Rogue Tusk

Happy 4th of July weekend! I saw a lot of America in the last two weeks. My dad is home for a bit from his job overseas, so we took a family trip to Yellowstone, but not before spending Father's Day with my brother and sister-in-law (and future niece!) in Arkansas. Nathan was still pretty fresh off the plane from El Salvador. It's so rare that we get to chat in person, so catching up with him in Searcy was a very nice thing.

Here's who you're dealing with here at The Real Ideal.

Look At This Photograph

First, I'd like to apologize for the title of this post, which I admittedly borrowed from a song by either Nickelback or Hinder, which are basically the same band. But this is a blog about nice things, not terrible things, so here we go.

Truly, madly, deeply, what could be nicer than old photographs? Recently, there have been a few instances that have rekindled my interests in these images of the past.

Yesterday, some relatives that I knew nothing about made a surprise visit to my grandparents' house bearing an envelope for my father. In the envelope were pictures of great uncles and aunts, my father when he was a boy, and even some early 90s family reunions in which I made some appearances. Well, that struck a note in my grandmother, who was not to be outdone. So she dug out the photo albums, and away we went.

Paul & Debbie of a friend's family, in an old photograph

I love seeing old pictures of my dad's family that I know little to nothing about. I like to think about their lives and what they were like. I like to see them sitting on the front steps of their true-to-form Arkie cabins, or, a little later, proudly posing with their new Chevrolet. I like to wonder what it was like to work so hard picking cotton or strawberries, raising pigs, and tending chicken houses so they could buy a vehicle to ride into town on the weekends.

A few days ago, in the midst of moving and emptying a large shop-building, I came across a trunk that belonged to my mother's mother, or, as I called her, Omi. She was from Heidelberg, Germany, and got off the boat in the late 50s after my mother was born.

In the trunk were tons of German books and old letters written in the language, which were treasures in themselves, but for a brief while I was fascinated by all the old photos that were littered about the box. Images of old European streets filled with small, roundish autos and thin-wheeled bicycles with fenders gave me a sense of longing, and pictures of people I was likely related to, whose descendants still live in Germany, made me curious.

Many of these photos were more than 50 years old and of people and places I have never known, but they had such a profound impact on me. This is my past, your past, or just plain old anybody's past, and that fascinates me. Especially when room is left for imagination and story-making.



*Bonus: What other popular song titles can be found in this post, and who performed them?

Time Out!

This is a good day for Zacks and Morrises and Indiana. When I was in middle school, an airport worker checked my passport and asked if I was any kin to Zack Morris. I might've joked, "Oh, you mean my husband?" But I was 14, so even though I probably had an old Tiger Beat photo of Mark Paul Gosselaar in a heart-shaped frame somewhere, I acted really bershon, like this airline employee was full of lame. Also, 14-year-olds are too young to be making "I'm married" jokes to grown-up strangers.

I know I'm not ahead of the curve on noting Gosselaar's Jimmy Fallon appearance from last night, but since Nathan is still in El Salvador (not for long!), we can pretend that maybe he hasn't caught wind of this fun Saved By the Bell throwback yet.

Note the tight-rolled jeans.

Time in!

Finding Home in Unlikely Places

First of all, I'd like to apologize for keeping you--the blogosphere--anxiously waiting for this next installment of The Real Ideal: Nice Things to Say About Nice Things. I know this has caused some deep distress, and I take full responsibility.

Whew. Now that I've got that off of my chest, let's get to the niceties.

I, Nathan, one of two co-writers of this fine publication, have been away from home for a while now--going on 10 months. I've been living in an unfamiliar country with unfamiliar people and unfamiliar customs. My time here has mostly been wonderful. I've met some great people and I've seen some great things. But, though I've grown to love this place, it's still not home. I've sure all of you have felt like this at some point.

Sometimes, however, we are blessed with the most familiar things in the most unlikely places; we are given the most unexpected reminders of home. And I'm not talking about being able to walk down the street to pick up a Whopper Jr. from the King himself. That's really not that nice. I'm talking about receiving an apple pie as a gift from a student, or making great jokes with a hilarious lady from Texas. That's the good stuff.

I had one of these unexpected pieces of home encounters a couple of weeks ago: probably the best one so far. A couple I've made friends with wanted to take me to a folk/bluegrass concert at the national university. I went, and I was so pleased. It was a legitimate four-piece string band from the Appalachians/Brooklyn, and they were great! They played a lot of my favorite songs, and it was a wonderful reminder of some of my favorite times spent at home--a heaping portion of American Pie.

The Hoppin' John Stringband

The Hoppin' John Stringband not only played great music, but they were great to talk to as well. They were so glad to have brought something so familiar to a boy from Arkansas and a girl from North Carolina (and Elvis, her Salvadorean husband). Check out the Hoppin' John Stringband, along with some of the members' other projects, here: hyperlink to their MySpace. I especially like the song "The Blackest Crow."

Here's to finding home in unlikely places; it is truly a nice thing.

In defense of scribblers

I was looking after the girl with the dead fish again the other day. This time she was cranky. She stayed up too late and woke up too early, which, for a four-year-old, equals a lot of crocodile tears into couch cushions. We were painting. I started a portrait of her, thinking maybe it would cheer her up. Instead, I accidentally gave her an inferiority complex because my painting was such a masterpiece (no it wasn't).

Her plastic paintbrush clattered to the table as she wailed, "This is the worst day I ever had! I'm so bad at this and I can only scribble and none of my friends scribble and all my paintings looks so bad..." She went on.

I scrawled a loopy face onto the portrait in a feeble attempt to convince her that I still scribble too—only my scribbles weren't half as untamed as hers, which just upset her more.

"Listen," I said. "There are some very famous grown-up artists who only scribble. Do you want me to prove it to you?"

I was afraid she might prefer a noisy tantrum to art history. But she nodded, wiping away the fake tears she so desperately wished were pouring down her cheeks, and sat on my lap at the computer while I looked up Jackson Pollock. We scrolled through galleries of his paintings and she pointed out her favorites.

"Wow, this is just so beautiful," she'd say, laughing delighted, four-year-old giggles as pure as her scribbles. She was enraptured by grainy videos of Pollock and other painters at work.

I think sometimes we all feel like she did. Like whatever we're working on is just pointless scrawling, and maybe the canvas was better off blank before we came along and messed it all up. But maybe we just need to see it in a pretty new frame. Maybe our life-scribbling is worth a million bucks to certain art aficionados or to our mothers or to four-year-olds or to God.

We didn't go back to the watercolors again that day, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't because she was still feeling ashamed or inadequate. She was just an action painter.

You Are Beautiful

After Nathan's post about great old buildings, I came upon this one in Fountain Square, an artsy district in downtown Indianapolis.

Nothing boosts my confidence like affirmative architecture.

"Aw, shucks, downtown Indy. So are you," I whisper, blushing a little. This town makes me feel so good about myself.

And this project makes me feel good about the world. I did some quick research to find the story behind this building, and I ended up spending a good hour on this Web site (www.you-are-beautiful.com). Why haven't I heard about this before?

You Are Beautiful is an effort to brighten days worldwide, making a difference by "catching us in the midst of daily life and creating moments of positive self realization." It's affiliated with art shows (like the one I wish I'd known was in Fountain Square two years ago), collaborative projects, stickers I'm sending in for, and more.

There's lots of cool pictures and neat freebies on the site. Make sure you look at these cool books designed by beautiful folks all around the globe.

Nostalgia vs. Novelty

I usually feel a fair amount of shame when I get all nostalgic. I'm not sure what it is, but whenever I get to day-dreaming about times gone by, I often get this shooting pang of conscious that seems to scream "get on with it!" After all, I am only 23: what do I have to be nostalgic about?

However, when it comes to novelty, it seems that any cheap new trick can catch my attention. I feel that I should be embarrassed about this, but of course, I am not. Why is it that I can so easily latch onto something new, turning a blind eye to the deceptive trickery of plastique and gloss and new, yet when I ponder upon an old friend, that one summer, that awesome experience, or a could-of-should-of-would-of, I shrug it off with such an ease that only self-inflicted shame can provide? This is a question that has been running laps in my mind for the past few days. Until now.

Nostalgia in Picture Form ©2005 The Real Ideal

Nostalgia in Picture Form ©2005 The Real Ideal


Nostalgia in Picture Form ©2005 The Real Ideal

Shame be doggoned; I love nostalgia. I've recently been feeling quite nostalgic, and have been regularly drinking of its springs of joy and sadness. Talking to old friends that I do not regularly keep in contact with, thinking on past experiences and circumstances, and time-traveling back to those good and not-so-good old days (whichever ones they may be at the moment): I am steeped in it, and it is great.

I have really come to appreciate nostalgia, because it has in turn brought appreciation for my past and where I come from and how I got here etc., etc., etc. Being nostalgic reminds me of people that I loved, and still love, and that I am sure still love me, because though we rarely even talk anymore, and because we have all gone our separate ways, one to another we are still who we were and who we always will be: bits of fruit suspended in the jiggling gelatin mold of life and time (please forgive me ). And I love that.

But what's interesting about nostalgia is that it really relies on novelty. Without the novelty of experiences had, secrets shared, places been, and new friends found, what would there be to be nostalgic about? Of course, through the lens of nostalgia, all that is plastic and all that is gloss and all that is false or fake is filtered away, and only the good things--the nice things--last.