Tuesday, May 31, 2011

One unexpected benefit of my foray into sociability, which really shouldn’t be surprising at all, when I think about it, is a better understanding of how to navigate downtown traffic. Go to the city enough times and the strange logic of the urban grid, with its checkerboard of one-way streets, begins to make sense. Now, where these streets may lead, well, that’s an entirely different matter, and you might find yourself in some destinations that raise more questions than answers.

I found myself in precisely such a place after work today for two long hours, 45th floor of a high-rise, seated around a conference table with seven other alumni in animated deliberation about the vision of a rebooted association. Let me rephrase that–they were engaged in lively discussion, while I brought absolutely nothing to the table.

It was a faithful recreation of the classroom experience, frankly. You know the cast of characters, I’m sure. There’s the Comedian. The Rambler. The Gunner. The Realist. The Sage. And, in a role I was only too happy to reprise, the Mute. I simply sat there, fascinated by how engaged everyone seemed to be and how they fed off the interaction. Did everybody truly care about by-laws, dues, venues, and a mission statement? Probably not, but they were having a grand old time talking about these things.

Meanwhile, there I was, blissfully unencumbered by obligations to participate and afflicted with the same jumble of sentiments I’ve felt in seminars about 18th century literature or Lucretia Mott’s greatest speeches, or, more recently, HOA meetings. I ask myself two questions: Why am I here? Why does this matter? And the response, usually some variant of not giving a shit, culminates in a general annoyance with that feeling of belonging people seem to crave. But I’ll be the first to admit I’m the problem here. Part of me knows I’m missing out. I have to find my people.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, May 31.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Sure enough, in a storybook ending to a decidedly un-storybook exercise, my headlight ordeal lasted only 20 minutes, handily beating the previous record by more than an hour. I’ll be the first to admit how strange it is when inanimate objects–boats, sports equipment, firearms, and, yes, cars–are personified, usually as female, and then granted a measure of familiarity. It’s, like, why is that rifle a she? She actually has a name? You named her? It’s ridiculous, really.

But at the same time, this is partly why replacing a bulb was such a non-event. This was my automobile. My maintenance to shoulder, and nobody else’s. The reason why it took all those other fellows well north of an hour to complete such a simple task? They didn’t have this connection. They didn’t know my Swedish miss, what makes her tick, what makes her mad, what makes her sing, her temperament, her ups and her downs. Also, the difference between clockwise and counterclockwise.

We’re going to be light a post this week, and frankly I’m relieved. While I can’t claim to observe Memorial Day with any authentic degree of poignancy, since I lack any immediate ties to the armed services, I can appreciate the fact that our comfort and freedoms are derived, in part, from their sacrifices. In a sense, the security they impart allows for conceits as insipid as blogs to exist. When we return, we’ll revisit the topic of sociability, starting with the delicate threshold between being confident and being a dick.