Notes on My First Car

Getting my driver’s license was a huge deal. All of that freedom, all of that “I can just leave the house when I want?”-ness of it had pent up inside me for years. I remember distinctly the very first time I drove on my own: I borrowed my mom’s car and drove to the Best Buy in Downers Grove, Illinois, to pick up a special order of R.E.M. Succumbs on VHS. (That tells you a lot about me, right there.) I pleaded with my mom to take that 20+ mile drive and bring my best friend Greg along, and she somehow agreed.

But my first car was something my parents and I found in the local newspaper. An older person was selling a used 2-door 1988 Dodge Shadow. It claimed it was in good condition, and the price was right. I had saved up money for it, but my parents also were willing to chip in a good amount. I remember at that point just thinking, “So long as my dad thinks the car is in good shape, I’m getting that car.” Being able to drive was essential for me, and since my dad had been a mechanic in his teens and 20s, I trusted him fully.

The car got a pretty clean bill of health. The head had a small crack, so I was told not to really take it on the highway nor go over around 60 with it. The interior – red cloth! – was in good condition. The A/C was broken, likely out of refrigerant, so summers would be kind of awful. But it ran, it was cheap, and it was a great first car.

The first thing I purchased for the car was, naturally, a CD player. It had a stock radio – AM/FM only, no cassette even! – and in-car CD players were still relatively new and relatively crappy back then. I spent a day installing a Sony single-DIN, faceplate-removable stereo with my dad. I remember distinctly that when the car went over any bump, the player would skip – and scratch the disc. It was horrible and great.

My first trip in the car? The night after we bought it, I asked my parents if I could drive to Taco Bell. (Teenagers, right?) They reluctantly agreed. I remember the excitement of getting to drive in my car, to get food for myself, to enjoy myself – that independence was incredible. And so I drove the short mile or two to Taco Bell, seeing cars flashing their lights at me, not realizing I was driving without my headlights on at all. (I remember thinking, “Wow, night driving is really hard – it’s impossible to see anything!”)

I also remember the first time I drove my car to high school. Again, I felt amazing. I was coming up on my school’s parking lot, and signaled to make a right turn into the lot. A car from the other direction came up and gave me the wave to go ahead… and I gave him the wave at the same time. We misunderstood each other, and yes, we ended up going at the same time. He took out my front wheel completely. I was scared and worried and so disappointed. As I sat in the back of a police car, talking with them about the accident, I saw other students walk by, see me in the back seat, and laugh. Assholes.

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The Shadow died a sad death. Despite the warnings from my parents, I still drove the car on the highway. Once I took it out to Woodfield Mall in Schaumburg, and noticed a bit of smoke emanating from the hood while I was in a drive-thru. I didn’t think much of it. But when I started driving the car back home, the temperature gauge went all the way to “H” – and the smoke increased. I pulled off to a nearby Wal-Mart and, thankfully, had change to call my parents. They were more than a little annoyed, to say the least, but after I bought some antifreeze, I waited for them to arrive. That half hour was the longest half hour ever. My parents didn’t flip, not fully, but they were quite pissed. My dad looked at the car and sure enough, the entire head had cracked. We caravanned back home, with my Shadow not being able to go over 25.

Repairing the car would cost more than the car was worth, as you can imagine. After a short while, I traded it in – somehow – for a 95 Dodge Neon, which would become the first car I truly loved.

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I write this now, recalling stuff that happened over 25 years ago, without a car that I call my own. My wife and I still have a car, but due to the coronavirus it’s just not being used much. We sold my car just before all of the lockdowns, and are waiting to see what happens next.

A few tiny reviews of things I've read/seen lately

Completely stealing a page from Kottke (as I did 20 years ago), here is what I have been consuming lately.

Vampire Weekend, Father of the Bride: The group I deemed as “lousy” when I first heard “Cousins” stuck with me as my musical tastes headed more towards accessible, poppy stuff versus dark, insightful stuff. The latest album is really just lovely, if not completely feeling like a lost Paul Simon record (with pop-ins from people like Sting and other late 80s-early 90s artists). There’s enough here to keep me interested right now. (A)

Barry: My wife and I caught up on this show over the past week or so. I really enjoy it. It’s not a comedy but is definitely funny and the half-hour format is refreshing in a world of hour-long dramas and giant commitments. (A-)

Too Funny to Fail: The Life and Death of The Dana Carvey Show: Jeez, this was a slog. I love Stephen Colbert and Steve Carell and respect their work, but everything around this show read to me as: cis white guys using their privilege to the point where they landed a primetime network show and did whatever they wanted for 7 weeks. Again, glad we got Ste(v/ph)en out of it – this truly launched their careers – but the rest felt like it could have been covered in 30 minutes. (D)

Synecdoche, New York: On a whim I checked to see if this Kaufman movie was available on a streaming network and it was – it’s on Netflix right now. It’s one of my favorite movies because it’s so befuddling and beautiful and messy and confusing and weird and uplifting and meta. The subject matter is not easy nor perfectly clear, but it is a vital reminder that we are here for such a short time and who we are is something we construct, and who we surround ourselves with is such a big influence on us. (A+)

Where Do I Go?

A few nights ago I was at an event at a new space, one I had heard great things about. After the event was over I needed to duck into the restroom. I found the restrooms and was confronted with two doors. Both doors had full-sized images of skeletons. One had a black bar over its groin area. One had two black bars, one over its groin area and one over its chest area. There were no words, no other descriptions of which bathroom was which.

I ultimately found my way into a restroom. But it took me more than a moment to interpret the poor attempt at reinforcing binary gender. I mean, all I needed to do was pee, and here was a very specific statement. Considering how new this place was, I was more than a little surprised.

Earlier this year my then-employer moved to a new space that included a gym. The locker rooms had these signs.

Locker room sign: person with box between their legs. (Supposed to be “men”.)

Locker room sign: slightly narrower person with a mug handle at chest height. (Supposed to be “women”.)

Again, these signs were the only ones there. It took me a moment the first time I saw them because I had no idea what was being conveyed (honestly!) But once I saw these, I was a little miffed. I mean, again, I’m just trying to pee here and now I need to figure out a damn puzzle on how this designer decided to reinforce a binary gender.

The big problem with both of these examples is that they reinforce the idea that gender, presentation, and sex are one in the same. The skeleton example tosses in more binary norms on top of it.

These are, in short, horrible ways to “solve” the problem. I’m all for bathroom signage being cutesy and/or clever, but these aren’t – they’re both wrong and offensive.

What’s a better way to do it? Well, being clear with signage is best. Just say what’s inside: a toilet, a urinal, whatever. But if you want to be cute then you could follow the lead of the Great Lakes Coffee Roasting Company in Detroit and do something like this.

Restroom sign. “Stronger flush”.

Restroom sign. “Better lighting”.

A Small Parallel

Today I decided to spruce up my monthly Spotify playlists with custom art. The way I did it was pretty simple: I opened up Keynote, started with the type, and began to work with it.

It wasn't lost on me that this is how I used to start designing websites. Nearly exactly. I would start with the logo for phonezilla.net, or The Daily Ping, or fluffypillow, or theEngine* by going in to Corel Photo-Paint (I was stingy and also couldn't afford Photoshop until I got a student discount in art school) and selecting fonts and colors. It's not dissimilar to how font sites let you type in any phrase and see how it looks. That's how I started understanding it all, and that's how I started to visualize how my website could be.

It's funny because it's a very visual way of thinking, and I have shied away from that for quite some time. But this is a 20+ year old way of working and it's kind of nice to still have it there.

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* = At one point I thought I would separate my personal site, phonezilla.net, into at least two sites: phonezilla would be the home for more text-based stuff and theEngine would be where my photography, web exhibits, and other art would live. theEngine never quite came to fruition. Instead, that stuff continued to live in the Kreativ section of my site.

The Unfollowing

A couple of years ago I struck up conversations with a person I met via Twitter. We had a number of common interests, and we'd get together and catch up for coffee and chat. It was a nice, cordial friendship and all.

Many months and slowing emails and interests diverging into it, I chose to unfollow them on Twitter. I didn't see it as a big deal, to be honest; they were posting a myriad things that were hurtful towards people I care about and the people I love – lots of anti-LGBTQIA+ stuff, lots of pro-Trump stuff, lots of "marriage is between a man and a woman" type of stuff. I didn't think twice about the unfollow. Why subject myself to that?

A month later, I happened to run into them at a local restaurant. Totally surprised. We struck up mildly pleasant small talk but then, they asked it. "So, you unfollowed me on Twitter. I was wondering why. We had a good friendship, and I took it really personally."

I was caught a little off-guard. Even now, I do appreciate their straightforwardness. I wasn't in a place to truly go deep into the content of this person's tweets, not in a public place. "It's not personal," I said, "I do stop following folks, but it doesn't necessarily mean anything else. But, I absolutely disagree with the things you've been posting."

We talked a little more and came to a place of distant agreement about it, more of a "Hey, it's fine we don't follow each other, but that doesn't necessarily impact our little friendship."

We never spoke again.

I'm also not able to fully avoid this person's work; some people retweet it, and this person collaborates with some people I know. Yet I admit, there's just a little tinge of jealousy I harbor about it.

Poison Pen

In the early days of my career, and at the tail end of college, I harbored a rebellious streak. I was in my early 20s! I was going to change the world and do amazing work on the web. That was the plan.

I started applying for jobs before I was done with school, figuring that companies would love to have me. After all, I had been working with the web for a few years at that point, and that was building on my decade plus of being professionally published. I mean, surely, this would matter.

But it did not.

My first job was a good first job. I was a webmaster, of sorts, at a credit union. I lived and breathed Flash and the emerging practice of using W3C standards. I had my own place in the suburbs, and a new car. I was doing just fine.

In 2001 I got exposed to, well, a lot more of life. I took a hugely personally important trip to the Twin Cities to meet up with a friend and learned about so much. I mean, I was sheltered; I had no idea Whole Foods and veganism and all of that existed before that trip. I got introduced to Adbusters and absorbed an anti-capitalistic vibe. I wanted to do things that meant something. So I remember taking that same attitude from before school – it'll be fine; just quit. Just quit. I was miserable in my job, and felt like it wasn't going anywhere.

So I quit. And I had no job lined up. But I figured that wouldn't be a problem.

And a little over a week later, September 11th happened.

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I remember going through a set of interviews with a large financial publication in Chicago that targeted rich investors. The job, by the looks of it, would have been boring as hell. But it was a job. I had none. And still, I wanted to be picky.

I distinctly remember that after an interview, I unloaded on the recruiter via email. I remember telling him that I didn't want to work in a cube farm, someplace where I was pushing numbers around for rich people and making them richer. I was acting like a privileged child. And, I was a privileged child.

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I don't regret it. It's not the path I would choose at 39.

IA Summit 2017: 5 Minute Madness

Note: this article reflected my feelings on IA Summit at the time of attendance. As of 2018, I've learned of serious safety violations at the conference over many years. Please consider that when reading this, as my experience may not be typical. Until further notice, you should not attend the IA Conference (which is what IA Summit is now known as) or support the IA Foundation. – Ed.

Like everyone else at IA Summit, I had the option of talking about anything at 5 Minute Madness. A full writeup of the conference is forthcoming. Here is a hastily-written up transcription of my notes and thoughts from 5MM.

Resist.

Resist ignorance in our work, our value, our values, what we do, and who we are.

Resist people who will tell you “no”. Listen to them, consider it. But press on.

And echoing Christina Wodtke's fantastic 5MM from last year: you are empowered. Do not architect hate. Privilege is freedom from explanation. Let us move toward a feminist IA, because the future and the world is non-binary.

Persist. Nevertheless.

You are helping others! We need you and your skills, your experience. Everything you bring. We need that.

This gets challenging, and this gets hard. But you can do this.

Rest if you must. Take care of yourself.

Exist. (totally cribbed my blog post here)

I want people to exist and bring their full selves to their lives when and where they can.

They might not be able to be visible in some situations for safety or personal reasons.

But it's critical for me to know that my friends and followers and coworkers and family and acquaintances are out there, pushing on, being themselves and just existing in this challenging time.

You are a part of my family of choice, in part because when I come here you see me. I see you too.

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Suuuuper big thanks to Veronica Erb and Christina Wodtke for their inspiration and letting me steal a quote or two.

Exist

In addition to my good morning tweets, I started posting a “Resist. Persist.” tweet that was later augmented with “Exist.” on the advice of a dear friend. I added it not just for the pithiness, but for what it truly stands for.

The bottom line is that I want people to exist and bring their full selves to their lives when and where they can. They might not be able to be visible in some situations for safety, personal reasons, what-have-you. But it's critical for me to know that my friends and followers and coworkers and family and acquaintances are out there, pushing on, being themselves and just existing in this challenging time.

On the other end of that tweet is support and love and admiration and respect.

Daily Photos

A few months ago I started taking daily photos of myself. This wasn't for an art project or a web project or a YouTube video from 11 years ago; rather, the motivation was two part. First, it was to note what I was wearing on a particular day – and, something to share with one of my friends, for feedback. Second, it was to help me feel better about the way I looked.

The clothing angle is partially to notice my habits – what things I wear, how I feel on a particular day, how I want to present myself.

The feeling better part is something that is still a work in progress. Having a photo of myself shows an unbiased* viewpoint of how I actually looked on a given day. I spend an incredible amount of energy and effort every day considering how I look – but it's not in the name of vanity, I assure you: it's a small dialogue in my head about my body and what's not right with it. In other words, it's bad old feelings about the way I looked 3 years ago and how I do not look that way now.

It's an unfair comparison, one that shows a disconnect between my brain and my body. My hope is that a photo each day serves to remind me that I am here now, I am worthy, and I look good. This is me working on undoing a very, very old pattern. It is hard.

* = Yes, photos can be biased of course. I've tried to control the series as much as possible: same position, same lighting, roughly the same pose.

Find your people

From Michael Chabon's must-read, My Son, The Prince of Fashion:

You are born into a family and those are your people, and they know you and they love you and if you are lucky they even, on occasion, manage to understand you. And that ought to be enough. But it is never enough.

As I grew up I saw my friends and family as very distinct groups of folks. How could I not? I lived with my family. I discovered my interests, my loves, my passions, the things that really started to define who I was in some way. And I looked to my family to help usher that along, to tell me that no matter what I loved it was okay. That I wasn't a freak. That I wasn't alone.

Sometimes that happened. Other times it did not.

When I was a kid, I didn't really open up to my friends. I didn't know how that worked, and I didn't know how to be vulnerable with others. I didn't know how to love deeply – to the point where I could put something out there, something raw and naked and true, and feel that I was safe and everything was okay. I held things inside for fear of judgment and abandonment (“who would want to be a friend to me because of...”) I worked through so very much alone that being solo and being on my own became a default.

Family of Choice

Sometime early in our marriage my wife introduced me to the term family of choice. I've come to love this term. We always have our given families (circumstances depending), but the people that we choose to involve and have in our lives are our choices. We can choose to deepen those relationships or not. We can choose to see those people and hang out and talk for hours and laugh and bullshit or not. We can choose to say polite hellos and greetings and take off in our opposite directions or not. That choice is there, in other words. And we can pull those people so close to us that it's like they're family because they are family. That same dependency, that same give-and-take, that same love.

There are a few places in my life where I have found my people and created a bigger family, much as Abe did at Paris Fashion Week. Thus far a lot of them have been work-related places and conferences. I know they're my people because they see me as a whole person first and foremost: the things I thought were fantastic, amazing, nerdy, embarrassing, cringe-worthy about myself – those are all there, and it's okay. I can be as close to my authentic self as possible even as I'm figuring out who my authentic self is. And when I find these places, I have no desire to leave. I want to stay in that comfort, safety, warmth, and support for as long as I can!

In return, of course, I invest myself. I give that support right back whenever I can. I become my friends' biggest cheerleader. I see them for who they are, and who they might be, without judgment. The nuance I feel at this stage in my life is time: I'm now seeing a lot of these deeper friendships as long term ones. Even when there are big life changes, keeping in touch and being in that same loop with people is thankfully easier than ever.

So yes. When you find your people, dig in. Be present. Hold them close. Talk. Be vulnerable. Be true. Put yourself out there. The rewards are worth it. Families – including families of choice – aren't bound by geography nor time nor background. They're bound by love.