Too many songs about California.

It feels really good to be missed. It feels really good to see people I miss. It feels even better to spend time laughing with them and (almost) crying with them and laughing so hard that I cry with them.

It feels really good to miss someone who misses me. It feels even better to find out through a happenstance meeting and a hug that feels all too unforced and then later a song.

It feels really good to find my streets again. It feels even better to feel like these streets wanted me to be here all along and they wouldn’t have it any other way.

It feels really good. Something in my heart feels really good. Really, really, really good.

When Correlation IS IN FACT Causation

As a student of psychology it has been steam-rolled and tempered into my head “Correlation does not mean causation.” Because two variables coexist and move up and down a scale in precisely the same directions at the exact same level means…. only that.

On Monday evening my Research Methods in Psychology professor, Dr. Cheese as I call him (It is a less-than-endearing epithet I came up with while describing his combination “Youth Pastor” and “Overly-excited Grad Student” teaching style), tempted the Psychological Research gods and their only commandment. Class begins at 7:10 p.m. in a small room with stadium seating that curves around the projector screen that usually displays a power point presentation with far too many exclamation marks!!!!! as if to say that the reason you find this lecture to be the most mind-numbing experiment in teaching is only because you are too stupid (or cool) to get it!!!!!!! This night’s lecture: FUN with Cause and Effect!!! See Cause. See Cause run. See Effect act like it is a direct result of cause.

Dr. Cheese and his nervous fast motions and speed talking, roll into the room at 7:08 decked out in a North Face fleece over a sweater tucked into his wide leg jeans carrying a paper bag bearing the mark of the devil. I’m not lying. There across the top of the sack was written “Chipotle” which I think in most languages translates to “666″. He sets the bag down on the desk in the center of the room and says nervously, “Sorry kids. I haven’t eaten any thing today and things are about to get CRAZY IN HERE IF I DON”T!!!!” He makes fast waving motions with his hands up by his head. And throws in his catch phrase for good nonsensical measure “…and so on and so forth…”  I roll my eyes and reach for my phone. This is a good time to start texting Aunt Jolene. He pulls out of the sack, with the same delicate lifting motion a mother would impose on lifting her baby out of a bassinet, a giant, infant-sized, foil-wrapped burrito. I’m thinking I have a good ten minutes to digitally humiliate this man to my extended family before he begins the lecture. Wrong.

He flips on the computer, loads up the power point, takes a big bite, swallows partially and begins talking. The room fills with the putrid smell of guacamole and corn salsa and not a pen nor a pencil move on paper. I think we are all shocked that he is teaching, much less talking with his mouthful. Isn’t that as ingrained as “Correlation does not mean causation”?????? Time for my very own repetitive punctuation. But he continues and we all reluctantly begin listening through the mush of beans and chicken mole squishing around in his mouth with the words. A text back from Jolene “Sick!!!!” and I find her use of the multiple exclamation mark incredibly appropriate.

Ten minutes later the burrito consumption has ended with a sigh of relief, his being the only one of which that is audible but the sentiment is resounding. He picks up his now liquid-less soda cup, pops the top off and shakes a cube or two of ice into his open mouth. “So… (crunch crunch crunch) cause and effect (crunch crunch) is the kind of relationship where (crunch crunch crunch) we can see a correlation (crunch) but that,” More ice dumping, “doesn’t mean (crunch crunch crunch) that the cause is (crunch crunch crunch) necessarily the only reason for the effect.” And so on and so forth. My head starts to hurt when I realize I’ve been clenching my jaw in utter irritation for close to 20 minutes.

A couple hours of lecture pass with uneventful ease. And then it happens. The unholiest of unholy burrito eating behavior right there in front of a 30 person class. In the absolute middle of a long, contemplative pause, the walls close in and the air becomes too thin. I am in the front row.

“Pvvvvvrrrrrt”

A pencil rolling down the desk? No, no pencil in sight. A chair moving on the lenolium floor? No, they are carpeted. Was that….? Could it be….? DID ANYONE ELSE HEAR THAT?!?!?!?!

I duck my head and stare intently at the misshapen “g” that I have included in one of the words of hasty note-taking. I will reform it. I will reform every letter of every word of the notes from that last slide, in fact, as I bite my tongue and shamelessly attempt to quell the rising laughter that is literally boiling in my gut. I don’t dare look up for fear of meeting eyes with him, or them (they who are as immature as I, also attempting to extinguish the possible outburst of humiliatingly loud laughter). I suddenly realize that I have to physically calm myself down, so as to not contort my face in a way that would lead the others to blame ME for the public fart. I put on some chapstick. Too much chapstick, really but if I let it go from my lips I’ll laugh. I can’t help but wonder if the cause is the bean burrito, and the effect is public gas explusion. Duh, everyone knows that. This is one instance where correlation is in fact, causation. I look at my phone. No! Don’t text Jolene, she will break your levee. The time on the digital face reads “9:47″ and I quickly do the simple math… I have 13 minutes to keep this inside. 13 long and suffer-heavy minutes. I pinch the soft spot of webbing between my thumb and my pointer finger and think about it again…

13 impossible minutes…. And then I realize… that must have been what he was thinking right before he let it go.

At Home

 In case anyone (mom) was wondering, Kippy forgave me for being gone for three weeks. After ignoring me for one day, scratching me on the third day, and barfing twice in between (unrelated angst), she finally came around and we laid on the couch for two hours purring, and watching On Demand episodes of Intervention.

At least one of us has gotten over our extended existential crisis pattern.

In other home-front news, I’ve been doing my damndest to “nest” as of late. I realized over Christmas break that it is a little unnecessary for a girl of *ahem* almost twenty-five to be living much like a frat boy would live: laundry on the floor or piled up in the back of the closet, wet towels hanging off the doorknob, dirty dishes in the sink, curtains that don’t match (and not in a cute eclectic kistch kind of way…)  Melody and I talk about it constantly, the innate desire for women to “nest”. When all the world is a little bit of a mess the only thing we can do is shop or nest. And since I recently called myself a Lawrence local in a conversation with some other “locals” I decided it was time for me to do a little home-building of my own. Things are insanely messy right now, but it is coming together nicely, I think. I hung two pictures, framed another, and finally hung up all my laundry.

My curtains still don’t match, but at least the shower is clean and the cats love me again.

2008: The Year of the Beard

Many know of my proclivity towards facial hair. I am the self-proclaimed biggest appreciator of the moustache this side of the 1970’s. It is this afficionadoship and card-carrying membership (and founder) of Lawrence’s anual “March Moustache Madness” celebration, that has coined me the nickname “Moustashley”.

Allow me to indulge myself in the greats that have won me over to the Moustache side:

Stevie Wonder

 

Brewer and Shipley

Crosby Stills and Nash

Mid-career George Harrison

CCR

Norman Greenbaum

 

In recent years, though, my love for facial hair has grown, literally, to include the beard. It started with the appreciation of some of the greatest musicians of my father’s era, much like the moustache. (Allow me to digress slightly here, and mention that my father has had in the past the greatest beard of all time, and currently sports the greatest moustache of all time. He went facially bald for a brief moment in my childhood, which haunts me to this day. He is also quite well known around these parts for his ’stache, friends of mine have even been known to speak with one finger imitating a moustache over the upper lip when talking about my dad.) You will notice in the CCR photograph the prime example of the kind of beard that deserves some attention. The Beard crept to the forefront slowly like a five o’clock shadow with the help of such great beards/musicians as:

Cat Stevens (aka Yusef Islam)

John Lennon

Eric Clapton

Flying Burrito Brothers

Abe Lincoln (not a musician)

Jesus Christ (also not a musician)

 

I have been advocating the beard from the months of Septembeard through Decembeard and into Janu-hairy for years now. It wasn’t until 2008 that my prayers were answered in the form of the new rock n’ roll beard.  Behold friends, beards, moustaches and appreciators the Year of the BEARD in music:

Band of Horses:

Fleet Foxes:

Wilco:

My Morning Jacket:

Iron and Wine:

Ray Lamontagne:

And some videos for you to experience from such artists as the 2008 New Hair bands:

Band of Horses:

Fleet Foxes:

Wilco:

My Morning Jacket:

Iron and Wine: (not really a video but a live recording that is worth listening to)

Ray Lamontagne: (please please please I beg of you, watch this video)

And just for good measure….. (This one goes out to you Jesus Christ, with that glorious beard beyond comparison…)

A Light at the End of the Tunnel

I got a message in the inbox of my liberal university electronic mail system this morning:

Sender: The University of Kansas
Subject: One New Notification
Body:

Student ****364, Ashley R Tippin, you are eligible for a Grad Check. Please email your adviser for more information concerning what you need to do to prepare for graduation.

 

Now, kids, let’s not get too excited. We’re still a little ways out from the actual EVENT, but for crying out loud it feels so damn good to feel like these means are actually in the works for an end. AN END (hear that DAD? AN E-N-D END!!!!!!!!)

‘Tis the Season for Odd Pairings…

It starts the day after Thanksgiving… The lights go up on houses, the trees pop up in windows, the music filters in from everywhere. It is all the glitter, tinsel, shine, and sparkle that the rest of the year has dulled itself down for. It is perhaps the most gauche and gaudy of all holidays. It is all the cookies, candies, sweets, and calorie loaded goodies that we spend the better part of the year attempting to avoid. It is the time when we give because we give. We love because we’re supposed to. We’re nice because, well, it’s Christmas. We shove our differences and irritations aside. We join the rest of the world in the giant proverbial green and red ribbon-and-bow-covered, jingle-bell-swinging, fuzzy-3D-beard-adorned, tiny-red-electrical-Rudolf-nose-rigged Christmas sweater and snuggle up close. Please, do us all a favor this year and wear deodorant… Not to mention it is the time of the year when all whom have been lucky enough to stray far away from home join the rest of the unofficial high school reunion at the popular bars in town. Oh what a Christmas treat it is to see all the smiling rosy cheeked people I can’t remember from high school! Is it too early to start asking people to wear name tags? Maybe we could do something clever for the season, like… Gift tags! Pin it to your too-ugly-to-be-ironic sweater, or in the case of Fort Collins, your too-thin-and-far-too-revealing-for-december sweater: “To: You From: Lindsey Nicole Anne Rachel (sat behind you in Spanish sophomore year, said two words to you because you weren’t in the group.)”

But I think my favorite part about the ridiculousness of Christmas is found on the waves of the radio. No, I’m not talking about “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer,” or even “Santa Baby”… I’m not even talking about Mannheim Steamroller or Trans Siberian Orchestra (God forbid I hear any of that, the Christmas spirit would be sucked straight out of my body and lost somewhere in the giant black hole that is synthesized pop)… I’m talking about the songs that come to us straight from some lit record exec with dollar signs in his eyes.

“Jimmy, know what would be reeeeeaaalllllllllllly awesome this year??” Eyes squinted, puff puff pass.
“What’s that, Don?” Puff puff, cough.
“Putting Susie Wearsnounderwear on a Christmas track with Tony Bennett….” Don sips his scotch.
Leaning forward, elbows on his knees Jimmy would say, “Don, why on earth would anyone in their right mind buy that record?”
Pregnant pause… “Because we would, get this, tell them it’s for…..starving children in Africa. Everyone loves Africa at Christmastime.”

Here they are, folks, the world’s most calculated and strangely entertaining Christmas creations:

1. Band Aid- Do They Know It’s Christmas?

My guess is NO they do not know it is Christmas because they are not a predominately Christian continent. But thanks for trying Phil Collins, Bananarama, Duran Duran, Kool and the Gang, Culture Club, Bowie and….. wait for it…. famed bassist and one of the world’s most respected and adored musicians, Paul McCartney! We appreciate your generous donation of voices to the famine in Ethiopia

2.  Band Aid 2004- Do They Know it’s Christmas?
No, not a joke, they tried it again– this time with a rap breakdown… Thanks, but no thanks, Coldplay, Dido, Oasis, Travis, The Darkness and yes…… BONO…. for fighting again for starvation in Africa. Oh and, let’s not forget to thank sworn enemies from dueling brit-pop bands for pushing their differences aside if for only one moment in great Christmas song history.

3. Sarah McLachlan and Barenaked Ladies- God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen/We Three Kings

I didn’t think it would be any good, myself, but it actually is. But really? Who’s idea was this? I suspect it was Don’s because the only things these two musicians have in common is the 1990’s.
(the video is not a video at all, but the song… listen if you wish)

4. Cyndi Lauper and The Hives- Christmas Duel

What’s more impressive than the unlikelihood of this brit-garage-rock meets super-80’s-wash-up combo, is the heinousness of the lyrics.  And it is impressively heinous, I assure you.

5. Bowie and Bing Crosby- Little Drummer Boy/Peace on Earth

This video is a must watch. If not for the awkward Mr. Roger’s-esque interaction between the two crooners, then for the Harry Nilsson name drop. Atta boy Bowie. Although, it was 1977 and I’m pretty sure that Bowie, via a cornucopia of chemicals, doesn’t remember this interaction at all.  (I actually quite like this version, I have to admit)

“I’m not as young as I look”
“None of us is these days…”

6. Martina McBride and Elvis Presley- Blue Christmas
This ridiculous gem is brought to you by Technology. And a pretty darn good make-up artist. (Warning ladies: Elvis remains one sexy sexy beast even posthumously).

 

So in the spirit of the music world, let’s all just get along… at least for a good 3 minutes and thirty seconds for the baby Jesus…………. or at least the starving children in Africa.

Just Me, Today.

“Come on child you’ve slept enough- and I know you’re tired but I’m waking you up
There is much to be done, and we’re right on the cusp…”  -Judah Nagler

I woke up with an agenda today. Class. Coffee. Homework. I coasted through it. Class. SPSS lab. Check e-mail. One short line… just one short line. But it was a sharp line and it was in red. Why red? Adam always corrects his students’ papers with a pencil because “it doesn’t look like a criticism.”

I don’t know what I was expecting from the bathroom mirror. Maybe a portal to a different me. Mirrors. Mirrors. Always with the mirrors. Don’t they know? They don’t know. I know. She knows. He knows. But they don’t know.

Class.

“Jesus Christ, I can’t get over my goddamn blues.” -Richard Edwards

It isn’t blasphemy it is a prayer. Jesus. Just a prayer. Jesus. Just a prayer, Jesus.

“Is it overwhelming
To use a crane to crush a fly?
It’s a good time for Superman
To lift the sun into the sky” -Wayne Coyne

I just can’t seem to shake this (sick) feeling. It happens when I’m resting. It happens when I’m thinking. It happens when I’m moving (just…keep…movement…). It happens when I am at the altar. It happens when I am in the balcony. It happens when the phone rings. It happens. I am not making it up. It happens.

Oh these friends of mine.

I’m So Sorry!

July 29

Today is my last day here in China. I was home alone for the morning as the health inspector made a visit to Dr. Wang’s clinic forcing her to be there. I ventured out to have a walk around the courtyard for a bit, when I grew a wild hair. I walked out the gate and into the small market area near the apartment complex. I wanted a cold beverage. Particularly one that does not necessitate first boiling it. I picked up my favorite Chinese beverage that is some kind of white grape juice, maybe? I can’t really tell based on the picture but it’s delicious. Then I took a gander around and stumbled upon what might be the greatest of my purchases this entire trip.

Underwear.

Not just any underwear but a couple pair of briefs with a picture of two cartoon whales on the side and the words, in english, “I’m so sorry” next to them. Really?!? The underwear are apologizing? At first I found it quite bizarre but then it hit me how appropriate it is to have your underwear apologize on behalf of yourself. Sold.

I walked up to the cashier with my box of underwear, size large in order to compensate for the fact that I am not a tiny asian woman. I smiled at the lady behind the register as she rung me up. She looked at me and spoke something in Chinese with the box in her hand. I put my hands up in the universal sign for “I don’t speak that language.” So she pointed to the box, then pointed to me, and I nodded assuming she was asking if they were for me. Then she shouted something over her shoulder to the girl in the back who came out with a different box, same style. Size EXTRA large. Awesome.

I laughed out loud, thanked them in Chinese and left the store with my big black ass, leaving my pride and 16 Yuan on the counter.

She’s Canadian, not American!

July 28

Dr. Wang had to go into work today so I wasn’t able to go to the Chinese Medicine Center. Instead, Yang Ma Ke (her husband) took me to a different city that no one seemed to know the name of for lunch with his brothers. We had a duck, a whole duck, and cleaned every bone. Literally, every bone was left on the table sans every smallest bit of meat. At one point I looked over to the girl sitting next to me and watched her pull a purple colored row of vertebrae out of her mouth. I did just fine, until I got to the cartilidge of the joint and couldn’t go any further. I think it was ok though, because they chattered on about my chopstick skills. I couldn’t understand what they were saying but at this point I know what those phrases sound like because it happens at every meal with every different guest. Admittedly, it was actually the best meal I’ve had here. In all honesty it was incredible in flavor and the meat was as tender as anyone could ask for. The only part I disliked about it was the pinkish speckled gelatinous rectangle piece of God-knows-what that I had to choke down in three or four bites. Luckily I kept it down. Somehow I don’t think duck would taste as good coming up. Not to mention the disrespect and shame that act would conjur. I wouldn’t have picked it myself, out of the boiling pot of duck carcass and vegetables, but these people feed me like I’ve never eaten before.

It is raining now. I haven’t seen rain in I don’t know how long. It is not swelteringly hot outside now, which is refreshing. And my skin didn’t melt when I walked through it. Who knows though, I might end up with a tail or a third arm in just a few days time. If not from the polluted rain, then from the God-knows-what jelly I ate at lunch.

I walked through a Mosque this morning, Yang Ma Ke waited outside for me. It was kind of like a Catholic church in the way everything is painted in vibrant colors and ornamented with shiney fake gold all over the place. It wasn’t as awe inspiring as I was expecting. In fact, it was a little disappointing in a lot of ways. Nothing really special or beautiful about it inside. And I had to pay 10 Yuan to see it. I suppose it was worth the money, considering 10 Yuan is a little over a dollar. And as I write this, the Muslim call to prayer is playing somewhere between the sounds of chainsaws and hammers.

I’m going to admit that it is getting increasingly difficult to answer the same questions from all the people I meet. “Do you know how to drive?” “Do you have a boyfriend?” “Do you use MSN?” “Why do Americans like iphone?” “Are you hungry?” “How do you know how to use chopsticks?” “What do you think of China?” “Do you like Celine Dion?” “Why are your eyelashes so long?” “When will you come back to China?” … Yes, of course. No. No. Because it’s made by apple. Not even a little bit. We have chopsticks in the US also. China is interesting. No. Because I got good genes. Probably a very long time.

And what is it with these people and Celine Dion? Is “My Heart Will Go On” the only song they have heard from the US in the past twenty years?? And how the hell did that horse-face of a woman infiltrate the masses here??? And do they realize that she’s Canadian?!?!?!

 

Doctor Doctor Give me the News!

July 27

So today begins the final three days of my trip to China. I think I am figuring out a lot about myself in a roundabout kind of way. Dr. Wang has taught me a lot about Chinese culture. Today at breakfast we talked about the earthquake and how they felt the tremors up in Yin Chuan. She said she had to run out of the exam room carrying her patient with a nurse holding his IV above his head. She then went on to explain that the Chinese expect, whenever they see a Western Medical Doctor, to be cured with an IV. I didn’t realize the truth of this statement until we visited the pediatric hospital here in Yin Chuan and took a stroll through the IV room. Yes, a room the size of any american hospital waiting room filled with people hooked up to IV’s. She looks at me and says, “See? They love it!”

The hospital was halfway between what you hope a hospital would be like and what you fear a hospital would be like. Some rooms had air conditioning, but only the expensive ones. Patients pay more for these rooms, but almost never for children. They believe that air conditioning and picnics make children sick (don’t ask me, that’s exactly what the doctor said). The exam rooms are a folding table as an exam bed, a desk that the doctor sits at, and a metal bucket of water containing tongue depressors. They reuse them. If you happen to get an exam in the new wing of the hospital you will find the exact same set up, but with a small sink in one corner. All doctors and nurses wear face masks. The nurses wear pink lab coats and the old style hats that stick up off their heads. Like a world war II infermery. Tomorrow we will visit a traditional Chinese Medicine hospital.

It is strange to hear the Islamic call to prayer everyday. There is a mosque, it seems, on every corner here. Dr. Wang says the common people are all Muslim, and the upper class are all Buddhist. I have seen only a few Buddhist temples, but many shrines speckling the city (in random places too… film studios, markets, department stores, and even at the post office). There is a mosque in construction just past the apartment complex. Still, five times a day, that strange song of unfamiliar tone rings out through all of the city and many people stop what they are doing to pray. So many times the song blends into the foreign city noises to my oh-so-american ears. At this point anything that is not in English sounds like a murmur to me. Now, maybe if they played some Beatles over that loud speaker I might be so inclined to put my forehead on the ground too… Until then I suppose I will go on coasting through the days speaking through a translator and humming bad american pop songs to myself.

Another English teacher came over for dinner tonight. Her name is Rainbow, because the translation of her Chinese name is Rainbow. I thought about making some joke about stoned parents, but thought better. That is just far too much explanation for my own personal enjoyment. I gave her some pixie sticks and some other snack foods to take back to her class, and some lip gloss and nail polish for herself (she said she liked mine, so I gave her what I had). She got teary eyed with appreciation. I felt bad that my junk could be such a blessing for her. I wished I had something nice to give her. Then she said, “Tonight I hope I have a dream and I hope you will be in it.” I resisted the “that sounds dirty” joke there, too. I liked Rainbow. She was sweet and lovely.

I am headed to bed, but bed is little more than a blanket over a solid wood plank. It feels good on my back, not so good on my hips, shoulders, arms, legs, sternum, head, face and knees. I can’t even remember what a western bed feels like. In my mind, it’s like a cloud or a marshmallow. And it probably smells like one too. God I can’t wait to smell something pleasant that isn’t burning in front of a plastic Buddah.