Kari like feeding the five thousand with two loaves and some fishes, and I was beyond honored when she asked me maybe just maybe to write a guest column for her blog. Not to mention to lay down some vocal tracks with their band Count This Penny. Am I a lucky punk? Yep, I sure am.

Of course, there will be more out of me as well - plenty of life lessons and rookie mistakes to go around, adventures in living below the poverty line in Vermont, being a diplomat of the South, grad student follies, ESLarity, cooking, cleaning, creating, and you stopped listening at the beginning of this paragraph didn't you? It's alright. Bear Country waits for no man.

And if you've been good (and I know you have been), maybe I'll tell you the story about the time we went to the Vermont Cat Fanciers Cat Show...

Dissociative Fugue.

I've been thinking about drawing a comic strip starring Jupiter. It would maybe help if I could draw or was witty. But, you know.



I got a letter from AMANDA! today, I'm waiting to read it until the codeine's gone.

Which should be around a quarter to seven.



I got galleried in some guys Flickr gallery for this picture:

The story of this picture is that it was taken at the Fox Theater when Austin and I went to Atlanta to go see the Smashing Pumpkins. We both had the same camera, and found that it was really amazing when you took a picture of some lights and then spun your camera around real crazy-like. Yeah, it's been done. But who cares? I like the picture.

Then I looked at the date that I took this....and it was in 2007.

Damn.

I was all set to cook like crazy this week, now that I'm feeling better, but grocery money became doctor money real frackin' fast.

I have, however, begun an earnest endeavor to make fingerless gloves that convert to mittens. Ambitious? Why, thank you.

Where The Wild Things Aren't.

taken at the Other Place, Burlington, VT.

I had this surly little post all done up in my head. Really. I've been socked in my antfarm apartment for the past five days with what's either a really, really nasty cold or the flu (which is a sad thing for me to admit, because in ten years of medical assisting, never have I ever once come down with the stinking flu). Thursday, in fact, when it started, I even scored a free movie pass from a patient who owns Essex Cinemas on the very opening weekend of Where the Wild Things Are, a movie that I genuinely was ready to wade through the Radiohead-and-Urban-Outfitters-had-sex-with-each-other crowd that was sure to be there. And NERRP. Could barely even make it up the stairs by the time I got home. Foiled.

Adding to my misery: No heat in the apartment until Monday, and it's getting cold here, folks.

Needless to say, I spent the next several days watching The Godfather trilogy on VHS (oh, did I not tell you? My TV won't connect to my DVD player) over and over and over again and have crazy fever dreams. Yes, I even watched Part III. No, I am not proud of this.

I swiped some tapes while I was at home. Babe. Rushmore. Standard fare. I would rather not talk about being at home at the moment, save to say that one doesn't watch The Godfather trilogy for four days solid and not learn a little something about family.

That, children, is not what this post is about. No, not by a long shot. I woke up this morning, and it was pretty much like last morning. Angry animal trying to claw its way out of my chest. Fever scorching damn something out of my body. Every step I took hurt even my hair. And I have a boatload to do for school. My dog might be getting sick. And all of a sudden, there's a knock at my door.

There was a package with a card taped to the front, from my homies at the old office. That's right. The place I used to work. And it was full, filled up, with stuff - Easy Mac, PopTarts, yarn!, gummi eyeballs, brain-shaped icecube trays, peanut-butter filled pretzels. And just this coincidence alone was enough to make me smile, but then....the heat came on.

Listen - I have mulled over this "family" nuisance since things fell apart. But from Celena sending me that care package without thinking twice; to Will getting takeout for me from a thousand miles away while I'm in the throes of something fierce; to Amanda and Allen who let me share their stage and continue to enchant me with all they're doing; to the unlikely posse at the OP who send me drunk text messages to casually let me know that they miss a lady being around and causing trouble; to Aaron whose worrying almost matches my own; always to my other-half, my brother; and to my mother, who, while she vexes me to no end with her strange assertions and needless alarmism, actually gives a damn about what the hell I'm doing with myself up here. I have a wonderful family. I have an amazing, wonderful, family.

And yeah, New England in the autumn? They weren't lying to you. It is divine. I said to Thomas one evening a few weeks ago as we sat outside on the corner of Pearl and N. Winooski that I was worried the good weather was coming to an end, and that I felt I should soak up the goodness before the inevitable iron curtain descends. "Nah," he said, flipping his cigarette dismissively. "There's a lot more than this. A lot more ahead."

Sincerest apologies for the sick-rant. Bear Country will return with lasers set on stunning sometime next week.

Why Am I Such A Mis...fit?

image via popvssoda.com

There's a girl in the program I'm in from Japan. She has been in America for about a year, but never south of Philadelphia. The other day, she asked me: "What's the difference between the South and the North?" I wracked my brain for about thirty seconds before I decided it wasn't worth the time and effort, but something bugged me about that question, as it has bugged thousands upon thousands of people before me. What is it that perpetuates this relationship, where we just cannot seem to stop being irritated by one another? It's like two kids sitting in the backseat of a car on a long trip. "He's looking at me." "He touched me first."

Here's something that's insanely hard for me to stomach: the nasal northern /a/ (also written as ä).

Before anyone says anything: I know. Okay? I know. The southern version is probably just as grating to listen to. The southern guttural /a/ tends to sound like someone trying to induce vomiting. And I've gotten flak more than a few times for my "accent," which fifty per cent of the time, people say isn't that bad anyway (I think when people find out I'm from Tennessee, they start wanting to hear the accent more than anything - or maybe I'm kidding myself here). But, seriously. Here is a real and true conversation I heard out at a store the other day:

WOMAN 1: Oh, look at these! You know, my mother-in-law likes cardinals!

WOMAN 2: What?

W1: My mother-in-law likes cardinals!

W2: Oh, cards?

W1: What?

W2: Did you say 'cards' or 'cardinals'?

W1: Cardinals

W2: Well, you could get her some cards with cardinals on them!

You can hear it in your head, can't you? Let's take a look at this for a minute, from a phonologic standpoint. Do you see how many times they used that damn sound within that little bit of conversation? Let me help you out:

WOMAN 1: Oh, look at these! You know, my mother-in-law likes cardinals!
WOMAN 2: What?
W1: My mother-in-law likes cardinals!
W2: Oh, cards?
W1: What?
W2: Did you say 'cards' or 'cardinals'?
W1: Cardinals
W2: Well, why don't you get your mother-in-law some cards with cardinals on them!

Thirteen times. I didn't think I'd have a hard time with accents up here - in fact, I really didn't expect there to be too much of one. People in Vermont, especially in Burlington, are from all over the place - New York, Boston, Canada - not to mention that I've spent a good deal of time with you guys from the Midwest, with your "come with"s and your "soda"s, and it never really bothered me. But now, I don't know if it's because I can't get out or what, but Jesus.

I've even heard my accent change slightly, especially in words like "talk" or "walk." Even my /a/ is moving slightly north of the Mason-Dixon line. Not my /aɪ/s though. Those - like most of my diphthongs - are still, thankfully, Southern. Most people here think it's cute anyway. In a town full of people from all over the world, they think the Southern accent is cute.

Maybe one day I'll be able to talk about this stuff with some sort of sociolinguistic knowledge, but until then I'll just go ahead and put my hand in a coffee grinder.