Covering the funky monkeys in Kent, Ohio last Saturday.
Author Archive
Thinking The Children
Wednesday, May 25th, 2022For my senior year, my first class every day was AP Physics, and my teacher had a small poster located in very close proximity to his classroom flag. The poster had a stock image of a velociraptor above text reading “Velociraptor = Distraptor / Timeraptor.” Classic physics joke. I always stood there silently with my hands by my sides looking at that poster during the daily pledge. When we were told to rise for the national anthem at my graduation ceremony last night, I thought about that poster.
It felt like any other pledge, and the majority of my preparations for the end of my senior year of high school felt like any other day. Final assignments, papers, and tests all felt like nothing I wasn’t used to. Sitting through my peers’ speeches was different that usual, but it was easy. I felt a few butterflies flitting around in my stomach shortly before rising to join the line of students waiting to receive their diplomas, and that was it. It was like I was a complete natural at the experience of high school, and in many ways, I guess I was. I wasn’t walking across that stage with three cords, two stoles, one medal and, lest we forget, a cap and gown for no reason. In some way or another, I think I won high school.
When I got home, I got to read updates about a horrific school shooting in Uvalde, Texas. I had first read about it sometime before the ceremony when only a few children were confirmed dead from the massacre. The number had reached the teens and included teachers by the time I had gotten home after the ceremony. Today I got to read pleas from political pundits suggesting turning schools into heavily guarded, logistically nonsensical obstacle courses to prevent shootings instead of actually doing anything that would keep the weapons perpetrating said shootings out of the hands of the cruel and unstable. In August I’ll be moving into a dorm at Kent State University, known across the country as ‘that school where kids got shot’ if Star Wars doesn’t completely overtake your mental function every May 4.
Some things don’t change. But some things do, in small and subtle ways that will soon spread and explode into something much bigger than itself.
Monday, May 23rd, 2022
I graduate tomorrow.
Graduation practice was held this morning. I couldn’t find specifically where I was supposed to go, so I naturally ended up going to the track field where the ceremony is to be held should the weather cooperate. Chairs were being set up, and despite the fact that I didn’t recognize anyone walking the track or throwing assorted sports balls around, I’m used to not recognizing most of the people in my school’s halls, so I figured they were just some unfamiliar fellow seniors killing time. I walked the track, wondering if I should’ve brought a jacket.
The kids were herded back into the gym shortly afterwards. I sat on the bleachers, waiting for instructions. I and a few others were then reprimanded by one of the gym teachers for sitting on the bleachers when they were supposed to be kept clean.
Confused about why barely anyone was there despite having arrived on time, I went up to one of the teachers—another gym teacher—at the front of the gym and asked her about exactly what was happening. It turns out I had walked into a gym class and completely, perfectly assimilated myself.
What a way to end my high school career: a big, fat doi.
I’m not angry or disappointed; I just find it hilarious.
I did make my way to where I was supposed to be, the humid auxiliary gym right beside where my misguided assumptions had led me, and settled myself in my assigned folding chair. I gazed across the rows as the principal read out the ceremony procedure, and a peculiar feeling welled up inside of me. Despite all the effort I had put in to get to this point, the effort that gifted me the assorted cords and stoles I’ll be wearing, the act of sitting there felt terrifyingly effortless.
On The Inside
Saturday, May 21st, 2022“…are we not MEEEEEEEN?!”
“WE ARE DEEEVOOO!”
“DAMN right.”
On Wednesday night, the seaport district of New York City was overtaken by hordes of beautiful mutants. It would have been my third to last day of high school had I not taken two days off to throw down with some enlightened brethren to see DEVO, that de-evolution band who have been soldering on for forty-nine years now. The show they put on did nothing to dent the reputation they’ve built up for themselves.
We arrived in NYC a few hours before the show started and ushered our way down to the waterfront as quickly as we could to mingle with spuds. Energy domes of many colors and persuasions—classic red, blue, black, mirror ball—sat on many heads. (I wore mine on the way to New York, getting many compliments and side eyes in the process, but ended up leaving it in the hotel room due to its bulkiness.) I spoke to many friends I hadn’t seen in months and others that I had long anticipated meeting in person.
The show marked the first time I had ever taken an escalator to a concert. The herd was guided up a good three or four of them to the roof of the complex where the stage was located. The entire scene was very swanky, something DEVO deserve after years of toil and the steaming hot weather of the festival they played in California last weekend, which was a talking point among its attendees. The buildings of New York City towered in the distance. The noise they made probably echoed out over the water and over the city like the ring of a gun.
Thanks to my bodyguard duo of friends Chaim and Rachel, I was easily able to assume my usual DEVO position: right up against the guard rail. Much like my last fling in Chicago, I found myself directly in front of Jerry’s synth bass setup.
Rod Rooter’s sardonic address, familiar to us from Chicago, opened the show once more. And to quote the New York Dolls, something must’ve happened over Manhattan, because the sheer energy that DEVO brought was monstrous. Every member was absolutely in their fullest de-evolved element. I would have never expected to see Jerry smile so much during a DEVO show. He was clearly having the time of his life up there, especially during my favorite live offering of theirs, “Secret Agent Man,” when he let his tongue wag around like he was in autopilot ecstasy.
The guitars were sharp as usual—Bob 1’s sonic attacks at the audience came out very nicely, especially as he snapped his strings during his frazzled “Mr. DNA” solo. The stoic Josh 2 wielded a brand new custom axe that blended in well with his radiation suit while Josh 1 slammed the skins with alien precision from stage right.
And of course, Mark Mothersbaugh, certified birthday boy, gave a fittingly good show, even if the large speaker box in the way of my view reduced him to a disembodied head and sometimes obscured him entirely many a time throughout the night. The rest of the time, he came out far enough for my part of the audience to bask in his de-evolved glory.
And even when DEVO wasn’t singing, they had the crowd by the collar. Jerry gave a bitter, all-too relevant monologue to the “spuds, spudesses, and everyone in between on the spectrum” in the audience before “Jocko Homo,” lamenting the sad worldwide spread of de-evolution—when it comes to good ol’ DEVO, politic and stage presence are not mutually exclusive. Later, the certified birthday Booji Boy of the night came out at the encore to throw energy dome shaped cookies—wrapped in COVID-safe prophylactic baggies—at the crowd. He monologued about DEVO’s dead cool friends rising from their graves and crawling to the venue while Jerry looked on with the most glorious, bug-eyed face I’ve ever seen. And then it was over.
But not yet for me.
Shortly after arrival I learned that I alongside a few other young alien types were not only invited to meet the band in the dressing room but also to the after party (thanks, Michael!). The “dressing room” was a vast little room that everyone was crowded into one third of, by the door. It was in this space where I found myself face to face with Mark Mothersbaugh himself. Scared and intimidated by his form, I had to put my oft-neglected self defense skills to use before he could pounce first.
Not too rusty. After this photo he wanted to make sure it turned out well for the memories. That rascal.
I also got to remeet Bob Mothersbaugh, who remembered me from DEVOtional 2019, and talk to Josh Hager, who proved to be just as kind in person as he’s been to me via Fakebook. Jerry was in a rush—with “a lot of crap to deal with”—and I barely caught him.
After the room had cleared out, the after party was next in our targets. Set in a even smaller but equally swanky restaurant on the first floor, the room was packed with people, many of whom I didn’t recognize. I had never encountered such a busy, socialite, adult event, but I was able to mingle my way around successfully, talking to old friends and even a few new faces.
I bumped into Mark again, mentioning my plans to attend Jerry and his alma mater, Kent State University. He gave me a sticker of DEVO’s newest logo, a golden compass with energy dome accents that the band members wore on their chests during the show, as a sort of congrats cookie. I did the same when I caught back up with Jerry later in the night. By that time he had relaxed from whatever had been going on in the dressing room. He seemed very happy to hear about my plans!
As the night went on, much of the party became a delirious and beautiful blur to me, the result of a positive disorientation. More and more delicious looking food was placed on a sleek, long white table throughout the night, and numerous times servers with swanky snack foods asked me and whoever I was speaking to if we wanted to try. The cake for the birthday Booji Boy, adorned in energy domes that were apparently marshmallow, came out some time during the night as Jerry serenaded Mark very enthusiastically. I ate a slice, even though I wasn’t hungry. There was talking, talking, and more talking. And it was amazing.
And then I rode home the next day and attended my final day of high school the day after that, an undercover agent as my peers remained totally unaware of the events I had witnessed just hours earlier.
Best graduation party ever.
Crunk Against Humanity, High School Dance Edition
Saturday, May 14th, 2022I have neglected my blogging duties for too long! The end of the academic year has bought up a lot of my time, but that overload has since subsided. It’s good to be back in the blogging mood and have the time for it once more.
In between preparing for four AP tests and wrangling with the post-high school road lying ahead, I’ve been tending to my personal webpage. I’d gotten very invested in it the past few weeks, learning a few new coding tricks along the way, and I’m very pleased with how it has come out. It just happens to be cropped to hell on my phone and probably yours, too. (I’ll fix that later.) It feels nice to have a little site devoted around myself, just as it feels nice to blog. I really enjoy the idea of a personal page, one’s own little corner of the internet, and I’d recommend making one to anyone, though I know that today’s oversaturated world often leaves little time for deep investment into how HTML works and the like. On the free, DIY hosting site I use, Neocities, I often see sites where the webmaster—often a teenager—openly expresses dissatisfaction with social media, with some even rejecting social media altogether. Anti-NFT and anti-“Web3.0” blinkies abound. But not everyone has the time to labor over CSS table styling, and having some form of social media is pretty much required for getting any sort of attention in this modern world unless you’re lucky. From uniting kindred spirits from across physical barriers to sending vulnerable individuals into impenetrable bubbles of harmful rhetoric, the internet has proven itself to be a double-edged sword. Neither social media feeds nor standalone sites and their sitemasters’ odd digital traditionalism are immune to that dichotomy. (And I say this as someone who absolutely despises social media.) I stand with one foot in a tradition of days gone by and another in the wild, wild west of our current, ever evolving landscape, waiting to see what happens.
I’m not the only one feeling that way lately. I know that the 2000s have been coming back in a big way, even as Apple announces the discontinuation of the iPod. (I’lll still be using mine.) Yesterday happened to be my school’s prom, which I attended, and I was very amused when the DJ loaded up “Apple Bottom Jeans” back to back with the all-time classic, “Hot In Herre.” It was truly a delight to witness. “Yeah!” and “Get Low” appeared earlier and later in the playlist respectively, rounding out a fearful foursome of bafflingly immortal 2000s partay songs. That’s “partay,” not “party.” (A trap cover of the Macarena also made an appearance early on, but that’s a whole other can of worms.) I find it interesting that, apparently, my age group as a whole, not just some niche subsection, is looking back at a previous generation’s teen hood and trying to recapture it. I would argue against the inclusion of Nelly and friends but it is all just so hilarious to me that I can’t say no. It is better for mankind to have the sense of humor to bask in the glory of the bootylicious anthems of yesteryear and beyond.
I was less interested in joining everyone else out on that dance floor, though. I’ve got a DEVO concert in four days; I need to save up the energy.
05/04+1/2022
Thursday, May 5th, 2022KENT STATE UNIVERSITY NAMES 2022 ALAN CANFORA SCHOLARSHIP WINNER
I’ve been writing annually about what May 4, 1970 means to me for three years now. Fifty-two years since a day that feels all too relevant.
I remember when I first heard about National Guardsmen slaughtering four college kids at a peaceful anti-war protest in Ohio. I would have never expected that I could have been able to contribute directly to keeping the spirit of Kent and Jackson State alive, to honoring a truth that continues to be neglected and slandered.
Receiving this honor leaves me humbled and at a loss for words—and feeling more dutiful than ever.
The fact is is that it is a crucial time in terms of human rights. It’s sickening that only more and more progress is being made to strip humans of the lives they want to live, and as too many seem to forget in our emotionally charged world, the oppression of one opens the door for the oppression of the rest. If, say, reproductive rights are stripped away, what’s next? The right to nonsegregated schools? The right to marry the one you love? The right to live in a world that is not polluted, overcrowded, and disgusting? The right to speak your mind without a gun being pointed at your head?
It’s up to critical thinkers with vigor and skill—like the kids who protested on the Kent State commons that crisp spring day—to stand up against those who tell us that violations of human freedom and autonomy are okay. And as the world becomes bleaker and darker and more repelling and more constricting with each passing day, somebody’s got to be willing to rub some sticks together and try to find a light.
As we march into an uncertain future, we cannot forget our past.
I give my salute to all of those raising awareness of Kent State and keeping the good fight going.
Targeted
Wednesday, May 4th, 2022
Targeted.
2022.
Digital illustration.
Created for the May 4 To George Floyd student art exhibition on Kent State University’s Risman Plaza, May 2, 2022.
52 years. The truth still demands justice.
Go Ape
Sunday, May 29th, 2022I got around to watching Planet of the Apes for the first time last night, and I don’t think a film has soared like a blasphemous paper airplane so high above my already lofty expectations before. I adored it. Rod Serling must have been having the time of his life writing the script—”human see, human do”? Come on. It’s too good. I have literally never been so giddy watching a movie as I was when the high judges at Taylor’s unjust trial recreated the famous “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil” formation as Zira and Cornelius tried to present their theory of human-to-ape evolution. It was just too perfect.
Despite the film having been released in 1968 (and featuring a “don’t trust anyone over thirty” reference as a sign of the times—though that’s probably just what all this ‘boomer’ talk mutated from) it felt all too relevant. If anything, it was refreshing. Too often into today’s world, the human is viewed as a creature of pure goodness and virtue by both sides of the societal equation. Either acts of cruelty are always good and just, or they are inhuman and unnatural. But neither of these perspectives recognize that humans are equally capable of good and bad. The same goes for the film’s apes: you have your Zaiuses, and you have your Ziras. The ape society shown in the film insists that it could have never evolved from a previous species; socially accepted religion states they were created in their higher power’s image. The earthly powers that be within that society know the truth—that they evolved from dirty, uncivilized humans—but calls heresy on anyone who tries to legitimize the facts. Doesn’t this fear of truth in favor of species superiority sound familiar? The apes repeat the flawed duality of the humans that came before them, and Taylor retains it as he tries to claim superiority over the apes instead of equality. It goes to show that a lust for power over others is an innate and primal instinct, and it can only be tampered by favoring reason and fact, which, while not impossible, is being slowly eradicated on a wide scale—and even the proprietors of the truth aren’t always perfect.
Life is so fun!
With all of this superb social commentary, I find it really amusing that the film’s popularity inspired a slew of sequels that, from what I understand, centered on primal action scenes over a message. They ended up even making Planet of the Apes toys so that America’s youth could not only watch man find himself reflected in what he once saw as the complete opposite of his society, but also reenact it on their own on a miniature scale. And how do you get kids to buy toys in the 1970s? You put that crap on TV.
The youth of that era needed to know that the off model, extremely dinky figures and play sets being churned out were the coolest, most action-packed experiences ever conceived in between their Saturday morning shows, and how else to do it but to condense the film your toy line is based off of into about a minute of compact insanity?
Whoever was responsible for this commercial was clearly having the time of their life. It totally reduces the film down to it’s most base parts but does so so creatively, so elegantly, that I say it deserves some sort of spot up there with the original. Budget and length constraints only imply the opening spaceship crash via the astronaut doll literally washing up on a sandy shore. He provides extremely dramatic, kung fu gripping narration as he explores his surroundings and is captured by apes who seek to “OPERATE” on him to keep him from being a “FREETHINKER.” He swiftly escapes with the help of some actual human children, who were also probably also having the times of their lives moving him around the plastic set.
But the absolute best part comes at the very end. Mimicking Taylor and Nova’s ride into the Forbidden Zone at the end of the full length film, the newly-free, nameless astronaut doll sits on the back of a mechanically powered toy horse as it actually trots across the shore. The human kids are gone, as they have gotten bored and moved on to the next hot licensed toy line. The astronaut peeks out from behind a seaside rock formation to explore “WHAT STRANGE PLANET” he’s crashed on. The screen immediately cuts to the most adorable rendition of anything ever: a cutesy shadow of the Statue of Liberty stretches out across the beach as the terrified astronaut gasps “OH…NO…” upon realizing that this mysterious planet was his own (despite surely having not been made in the US of A). He stops short of goddamning anything to hell, which would not be permitted on child oriented TV. It is absolutely glorious.
And I will always be a cheerleader for reason and logic, but sometimes you just need a dose of gorgeous, perfectly executed insanity. You just gotta bask in the glory and remember where you came from.
Thank you, Rod Serling, for being such a genius; and thank you, MEGO Toys, for being such shills!
Tags:advertising, commercials, common sense, de-evolution, films, humanity, old toys, Planet of the Apes, Rod Serling, society, the truth, things I enjoy, videos
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