Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

essays

Personal essays from Krisis on everything from parenting to immigrant life to driving, and much more.

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Have you ever wondered why you look so funny in pictures?

It is apparently a misconception that thirty frames per second is as fast a speed as the human eye can appreciate. Tests have proven that our eyes can discern the increase of quality between footage shown at 30fps and 60fps, and past double that at 129fps; an average would seem to be from twenty-five to fifty. Still, there is definitely an upward limit of how many individual subdivisions of a second our eyes can discern before something appears to be in a wholly fluid state of motion. Furthermore, our ability to enjoy movies (24fps), television shows (30fps), and computer games (90fps+) is aided and abetted by other functions of our human machinery … specifically our (somewhat selective) abilty to perceive motion blur.

A typical point & click camera has an approximate shutter speed of a sixtieth of a second if you’re using a flash, which i do on almost all occasions. Shutter speed denotes how quickly the shutter opens and closes when it does all of its camera magic to get an image onto your film. To crib from my last link a bit, this means that something moving 60 miles per hour would probably be a blur in my own flash photography; the object would be moving 17.6 inches in a sixtieth of a second – plenty fast enough to be blurred in a photograph.

My camera catches a glimpse of something which occurs in an amount of time as proportionally small compared to a second as a second is compared to an entire minute, which is something the human eye usually refrains from observing unless it’s paying very specific attention. Totally forgetting for a moment about angles and lighting and contrast and all of that, a camera is probably more likely to capture a likeness of you that you don’t recognize than it is to reaffirm what you saw in the mirror this morning. The click of a shutter can capture our brightest smiles just as easily as it can catch that strange inbetween moment before the smile has fully formed or that slow downturn of lips after a false photo-smile has been prematurely disposed. Add to that the lighting, and what angle the shot is from, and what color the wallpaper is … it’s almost a wonder that we recognize ourselves at all.

The photo newly appearing to the right of this block of text is how i really look; rubber-stamped and approved as an faithful likeness of myself. On the way to and from Boston i took seventy-five pictures; only a few of them actually caught the images i thought i was seeing at the time, and i don’t think Elise & I look especially like ourselves in any of them. Nonetheless, here are 42 of them, so that you can judge for yourself.

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/05/85065726/

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Nine days out of ten, engaging me in conversation regarding my favorite album of all time will lead to a discussion of Tori Amos’s from the choirgirl hotel, though sometimes i’m not sure why. While it’s an excellent album, it is no more excellent than the other discs that round out my top five. What makes it different was the moment that i first advanced it to play track eight, because at that moment my favorite song came blasting out of my speakers for the first time, and nearly knocked my clear off my feet.

There are things i had come to expect from a Tori Amos album by 1998, even though i didn’t actually own any of her work. Intricate piano playing. Obscure lyrics. Breathy vocals. All of these details were present on the untouched disc i held in my hands as i walked out of HMV on the fifth of May, unwrapping a just-released copy of choirgirl. I got through the album once on my commute home via SEPTA, but typically nodded off a half hour into my ride. All of the last songs of the disc had gone by in a blur until i lurched back into consciousness on the last one as i neared my stop. Checking the track listing, i had missing tracks eight through eleven, and so i started on track number eight when i dropped the disc into the cd-drawer of my computer.

Track eight is “She’s Your Cocaine.” It has been my favourite song ever since i heard for the first time, nearly for year ago.

“Cocaine” is hardly a Tori Amos song… so much so that many of her fans detest it primarily among all of her more adventurous composures. It shows off her roots; it’s hard to imagine her sitting behind a piano singing it, even after seeing it happen at a concert. On disc it sounds like Tori fronting classic Led Zeppelin, or a pre-Eno Bowie with his nineties Reeves Gabriel arrangements. You have to sonically squint to even find the piano behind the bass-stomp and the slack tuned guitar that accompany it, and just as you endeavor to locate it the song breaks down into a delicate piano and meletron bridge before heading back into the swirling rock that it started with.

Despite all of these sonic elements, it is the lyrics of the song that caught my attention as much as anything else. “She’s your cocaine,” Tori accuses the man she’s addressing, “she’s got you shaving your legs.” In one line Tori has put her quarry’s emasculation out in the open for all to see; he has become humiliated by his obsession. The irony is, even Tori’s blunt accusations to him don’t seem to mean a thing. She commands “shimmy once, and do it again” so matter-of-factly that it’s clear that he doesn’t have any illusions of resisting — he’s become so controlled, so “whipped,” that now anyone can twist him into knots just by mentioning the woman that is like a drug to him.

It is this brutal honesty, combined with a punchy rhythm section and a huge stadium-rock guitar crunch, that makes “Cocaine” so gripping. The second verse opens “She’s says control it, then she says don’t control it, then she says you’re controlling — the way she makes you crawl.” In a verbally acrobatic way, these lyrics lay out every overly possessed and controlled relationship i’ve ever witnessed: first he’s not in charge of his own feelings, then he’s too focused on being in control, and then he’s pushing her around. But, all of it is just her way of keeping him safely leashed — it is the way she makes him crawl.

Tori lays the final layer of the narrative on in her bridge and refrain, first telling him “Boy, i could lie to you,” before practically spitting out “you don’t need one of these to let me inside of you.” Despite her vagueness, the tone her delivery connects the line to the sexist and nearly vulgar implication that is meant; he’s letting her in as easily as he’d claim a woman would. Her next accusation is even more degrading, a sighing “you sign Prince of Darkness, … try squire of dimness.” Even through all of this, apparently the man in question has thought that he was the seductive devil in charge of things, but Tori has put him in his place — he’s nothing frightening, but his girl is wearing a proverbial blue dress.

The first time i heard it, i could feel “She’s Your Cocaine” reverberating in my heart, in my stomach, and in my hips. In my heart, because i know i have the potential to be the man Tori is describing, in my gut because her voice leaves me with a visceral reaction to its intonations, and in my hips because the song speaks in tones of seduction. Tori has literally been quoted as as calling choirgirl something so innocent as a record she can keep a beat to the less vague “an album [to] f–k to.” “Cocaine” is practically the center-piece when it comes to this element of the disc… it is rock and roll sold from the pelvis, both in its body-moving rhythm and its unapologetic lyrics.

When Tori matter-of-factly commands “cut it again” to guitarist Steve Caton at the end of the song, she might as well be commanding me to push the repeat button. It’s what i do every single time.

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/02/10121669/

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(Speaking of which, here’s another article for “Finding Your Voice in Journalism.” The assigned topic was “describe a process,” and after staring at my last post for about an hour the process i was meant to describe became obvious.)

There are things that I do every day. Habits. Rituals. The blind stumble across my room at 7:02AM to set my alarm back another hour. My daily power-walk down Walnut Street to campus. Checking my email.

Of course, there are things that I don’t do every day that I can still do with a proverbial blindfold on. Tapping MAC for cash. Gridding my last name into standardized test bubbles. Restringing my guitar.

Conducting a romantic crash and burn.

All of these rituals are simple to me – almost mechanical. Yet, although I could easily describe them to you step by step, I don’t think anyone could quite replicate the manner in which I see them through. There is a simple grace to my sleep-encrusted stumble that ensures that I do not land facedown in green pile carpet. There is a back and forth rhythm to plotting my last name out with a No.2 pencil. And, there is a sort of cosmic simplicity to making sure I will not marry, sleep with, kiss, or even get to know a girl who I am attracted to.

The process starts simply enough: I meet someone distracting. They don’t have to be stunningly beautiful or a classically trained conversationalist; they just have to pull my attention away from doing whatever I had been attempting to do at the time.

Fizzling out here, though it is something I am adept at, does not accurately represent a crash and burn.

Next I have to make myself known to woman in question. There are a myriad of ways to complete this step, each supplanting my own limited natural grace and charm with a sort of stumbling awkwardness that I have honed to laser-sharp perfection.

The plainest (and most painful) way to accomplish this is to actually get up the nerve to speak. I have found speaking to be effective in ruining any illusions one might entertain that I am either attractive or well adjusted.

Appropriate banter would include mentioning anything I am obsessive about, including music, grades, or other women. Bonus points are awarded if I enthuse about fashion, dancing, Will & Grace, or Madonna. The purpose of this step is to establish my deep-seated need for addict-like dependency on anything and everything I can focus the brunt of my attention on.

Note that at the time this will seem like a Good Idea to me.

After introducing myself by-way-of my obsessive traits, my next order of business is ineffectual flirting. This step is marked by my performance of suggestive behavior so subtle that it would fly under the radar of even the most desperate and willing potential partner.

The first order of business here tends to be furtive glances that are aborted as soon as any sign of reciprocation is detected. After establishing this pattern of creepy staring, the next step is usually a regiment of standing very close without actually touching. Randomly inserting a line of non-sequitir into conversation can be substituted if it interspersed equally with awkward silence.

The overall intention here is to imply a sort of third-grade crush in which I find a girl alluring but am definitely afraid she might have cooties.

At this point, several options open up. If I feel as though not enough attention is being paid to me despite my continued efforts, self-deprecation focusing on my romantic desolation is usually in order. If I am being paid a substantial amount of attention, I proceed to focus on what potential defects this particular girl is in possession of, foremost amongst them being infectious cases of cooties.

The ideal reaction at this point is a cool acknowledgement of my existence totally lacking any value judgment of my looks, charm, or decency. This is the equivalent of putting off pheromones specifically attuned to my neurotic neural receptors.

At this juncture I usually I repeat the previous step to try to induce one of the former reactions. If the friendly acknowledgment continues, I generally have no choice but to start mentioning my developing crush loudly and decisively until one of us flinches and bolts from the room.

Failing that, I may be forced to contrive to ask her on an unsuccessful and largely platonic date. I’ve perfected this habit to such a degree that I can’t even begin to describe the individual steps there-in, so you’ll just have to take my word for it. Interestingly, accepting or declining this well intentioned invitation has no effect whatsoever on the eventual result of the situation.

There are two obvious end-results of this process, neither of which I am actually seeking to achieve. One is to inspire a sort of squeamishness in the party in question, so that she will no longer meet my glances or engage in conversation with me. The other is to transmit the friend vibe to her in such a powerful fashion that she either begins to question my sexuality or feels the need to set me up with her less-charming and usually distant girlfriends.

While my outline of this process might make it out to be complicated, intricate, or even slightly surreal, it is something so ingrained in me that I often go through it without even noticing until I’ve acquired yet another beautiful female friend who is either confused about my sexual orientation or willing to aid me in acquiring scores more just like herself.

After seeing this all in print, it’s almost a wonder that I’m so good at that “getting out of bed” routine rather than its socially phobic cousin “cowering under the covers.” I suppose that I’m convinced that one day I’ll go through this entire checklist only to wind up with someone who is inconceivably attracted to me, even after witnessing all of my hijinx.

Obviously I’ve mistakenly perfected the process known as “optimistic daydreaming” rather than revising my “effective flirting routine.”

Oops.

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/01/9158437/

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I hated Napster, mostly. The way i saw it, a bunch of cheap college kids were using it as an excuse to short-shrift their favourite artists of hard-earned profit. It did have its high points, namely tracking down obscure and out-of-print Tori songs, but it wasn’t something i was very fond of. In fact, I may have cheered a little when it bit the dust.

Really, how could i help but hate any service that makes cd shopping somewhat obsolete? I live for cd shopping! Even with statistics indicating that cd sales actually showed signs of an upward trend for many of the demographics engaged in trading audio files over the internet, somehow i could never reconcile the idle sampling of a new album with myself — it takes all of the fun out of blindly buying something and then falling madly in love with it. Looking at some of my recent favourite albums, i don’t think i would feel the same about choirgirl, distillation, or poses if i had gotten any sort of substantial preview of them … part of the wonder i hold them in was my initial discovery of what they had to offer A lot of college students might have wound up buying things that they never would have previously, but for a completest like me the entire concept is the sonic equivalent of peeking at my Christmas Presents on December 22nd.

250+ purchases later, tonight i found myself warming to the concept of trading files for an entire opposite reason than i would have suspected Freshmen year. Essentially: my purchasing plan for Winter 2002 is already upwards of a dozen new releases — with my time and money already tied up in snapping up albums by the myriad of performers that i am already practically subscribed to, i can’t always afford to find & snag other random recommendations that people make to me. You could argue that i have enough new music to keep myself occupied, but i could be missing out on my next favourite album every time i blow off a suggestion! Tonight i found myself chatting with Andy, and we made reciprocal recommendations to each other. However, rather than add these people to our ever-growing shopping lists, we proceeded to neatly exchange a handful of their mp3’s, and now it would seem that i’m as destined to own a Mason Jennings disc as he is to buy a Peter Mulvey album.

I never thought of it this way, but i really am a one-stop shopping center for a shocking array of artists; i own between ninety and one hundred percent of the catalogues of Garbage, Madonna, Tori Amos, Ani DiFranco, Peter Mulvey, PJ Harvey, Weezer, Death Cab For Cutie, Erin McKeown, Velvet Underground, & Garrison Starr, with significant holdings in Alanis Morrisette, Melissa Etheridge, Radiohead, and a slew of other artists. Of course, i collectively have under 10 mp3s on my computer of songs from these umpteen albums, but it’s sort of neat to think that someone who was interested in one of these artists could really hear anything by them via me. I think that i’m finally softening to owning mp3s because the odds are if i’ve listened to something more than once or twice i intend to buy it. I still can’t endorse things like AudioGalaxy and the like because i know that i am a highly unusual music consumer, and also because of my possessive singer-songwriter issues, but there’s a difference between randomly downloading a hot new single and making a calculated attempt at triangulating whether or not you should get addicted to an already established artist.

I don’t know why i felt the need to bring that up; i definitely wasn’t volunteering to hook you up with Madonna’s complete greatest hits, that’s for sure. Of course, if you were offering to introduce me to the collected wonders of Lucinda Williams, i would gladly give you three reasons to love PJ Harvey….

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/01/8773094/

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(This is my first article for “Finding Your Voice in Journalism.” It’s supposed to be about something i hate. Note that i took liberties with the timeline to compress the article into the assigned length. Commentary is greatly appreciated.)

I suspect that as a rule most boys must hate shopping with their mothers. For me, shopping with mom always carried the weary, claustrophobic sensation of being trapped in a space much smaller than the boy’s department. I have always been subject to a special kind of terror: I am an only child, and with my mother as a single parent I really had no choice but to browse the racks with her in tow, thrusting patently ugly garments under my nose for examination and publicly questioning whether or not I needed to buy a larger size of underwear.

This year I found my nightmare playing itself out in two locations over my Christmas Vacation, both with their own special set of embarrassments. The first seemed simple enough; she had to make an exchange, and I wanted a pair of boot-cut jeans.

Of course, even my best laid plans go awry when shopping with mom; when I met her at the counter with my pants she proceeded to loudly lament that I was looking a wee bit chubby around the middle on Christmas morning, and that I might be wise to upgrade my accustomed waist size by an inch or two to accommodate my ever-expanding girth.

Though I neglected to refute her point about my weight-gain, as we edged closer to the cashier I reminded my mother that I had taken the same waist size in jeans since I started high school. Every single pair of jeans in my bureau were of the same dimensions as the contentious pair I was holding. They fit fine.

“That might be true,” she acknowledged, “but I won’t be the one whining when I get home to find that my jeans don’t fit well.” Never mind that I had tried them on. And, anyhow, “that’s what belts are for,” apparently, buying jeans that are too big for me to start with.

Since I was the one paying for this purchase, my opinion won out — although I found myself unconsciously sucking in my “gut” as I said hello to the girl behind the counter. As I stepped out of the store with my shopping bag in hand I breathed a mental sigh of relief: one down, one to go.

Our second spectacular shopping extravaganza took place in the discount warehouse of Syms, where I intended to find a suit jacket to wear on Co-op interviews. “I just need a jacket,” I told myself, “we’ll be in and out in a flash.”

Alas, it was not meant to be. Before I could even get my bearings amongst the overwhelming aisles of short, athletic, and double-breasted styles my mother had picked out two corduroy suit jackets that looked as though they were only making a brief stop in the store before an engagement at the Salvation Army. My solution to this problem was to brush past her to find my size, but she pursued, claiming that buying a jacket was positively wasteful when I could buy an entire suit instead.

I begrudgingly agreed with her, if only because she was paying for the shopping excursion. However, in my head I knew that she was prolonging our shopping trip by adding our pre-rehearsed waist-size argument to the already complicated decision between a short and a long cut.

Sure enough, my “in and out” turned into an excruciating three hour dilemma as I was bounced from size to size, offered peculiar suits with plaid-like pinstripes, and accosted by salespersons who did nothing to detract from my mother’s own general hovering and thoughtful fashion consulting.

All in all the experience was draining. Yes, there was shouting across the store. Yes, there were heads stuck in-between dressing room curtains. Yes, there was a rendition of the aforementioned waist-size drama. By the time we made it to picking out new shoes (“Might as well!”) and having alterations made (“They’ll do it while we have lunch!”) I found my psyche located somewhere between a thundering explosion and a teary resignation.

Never mind that I came out of both situations with clothing that looks good on me. All that sticks out in my mind is my absolute terror at entering a clothing store, and the childhood urge to either throw my level-best temper tantrum or to find a circular rack of clothing to hide inside. I know that my mother cares about me, and that she’ll always love me, but that doesn’t mean she had to ask me in a stage-whisper if I had worn out my underwear yet while we were in line at Kohls.

Or maybe it does. I suppose all of that is what mom’s are for.

(Any thoughts? Remember, this is being turned in sans the context of my blog, and it’s supposed to express hatred of something and a use of a distinctive journalistic voice. Responses of any kind are welcomed.)

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/01/8504516/