The Unsuitables

As my readers know, I am a good sport about Lubbock. I love the big sky, the kind neighbours, and the unapologetic expressions of frontier culture. However, there is one crucial area where Lubbock has let me down. I have alluded to this issue in the past, but West Texas has proven to be a land of epic romantic failure. Allow me to offer some illustrative anecdotes. This will likely be the first in a series.

Tonight started out as a high-calibre Lubbock evening. It began with a potluck at my house, with my friends from the vegetarian dinner co-op. We had lots of laughs and talked about strategies for using all the chili peppers from the CSA shares we'll start receiving in a few weeks. After dinner, I headed to campus for a meeting of the Secret Movie Club. The Secret Movie Club (don't tell anyone) consists of a group of faculty members and their cronies who make use of an auditorium on campus that is equipped with a fancy high-definition projector. It's "secret" because technically we aren't supposed to be in there, but we are a lawless bunch of cinephiles. Each week one member is responsible for picking the film, but they don't tell anyone what it is, so it's a lovely surprise every time. When it was my turn, I showed the Blu-Ray of the newly restored Metropolis. Other evenings have featured The Terror of Tiny Town, among other classics. Tonight it was Black Narcissus, everyone's favourite insane nun movie. After the film I went to the gym, then stopped off at the grocery store. While I was shopping, a guy at the store noticed my t-shirt, and he asked if it was a joke about the heavy metal band Iron Maiden. I held my breath for a moment. Allow me to explain.

Last year, when I was in Los Angeles, I purchased a t-shirt with this design on the front:

I found this hilarious. See, the font is based on the logo for Iron Maiden:

But instead of Iron Maiden, it's Ingmar Bergman, creator of many a depressing Swedish art film. If you're not familiar with Bergman's filmography, it is heavy on bleakness. In his masterpiece The Seventh Seal, a knight returning from the Crusades plays chess with Death. No, really. So, here we have a t-shirt that combines heavy metal with Swedish art cinema. It's incongruous! Ha ha! Let's all be witty together!

When I acquired this shirt I had a bemused moment where I thought that if I ever met a guy who got the joke, then he would be a promising candidate for the Tapdancing Aviatrix Experience. So, when grocery store guy expressed this inkling of recognition, I wondered if he might have potential. We discussed it further, but it turned out he was only halfway there - he recognized the font, but hadn't heard of Ingmar Bergman. Then he tried to crack a joke about John Lennon's murder (!), but referred to Elton John instead. I found this inappropriate on several levels, so I departed the store without securing a date.

Now, this may not seem like a big deal. Don't I know that there are people starving in the world, and my biggest problem is that a guy doesn't fully appreciate my t-shirt? Really? Well, what you need to understand is that this is just the latest in a stream of encounters with the unsuitable men of Lubbock.

On Friday evening I had yet another excellent Lubbock outing - I went to the First Friday Art Trail, a monthly event where all the galleries in town have an open house. I got myself dolled up and went out with some friends to admire paintings and drink local wine. As we were walking through one of the galleries, my friend Renee gestured toward me and accidentally hit a guy who was standing right behind me. She apologized to him, but the reason this happened is that he was following me so closely he was very much in my personal space. I turned around and he introduced himself. Now, his description of his professional status - a chemist at Texas Tech who works on counter-terrorism - seemed quite promising. He informed me that I was gorgeous, which is also a good sign, but alas, he was rather inebriated. I was forgiving about this at first, since the local wine is not to be trifled with, so we had a chat for a little while, and even exchanged numbers. Ok, I thought, maybe I'll hear from him sometime.

Later that evening, when my friends were driving me home from a late dinner of enchiladas and margaritas, I received a text message from the chemist that read as follows: "2 first names.. One is followed by Dr?" People, whatever you do, don't drink and text. For readers who don't know me, both my first and last names can function as given names. My interpretation of his message is that he can't remember which name comes first, but he has a vague notion that I have a PhD. This does not impress me. C'mon, man, remember my name.

Ok, two unsuccessful encounters in one weekend is a bummer, but surely this is an anomaly?

Wait, there's more. Since moving to Lubbock I have tried many dating websites, but with limited success. This January I joined eharmony.com in hopes of meeting someone suitable. I realize that eharmony is part of a right-wing conspiracy (more on that another time) but I figured I should give it a shot. Now, to be fair, it did allow me to meet one guy who was very nice, but there just wasn't any chemistry. Other than that, it has been a nightmare. For example, I recently met a guy who seemed suitable on paper - he's doing an MFA in photography (artsy! educated!) and we seemed to share a number of interests. I met him for a coffee date. This date was so unsuccessful that every time I think about it, I remember yet more reasons that it was a disaster. I met him after returning from New Orleans, where I was speaking at a conference. I had given a paper on 3D movies, and I mentioned this early in the date. He immediately started to tell me all the reasons that he thinks 3D movies are lousy. Emotional intelligence, anyone? I just told you that I do research on 3D movies, so now might not be the time to complain about how you don't like the glasses. I felt like getting up and walking out at this point, but I wanted to be polite and give him another chance. Silly me.

He mentioned that he is from Sweetwater, a nearby town that is famous for its annual Rattlesnake Roundup. The Roundup is a festival where like-minded people get together to hunt, kill and eat rattlesnakes. Now, you would think that if you came from a town with such a tradition, you would have interesting stories to tell. Alas, you would be wrong. I asked him if he had "ever had a rattlesnake burger," and he replied that rattlesnake doesn't taste very good. Instead of following that up with a description of rattlesnake meat, like an interesting person would do, he instead offered a boring story about how he enjoys pork sandwiches. I kept trying to extricate a rattlesnake anecdote from him, but to no avail. Any sensible person would realize that the very utterance of the word "rattlesnake" automatically makes a story more exciting, but this was lost on him. He said something like "It's a fun festival overall" and I attempted a witty retort along the lines of "I imagine the rattlesnake community doesn't agree." He then proceeded to explain to me that rattlesnakes don't think like that. I was momentarily dumbstruck - did he think that I was anthropomorphizing reptiles? Did he think that I believed that Diamondbacks all get together for community meetings, produce a monthly newsletter, and keep in touch over facebook? Things weren't looking good.

I tried to change the subject, and mentioned that I was working on ideas for my graduate course next fall. The course is called "Planes, Trains and Automobiles" and it is about the relationships between transportation and communication technologies and the cinema. I mentioned something about how many nineteenth century films are about trains. He jumped in and made the fatal error of trying to impress me with pronouncements about film history. He began by saying that in the early days of cinema, they didn't have any editing. Now, there is a way in which this is true (it's not really, but I can understand why one might think that), but the kicker was the following statement: "They didn't edit their films because they didn't have the technology for that." I thought, "The technology for film editing? Like, scissors?" To be clear, the problem is not that he isn't a film historian, the problem is that he says dumb things, and is persistent about it.

Stay tuned, there are lots more where these came from.

Terminology

Last night I enjoyed an evening of roller derby. The bout was between the local team, the West Texas Roller Dollz, and their opponents, the Oklahoma Victory Dolls. As we sat in the stands trying to figure out the rules, we noticed a few significant differences between the teams. The Oklahoma women look like they actually go to the gym, and their outfits were quite modest and athletic-looking. We speculated that they might be a Christian team. By contrast, the Roller Dollz come in all shapes and sizes, sport a significant number of tattoos, and their "uniforms" consist of personalized combinations of shiny tights, hot pants, sequins, and in the case of a skater who goes by "Wild Wookie," purple fur leg-warmers. The Oklahoma team ended up winning the bout, but the local girls put on a great show.

As one might imagine, half the fun of these events is in watching the crowd, and there are some truly devoted followers. There was a young man in the audience who was a passionate Oklahoma fan, and he came equipped with a sign. The sign was meant to indicate that the Oklahoma Victory Dolls are a fine team, and therefore "kick ass". Since roller derby is a family activity, he was considerate enough to spell the potentially offending word like so: "A--". Meanwhile, the abbreviation for Oklahoma is OK. So, his sign, which he held aloft while running back and forth in front of the bleachers, read:

"OK VD Kicks A--".

This gave me pause.

It occurred to me that given the man's youthful appearance, he probably grew up in the era of the STD, the sexually transmitted disease, as opposed to the more euphemistic VD or "venereal disease." Either that, or he's issuing a warning to anyone who feels a powerful attraction to women in skates and helmets.

MSY --> IAH

I just returned from a trip to New Orleans, where I was speaking (and partying) at a conference. When I upload my photos I'll accompany them with more details, but I'd like to share a friend's observation that sums up the diversity of experience that is the USA.

He looked at my itinerary, which showed that my return flights would take me from New Orleans to Houston to Lubbock. The airport in New Orleans is named after Louis Armstrong. The Houston airport, meanwhile, is named after George Bush. He said "From Louis Armstrong to George Bush - same planet, different worlds."

2nd Amendment

Today I happened upon one of Lubbock's liquor stores. This was for sale:
It is a bottle of tequila shaped (roughly) like an AK-47. This seems like a dangerous mix of associations, particularly since, if you were to drink directly from the bottle (and I'm sure that never happens), it would involve placing the barrel in one's mouth. Of course, this would result in a grimly ironic performance of the bad choices one is making in life.

Some day I'll offer a lengthy post about dating in Lubbock, but in brief, it has been a dismal failure. The fact that there is a market for this item in Lubbock tells you all you need to know about the sensibilities of local gentlemen.

LHUCA

I recently joined the planning committee for the Flatland Film Festival, which takes place every October at the Louise Hopkins Underwood Center for the Arts, or LHUCA (pronounced "luca"). When I arrived for my first meeting, I was greeted by this dog, who belongs to the center's director, and has a successful career as the mascot of Lubbock's art scene.

When he was a puppy, he turned up, alone and injured, on the front step of the gallery. The director took him in, named him Lhuca, and introduced him to a perfect life. He even has his own chair in the director's office. I look forward to seeing him again at the next film festival meeting.

Le mot juste

Vanity plate outside local party establishment.

Country Swing

This evening I decided to take in some live music, which is one of Lubbock's strengths on the cultural front. Some band that was supposed to be good (indeed, they were) was playing at a bar in the "Depot District", a neighbourhood of clubs and restaurants that surrounds the Buddy Holly Center, itself a tribute to the city's patron saint. I ordered a Jack and Coke because I felt it was appropriate, and settled in for a great night of people-watching.

The first thing I noticed was the very impressive array of cowboy hats. One young man in particular was in full peacock mode, with feathers jutting off the back of his hat. As he got closer I also noticed his turquoise necklace. So much finery! I was pleased to see him leave the establishment a couple of hours later with a young lady who had many tattoos and big hair. A good match.

I also made some observations about local vernacular dance. The style appeared to be Country Swing, but the kids these days use an unusual arm position, where the gentleman, instead of holding onto his partner's waist while she places her hand on his shoulder/back, seems to put the lady in what I can only describe as a near-headlock, with his arm all the way around her shoulders. I had actually observed this before at another bar in Lubbock, but I assumed that the strange arm positions had more to do with alcohol consumption than an actual dance style. Next week I'm going to a dissertation defense in the Department of Theater and Dance, so I'll ask somebody there if they can explain this element of local dance culture.