Crushing Krisis

The Newest Oldest Blog In New Zealand

vanity

all the blue jeans you ever wanted

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Do you know how many pairs of jeans you own?

About 80% of my total collection of jeans, blue or otherwise.

This is a decidedly first world sort of question to even need to ask. Personally, I would love to have some sort of smart phone app to track and rate my jeans, because I have completely lost the plot when it comes to knowing how many I have or which ones make my ass look just right for bass playing.

I remember my first pair of jeans – in fact, I still have them and wear them as cutoffs. They were UnionBay jeans, and I bought them in eighth grade.

I am not telling you that to make you feel fat, although that is frequently the reason I still wear that pair of jeans.

My point is that nice jeans – attractive, durable jeans – are not cheap. For much of my life, acquiring a new pair was a momentous occasion. In college I owned a finite number of them. Four, typically – two identical newer pairs that were more for dressing up, and two older pairs for bumming around.

Now there is the distinct chance that I may come home with four pairs of jeans from a single, manic shopping excursion.

This morning as I worked to stow an overflowing basket of laundry I tried to explain my jeans-shelving methodology to E, but it is the sort of process that warrants a flow chart for proper understanding and I did not have a PC with PowerPoint or Visio handy. My jeans are no longer a strictly finite affair. I have about as many jeans as a Gap display shelf with a svelte mannequin standing in front of it. I need a set of those clear sticky tags to label one pant leg of each with the relevant size and style information.

I am not telling you this to make you feel inadequate about your own personal jeans collection. No. My seemingly infinite jeans are an allegory for my 2011.

2011 was awesome. I loved it. It featured so much stuff that I barely remember it all. Stuff to do. Stuff to buy. Stuff to remember. Stuff to play music on or through. Lots of stuff.

Honestly, it was a bit overstimulating. Now that I have my own house to house my seemingly-infinite jeans, approaching-infinite music collection, my actually-as-infinite-as-possible X-Men comic books, and many other precious things I love to acquire, the mere act of directing my attention at a single group of them can sideline me not just for hours, but for days – and that doesn’t take into account the possibly-actually-infinite other things I could be doing with my life, like writing songs or spending time with friends I love.

That observation doesn’t equate to a neat resolution for 2012. Do I want less stuff? No. I love my stuff. Do I want to be less stimulated? Good god, who would ever aspire to that? I am incredibly proud of my overstuffed, overstimulated 2011. I played a show every month. I paid off a student loan. I got promoted. It was awesome.

I suppose with a new year stretched out invitingly before me I simply want to offer both myself and you, my dear reader, the simple moral of my 2011 fairytale – that getting everything you ever wanted or needed just means you’ll want something new afterwards.

Don’t make your whole life about wanting.

Do. Create. Give. Love.

Live.

And, if your ass looks great in the pair of jeans you wear while living, more power to you.

Crushing On: My Face, by Neutrogena

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It is a well-known fact that I am no stranger to wearing makeup.

In high school this took the form of lip gloss and body glitter. What can I say – I thought I was David Bowie and was obsessed with anything that could make me sparkle like a Spider From Mars.

My #1 Beauty Secret

This is not a post about body glitter. It’s a post about being a local rock star and a vain motherfucker who applies makeup in the men’s room of my office and does not care about any looks or comments I get because I am going to walk out of that bathroom way more gorgeous than I came in.

In fact, if you’ve seen me give a presentation or play a show in the past two years, you’ve seen me wear plenty of makeup and probably didn’t even know it.

I know I am not the only vain, presentation-delivering local rocker with an interest in this stuff, so I’m sharing my secrets with the masses.

A few years ago in a particular pique of angst about the inescapable genetic heritage of dark circles under my eyes, E handed me her Neutrogena 3-in-1 Concealer for Eyes.

Having not worn much makeup in the decade since I also gave up vinyl pants, I was a little reticent to try it. I became a quick convert. This is not heavy, greasy makeup. It’s light, it blends in with my skin tone, and it doesn’t bother my medicatably grumpy T-zone in the slightest.

It became my standard, daily defense against especially baggy eyes. I would wear it to work for weeks at a time with no comment from my colleagues.

When it was time for our wedding, E went through a ritual of several official Hair & Make-Up Tests to make sure she had a solid plan for our big day. I was a little freaked out that the only thing I could control would be how closely I shaved – it seemed like woeful under-preparation for thousands of dollars of photography!

This time it wasn’t E to the rescue, but my co-worker Kate. She wasn’t a major makeup wearer, but she confessed a special secret: she relied on Neutrogena Healthy Skin Enhancer Tinted Moisturizer to even out her skin tone.

I'm gonna be a supermodel, and everyone is gonna dress like me - wait and see.

Here I was even more skeptical. Something to rub all over my face and “tint” it? It sounded like something that would make my sensitive skin freak out, and much too girly to wear at my wedding.

[That may be the only context in which I have ever rejected any plan of action for being “too girly.”]

That wasn’t the case at all. The Skin Enhancer simply smooths things out in paces where I’m naturally a little blotchy, like my chin. I put a dot there, another two dots at the top of my laugh lines, and a final pair at the edges of my jaw, and then blended. To that I added the final piece of my arsenal, a Neutrogena spot concealer (not the best, but it’s consistent in tone to the other two).

Verdict? I looked like a supermodel at my wedding, and most people thought I was joking when I said I had on as much makeup as my wife.

To this day I rely on that simple trio of Neutrogena products to take the unsightly edges off of my face for rock shows and special events. Aside from occasionally going overboard with the eye concealer (which, if applied heavy-handedly, shows up in flash photography), E professes that she can hardly tell when I’m made up.

Think you would know? If you saw me at the Philly Geek Awards, you saw me with facial treatment set to “stunning.” Could you tell?

Vanity aside, whether I’m pitching a campaign or rocking a mic, I want to present an enhanced version of the normal, every-day me. Smoothing out the edges of my face is just one way that I try to make myself a little larger than life.

The rest of my preparation is a trade secret.

Hot Yoga, Good Omens, & Happy Endings

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A year ago if you told me I would willingly lock myself in a room heated to 105 degrees with 40% humidity to do 90 minutes of extreme stretches with a gaggle of nearly nude hipsters, dancers, and absurdly ripped gay men, all dripping with sweat…

Actually, I have no idea what I would have done if you told me that a year ago. There’s really no way to predict past me’s response. Maybe I would have asked you to mix me a stronger drink.

I have surprisingly awful balance, but I actually managed to strike this pose twice last night. The first time I promptly fell on my ass due to my complete and utter shock at getting into it. Oh, and the sweat.

Yet, there I was last night at my first Bikram Yoga class, dripping with sweat (a rarity!) and also nearly nude. Nearly nude in public! I like to wear t-shirts to the beach, people. The only time I get naked in front of other people is under carefully controlled conditions on the internet.

That was a joke; I haven’t been naked on the internet for, like, a decade.

After a few months of yoga classes at work I pestered my two fittest co-workers to tag along to a class in the outside world. Possibly as part of some form of ongoing hazing, they suggested I come with them to Bikram yoga.

There I was, half naked and sweating, at one point dropping out of a triangle pose because I was about to faint. I think at some point I also prayed to an undetermined god of yoga to strike me down where I stood. But I stuck with it the full 90 minutes.

(Don’t worry, I’m going somewhere with this. This might become a blog about homeownership or television shows from time to time, and it’s always a blog about OCD and slight social awkardness, but I swear it’s not going to turn into a blog about yoga. None of us wants to read that.)

(Unless it has to do with slight social awkwardness, in which case it is fair game.)

Nearly ten years ago I was in my first student run theatre production (and my last piece of theatre at Drexel). Being student-run means we had to do everything ourselves – sets, promotion, makeup – everything. And at the time the idea of choosing what to wear onstage seemed a bit beyond me. It had to be what my character would wear, but also say something about him.

Luckily, we had a fantastic advisor, Michelle, a Drexel administrator working on her Fashion degree. I talked out my character ideas with her, and we settled on what I ought to wear.

It turned out fine. The first time E ever saw me was onstage in that show, wearing those clothes.

Later, I had graduated and was living with E, and I decided it was time to get better at singing. I found a voice instructor I wanted to try, and headed to his house on the train. Who was sitting next to me? Michelle, who I hadn’t seen for years, and her daughter.

It turned out fine. That voice instructor didn’t work out (he was creepy), but I came away knowing what I wanted. I eventually found the ideal coach for me. My voice blossomed. My singing became healthier. Now I can rehearse two nights a week with rock bands and not get the slightest bit hoarse.

Last night. I was lying next to the window of the Bikram studio in my dri-fit shirt, already desperately sweating. I’m the kind of sweater that has to bring a second shirt to a wedding, because I will be dripping with sweat on the dancefloor … a dancefloor that’s not heated to 105 degrees or approaching some form of medieval torture.

A man laid his mat next to mine, and I was relieved to see he was not a dancer or absurdly ripped, but a normal dude in a dri-fit shirt like me. He smiled hello and set out a second mat. “For my wife,” he said, so he wasn’t gay either.

Michelle does not typically have wings or appear in a Tony Kushner play, but she still may be my guardian angel.

That put me at ease, even as I mopped the sweat from my brow for the first time and laid back into Savasana (AKA corpse pose, and even that was hard to do in the heat). When I finally emerged from it to start the class, a women’s voice called from off to the right.

“Peter?”

Yes, Michelle was in my yoga class, sitting next to her husband, the normal dude in the shirt.

Despite at points thinking I really was going to pass from this life onto the next, Bikram yoga turned out fine. I stuck it out in the room the entire time, emerging with a new appreciation of 80-degree weather, drenched in sweat on a crazy endorphin high.

Though I hugged Michelle goodbye, I’m starting to think she isn’t real. I mean, I definitely touched her (I wasn’t that high on yoga), but what other explanation is there for her appearing at important junctures in my life to signal that a major decision lies ahead, and it will turn out fine.

Even if she isn’t a Roma Downey-style angel, she’s definitely a good omen.

breakfast of champions

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I’m awake at 8am, just like any other day of the week.

I briefly debated if I should eat some sort of special pre-jump meal, but given my general lack of stomach for breakfast it seemed like an unnecessary temptation of fate to eat anything unusual before skydiving. I settled on my favorite meal and number one comfort food, Special K Red Berries with Silk Soy Milk.

(ps: Why is it called “Red Berries” when it only has strawberries in it? Wouldn’t you say that strawberries are the red berry with the strongest draw? Like, “OMG, I’m going to get some red berries today, I hope there’s some strawberries in there!” Did some other cereal copyright “strawberries”? Anyhow…)

I’m also a bit torn about how to style my hair and what underwear to wear – two factors that are clearly not going to have a net effect on my jumping experience

A few months ago I was yelling at my mom for not having a living will. The most dangerous thing she does is perpetuate a three-decade long smoking habit. So, jumping out of a plane made me feel like a bit of a hypocrite for not putting any affairs in order.

(PS: No one, under any circumstances, should tell my mom I am skydiving. This is one of those occasions that justifies my blocking her on Twitter. If she finds out she will hit me with the Italian fear/guilt combo so fast and hard that I won’t even let the man strap himself to my back, let alone jump off of anything with him. Anyhow…)

On the off-chance I die today, here’s all that I could think of while I was brushing my teeth:

I don’t like coffins. I want to be disposed of in a green way where the earth can just reclaim me. If that’s not readily available in Pennsylvania I’d want to be donated to science – with the caveat that they can’t dissect or otherwise alter any of my boy parts, because that is just weird.

I don’t like funerals. We went to a beautiful wake for Wes’s father last year that was full of music and might not have mentioned the “G” man even once. I really liked that.

If I get killed doing this I blame Drew’s cancer.

I didn’t get to far past that, because (a) I don’t think I’m going to die (and would like to keep it that way so, please mom, no calls), and (b) I was really hungry for that bowl of Special K.

I’m going to go take a shower now, and mull more over the hair and underwear dilemma.

Not In The Face

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Elise and I recently discussed that her choice to marry me was evolutionarily wise, as I am clearly bred for survival.

I am quick-witted and have a fast metabolism. I have perfect vision and a keen sense for danger, as exemplified by the fact that I have yet to experience a mugging on the streets of Philadelphia. I am relatively agile and have good manual dexterity, traits that serve equally well in the wild as onstage as an indie rock star. And, I have no major physical ailments other than allergies, which I probably wouldn’t have if I had spent my youth hunting and gathering.

Essentially, I am the perfect man. Yes, if not for nearly a half-decade wearing braces I would not be as strikingly handsome as I am currently. But, evolutionarily, buck teeth aren’t a deal-breaker. Otherwise, really, I’m a catch.

Or, at least, that’s my “I know I don’t do dishes all-that-frequently, but really we should still get married” platform.

However, perhaps connected to the above lack of youthful days spent out in the sun hunting and gathering, in my post-quarter-life dotage I am increasingly less a person and more just a walking collection of leper-ish skin conditions. Due to a handsome pre-existing combination of dandruff, eczema, and psoriasis, a few years ago I was moved to see a dermatologist. She combated the terrible trio handily with a series of prescriptions, but she was more interested with helping me with a problem I wasn’t even there to complain about: I had an irritated red patch next to my nose that didn’t seem to want to be moisturized away.

I had suspected it was the result of mainlining Biore pore strips every other night. My dermatologist, in her professional opinion, did not concur. Instead, she diagnosed me with the charmingly titled seborrhoeic dermatitis – “sebderm” for short – which in my opinion sounds like a sexual dysfunction that involves seepage more than a skin condition.

She put me on a fantastic little creme called Elidel, the red patch went away, and that was that. I discovered that I had been self-conscious about the patch, and was happy to see it gone.

After over a year of relative remission, in recent months I developed a new, even more charming issue on my face – scaly red blotches floating above the edges of my mouth, like some misbegotten fruit-punch smile.

They started out subtle, and I convinced myself it was the combination of my rakishly deep laugh lines and my current proclivity for facial scruff. (I also secretly feared it was herpes, mostly because now that I only make out with Elise I have precious few reasons to invoke my irrational fear of herpes.) Yet, I put off visiting the dermatologist, thinking I could make the patches disappear with Elidel, more frequent shaving, and the power of positive thought.

That plan did not work. In fact, in my procrastination the patches got angrier and… well, woundier, if we’re being frank. They edged a little bit too close to herpes territory for my liking. I also developed worse dandruff than ever before, possibly because I was constantly stressing out about my face, and I tend to massage my temples incessantly when I am stressed out. The flakes were as big as granola. It was deadly stuff.

This is my face, people. I might not launch ships with it, but I’m about to launch a fucking multi-thousand-dollar photography package with it on my wedding day, and I am really hoping I am not going to have to buy some sort of Michael Jackson-approved pancake makeup kit to cover up my various flaws.

(Also, do you trust someone to tell you about how awesome your new marketing campaign is going to be when his winning perfect smile is adorned with two possibly herpes-based open sores, and who creates a tiny blizzard of flakes every time he turns his head or rearranges his hair? And, that’s to say nothing about how incredibly compelling it is to watch a songwriter who looks like he wandered offstage in his biblical leper costume from a revival of Jesus Christ Superstar.)

Back to the dermatologist I went, secretly crossing fingers and toes that I had not caught airborne herpes from the skeevy lady who used to make my morning smoothies.

Happily, that was not the diagnosis. No, it was a newer, deadlier version of my sebderm, and it meant business. My face and scalp were put on hard-core, expensive, non-formulary drugs – steroids that warned that I might experience visual hallucinations, a shampoo that could strip chrome off a bumper, and a foam that explicitly reminded me not to use it on my genitals, lest I be tempted.

Well, folks, I am here two weeks later to report that my dermatologist was right again, and her newer, more aggressive treatment knocked the reddened and/or precipitous fight out of my head. My laugh-lines are back to their rakish selves, even with scruff, and today I pawed at my hair at-length like I was in a 90s-era Herbal Essence commercial and produced nary a flake.

Yet, with progress I have paid a price: due to my temporary run of steroids I am now proudly bearing the complexion of a high school wrestler.

Seriously. And, not just little pimples that you can contain with face-washing and salicylic acid. No. Serious acne, which I have never in my life previously experienced.

While I am happy to be rid of my red patches, my prior issue was hell of a lot less conspicuous than the current alternative – which lead one of my coworkers to ask me if someone had punched me, because the area around my right eye is so puffy and red.

Yes, that is totally progress towards the photography package.

Elise, bless her heart, has been incredibly supportive, and through this process has endured all manner of facial applications, including ones I must wear only in the dark, and others that bleached an entire set of our sheets. She also believes that doctors should be trusted implicitly, which I know to be false. Though she has gamely pretended that my outbreak is no big deal, ultimately she agreed with my diagnosis that I ought to stop the steroids a day or two before I started regaining other high-school traits like having crushes on red-heads or writing songs about how I am not actually gay.

Why? Because she loves me? Perhaps, perhaps. However, I choose to believe that it’s because – despite recent appearances to the contrary – she has a biological imperative to stick with her evolutionarily fit man.