I know that Thanksgiving just passed, but as soon as I start to smell the cinnamon scented candles and see people sipping gingerbread lattés, I start to think about the new year. More specifically, I start to think about my resolutions for the new year.
I’ve mentioned before that I don’t so much come up with resolutions as I do a theme for each year, and my 2006 theme was “More Love.” Although I won’t bore you with the specifics, I will happily say that this year lived up to its name on many levels. Not to spill too much, but in the wise words of my mentor and idol, Cyndi Lauper, she bop, he bop, a-we bop, I bop, you bop, a-they bop. Be bop, be bop-a-lu, she bop.
So anyway, that was this year – let’s talk about next year. I’ve been contemplating the 2007 theme for quite some time now, gone through countless iterations and at least two legal pads, and am pleased to announce that next year will be all about… REVIVAL.
It’s a broad theme, I understand, so I’m tackling it in pieces. There are spiritual revivals, Broadway revivals, sexual revivals, friendly revivals – no wait, that’s friendly rivalries, scratch that one. The point is that if I’m going to be successful in 2007, it will require a laser-like focus. That’s always been a problem for me – I lack focus. I’m a hobbyist, a friend once told me. I am prone to fads.
Figure painting led to film classes led to bartending school led to tap dancing led to jug band led to hip-hop. Somewhere in between, I took up knitting, paint-by-numbers, latch-it-hook, and crock pot cookery.
Well, hobbyist no more. I’m narrowing down my passions to a critical few. My artistic revival in 2007 will be all about getting back to the basics, like whittling, and now my latest passion, which is diorama. What’s more basic than a shoebox, some clay, a few pipecleaners, and your endless imagination?
So I guess I let my passion get the best of me a few weeks ago, because I got a little short with my friend Natasha when she didn’t fully approve of my latest pursuit. Sure, she was fine with the whittling idea – she even promised to buy me some balsa wood – but as soon as I started to get serious about diorama, things changed.
“I can’t wait to get started! I need some shoeboxes, a bunch of different colored clay, some twigs, and… hey, where would I find that fake grass? Like the kind they use with model trains.”
“Okay, first of all, you cannot have any of my shoeboxes. I need them all. Secondly, I forbid you to go to a model train store.”
“You forbid me? Whatever. You’re not the boss of me.”
“No, Jenny, I’m serious. You cannot go to one of those stores. Those people are insane! You’ll never get out!”
“You’re just jealous, because I’ve got a cool new hobby that involves things that are tiny. Oh, I’m going to a model train store, all right. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me!”
“Fine. Just don’t say I never warned you.”
So against Nat’s advice, I did some research online, hung out in a few model train chat rooms, then finally got up the courage to go to a model train store. I think the only way to describe my experience is like this: Cowboy rides into a new town, dusty and parched from his long journey, so he walks into an unfamiliar saloon. The doors swing behind him, squeaking. The piano player immediately stops playing his jaunty tune, and the tawdry ladies pause from flirting with the poker players. Three mangy roughnecks at the bar turn in unison to look at the outlander. The one with the scar across his left eye kicks back his shot of whisky and slams the glass on the table, hard.
“Looking for something?” says the old barkeep, as he pours another shot of whisky.
“Uh… no, I mean yes. I’m just looking… my nephews just started getting into trains. So, I’m just going to look around. For them. For Christmas. Gifts for my nephews.”
The cowboy then quickly ducks into the aisle with model airplanes and water rockets, randomly picking up boxes and pretending to examine them.
What I learned from this experience is that sometimes you really do need someone to be the boss of you, to forbid you from doing certain things. Because when you are free to do whatever you want, to pursue your every whim, what happens is that you will walk into a model train store in a little suburban town, where the owners are sitting behind the counter, and they’re really passionate about model trains. And then when they ask you what they can help you find, you won’t even know enough to fake it, so you’ll blame your nephews. (Aside: you often blame your young nephews when you buy things that embarrass you, like Spongebob Squarepants stickers, or six boxes of bombpops, or Gameboy games, or porn.)
Not understanding that you’ve walked into their store partly as an anthropological research assignment, they will continue to try to assist you. And then when they ask you technical questions about what kind of (imaginary) trains your nephews have – because without this information, they can’t possibly know if you’re buying the right type of equipment (accessories?) – you will glance down at the rack of miniature hay bales and cows and fences, and say, “I think this kind.”
And you’ll see from the look in their eyes that your answer made no sense. Then later, when they see the box you have in your hand, which you grabbed because you now feel obligated to buy something and this was only $6.95, they will ask you if you’re looking for a military set. And you won’t understand the meaning of this question at all, particularly because the box you have in your hand has nothing to do with the military, but instead depicts some strange rural scene somewhere in Asia, so you just say, “Uh, this just seemed really interesting.”

You will eventually try to distract the owners from discovering what a fraud you are by asking them if the store gets really busy around the holidays. This question will probably initiate a 15-minute description of the unique seasonality of model train business – when it ramps up, when it slows down, what they do when the unexpected pockets of off-season customers crop up, how they wish they could close on Tuesdays, but some Tuesdays are busy. You might then suggest to them that if they just closed on Tuesdays, those Tuesday customers would simply come another day, but again, the look in their eyes will indicate that your answer made no sense.

Finally, to redeem yourself, you’ll probably say something like, I’m sure you’ve both been to the model train exhibit at the Museum of Science and Industry, right? Then if they tell you no, they’ve never been there, can you believe that, you’ll respond that oh my gosh you have to go! Then you’ll start to talk about the unbelievable detail and how the El tracks light up and how the bridges really raise and lower and how they decorate everything for the holidays (although you’ll have a sneaking suspicion that you made up that last part).

Anyway, if you’re smart, you’ll make your exit right then and there, on that high note. You’ll have an Asian diorama set that you never wanted to begin with, you will have tricked them into thinking you know something about trains, blamed it all on your nephews, and it will only have cost you $6.95 plus tax.

So you see? Revival. Revival of mind. Revival of spirit. Revival of soul. And yes, revival of the lost arts like whittling and diorama and macramé owls. Everything old is new again, and I just know that it’s going to be even better the second time around.

Filed under: General on December 5th, 2006