A Brief History of All Things Us

It all started with a dream. The dream of a doe-eyed, baby faced adolescent boy who aspired to one day share his love of all things hairy with the world through a mediocre mustache based magazine. One etymology project, four staff members, and five days later, Handlebar Magazine was born. So sit back and shave your worries for later. It's time for the hairy truth.

Thursday, December 6, 2012

Literary Dad: Shel Silverstein


When you lift the front-most flap of the glossy dustjacket on my copy of The Giving Tree, the first words you see are “To Baby Boylan, from Aunt Susan and Uncle Mark” written in faded and blotchy graphite. Less so my literary hero, and more so my literary godfather, Shel Silverstein was the author of the only book I owned coming out of the womb (he said, using a definite article as if there were only one ubiquitous womb that has cornered the market on turning out babies). Within two years of my birth, I owned every Shel Silverstein book and poetry collection in hardback, a testament to my parents’ resolute wish that if they should die in some tragic fire (you know, as opposed to dying in a rather droll fire), I should be left primarily in the custody of the Silverstinian doctrine with which they had imbued me.
            As I latently blossomed into the callous pre-teen boy with more plastic guns than paper books, however, I revoked my claim on ol’ man Silver and he gradually morphed from an accessible godfather to a clownish dad whom I couldn’t be caught dead speaking to. Even “Hungry Mungry,” the larger-than-life narrative poem about a boy who ate the tablecloth, his entire family, and then the entire earth, had lost its firm arrest on my imagination, now occupied by camouflage cargo pants and . . . well, pretty much just camouflage cargo pants.
            But like all superficially macho twerps, I came to love this enigmatic father of mine, albeit late in my youth. The day my small library of Silverstein hardbacks came tumbling off a closet shelf and full-force at my skull was one of bittersweet reconciliation. As I fingered through the thick cardstock leaves of “The Giving Tree” for the first time in almost a decade, I felt the stinging pressure at the corners of my eyes that accompanies only the most trenchant emotions experienced by any male between the ages of 14 and 32. Shel Silverstein was a riveting storyteller who knew the power of brevity better than I ever would. His narratives were simple and universal, yet so brilliant no one could have formulated them but him. Though it seems some have forgotten Silverstein as they age, I always am ready to turn to him for guidance and solace.

Trevell Cole: From Rapper to Rap Sheet


Sometimes we get so caught up with all the evil in the world that we can forget to stop and witness the good. Trevell Cole was a just a kid living on the wrong side of the tracks until one night, he made a life-altering mistake. He shot a man. The rest of his life was haunted with the memory of the shooting, forcing him to spiral into a deep morass and drugs and guilt. New York Magazine’s Jennifer Goodman reports on the achievements and tragedies of Cole’s life that all lead up to the moment when he turns himself in seventeen years later.  Some call him crazy, others call him a saint, but either way, “The Man Who Charged Himself with Murder” is definitely a story worth reading. 

One Character: Holden Caulfield

Walking in to Barnes & Noble a week before the start of my junior year, I felt the same, dark, familiar pit in my stomach hollowing out a home as my mind was forced to face the realization at hand; my summer reading was due in a week, and I hadn’t even started the book.  I walked out of the store, a copy of Catcher in the Rye in my hand and a look of pure disgust on my face, already convinced that this book that had stolen my last taste of freedom would indisputably be, at the risk of sounding like a four year old, the stupidest thing I would ever lay eyes on. I went home and procrastinated a few more days, but nearly a week later when asked why I didn’t just stop reading, I surprised myself by answering honestly, “I can’t”.

The thing is, it wasn't the magnificent writing style of J.D. Salinger, or the original yet complex coming of age plot that had me hooked, but rather the characterization and resulting narration of the protagonist, Holden Caulfield. Maybe it was because Salinger had used himself for the character’s mold, or maybe it was because I had spent my summer reading mind-numbing chick-lits, but somehow I had found a dynamic in the character of Holden that I had never found in a character before: desperation. The candidness of the narrator spoke to me in ways that no other novel ever had. Through the means of Holden Caulfield, Salinger puts on a page the words that so many are afraid to express themselves: the desire to run away, the distaste of everyone around you, the disturbance of feeling like a prisoner in your own body. It was so clear to me that Holden was trying so hard to grasp at some sense of happiness that he lost his footing all together. The display of his steady downfall was heartbreaking, humbling, and most of all, honest.

Once I read Holden's struggles  it was like all these other characters were insignificant,  like their simplicity and boldness were too outright and mainstream. I started to search for something that could give me a connection to, hope for, sympathy towards, anything like the experience that was mine while reading Catcher in the Rye. I found myself throwing down easy reads for something with more substance. In the most frustrating way, Holden Caulfield has taught me to desire good literature in ways that none of my English teachers ever could.

My peers can criticize the snobbishness of him all they want, and my English teacher can say that Holden’s “the biggest phony of them all” until he’s blue in the face, but one thing remains certain; in my mind, Holden Caulfield is the greatest flaw to have ever graced the pages of American literature. 

One Reader: 'Ol Daddio

I feel a little bad writing this, because my mom was the one who taught me to read. She bounced me on her knee for hours as I whined and complained about dogs picking up sticks and how much I hated that stupid semantics book. But, as late-night sitcoms and inspirational placards have taught me, I will never fully appreciate my mother until I have children of my own, haunting me with bad childhood karma. Moving on.

My dad was a total nerd as a kid. Growing up with three older sisters, he usually just retreated to his room and read comic books after school. He had a small group of close, intimate friends--he cared more about the people than the noise. Just like me.

Growing up, my dad and I bonded over weird, quirky things--the latest episode of Spongebob, trips to Menard's, our hatred of tomatoes--but most of all, books. It was the one toy I was almost never denied; it was the one thing I was never ordered to put down in lieu of chores.

When my second-cousin Harrison graduated from high school, my family drove to the outskirts of Chicago to wish him well. It was extended family--but family we held dearly, family that accompanied my cousins and I on our summer camping trips. I winced my way through cupcakes and streamers until the sun set and the people that mattered came inside. We laughed and talked and asked questions for hours until I dreamily stumbled downstairs. I picked up my waterlogged SOLO cup, and beneath, discovered a coffee table book: some arduous picture show about the history of Stonehenge or something. Two hours later, my mom came downstairs.

"Where were you? We've been looking for you everywhere."

I shrugged. "I dunno. Here."

She shook her head, smiled, pressed her lips together. "You're so much like your father."

It was a few years later when I was sitting in the dining room, trying, and failing, to come up with some sort of point about how Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman made me feel. I had liked the play, a lot, and there was some inchoate point I had in mind. And, as usual, I awkwardly danced around it for hours.

My dad walked to the refrigerator and saw me sitting there--chair tipped back, hands in my hair, casualties of rough drafts scattered on the floor.

"What's up?"

"Nothing. I'm just trying to write this paper for Miller's class. I just can't write anything--I--I know what I want to say and I can't say it."

Having no knowledge of the plot, he patiently asked me a few questions, tapped the door frame, and left. He returned in a few minutes with a worn-out Bible, pages opened to a verse circled in pen.

"I don't know. Maybe this'll help you."

And there it was: a thesis statement in red letters.

There's something about books that fostered a natural rapport with my father--a mysterious, casual bond that always went without saying. I love that my dad has boxes of old books in our attic, even though he doesn't need them anymore. I love that my dad has forgiven me for slowly acquiring the Calvin and Hobbes collection I got him for Christmas. I love that my dad never forced reading on me, but willingly entertained my obsessions with Lemony Snicket and The Guardians of Gahoole. I love that my dad constantly chides about how I'll be sleeping in our basement, but still encourages me to write.

Because there's a natural curiosity and sense of discovery fathers and daughters share--learning how to ride a bike, watching someone shave--that's gentle, sacred, and hidden somewhere inconspicuous. And for me, it's nestled in the pages of a book.

Podcast Playlist: Condescension and Morality in the Radiolab



"Everybody knows that sometimes you feel something is right, sometimes you feel something is wrong--we want to know: where does that feeling begin? Where does it come from? How old is it?--"

"Can we get started please?" 

"OKAY, okay...just going on a bit..." 

It's an interesting way to begin a conversation about morality--the way our brains weigh decisions and grapple with what's wrong and right. Bypassing the easier question of friendliness and social etiquette, in the segment "Who Can You Save?", Radiolab hosts profile Mark Hauser, a Harvard scientist whose research is empirically plunging into the question of how humans differentiate between right and wrong.

Complete with hypothetical situations, public commentary, and vetted scientific studies, this segment explores the possibility that morality is, in fact, not a product of our social conditioning, but of our biological wiring.

Not sure I agree with Hauser's conclusion, but it does shed an interesting light on the mysterious origin of humanity's collective conscience. A conscience that, at times, is just as paradoxical as the people speculating about it.

But if that doesn't interest you, the chick's laugh at 8:56 is hilarious. I about died; it was so cute :)

the Perks of Being a Wallflower


I’m not one for staying quiet. Ask anyone who has ever been in the same room as me. My voice is loud and obnoxious in itself and my laugh is even worse (and by worse I mean better). I think that’s partially why I found a book about an introvert so interesting. The novel The Perks of Being a Wallflower depicts Charlie, the high school freshman whose best friend committed suicide, whose aunt died while driving to get his gift, whose only contact at the start of the year is with the unnamed recipient of his personal letters. Charlie falls into a group of seniors, who teach him what it means to let go by way of drinking, smoking, and ultimately loving. With the confusing surroundings of high school and his nerve wracking unbalanced home, Charlie makes mistakes and learns from them, only to make them again. The honesty Stephen Chbosky has creates a relatable, yet dark coming of age story.
Charlie bonds with Patrick and Sam, a quirky brother and sister duo. They get him involved in the acting of the Rocky Horror Picture Show, take him to his first party, and introduce him to their friends. Charlie meets these people, but falls in love with Sam. Throughout the novel, Charlie refers to “getting bad,” which means self-destructive. His aunt was his closest relative, and she was in a fatal car accident on her way to get his Christmas present; he blames himself for her death. His respect for his aunt and his relationship with Sam foreshadow a gloomy and realistic ending, which may come as a surprise.  

On the e-Shelf


People don’t often realize how much TV they watch, and how their life would change without it (due to more free time, changing your schedule, etc).  Going without cable was at first a struggle, but became an advantage, as described by Taffy Brodesser-Ankner in her New York Times article “My Life as a Television Throwback.” Brodesser-Ankner expresses the concerns she and her husband had when first losing cable, in order to afford the more important food and rent, in a sarcastic and snappy way. She compares her TV experiences before and after cable, saying: “The anxiety of a cliffhanger could have me reeling for days… shows are best watched with breaks between episodes to build suspense.” Being without cable myself for two years, I enjoyed the article because I know the feeling of going all day with my hands over my ears and shouting spoiler alert until I arrive home and catch up on my favorite shows via the internet.  

Having a mother as a German teacher is not always that easy, parents as teachers at all is hard because I get the feeling they force you to behave perfectly in school, that’s how my mother always is. I can talk with her about everything, girl fights , the new York fashion week couples breaking up , all the stars and my friends and just stuff in my head but poor me when I tell her that it was so loud in our class that the principle had to come and clam us down. “That’s not appropriate charlotte!” ,was all I got from her than and a mean and evil teacher look which she usually just uses for bad teenagers in her class. Anyways that my mom is a German teacher is also really beneficial. Starting when I wasn’t even born, she read stories to me form the newspaper, a historical book or science fiction or love stories and even thrillers. I listened with a lot of joy and pleasure to the poems she was telling me about, which her students in class had to learn, and once she started the poem she got really into it and ended sometimes up in tears especially for “John Maynard”. Fascinated through this I always end up reading books or poems she is talking about. My mother is first of all the best mother in the world but I also understand now why she always wants me to listen to everything what deals with literature because there are so many people out there who don’t even know who Shakespeare was and how his writing influenced the society, there are a lot of really talented writers out there and my mother brings the stories she reads to life just in the way she is presenting it in a gesticular manner.

Maz Jobrani: Did you hear the one about the Iranian-American?

“A founding member of the Axis of Evil Comedy Tour, standup comic Maz Jobrani riffs on the challenges and conflicts of being Iranian-American -- "like, part of me thinks I should have a nuclear program; the other part thinks I can't be trusted ..." Maz Jobrani was a founding member of the Axis of Evil Comedy Tour and is now doing solo comedy with the title “brown and friendly”. Basically he is talking about discrimination and racism against foreigners and he talks about xenophobia, which isn’t funny at all but the way he is talking makes you laugh because he can laugh about his self. He is often ponting out that just because he is from an Arabian country doesn’t mean he has mean and evil and destroying thoughts. Stereotypes that’s what it’s all about. I really appreciate this Ted talk because it kind of reflects my situation and exposes the prevalence of xenophobia and isolationism.

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Pamela Meyer Lies about Lying

Pamela Meyer values objective truth. She uses big words like “marginalize” and “hotspots” to con you into thinking that by being able distinguish falsehoods from the concrete truth, your entire perception of reality will begin to shift and you will reach some internal zenith that transcends the blissful ignorance of our consumer culture where everything is public and nothing is sacred. Overall, this is one of the more utilitarian (Boylan, you dog) TED Talks I’ve patronized, but it’s an egregious disappointment that she tries to justify her lie-spotting talent with sentimental folderol about a better world. There’s no better world for me, Pamela Meyer. And if I can’t have a better world, no one can.