For Anonymous, More About Me Than You'd Ever Want to Know
Anonymous, I like you. In your last comment you said that my new bag worked for a psychedelic, slightly butchy diva type. And you asked 'Is that you?' I bit.
I approached the question SAT-style. Lucky for all I didn't go to 'root word in Latin' lengths. Instead, I decided I'd elaborate on each adjective individually. After review, I hope that you’ve gotten an honest, straightforward response. Read on. It’s pretty fucking long. In yogurt commercial language, it's 'Gandhi' long. It's Homer's 'The Odyssey' long.
Psychedelic: Hmm. This is sort of a mentality, a way of thinking, right? But the impetus for the slang originally referred to specific substances, those that altered consciousness. The dirty hippies termed them psychedelic or hallucinogenic drugs. Groovy, man. These drugs were also called psychotomimetic (i.e., mimicking psychosis), thought to be “mind-expanding.” This group includes mescaline, or peyote, neither of which I’ve ever done. Don’t forget the monster of hallucinogens, Papa LSD, synthesized from lysergic acid, found in the fungus Claviceps purpurea. Read that last sentence again. Clearly, I’m too much of a nerd do get down with the acid. I had a lot of friends who dropped this shit. It scared me to death b/c as a nerd, I am also naturally disposed toward paranoia. Fear of swallowing my tongue, fear of feeling covered by snakes, was a more powerful motivation than believing it was worthwhile to forever alter my understanding the universe because I thought I saw God in an ashtray.
LSD alkaloids have also been produced synthetically. Newer hallucinogens, such as PCP (phencyclidine, or "angel dust" ), a drug originally used as an anesthetic, and MDMA ( "Ecstasy" ), an amphetamine derivative, have grown in use since the 1980s. Like LSD, none of this shit interested me in the least. It’s all fat soluble and that freaked my out. In my 8th grade religion class, we watched this preachy show called “Insight” (??) and some dude jumped out of a window on angel dust. My lesson was learned before the credits rolled. Add that to a 48 HOURS episode I saw that featured a man who did LSD once--once dude!--and had not stopped tripping. A harmless trip with no end. Shit, he’s probably tweaked right now. Thanks, Erin Moriarity, you scared me straight!
On the other hand, I’m quite familiar with Ecstasy. The hallucinogen commonly called “E,” was introduced to me as a college Senior. A few friends were heavy into the dance scene. (This scene was in NO WAY connected with the rave wave. I never held a glow stick or sucked on a fucking pacifier. The crowd was mostly Irish and English electronica devotees.) They got me listening to Sasha and Oakenfold and Digweed and the like. By the time Madonna released Ray of Light, blowing everyone’s mind with her “new sound,” I considered the style old hat. In my defense, I was a pompous 22 year-old asshole then. But I must say that she and William Orbit collaborated well and Ray is my favorite Madonna album. On to the “E.” One night we all went out dancing with th express purpose of having Shannon partake of her first E. And, mother of all mothers, I had an amazing experience! So much so that I proudly suggested giving kids tabs of E in their lunches, like SweetTarts. I’d never been so purely happy or felt so alive in my own body. The tingles alone were worth the crash. The giving and receiving of hugs and the awe when touching someone, for a kid who recoiled at the idea of human contact? Nothing short of a miracle. So, my first and (almost) every time after that (about 10-15 rolls),were enjoyable experiences. New Year’s Eve Y2K sucked, though, b/c I ate way too many pills and got fiercely and repulsively aggressive. And I have cop to introducing a different set of pals to the drug when I first arrived in NYC. It’s the only time I ever exposed anyone to anything. I’ll admit, too, that I felt pretty cool.
Marijuana also has hallucinogenic properties but is pharmacologically distinct. I haven’t smoked pot in more that 2 years. No loss to me, I was not a big fan. I do not miss herb. Occasionally, if I’m feeling sorry for my alcoholic self, I’ll wish I could still indulge in a cold beer. But when I sink deep into my regret and nostalgic, ridiculous, stupid, glamorous thinking the one mind and mood altering substance I wish I could do again is E. Mostly because the music--Bedrock, the Naked Music and Global Underground series--don’t, and will never, sound as good as it did when I was rolling. That’s some raw ass truth right there, anonymous.
Mildly Butchy: I have avoided putting myself into one or the other classic lesbian categories, butch or femme. I just read an interview with Portia DeRossi in this week’s Advocate, and she’s asked about her appearance, whether her public feminine appearance reflects her lesbian sensibility. Her response was wonderful and said something to effect that she didn’t subscribe to the butch/femme dichotomy nor did she pigeonhole herself as one or the other. She said that she sees herself as her own kind of lesbian. And I’d like to think that’s where I’m coming from, too. Not exactly, but I hope that’s what I project. I don’t mind leaning a little, itty, bitty bit Butch. Anything more than that is excessive and puts me in the thralls of identity crisis.
I can throw a football in a tight-ass spiral, I always sit with my legs apart as though I’m hanging loose in the dugout, and I loathe wearing lingerie. I love the Bears more than flowers. Even though I’m short, you’ll rarely catch me in much of a heel. However, I’m afraid of bugs, obsess about my hair and shoes, and genuinely care about who wears what to which award show. Looking in the mirror amuses me, and I buy the fancy makeup. At 18, my grandmother gave me a beautiful and very expensive diamond necklace. I could tell you what I was wearing the day because it marked the beginning of my desire for more of them. The ugly part of the Butch label, in my mind, is that I spent so much time as a teenager and young adult trying hard to avoid any butchy vibe that might slip out when I wasn’t watching carefully enough. Say someone on the subway can tell I’m a dyke, so what? But I don’t want everyone on the subway to be absolutely, 100-footer, bull-dyke sure I’m a lesbo. It’s like I want my gay cake but I prefer eating the straight one. Onstage, I am always out. I didn’t actively make that choice. I figured that since my material is about me, I would include everything about me. That and, d’uh, gay themed humor is so much fun. As public Shannon, the one who’s doing stand-up in front of hundreds (more often 40’s) of strangers, I don’t care. Actually, I feel very free. But as solo Shannon, who doesn’t have a mic in hand, I’m afraid. There’s still a huge part of my consciousness that believes gay is synonymous, inseparable, with bad. Privately, I have an easier time admitting that I’m an alcoholic. I wish I felt differently, and I’m working like a dog to get there. I pray that I morph gracefully into the woman I want to be.
Diva Type: Guess what? My minimal level of fame hasn’t gotten me any star-fucker ass, nary a sniff of my crotch, and I cannot accept that. Does anyone know who I AM? I mean….please! Kiss my ass or get out of its way. The biggest part of me is my ego. Thankfully, I was blessed with a mother who was compelled to remind me that my shit did, in fact, stink. As a teenager, countless morning hours were spent preparing my hair for another day of life as an Oak Park River Forest High School Sophomore. Nothing was perfect, folically speaking, it could never be. “I hate my hair!” Bless her heart, Mom had the best come-backs to self-centered bitching and whining. “Don’t flatter yourself. No one is looking at you.” Fifteen years later, since I moved to NYC, I tell her every time I see or meet a celebrity. Unfailingly she flatters me with a, “No, they met you.”
As a diva type, I aspire to exercise humility. Contrary to popular belief, it isn’t pathetic or servile. It’s the absence of bullshit modesty. And arrogance isn’t the right antonym. Let’s say Merriam Webster busts through my office door and demands that I give him/her, vocabulary stud muffin, a definition of humility. I’d pause, for dramatic effect, careful to curtail my obnoxious, superior tendencies. I might throw in a downward glance at the floor followed by a deliberate batting of eyes. Theatricality aside, I’d offer a concept of humility that’s recently set up shop in my noggin’.
Humility: the ability to see one’s self in truth, to equally acknowledge good and bad, to seek perspective, to grow, to show love without ego, to consider weakness without shame. Ex: One who regards their whole self comfortable and content with who and what they are exactly where they are, considering all connotations of space and time.
Shit. Aren't you sorry you asked?
Happy Labor Day Weekend.
posted by Shannon E. Ennis at
Friday, September 02, 2005
I approached the question SAT-style. Lucky for all I didn't go to 'root word in Latin' lengths. Instead, I decided I'd elaborate on each adjective individually. After review, I hope that you’ve gotten an honest, straightforward response. Read on. It’s pretty fucking long. In yogurt commercial language, it's 'Gandhi' long. It's Homer's 'The Odyssey' long.
Psychedelic: Hmm. This is sort of a mentality, a way of thinking, right? But the impetus for the slang originally referred to specific substances, those that altered consciousness. The dirty hippies termed them psychedelic or hallucinogenic drugs. Groovy, man. These drugs were also called psychotomimetic (i.e., mimicking psychosis), thought to be “mind-expanding.” This group includes mescaline, or peyote, neither of which I’ve ever done. Don’t forget the monster of hallucinogens, Papa LSD, synthesized from lysergic acid, found in the fungus Claviceps purpurea. Read that last sentence again. Clearly, I’m too much of a nerd do get down with the acid. I had a lot of friends who dropped this shit. It scared me to death b/c as a nerd, I am also naturally disposed toward paranoia. Fear of swallowing my tongue, fear of feeling covered by snakes, was a more powerful motivation than believing it was worthwhile to forever alter my understanding the universe because I thought I saw God in an ashtray.
LSD alkaloids have also been produced synthetically. Newer hallucinogens, such as PCP (phencyclidine, or "angel dust" ), a drug originally used as an anesthetic, and MDMA ( "Ecstasy" ), an amphetamine derivative, have grown in use since the 1980s. Like LSD, none of this shit interested me in the least. It’s all fat soluble and that freaked my out. In my 8th grade religion class, we watched this preachy show called “Insight” (??) and some dude jumped out of a window on angel dust. My lesson was learned before the credits rolled. Add that to a 48 HOURS episode I saw that featured a man who did LSD once--once dude!--and had not stopped tripping. A harmless trip with no end. Shit, he’s probably tweaked right now. Thanks, Erin Moriarity, you scared me straight!
On the other hand, I’m quite familiar with Ecstasy. The hallucinogen commonly called “E,” was introduced to me as a college Senior. A few friends were heavy into the dance scene. (This scene was in NO WAY connected with the rave wave. I never held a glow stick or sucked on a fucking pacifier. The crowd was mostly Irish and English electronica devotees.) They got me listening to Sasha and Oakenfold and Digweed and the like. By the time Madonna released Ray of Light, blowing everyone’s mind with her “new sound,” I considered the style old hat. In my defense, I was a pompous 22 year-old asshole then. But I must say that she and William Orbit collaborated well and Ray is my favorite Madonna album. On to the “E.” One night we all went out dancing with th express purpose of having Shannon partake of her first E. And, mother of all mothers, I had an amazing experience! So much so that I proudly suggested giving kids tabs of E in their lunches, like SweetTarts. I’d never been so purely happy or felt so alive in my own body. The tingles alone were worth the crash. The giving and receiving of hugs and the awe when touching someone, for a kid who recoiled at the idea of human contact? Nothing short of a miracle. So, my first and (almost) every time after that (about 10-15 rolls),were enjoyable experiences. New Year’s Eve Y2K sucked, though, b/c I ate way too many pills and got fiercely and repulsively aggressive. And I have cop to introducing a different set of pals to the drug when I first arrived in NYC. It’s the only time I ever exposed anyone to anything. I’ll admit, too, that I felt pretty cool.
Marijuana also has hallucinogenic properties but is pharmacologically distinct. I haven’t smoked pot in more that 2 years. No loss to me, I was not a big fan. I do not miss herb. Occasionally, if I’m feeling sorry for my alcoholic self, I’ll wish I could still indulge in a cold beer. But when I sink deep into my regret and nostalgic, ridiculous, stupid, glamorous thinking the one mind and mood altering substance I wish I could do again is E. Mostly because the music--Bedrock, the Naked Music and Global Underground series--don’t, and will never, sound as good as it did when I was rolling. That’s some raw ass truth right there, anonymous.
Mildly Butchy: I have avoided putting myself into one or the other classic lesbian categories, butch or femme. I just read an interview with Portia DeRossi in this week’s Advocate, and she’s asked about her appearance, whether her public feminine appearance reflects her lesbian sensibility. Her response was wonderful and said something to effect that she didn’t subscribe to the butch/femme dichotomy nor did she pigeonhole herself as one or the other. She said that she sees herself as her own kind of lesbian. And I’d like to think that’s where I’m coming from, too. Not exactly, but I hope that’s what I project. I don’t mind leaning a little, itty, bitty bit Butch. Anything more than that is excessive and puts me in the thralls of identity crisis.
I can throw a football in a tight-ass spiral, I always sit with my legs apart as though I’m hanging loose in the dugout, and I loathe wearing lingerie. I love the Bears more than flowers. Even though I’m short, you’ll rarely catch me in much of a heel. However, I’m afraid of bugs, obsess about my hair and shoes, and genuinely care about who wears what to which award show. Looking in the mirror amuses me, and I buy the fancy makeup. At 18, my grandmother gave me a beautiful and very expensive diamond necklace. I could tell you what I was wearing the day because it marked the beginning of my desire for more of them. The ugly part of the Butch label, in my mind, is that I spent so much time as a teenager and young adult trying hard to avoid any butchy vibe that might slip out when I wasn’t watching carefully enough. Say someone on the subway can tell I’m a dyke, so what? But I don’t want everyone on the subway to be absolutely, 100-footer, bull-dyke sure I’m a lesbo. It’s like I want my gay cake but I prefer eating the straight one. Onstage, I am always out. I didn’t actively make that choice. I figured that since my material is about me, I would include everything about me. That and, d’uh, gay themed humor is so much fun. As public Shannon, the one who’s doing stand-up in front of hundreds (more often 40’s) of strangers, I don’t care. Actually, I feel very free. But as solo Shannon, who doesn’t have a mic in hand, I’m afraid. There’s still a huge part of my consciousness that believes gay is synonymous, inseparable, with bad. Privately, I have an easier time admitting that I’m an alcoholic. I wish I felt differently, and I’m working like a dog to get there. I pray that I morph gracefully into the woman I want to be.
Diva Type: Guess what? My minimal level of fame hasn’t gotten me any star-fucker ass, nary a sniff of my crotch, and I cannot accept that. Does anyone know who I AM? I mean….please! Kiss my ass or get out of its way. The biggest part of me is my ego. Thankfully, I was blessed with a mother who was compelled to remind me that my shit did, in fact, stink. As a teenager, countless morning hours were spent preparing my hair for another day of life as an Oak Park River Forest High School Sophomore. Nothing was perfect, folically speaking, it could never be. “I hate my hair!” Bless her heart, Mom had the best come-backs to self-centered bitching and whining. “Don’t flatter yourself. No one is looking at you.” Fifteen years later, since I moved to NYC, I tell her every time I see or meet a celebrity. Unfailingly she flatters me with a, “No, they met you.”
As a diva type, I aspire to exercise humility. Contrary to popular belief, it isn’t pathetic or servile. It’s the absence of bullshit modesty. And arrogance isn’t the right antonym. Let’s say Merriam Webster busts through my office door and demands that I give him/her, vocabulary stud muffin, a definition of humility. I’d pause, for dramatic effect, careful to curtail my obnoxious, superior tendencies. I might throw in a downward glance at the floor followed by a deliberate batting of eyes. Theatricality aside, I’d offer a concept of humility that’s recently set up shop in my noggin’.
Humility: the ability to see one’s self in truth, to equally acknowledge good and bad, to seek perspective, to grow, to show love without ego, to consider weakness without shame. Ex: One who regards their whole self comfortable and content with who and what they are exactly where they are, considering all connotations of space and time.
Shit. Aren't you sorry you asked?
Happy Labor Day Weekend.
2 Comments:
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By
Anonymous, at 6:52 PM
Wow! I feel flattered by your honest and insightful response. You and I shared a Y2K messed up by ecstasy. Except it wasn't me on E, it was my very annoying friends at the time with all their water bottles and eventual locking jaws. I'm not judging them, it's just E scares the piss out of me and it can be frustrating being the semi-sober one. I’m more of a beer and pot person. It’s pretty much ended there with minimal shrooming experiences. I would imagine, based on your therapy session of a post (just kidding!!!) that you're learning or already have learned that being the sober person among other non-sober people has it's challenges. Your strength and commitment to yourself are downright sexy! Your courageous revelations again have prompted me to want to share more and yet this anonymity is a better fit for me right now. Instead of being anonymous #1 which sort of presumes a bit of an elitist role, I shall begin identifying my anonymous postings by signing them with an “s”. Ok, enough about me, and more importantly, back to you…I’m guessing, based on your mini autobiography, that the bag, with the description I gave it earlier, is a fit, at least most days. The bubble design with it’s spectrum of colors fits that part of you that wants to FEEL. The rugged and durable design compliments your (I’m assuming at this point – again based on your writing) rugged and resilient (mildly butchy) tendencies. Finally, the combination of multi colored bubbles laid on a sleek, black messenger style bag screams confidence and sort of “Fuck off if you don’t like it/me!” Very diva!!! Hope your Labor Day weekend is bangin’!
-s
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Anonymous, at 8:37 AM
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