orinne: So Lizzie, what do you think now that Obama has overtaken Hillary in the primaries, you Clinton supporter?
Lizzie: Come again?
Corinne: Uh, yeah, biotch. He's on his way to the White House.
Lizzie: Corinne, you spend more time scouring MySpace than even skimming the Drudge Report. Do you even know why you like Obama?
Corinne: Sure, lots of reasons. Do you have any reason for liking Hillary other than she went to your high school a million years ago?
Lizzie: Game on, betch. “It Takes a Village” vs. “The Audacity of Hope.” Go.
Corinne: Having read neither, I will approach this solely by the titles. “Audacity” has the most syllables of all the words. Score one for Obama. And he won a Grammy, over Hillary.
Lizzie: So he has a more soulful R&B voice. Hillary speaks with the voice of the people. It takes a village to find anyone who understands the word “audacity.” He's pompous. Score one for Hillary.
Corinne: What about her autobiography that was a thousand pages long, dry as a bone, and didn't mention the “Monica Gate” scandal once – the only reason anyone wanted to read it?
Lizzie: Mentioning bone and Monica in the same sentence? Why not just come out and say that's the only reason you picked it up, perv?
Corinne: I never touched the thing. But while we're on the subject, how can you support a woman who put up with her husband getting extramarital BJs? Point Barack!
Lizzie: Beejay-schmeejay. Hillary allowed the situation to give the country a better grasp of the dynamics of the word “is.” She's a bibliophile. Besides, if it had been Obama, his crazy wife would have put out one of his cigarettes on his arm. Point Hillary!
Corinne: Crazy? Would you rather have Bill as your First Lady?
Lizzie: I'd take Bill as my first anything.
Corinne: Whore. So far Barack and Quivering Eyebrow are tied two to two .
Lizzie: What about the fact that Hillary is for universal health care?
Corinne: I'm sure Barack wants good health care for everyone, too.
Lizzie: Are you?
Corinne: Um, sure. He's said it a million times in his amazing speeches. He's the single most inspirational political candidate I've ever seen at a podium. So much better than Hillary's robot voice.
Lizzie: I'll concede that the BBC, which reports more substantively on American politics than America , observed that Barack supporters vote out of a sense of inspiration while Hillary supporters vote out of a sense of obligation.
But the “galvanized youth” will learn that political inspiration fades and disillusionment sets in quickly. Why not vote for Hillary, who has a realistic vision on which she can deliver? Score one more for Hillary.
Corinne: So what? Obama's dad is from Kenya . You know how much political cred he'll have with other nations' leaders? It's well documented that foreign people like other foreign people. Score one from the Russian judge.
Lizzie: Right, like Israelis and Palestinians? With that line of thinking, we'll end up with Vice President Bono and Secretary of State Angelina Jolie. Then we'd have streets with no names filled with East Asian babies.
Corinne: It's going to be Vice President Oprah. Get it right. Foreign politics aside, the bottom line is Obama has an enigmatic personality, and all walks of life can relate to him. Hillary's been in the game so long, she's like an emotionless blond political machine covered in Aquanet and tweed.
Lizzie: Emotionless? She put blood, sweat, and tears into her campaign. We nearly saw the tears during the New Hampshire primary. Prove me wrong.
Corinne: All I know is if Barack and Hillary were at the Brew and View watching “Steel Magnolias,” Barack would be grabbing for a Puffs Plus when Sally Field goes on her “my baby's gone” rant, and Hillary would be checking her BlackBerry for poll updates.
Lizzie: That's because Hillary's not gay. Let's get back to some actual issues.
Corinne: Fine. Let's discuss the fact that if either of them becomes president, they'll either be the first female president or the first black president. Does that really matter?
Lizzie: Unfortunately, sexism and racism will still exist no matter who wins. But I think the popularity of their campaigns shows that both issues are being combated. Point for each candidate.
Corinne: Toosh.
Lizzie: What about skills? Bill plays the sax. George Bush (the first one) sky dives for his birthdays. Does either candidate possess a skill that makes him/her relatable and fun?
Corinne: Well, Obama used to smoke, so that's cool. I don't know about Hillary.
Lizzie: I hear she's a mean speed walker. I think that's minus a point each.
Corinne: So that leaves us at a tie at three points each. How do we decide a winner?
Lizzie: Well, either way, everyone wins now that the Bush dynasty is coming to an end.
esearch is designed to answer questions that exist in the world. My question was simple: Which musical pursuit holds the competitive advantage – playing chords and notes with a physical guitar or honing the art of airness with an air guitar? Around this central issue, I developed an ad hoc research protocol to survey individuals on which method of guitaring would be best incorporated into daily life. Which would prevail – matter-based instruments constructed of wood and string or invisible instruments constructed of sound and movement? Based on statistically insignificant evidence gathered in a manner breaching all standards of survey design, I contend that the air guitar is the preferable alternative to the long-standing trend of physical, “there” guitars.
I randomly sampled a cross-section of individuals, ranging in age from 12 to 57, while taking shelter in a small hut during a tropical downpour in Panama . Initially, the survey was put in the field with a voluntary participation caveat, but with 0% survey completion, responses became mandatory. Participation in the “Air Guitar vs. There Guitar” survey was carefully considered by each individual despite desperate thoughts of malaria-carrying mosquitoes, lack of running water, and the depleted supply of rum. No confidentiality of any kind was promised. No consent forms were signed or verbal consent given. However, there existed an unspoken acceptance of the fact that all quotes would be grossly misinterpreted in order to support the preformed conclusions of the research. Given these conditions, the question of response bias is moot. (Note: Ten members of my family and I survived two weeks on a remote island in Panama during the tail end of the rainy season. Clean water was scarce, bugs were plenty, tensions ran high, and rum was drunk straight from the bottle.)
Air Guitar 9, There Guitar 1
There Guitar – 1 Edgar, a legal Puerto Rican immigrant and self-made man, voiced his preference for the “there” guitar. “Playing a real instrument in a garage band allows you to develop a skill, meet people, and get chicks. With a real band you have real artistic collaboration.” Coming to America with little more than the second-hand acoustic strapped to his shoulder, busking corners at night with songs of San Juan became his meal ticket and eventually helped pay his way through college. He was the quintessential afroed Latino singer-songwriter with swaying hips and a weeping guitar. Now bald, married with children, and working for The Man, Edgar retains nostalgia for the simple camaraderie that exists between a dislocated Puerto Rican and his instrument. This disconcerting connection to a long lost guitar negates neutrality and undermines the validity of his response.
However, being the only test subject to favor “there” guitar, his feedback is vital to understanding what “there” guitar enthusiasts perceive as the benefits of playing physical instruments. Alleged “there” guitar advantages include: artistic expression, musical collaboration, jamming with friends, chicks, groupies, rock and roll, skill, and cool outfits.
What Edgar fails to see through his rose-colored lenses is the multitude of weaknesses inherent to “there” guitar. If prior research existed it would confirm the many “there” guitar disadvantages, namely: actual instruments, additional equipment, practice, practice space, musical talent, musical composition, commitment, unified vision of the band, and, of course, hitting the threshold of your musical ability and becoming painfully aware of the fact that you were never meant to succeed or dream.
The logical person would ask: “Can I somehow reap the benefits of ‘there' guitar without being hassled by the shortcomings?” There is a way. And its name is Air Guitar. (Note: If the only advantage you seek to reap is chicks, then immediately stop reading this, don a pair of too tight jeans, and purchase a guitar. It's the only way to shed your desperate virginity.)
Air Guitar – 9 The nine individuals who correctly guessed the answer that I wanted them to give do not fit a single profile. The following unsubstantiated anecdotal evidence tells us that air guitar is the everyman's homage to the rock-and-roll lifestyle. For example, Rebecca is an all-state tennis and varsity soccer player. Kaivona is a theatre-geek thespian who prefers to sing her conversations. Though at opposite ends of the high school clique continuum, both prefer air guitar because it proves a more subjective talent. Rebecca explains: “You don't need to be talented to be in an air band; you just need fingers.” Kaivona concurs: “You don't have to worry about playing the right notes, because in air guitar you always hit the right notes.”
Any air guitarist can channel musical genius, whereas “there” guitarists are limited by technical skill. Andrew, a twentysomething megalomaniac, is drawn to fact that “with an air guitar, you have the ability to play at a rock star level even as an amateur.” Unfortunately, musical mediocrity is a major cause of quarter-life crises among “there” guitarists who believe that pursuing a musical career is something other than an effort in futility. Air guitar thus appeals to individuals who can settle for nothing less than being the best. Christina, a tween committed to her own success, enjoys the idea that “you could do any song and be awesome at it.”
There is also a practicality to air instruments that appeals to parents. Importantly, there are no ego clashes or taste discrepancies to contend with. Renee, a mother drained by the emotional hurricane of argumentative, hormonal teenagers, recognizes that members of actual bands “become more frustrated in attempting to write a song because of conflicting beliefs about the music.” Air guitar and air bands resolve this dilemma because they “don't have requirements like lyrics or musical creativity.” Cathy, a self-employed mother of four, sees the financial gain to be had by pursuing air guitar: “Airness is a much more affordable and portable talent. All you need are the moves. Air instruments are cheap, compact, and easy to travel with – which is important given the weight limits on planes nowadays.”
Air guitar's universal appeal also extends to trailblazers, avant-garde rockers, and self-reinventers. These “fringe” members of society look to the uncharted territory of airness for the next adventure. Alicia, who aims to become the youngest half-Puerto Rican female president (if not the first) wisely points out: “There is something to be said about the pioneers of change. George Washington. Neil Armstrong. Michael Jackson. If you join a rock band, you'll always be compared to your predecessors, but if you become the first air guitarist to go platinum, you'll live forever.” Jim, a party animal suppressed by middle age, a mortgage, and the suburbs, appreciates that “air guitar and air bands are for those who may lack musical talent but love sex, drugs, and rock and roll.” Daniel, a teenage boy trying to repress memories of past drag shows forced upon him by three sisters, points out that air guitar is “one of those activities where you can have fun without caring what you look like because everyone looks ridiculous.”
Though this research only utilized a small sample size and collected responses based on an unethical and slightly racist protocol, the data is indisputable. Of these 10 individuals, nine advised the pursuit of a talent that can be honed anywhere and at any time. Only one outlier, whose response could technically be discounted, dissented. Air guitar is the future of fledgling rock-and-rollers who lack the skill or the wherewithal to play an actual instrument, find the time to practice, or compose new material. Air guitar wraps heavy burdens like talent, commitment, and originality into an invisible package that makes them light as air. It is rock and roll without all the fuss. An air guitarist may never play a riff as sweet as Slash, but he can rival the entire Guns n' Roses crew on elements of style, thrash, substance abuse, and general rockability. If you have been persuaded by the overwhelming advantages of airness, I will be holding auditions for my air band, Invisible Noise. Practices will be held only sporadically after midnight in a dive bar when a decent song happens to play on the jukebox.
8:25 a.m. Wake up with the stale taste of regret in my mouth. This morning's regret tastes of an unfortunate mixture of cigarettes, Jäger, tooth fuzz, and pepperoni pizza. A quick look to my right assuages my fear of a potential double regret sleeping next to me. Thankfully, crumpled jeans and dirty underwear are my only other bedfellows. There's a throbbing in my head and a beeping from my phone. My cell phone shows three voice messages from my mom, and I already know what they say. They say “Lizzie, I am sure you once again felt invincible against the effects of alcohol and credit card debt last night and managed to fund a drinking frenzy for you and your friends from 5 p.m. until 4 a.m. I have very little sympathy for your hungover, sleep-deprived state, which is why I am calling you at this ungodly hour in the morning. Christmas is in five days, and you have a plane to catch this afternoon. We have activities planned for this evening, so wake your sorry ass up, wash your shame away, pack your dirty clothes, and get home.”
8:30 a.m. – 4:00 p.m. Barrage of mother-daughter phone calls ensues. Accusation and exasperation parry. Mom accuses me of not laundering my clothes, packing, dry cleaning, Christmas shopping, working on graduate school applications, sobering up, and ordering a cab for the airport. I become exasperated because though all of these insinuations are true, I don't really want to hear them while unshowered, underwearless, in my skank top from the night before, and playing my best run of FreeCell ever.
Manage to make the flight.
Home
4:30 p.m. The smell of garlic simmering in oil greets me at the door with the promise of meatballs, marinara, lasagna, sausage bread, and five pounds of additional fat strapped to my ass. Heaven.
5:15 p.m. Dad arrives home early from the office and insists upon a happy hour Scotch with his daughter. Ugh. Dad likes to use my questionable sobriety as an excuse to stock the liquor cabinet, hold extended happy hours each night, and then blame the depletion of the booze on me. That works for me since I can't be alcoholic and a student at the same time. They're mutually exclusive terms.
6:15 p.m. Andrew arrives home from wrestling, wearing his varsity jacket and seemingly little else. Mom suspiciously asks what he is wearing under his jacket. Andrew flexes, popping the snaps of his letterman jacket open to reveal his ripped, cleanly shaven bare chest. He proceeds to flex in the kitchen to my disgust for the next 20 minutes. Thankfully, a sandwich and pasta divert his attention, albeit ever so briefly, from his pecs, tris, and lats.
6:30 p.m. Kai arrives home from a friend's house. She is fully inculcated by sixth-grade culture, which involves protocols and social interactions wholly alien from my own. I feign interest in her ceaseless chatter about the twisted, cruel world of 12-year-old passions, romance, and thwarted dreams.
6:45 p.m. Lock myself in my room to play Snood in brain-numbing, peaceful solitude.
7:00 p.m. Andrew enters to discuss his 18-year-old epiphany on sexual relationships. 1. Girlfriends are worthless, considering the fact that you can pretty much get on any chick you want. 2. Girls can be “just friends.”* * He exemplifies this “just friends” point by relating an anecdote about his “just friend” Samantha. Samantha is his ex-girlfriend from sophomore year. They became reacquainted at her party three weeks prior, at which time he “got on her.” Because nothing more has occurred, he has decided that they must be platonic friends.
Decorating
7:30 p.m. My desire to adopt a sad, lonely Charlie Brown tree this year is trumped by my brother and dad, who decide that we purchase a Christmas tree they call “the Bull.” The Bull is a Christmas tree manifestation of the manliness that inflates the egos of that pair. True to form, Andrew switches the tags so that instead of $ 65 our tree only costs $ 45. Mom feels bad for the “poor, white, trailer-park Wisconsin boy” who was duped into selling it at that price and “tips” him $ 20.
8:00 p.m. Andrew leaves to watch some show called One Tree Hill with other wrestlers and football players. What females. When they pick him up, they say, "So, you're Andrew's sister." While popping the cork on the next happy hour bottle, I retort, "You mean that Andrew is my brother." Only blank stares in return. I feel tired.
9:00 p.m. Drink the bottle of wine with Dad as we watch back-to-back episodes of Dinosaurs on the Discovery Channel. Did you know that the sauropod has the smallest brain-to-body mass ratio? True. With its nearly 40-foot body weighing over 15,000 pounds, the sauropod had a brain only the size of a banana. Amazing. After a few “quality kills” by the raptors, Dad starts snoring.
10:00 p.m. Run to Jewel to buy carpet cleaner because my dog decided that a tree in the warm house is a much better alternative to a tree in the cold outdoors. While at Jewel I run into my brother and his friends buying a case of Icehouse. Apparently “watching One Tree Hill” is high school jock code for “illegally purchasing alcohol.” Andrew explains to me that he's done some research and he has discovered that Icehouse has the highest alcohol content of beers available in cases. He invites me along on their “winter warmer” event during which they drive around the neighborhood drinking beer and either stealing Christmas lawn ornaments or simply rearranging the nativity statues into sinful positions. While tempted, I decline this opportunity to serve jail time in my hometown.
10:30 p.m. Clean the dog pee off the carpet, throw a load of crumpled jeans and dirty underwear into the wash, and call it a night. It's good to be home for the holidays.
Lizzie Maratea
Lizzie Maratea is a socially awkward extrovert prone to inappropriate outbursts. Because she cannot explain her job in five words or less, she usually lies. Her therapist suggested writing as means to deal with her tactless mannerisms and proclivity to bend the truth.
Lizzie attended Cornell University and majored in history with no intention of teaching, working as a museum curator, or attending law school. With no job prospect in sight, she decided to live in London, where she managed to sneak in a master’s in media and communication from the London School of Economics. She has yet to utilize her education, settling instead for mediocrity in order to pull in a steady paycheck.
Lizzie currently finds herself at home in Chicago, Illinois. Literally, at home.