Crazy Fucking Flying Car Accident
details recounted by boundcreature
My first thought: "Action movies never get it right. They never get the details correct."
Action movies are to real traumatic incidents like porn is to real sex. The faux intensity of two people fucking on camera pales in comparison to a beautiful girl biting her lower lip when you are inside of her. The faux intensity of an action film, pales in comparison to a car jettisoning itself over four lanes of traffic and launching off of a grass median, over an exit in a magnificent cascade of dirt.
And my first thought was: "Action movies never get it right. They never get the details correct."
We pulled over and tried to help. I wondered why the car wasn't exploding. Cars explode when they hit things, right? I steeled myself up for seeing strangers covered in blood, there's always blood in car accidents right?
The passenger made it out first, a girl in her early twenties, shaken as you would think and thoroughly confused, she fell out of the passenger door and found her way to the ground. She was holding the side of her face. The driver was next, he stumbled, on his feet, walking like a drunk in a funhouse, a confused look smeared all over his face.
They seemed okay, externally, but this accident seemed more like a gut-shaker / bone-breaker than a vintage Michael Bay moment.
Her stumble, her confusion and fear: the panic, like the biting of the lower lip, the subtle details that make it authentic, make you realize you can't always watch approximated life, sometimes you have to live it.
The professionals arrive on the scene, possibly a little longer than they should have taken. An ambulance and a pile of state troopers. Thankfully, no local cops. Local cops bug me. I'm from a small boring town, the kind whose cops always think they are patrolling downtown Beirut on a bad day. It was refreshing to encounter a man with a badge commanding respect.
The scene: a two-car accident, a five-car convoy of witnesses of varying degrees of accuracy. Like a schoolyard game, he divided us into groups according to what car we were in, positioned by our approximate locations within the vehicle. One by one he qualified our accounts with a black and white outlook whose purity and discipline cannot help but demand respect. "Sir, did you see the beginning of the accident?"
"No," I said, "I just saw a cascade of dirt."
Action movies never get it right...
Too Old For The Scene
stodgily ranted by boundcreature
So, this story is gonna spare the details and rest on the periphery, if you were there, then you know, if you weren't there, chances are you've managed to see photos or hear stories more revealing than my words will be. I've got a right to reveal myself, but not anybody else.
Twenty-four going on forty, sometimes I feel like I'm too old for the scene; but, I say, let the kids have their fun. A younger version of myself would come off hard, unyielding on a self-righteous rant, but, these days, I'm experienced enough to recognize that it just ain't my scene.
The campground divided itself, not by any conscious decision, but as a matter of action and activity into a lower level of reflection and fire-gazing and an upper level entirely reminiscent of every highschool party that you are glad you never got invited to.
Last year, there was just one level, the fire-gazers and storytellers got to know each other, shared food and passed the night. There were only about thirty of us. This year, attendance was tripled, necessitating a larger camping area, divided into sections over a larger space. The things that went on this year were honestly what I expected to happen last year, but was really happy to see that they didn't. It was fairly low-key, but in a glorious and wonderful way.
This year, the party scene, the make-out club was a little too "Girls Gone Wild" for me. Maybe I'm misinterpreting rationales and motivations, but it seemed to me like we were drifting towards the mainstream, faster than I would prefer to drift. Doubtless, the fact that it was most often female-initiated is a sign of deviation, I think not even once did I hear the "Show us your tits!" drunken call from any of our members in attendance. Chances are, that wouldn't take you very far if you were an unknown or not speaking in jest.
Y'know, I don't dig strip clubs at all, maybe that's a fact that will further illuminate my mindset. I was in one, probably when I was about twenty-one, because my friend Mark and I had realized that we had never been in one and we should go, just so we could say that at least once, we had gone. It was kind of an amateur club, the girls were absolutely beautiful. But, the skewed imagery of guys with baseball caps sitting at tables, with a beer in their hand and a bare ass rubbed in their face just threw the whole thing out of whack for me. It's just not my scene, I say. I'd rather live my fantasies than jack-off to them later.
But, it's not just about me, no way. It's about 89 other people having a good time in the woods. It's funny how it divided though, a crew down below relaxing by the fire, a crew up above playing spin the bottle. The surprise is that it should not be a surprise, there is no true subculture, just a mainstream culture that dresses with more style. We all get drunk off the same beer and flash the same skin; the difference is a matter of attitude and value. Is anything special? Is anything worth being earned?
I'm no prude, I just need that legitimate spark of passion to get it started. What's a kiss, if it's got no weight behind it? A kiss without passion is like a punk song without anger: a worthless facade. I strive to give my every action value; I live in a narcissistic notion that I am shaped by things that I do not do as well as by those I do; that to be frivolous on a whim is not to act in accordance with ideas and actions that have value to me. If I kissed everyone, what the fuck would be the fun in kissing me?
Kissing and fucking can be so superficial, the same with nudity and sexuality and lots of other things that end in "-ing" and "-ity." What I had initially been attracted to about this website, was the notion perpetrated by media and members, that this was different; but I don't always think so. For me, alternative (as opposed to mainstream) culture is not a facade that dresses different and acts the same, it's a culture that acts differently at its core and as it extends out and expresses itself, it is revealed to be stylistically different.
But, like I said, it's not my scene. My scene was around the fire, in the lit-up eyes of friends I met last year who were as excited to see me again this year as I was to see them. My scene was sharing a rock with finch in the dark and talking about relationships. My scene was performing a haiku with ThePants that we had written about Seantastic after his kayaking alongside our raft inspired us:
Big-boned and stoic,
alone in a kayak, blue,
we paddle with him.
My scene was talking with capital and TheFullNelson by the trees, in the dark and my scene was sitting by the fire, late on our last night, with my beautiful girlfriend on my lap and good people everywhere I looked, hearing and telling jokes and stories, watching the fire and letting the night slip us by. And, at the end of the night, I walk to the showers with my girl and we retire to our tent and we kiss in the way that we've wanted to kiss since we woke up and I know that her lips and mine are sharing a conversation that others are not privy to and I know that we share a level of intimacy that is not entry-level and I know that, really, she's the only one I want to be kissing anyway.
And, I feel a sort-of self-righteous validation, that my value for myself and my respect for her let us have these moments that belong to us in their entirety. I take comfort in knowing that I am acting out of self-interest and not fear; I know that I do not want to be a part of that group, because I am comfortable with who I am and what I have and I can, with no hint of aggression, just say that it ain't my scene.
I think that is going to wrap it up for all of the SG East Coast Camping 2005 entries. Although, I must confess, I really enjoy the storytelling format I've been using for this stuff. This last story is not meant to be a downer, I had a great time for the whole weekend and I'm glad that so many people were able to gather, despite out differences and have a relatively drama-free community-oriented event. A thousand thanks go out to minimalism909, derceto, fenchurch, SteveNeurotic, SouthernBelle, Mylf, pip and Stiles. Until next year, this is it for me!
details recounted by boundcreature
My first thought: "Action movies never get it right. They never get the details correct."
Action movies are to real traumatic incidents like porn is to real sex. The faux intensity of two people fucking on camera pales in comparison to a beautiful girl biting her lower lip when you are inside of her. The faux intensity of an action film, pales in comparison to a car jettisoning itself over four lanes of traffic and launching off of a grass median, over an exit in a magnificent cascade of dirt.
And my first thought was: "Action movies never get it right. They never get the details correct."
We pulled over and tried to help. I wondered why the car wasn't exploding. Cars explode when they hit things, right? I steeled myself up for seeing strangers covered in blood, there's always blood in car accidents right?
The passenger made it out first, a girl in her early twenties, shaken as you would think and thoroughly confused, she fell out of the passenger door and found her way to the ground. She was holding the side of her face. The driver was next, he stumbled, on his feet, walking like a drunk in a funhouse, a confused look smeared all over his face.
They seemed okay, externally, but this accident seemed more like a gut-shaker / bone-breaker than a vintage Michael Bay moment.
Her stumble, her confusion and fear: the panic, like the biting of the lower lip, the subtle details that make it authentic, make you realize you can't always watch approximated life, sometimes you have to live it.
The professionals arrive on the scene, possibly a little longer than they should have taken. An ambulance and a pile of state troopers. Thankfully, no local cops. Local cops bug me. I'm from a small boring town, the kind whose cops always think they are patrolling downtown Beirut on a bad day. It was refreshing to encounter a man with a badge commanding respect.
The scene: a two-car accident, a five-car convoy of witnesses of varying degrees of accuracy. Like a schoolyard game, he divided us into groups according to what car we were in, positioned by our approximate locations within the vehicle. One by one he qualified our accounts with a black and white outlook whose purity and discipline cannot help but demand respect. "Sir, did you see the beginning of the accident?"
"No," I said, "I just saw a cascade of dirt."
Action movies never get it right...
Too Old For The Scene
stodgily ranted by boundcreature
So, this story is gonna spare the details and rest on the periphery, if you were there, then you know, if you weren't there, chances are you've managed to see photos or hear stories more revealing than my words will be. I've got a right to reveal myself, but not anybody else.
Twenty-four going on forty, sometimes I feel like I'm too old for the scene; but, I say, let the kids have their fun. A younger version of myself would come off hard, unyielding on a self-righteous rant, but, these days, I'm experienced enough to recognize that it just ain't my scene.
The campground divided itself, not by any conscious decision, but as a matter of action and activity into a lower level of reflection and fire-gazing and an upper level entirely reminiscent of every highschool party that you are glad you never got invited to.
Last year, there was just one level, the fire-gazers and storytellers got to know each other, shared food and passed the night. There were only about thirty of us. This year, attendance was tripled, necessitating a larger camping area, divided into sections over a larger space. The things that went on this year were honestly what I expected to happen last year, but was really happy to see that they didn't. It was fairly low-key, but in a glorious and wonderful way.
This year, the party scene, the make-out club was a little too "Girls Gone Wild" for me. Maybe I'm misinterpreting rationales and motivations, but it seemed to me like we were drifting towards the mainstream, faster than I would prefer to drift. Doubtless, the fact that it was most often female-initiated is a sign of deviation, I think not even once did I hear the "Show us your tits!" drunken call from any of our members in attendance. Chances are, that wouldn't take you very far if you were an unknown or not speaking in jest.
Y'know, I don't dig strip clubs at all, maybe that's a fact that will further illuminate my mindset. I was in one, probably when I was about twenty-one, because my friend Mark and I had realized that we had never been in one and we should go, just so we could say that at least once, we had gone. It was kind of an amateur club, the girls were absolutely beautiful. But, the skewed imagery of guys with baseball caps sitting at tables, with a beer in their hand and a bare ass rubbed in their face just threw the whole thing out of whack for me. It's just not my scene, I say. I'd rather live my fantasies than jack-off to them later.
But, it's not just about me, no way. It's about 89 other people having a good time in the woods. It's funny how it divided though, a crew down below relaxing by the fire, a crew up above playing spin the bottle. The surprise is that it should not be a surprise, there is no true subculture, just a mainstream culture that dresses with more style. We all get drunk off the same beer and flash the same skin; the difference is a matter of attitude and value. Is anything special? Is anything worth being earned?
I'm no prude, I just need that legitimate spark of passion to get it started. What's a kiss, if it's got no weight behind it? A kiss without passion is like a punk song without anger: a worthless facade. I strive to give my every action value; I live in a narcissistic notion that I am shaped by things that I do not do as well as by those I do; that to be frivolous on a whim is not to act in accordance with ideas and actions that have value to me. If I kissed everyone, what the fuck would be the fun in kissing me?
Kissing and fucking can be so superficial, the same with nudity and sexuality and lots of other things that end in "-ing" and "-ity." What I had initially been attracted to about this website, was the notion perpetrated by media and members, that this was different; but I don't always think so. For me, alternative (as opposed to mainstream) culture is not a facade that dresses different and acts the same, it's a culture that acts differently at its core and as it extends out and expresses itself, it is revealed to be stylistically different.
But, like I said, it's not my scene. My scene was around the fire, in the lit-up eyes of friends I met last year who were as excited to see me again this year as I was to see them. My scene was sharing a rock with finch in the dark and talking about relationships. My scene was performing a haiku with ThePants that we had written about Seantastic after his kayaking alongside our raft inspired us:
Big-boned and stoic,
alone in a kayak, blue,
we paddle with him.
My scene was talking with capital and TheFullNelson by the trees, in the dark and my scene was sitting by the fire, late on our last night, with my beautiful girlfriend on my lap and good people everywhere I looked, hearing and telling jokes and stories, watching the fire and letting the night slip us by. And, at the end of the night, I walk to the showers with my girl and we retire to our tent and we kiss in the way that we've wanted to kiss since we woke up and I know that her lips and mine are sharing a conversation that others are not privy to and I know that we share a level of intimacy that is not entry-level and I know that, really, she's the only one I want to be kissing anyway.
And, I feel a sort-of self-righteous validation, that my value for myself and my respect for her let us have these moments that belong to us in their entirety. I take comfort in knowing that I am acting out of self-interest and not fear; I know that I do not want to be a part of that group, because I am comfortable with who I am and what I have and I can, with no hint of aggression, just say that it ain't my scene.
I think that is going to wrap it up for all of the SG East Coast Camping 2005 entries. Although, I must confess, I really enjoy the storytelling format I've been using for this stuff. This last story is not meant to be a downer, I had a great time for the whole weekend and I'm glad that so many people were able to gather, despite out differences and have a relatively drama-free community-oriented event. A thousand thanks go out to minimalism909, derceto, fenchurch, SteveNeurotic, SouthernBelle, Mylf, pip and Stiles. Until next year, this is it for me!
VIEW 25 of 29 COMMENTS
not that i wasn't a little punk kid myself in the early '80s, and of course the who were my favorite band when i was 13 and i wished like hell i coulda been a mod.
and of course, people can still make great punk rock or sound liek the creation or whatever -- i'm not some crazy purist, and obviously i don't know that today punks hate mods.
whew, that was a long way towards saying that obviously the jam and the buzzcocks and alla those bands totally adored the who, kinks, creation, et al...
...which brings us to the mod influence on nascent bripop/ early creation/ c86 scene in the '80s since alan mcgee not only named his label but his band after the loudest of all the mod bands.
but then calling '60s bands mod is a little weird as true mods only listened to ska/ bluebeat and early soul music from the us, as i understand it.
sorry, i am a dork and will go off at the slightest provocation sometimes. this isn't ilm though, so i'll shut up.