09.24.2002 - Consonant

Back in the late eighties and early nineties, rather than take some grandiose vacation or, oh, you know, actually pay the electricity bill on time, my family opted to blow the funds normally associated with those things on season tickets to the Oakland Athletics. This always suited me because I'd rather spend a few days a week at the ballpark than concentrate a year's worth of arguments into a convenient one week package and the prospect of not having refrigerated food always seemed worse than possibly missing a Nolan Ryan no-hitter. My childhood may have been traumatic at times, but at least I can say I got to see my heroes on a regular basis.

One of my fondest memories of my adolescence was waking up early on a Summer weekend to get to the park in time for batting practice. Whenever I smell cheap grocery store sunblock now, I'm instantly transported to the railing next to the home dugout, 1991, where I shout my favorite players' names (always politely-- Mr. Henderson, never Ricky) in the hopes they might sign my glove. Over the years, I got every inch of that glove covered with autographs. No matter how many times I found myself face to face with a major leaguer, I always got butterflies in my stomach when one of my idols took my pen. I'm talking about the Mark McGwires, the Dennis Eckersleys, the Reggie Jacksons. My whole life at the time revolved around either playing or watching baseball. To be so close to someone so successful at something I loved was, at the time, a nearly religious experience.

It might be because I'm getting older or more enligtened or maybe I'm just bitter about not having the baseball skills to deliver me beyond the high school level, but my heroes no longer exist on the diamond. My idols are now mostly writers-- another field in which my talent is fleeting, minimal and will probably fade as I get fatter. Last night, much like all those sweltering Sundays, I again felt the overwhelming awe, giddiness and nervousness associated with meeting someone whom I truly admire.

We packed into the loft of Cody's Books on Telegraph in Berkeley to see Sarah Vowell give a reading from her new book. The one thing I did over the last weekend besides try to fully block an artery via donuts and naps was tear through The Partly Cloudy Patriot.

In an ideal world, I'd do what she does for a living. I imagine writing popular collections of essays, columns for reputable publications, working on This American Life and hanging out with other similarly great writers would be a lot more fulfilling than schlepping in an office where my only joy stems from being sexually harassed by my boss, coming home to eat a Lean Cuisine frozen meal and occasionally bang something out to post on the internet if I can tear myself away from whatever WB teen melodrama has captivated my attention.

She read two selections to the geeky guffaws distinctive of those of regular listeners of unsponsored radio programs before taking questions from the crowd. She talked about This American Life, her relationship with David Sedaris and David Rakoff and her feelings on the situation in Iraq. One of the last questions came from a gentleman who wanted to know what artists or bands she's been listening to lately, to which she said that she hadn't listened to much other than the news over the past year.

I quickly had an "I'm Such An Asshole" moment. These occur frequently and usually involve me doing something stupid, usually fairly insignificant, and then pulling my hair out and screaming "I'm Such An Asshole" in private.

I spent a long time putting together a mixtape for her, including some standard songs, but digging through my collection to put together something I thought she would like. She's written at length about being a music geek, so I thought a good way to thank her for motivating me (to a certain extent) would be to make her a tape. I debated about whether or not I would give it to her before I left because, frankly, it's a little creepy giving a mixtape to someone I've never actually met. Her comment should have told me that it would probably be best to keep it for myself, but for some reason, I ended up giving it to her before she signed my book.

Waiting in line was all sweaty palms, fast heartbeat and nervous stomach. It's always weird for me to be in this situation because I think no good can really come of it. Before I actually meet the writer, I can entertain fantasies about what it will be like when I just happen to run into them in an airport somewhere. We always get along fabulously, make great jokes and discover we have remarkably similar interests. These fantasies never involve me clamming up, stuttering or scaring them.

I don't know that I scared her, but I know I would have been a little creeped out had it happened to me. I handed her the tape and said, "I know you said you aren't listening to much music these days, but if you feel like coming back, you might give this a listen," in a demeanor unintentionally similar to that of Todd Louiso as Dick in High Fidelty before eventually relaxing and scuttling away. She remarked how she liked the cover and then clumsily put it in her bag. I'd like to pretend she'll listen to it.

As I drove home, the Bay Area NPR station broadcast a speech Al Gore gave at the Commonwealth Club and I found myself transfixed. Honestly, Sarah Vowell's essays about Al Gore, his media representation and the 2000 election made me view him in a more positive light than I may have two years ago, but this speech did more to make me support Gore than any number of essays written by able and admirable witers ever could. His arguments were logical, moving and passionate. I drove slowly so I wouldn't lose reception, so I wouldn't miss a word.

I have to say I'm happy with who I've chosen as heroes now. No musclebound first baseman ever made me think differently about anything that might actually affect me. No sports legend ever made me want to go to the library to bone up on civics. In fact, the only things baseball players gave me were an unhealthy addiction to Big Leage Chew and the dangerous idea that it's okay to cover an enormous ass with skin tight white pants. At least I can be sure my favorite writers won't go on strike.

Until my taste switch and I find a new set of people to look up to, I'll keep absorbing what these writers give me and spend equal time hoping that something might rub off on me or that I might have a normal conversation with one of them one day, hopefully this time without heart palpitations.

-- Jeffy