I loved (and still do love) the 90s and being the lover of music that I am, the thing about the 90s that I love the most is the music that the decade produced. So, here's a list of (and an ode to) my favorite albums from the 90s.
Disclaimer: I did not discover several of these until the 2000s or even later but because they came out in the 90s they go on this list.
Disclaimer 2: I recommended 2 songs from each album for you to get a taste of what the album sounds like but try think of them as just parts to the whole of the greater albums that they belong to.
1990: An off year in music? I was listening to Please Hammer, Don't Hurt 'Em by MC Hammer and To the Extreme by Vanilla Ice so it was at least an off year for me.
1991: Achtung Baby, U2
Listen to: So Cruel and Love is Blindness
1992: Automatic for the People, R.E.M.
Listen to: Sweetness Follows and The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonight
1993: Pablo Honey, Radiohead
Listen to: Thinking About You and Prove Yourself
1994: Weezer, Weezer
Listen to: In the Garage and Only in Dreams
1995: Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, The Smashing Pumpkins
Listen to: Here is No Why and Bodies
The Bends, Radiohead
Listen to: Planet Telex and Just
1996: Odelay, Beck
Listen to: Hotwax and Sissyneck
1997: OK Computer, Radiohead
Listen to: Let Down and Exit Music (For a Film)
1998: It's Hard to Find a Friend, Pedro the Lion
Listen to: Bad Diary Days and Secret of the Easy Yoke
In the Aeroplane Over the Sea, Neutral Milk Hotel
Listen to: Ghost and Two-Headed Boy
1999: The Soft Bulletin, The Flaming Lips
Listen to: The Spiderbite Song and The Gash
Other Great 90s Albums:
Sixteen Stone, Bush
Fashion Nugget, Cake
Prolonging the Magic, Cake
Collective Soul, Collective Soul
A Boy Named Goo, The Goo Goo Dolls
Dookie, Greenday
Insomniac, Greenday
Throwing Copper, Live
Clarity, Jimmy Eat World
Nevermind, Nirvana
(What's the Story) Morning Glory?, Oasis
Ten, Pearl Jam
Vs, Pearl Jam
Vitalogy, Pearl Jam
No Code, Pearl Jam
Out of Time, R.E.M.
Monster, R.E.M.
Blood Sugar Sex Magik, The Red Hot Chilli Peppers
Californication, The Red Hot Chilli Peppers
Siamese Dream, The Smashing Pumpkins
Superunknown, Soundgarden
Rubberneck, The Toadies
Pop, U2
Zooropa, U2
Pinkerton, Weezer
A.M., Wilco
Being There, Wilco
Electr-O-Pura, Yo La Tengo
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Authenticity
Some people are better than others at being authentic. They're people comfortable in their own skin, so self-aware that nothing is off the table for discussion, not their fears, not their failures, not their insecurities. They navigate taboo topics effortlessly--almost defiantly, but never forcefully. They, unlike the rest of us, do not rush ahead to the end of the conversation weaving through guilt and shame, just hoping, hoping to come out unscathed. No, these people arrive gracefully, short-comings in hand.
My friend, T, is one of those people, unabashed in a way that is so comforting, so refreshing, so safe.
Her authenticity is like a salve on a tender burn, seeping deeply into a wound that has no other way to heal.
I had the pleasure of spending some time with T yesterday, doing the most authentic thing possible: getting coffee at a gas station--how much more real does life get than an empty gas tank and a caffeine headache? And as we shared our troubles in turn, wrestling together through our most recent manifestations of imperfection, I began to find myself again. This woman with her permanent judgement-free zone, with her open-air baggage was making space for me to realize me.
I don't think we much value authenticity; we don't strive for it. We make do, feigning humility when our faults embarrass us; boasting when they give us an edge, give us footing. People like T are rare, people with natural gifting that allows them to rise above our ordinary obsessions with saving-face. For them, authenticity is not a skill, learned by training and refined by practice, it's just something they carry with them like a charm on a bracelet. Good for them, we shrug, unaffected by their grace.
But I am beginning to think that authenticity might be worth learning, for those us of who aren't so good at it. T, who is willing to unfold the dark corners of herself, helps me to understand that our respective brokenness is worth knowing--that it is not worth hiding--because it creates a space for us to be known and to begin to heal. T's authenticity blesses me and teaches me that I could bless others, if only I could be so open as her. That if I stopped being so concerned with who I want people to think I am, and became more concerned about who we all really are, we could start getting somewhere.
And I wonder if this isn't what the bloodied Savior was telling us all along, this God-man come to earth to listen to demon-men and prostitutes and swindlers and thieves unravel their stories, come to earth to eat with them in their homes and walk along with them on their roads. And, because the only way to heal brokenness is to be broken, He who is Perfection allowed himself to be broken in the utmost, took on all our faults, to create a space for us to be known through eternity.
My friend, T, is one of those people, unabashed in a way that is so comforting, so refreshing, so safe.
Her authenticity is like a salve on a tender burn, seeping deeply into a wound that has no other way to heal.
I had the pleasure of spending some time with T yesterday, doing the most authentic thing possible: getting coffee at a gas station--how much more real does life get than an empty gas tank and a caffeine headache? And as we shared our troubles in turn, wrestling together through our most recent manifestations of imperfection, I began to find myself again. This woman with her permanent judgement-free zone, with her open-air baggage was making space for me to realize me.
I don't think we much value authenticity; we don't strive for it. We make do, feigning humility when our faults embarrass us; boasting when they give us an edge, give us footing. People like T are rare, people with natural gifting that allows them to rise above our ordinary obsessions with saving-face. For them, authenticity is not a skill, learned by training and refined by practice, it's just something they carry with them like a charm on a bracelet. Good for them, we shrug, unaffected by their grace.
But I am beginning to think that authenticity might be worth learning, for those us of who aren't so good at it. T, who is willing to unfold the dark corners of herself, helps me to understand that our respective brokenness is worth knowing--that it is not worth hiding--because it creates a space for us to be known and to begin to heal. T's authenticity blesses me and teaches me that I could bless others, if only I could be so open as her. That if I stopped being so concerned with who I want people to think I am, and became more concerned about who we all really are, we could start getting somewhere.
And I wonder if this isn't what the bloodied Savior was telling us all along, this God-man come to earth to listen to demon-men and prostitutes and swindlers and thieves unravel their stories, come to earth to eat with them in their homes and walk along with them on their roads. And, because the only way to heal brokenness is to be broken, He who is Perfection allowed himself to be broken in the utmost, took on all our faults, to create a space for us to be known through eternity.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
The China Cabinet
On Sunday, I brought my grandparents' china cabinet into my home. Memory, an unreliable record, tells me that the china cabinet has stood in the same spot in my grandparents' dining room for at least the last 20 years. But now, as of Sunday, it stands stately upright in my own dining room.
In my grandmother's time, the china cabinet held precious trinkets, gifts from loved ones praising her as a woman, a wife, a mother, a friend. As a child, I would stop in front of the cabinet and look inside it's glass at each item, snacking on an ice cream cup or some Ritz crackers, admiring her collection, assembled tributes to love. But when she died in 1998, my mother packed those things away. My uncles repainted the house, the only brief moment the cabinet was moved away from the wall.
In 1999, when my grandfather remarried, his new wife filled the china cabinet with new trinkets, wedding favors and figurines. In 2008, my mother, my grandfather, and my grandfather's wife traveled to China to visit me. We celebrated her birthday with a Chinese cake from a bakery around the corner, sheng ri kuai le in Chinese characters cheerfully written on a little decorative piece of cardstock displayed prominently atop the cake. My grandfather's wife added that little birthday greeting to the trinkets in the china cabinet. When I returned to the States the following year, I was pleasantly surprised to find it there. I smiled every time I saw it.
But now, as of Sunday, it stands stately upright in my own dining room. I find myself wandering into the dining room, pulled toward it. I touch the wood panels. I open it's glass door and smell its familiar smell. I play with the handles on its drawers. I look in my kitchen for things to fill it with, but I tell myself, "Later, maybe tomorrow, I'll start moving things into it." And so, it sits empty, stately upright, old and worn, but dignified. I wander in, touch its wood panels.
The china cabinet is in my house because my grandfather and his wife are dead. The daughters, sisters, and nieces have come and packed away the trinkets that lived inside the china cabinet, and the little birthday greeting has disappeared. The rest of the house, too, must be packed away. When my mother asked me what I wanted, I asked for the china cabinet. My uncles agreed that I should have it. So on Sunday, I brought it into my home and stood it up in my dining room. But I can't fill it.
The china cabinet is like a ghost in my house, a shadow of the past. Though it smells like my grandparent's house, it has found itself a new home. Stately and dignified, it confirms to me with every glance that my grandparents are dead.
"Later, maybe tomorrow, I'll start moving things into it."
In my grandmother's time, the china cabinet held precious trinkets, gifts from loved ones praising her as a woman, a wife, a mother, a friend. As a child, I would stop in front of the cabinet and look inside it's glass at each item, snacking on an ice cream cup or some Ritz crackers, admiring her collection, assembled tributes to love. But when she died in 1998, my mother packed those things away. My uncles repainted the house, the only brief moment the cabinet was moved away from the wall.
In 1999, when my grandfather remarried, his new wife filled the china cabinet with new trinkets, wedding favors and figurines. In 2008, my mother, my grandfather, and my grandfather's wife traveled to China to visit me. We celebrated her birthday with a Chinese cake from a bakery around the corner, sheng ri kuai le in Chinese characters cheerfully written on a little decorative piece of cardstock displayed prominently atop the cake. My grandfather's wife added that little birthday greeting to the trinkets in the china cabinet. When I returned to the States the following year, I was pleasantly surprised to find it there. I smiled every time I saw it.
But now, as of Sunday, it stands stately upright in my own dining room. I find myself wandering into the dining room, pulled toward it. I touch the wood panels. I open it's glass door and smell its familiar smell. I play with the handles on its drawers. I look in my kitchen for things to fill it with, but I tell myself, "Later, maybe tomorrow, I'll start moving things into it." And so, it sits empty, stately upright, old and worn, but dignified. I wander in, touch its wood panels.
The china cabinet is in my house because my grandfather and his wife are dead. The daughters, sisters, and nieces have come and packed away the trinkets that lived inside the china cabinet, and the little birthday greeting has disappeared. The rest of the house, too, must be packed away. When my mother asked me what I wanted, I asked for the china cabinet. My uncles agreed that I should have it. So on Sunday, I brought it into my home and stood it up in my dining room. But I can't fill it.
The china cabinet is like a ghost in my house, a shadow of the past. Though it smells like my grandparent's house, it has found itself a new home. Stately and dignified, it confirms to me with every glance that my grandparents are dead.
"Later, maybe tomorrow, I'll start moving things into it."
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
My Uncle
I have a lot of uncles. And I call them all tío, I call them all uncle. "My uncle," I start stories, assuming you will know which uncle I mean.
My Tío Emiro is married to my Tía Darda and they went to Atlantic City for their honeymoon fifty years ago, before anyone else in my family even knew honeymooning in Atlantic City was thing. My Tío Doro, whose name is really Tío Teodoro, became Tío Doro when my young, undiscerning ears failed to distinguish between the the sometimes tonal í and the always tonal e. My Tío Ismael, who is sometimes Mr. O, likes to make chilli and is always pendiente about my car. My Tío Pablo tricked me one time, challenging me to make interesting sculptures by taking giant bites out of my sandwich.
My uncle is brave. My uncle is kind. My uncle is patient and long-suffering. My uncle is steady, faithful, and honest. My uncle is wise. My uncle is dignified. My uncle is graceful and noble. "My uncle," I will begin. It'll be a good story, I promise.
My Tío Emiro is married to my Tía Darda and they went to Atlantic City for their honeymoon fifty years ago, before anyone else in my family even knew honeymooning in Atlantic City was thing. My Tío Doro, whose name is really Tío Teodoro, became Tío Doro when my young, undiscerning ears failed to distinguish between the the sometimes tonal í and the always tonal e. My Tío Ismael, who is sometimes Mr. O, likes to make chilli and is always pendiente about my car. My Tío Pablo tricked me one time, challenging me to make interesting sculptures by taking giant bites out of my sandwich.
My uncle is brave. My uncle is kind. My uncle is patient and long-suffering. My uncle is steady, faithful, and honest. My uncle is wise. My uncle is dignified. My uncle is graceful and noble. "My uncle," I will begin. It'll be a good story, I promise.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Five Year Anniversary
I got an email today from Iowa State, congratulating me on my five-year anniversary of graduating from college. The passage of time is an interesting thing, and this little note put me in a meditative mood. In the five years since graduating from Iowa State:
"Five years already?" as if it was only yesterday I was hanging out at Welch Ave Station
and
"Only five years?" since it seems that I've reinvented myself an infinite number of times since December 8, 2007.
- I started my first full-time job as a "Clerk II" at Iowa State University's benefits office.
- I worked as a field manager at Iowa PIRG, knocking on doors, asking people for money, and training other people to knock on doors and ask for money.
- I completed a survive-being-kidnapped-by-terrorists training.
- I moved to China.
- I negotiated two teaching contracts in a foreign country.
- I taught over 800 students over the course of three semesters.
- I learned Chinese.
- I got two tattooes.
- I met the love of my life and I married that man.
- I moved across China on a train.
- I worked as a waitress in a South Jersey dinner.
- I worked in the marketing department of a small glass manufacturer.
- I drove across the southwest all the way up to New Jersey with all my earthly belongings in the back of a red VW bug.
- I got a job teaching Job Readiness and ESL at an awesome organization with awesome people, where I discovered that I could love teaching and I could love ESL and I could love loving the poor.
"Five years already?" as if it was only yesterday I was hanging out at Welch Ave Station
and
"Only five years?" since it seems that I've reinvented myself an infinite number of times since December 8, 2007.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Classic Rock
Classic Rock is where my love of rock in all its forms comes from. I've been thinking of a list of songs that best represent Classic Rock and here it is. Not all of these are my favorite song from said group but I think all of them are a great way to introduce someone to Classic Rock. Do you agree with this list? What would you add or subtract? What would be on your list?
"Dream On" by Aerosmith on Aerosmith, 1973
"Stairway to Heaven" by Led Zeppelin on IV, 1971
"Carry on Wayward Son" by Kansas on Leftoverture, 1976
"Shooting Star" by Bad Company on Straight Shooter, 1975
"I've Seen All Good People" by Yes on The Yes Album, 1971
"Life's Been Good" by Joe Walsh on But Seriously, Folks..., 1978
"Hey You" by Pink Floyd on The Wall, 1979
"Hotel California" by The Eagles on Hotel California, 1977
"Sunshine of Your Love" by Cream on Disreali Gears, 1967
"Free Bird" by Lyndyrd Skynyrd on (pronounced leh-nerd skin-nerd), 1973
"More Than a Feeling" by Boston on Boston, 1976
"American Woman" by The Guess Who on American Woman, 1970
"Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen on A Night at the Opera, 1975
"Hey Jude" by The Beatles, (Released only as a single and later on the compilation vinyl titled Hey Jude) 1968
"The Logical Song" by Supertramp on Breakfast in America, 1979
"Break on Through (to the Other Side)" by The Doors on The Doors, 1967
"Horse With No Name" by America on America, 1971
"Good Vibrations" by The Beach Boys on Smiley Smile, 1966
"Gimme Shelter" by The Rolling Stones on Let it Bleed, 1969
"Back in Black" by AC/DC on Back in Black, 1980
"Dream On" by Aerosmith on Aerosmith, 1973
"Stairway to Heaven" by Led Zeppelin on IV, 1971
"Carry on Wayward Son" by Kansas on Leftoverture, 1976
"Shooting Star" by Bad Company on Straight Shooter, 1975
"I've Seen All Good People" by Yes on The Yes Album, 1971
"Life's Been Good" by Joe Walsh on But Seriously, Folks..., 1978
"Hey You" by Pink Floyd on The Wall, 1979
"Hotel California" by The Eagles on Hotel California, 1977
"Sunshine of Your Love" by Cream on Disreali Gears, 1967
"Free Bird" by Lyndyrd Skynyrd on (pronounced leh-nerd skin-nerd), 1973
"More Than a Feeling" by Boston on Boston, 1976
"American Woman" by The Guess Who on American Woman, 1970
"Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen on A Night at the Opera, 1975
"Hey Jude" by The Beatles, (Released only as a single and later on the compilation vinyl titled Hey Jude) 1968
"The Logical Song" by Supertramp on Breakfast in America, 1979
"Break on Through (to the Other Side)" by The Doors on The Doors, 1967
"Horse With No Name" by America on America, 1971
"Good Vibrations" by The Beach Boys on Smiley Smile, 1966
"Gimme Shelter" by The Rolling Stones on Let it Bleed, 1969
"Back in Black" by AC/DC on Back in Black, 1980
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Anger and Skepticism
One of the first Sundays we attended Mercy Hill, Phil Henry talked about how to relate to a non-Christian community. I've been warned a thousand times not to treat non-Christians as projects or problems-to-be-solved...people don't really appreciated being treated as anything other than people. That morning, Phil was reiterating the same warning, saying, "Everyone has something to teach you. Don't assume that just because you're a Christian that you can't learn to be a better person from someone who's not." It was a refreshing thought, attractive to me as we transitioned into this new church expression.
I've learned a lot about being a better person this week, stretched in ways I'm not normally stretched. I've been covering classes for a co-worker on vacation this week. The class is called, "Job Search and Placement Assistance" and it's designed for people who are on General Assistance through the NJ Board of Social Services. (This means they are unemployed and receive food stamps and medicaid.) The students in this class as seasoned veterans of "The System" used to being barked at, disappointed, denied, ignored, judged--rightly or wrongly. They exhibit varying levels of educational achievement, scoring between a 2nd grade and 12th grade reading level on academic assessments. Some didn't make it past the ninth grade. Some served this country in foreign wars. Others have been in and out of prison for aggression, resisting arrest, possession, theft, and more serious crimes. It's a rough and tumble crowd for sure.
And then, there's little old me: age twenty-six, five-foot-four, in flats and a cardigan. I'm supposed to teach them?
But there are some truths I've been reminded of this week and some I am discovering for the first time:
As the week went by, I saw some of the students soften, realizing that I am not the right target for their anger, that I am trustworthy and genuine, credible. And I must learn, from them, to soften also.
I've learned a lot about being a better person this week, stretched in ways I'm not normally stretched. I've been covering classes for a co-worker on vacation this week. The class is called, "Job Search and Placement Assistance" and it's designed for people who are on General Assistance through the NJ Board of Social Services. (This means they are unemployed and receive food stamps and medicaid.) The students in this class as seasoned veterans of "The System" used to being barked at, disappointed, denied, ignored, judged--rightly or wrongly. They exhibit varying levels of educational achievement, scoring between a 2nd grade and 12th grade reading level on academic assessments. Some didn't make it past the ninth grade. Some served this country in foreign wars. Others have been in and out of prison for aggression, resisting arrest, possession, theft, and more serious crimes. It's a rough and tumble crowd for sure.
And then, there's little old me: age twenty-six, five-foot-four, in flats and a cardigan. I'm supposed to teach them?
But there are some truths I've been reminded of this week and some I am discovering for the first time:
- Addressing someone by name makes all the difference in breaking down barriers against "the system."
- While K-12 teachers have implicit authority over their students, adult educators must get permission from their students to be an authority. You have to be credible both as an expert and as someone capable of handling authority with grace and justice, and you have to give full disclosure of intent.
- Four hours is just way to long to make anyone sit and listen to someone else talk, no matter how old they are.
- If my students stonewall me, lash out at me, don't laugh at my jokes, or talk about me during break, it's not because they don't like me: it's because they have so much anger and so much skepticism that from the time class begins and the time class ends, I've become the target--not the reason--for that anger and skepticism.
- Although their anger and skepticism come from real events and relationships that caused real hurt, they will not succeed until they recognize that choosing to be angry and skeptical are greater barriers than the original hurts.
As the week went by, I saw some of the students soften, realizing that I am not the right target for their anger, that I am trustworthy and genuine, credible. And I must learn, from them, to soften also.
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