Jess Banks schools you.

I’m a fool for stand-up comedy, and lots of one-liners and references have made their way into the Banks household lexicon. As with my books, music, and movies, I’ve got prodigal tastes that include things that might surprise even those who know me best.

So let me here admit: I love the Blue Collar Comedy Tour films. Don’t judge me–that’s some funny stuff right there. We laugh at Jeff Foxworthy’s redneck jokes, but if we’re honest, we know that more of them apply to more of us than is comfortable. And as a joke format, it’s just about perfect.

So, for today’s Friday Night Lists post, here’s my spin on Foxworthy’s list. If you don’t recognize them all, fire up that Google machine! I’m sure I’m leaving out a billion things, so if you’ve got one that should be included, be sure to leave it in comments! Hopefully, this conveys my general view that geekdom is universal, and everyone’s a geek about something.

You Might Be A Geek If…

This is the third and final week (for now) of music on Friday Night Lists. I’ve got a bunch more music lists, but my tastes are eclectic, and the world is full of things to list! The following bands/musicians are some of my favorites, and I’m sure many of you will know several of the names on the list. But given what a broad swath of the music scene they cover, I’m hoping you’ll discover at least one new artist that’s worth investigating. If you’ve got your own little-known, must-hear recommendation, please leave it in the comments for everyone to enjoy! And now…

10 MUSICIANS/BANDS YOU NEED TO HEAR

1.  Robyn Hitchcock

What he sounds like: New Wave + Salvador Dali + silly British accents

You may have heard him: if you listened to college radio in the ’80s

Robyn Hitchcock is like the Monty Python of ’80s music: intellectual, frequently hilarious, surprisingly musical, and often nonsensical. Hitchcock started out in the influential ’70s group The Soft Boys, but went solo with some of the other Soft Boys as Robyn Hitchcock and The Egyptians. He’s got a long history of collaboration with other alternative artists, like Peter Buck of R.E.M., Billy Bragg, and Gillian Welch.

Here, try this: “Balloon Man” or “Uncorrected Personality Traits”

2.  Frank Turner

What he sounds like: English folk music + punk + Buddy Holly

You may have heard him: at UK music festivals or opening for The Offspring or Dropkick Murphys

Former frontman for the punk outfit Million Dead, I can’t say enough good things about his fun, cool, loud, wonderful music. Trust me, I’ve tried.

Here, try this: “I Still Believe” or “The Road”

3.  Neko Case

What she sounds like: Nancy Sinatra + Clannad

You may have heard her: on the Hunger Games and True Blood (Season 3) soundtracks

Neko (like Nico and the Velvet Underground, not Necco like the wafers) Case has an utterly distinctive voice that she deploys in music that’s not like anything else out there. Whether she’s solo, as on her albums The Fox Confessor Brings The Flood or Middle Cyclone, or with The New Pornographers, her sound is as addictive as it is indescribable. You just have to hear her.

Here, try this: “Hold On, Hold On” or “She’s Not There”

4.  Jeffrey Foucault

What he sounds like: John Prine + Jack White + that staticky station in the middle of Kansas

You may have heard him: in small venue, new folk/Americana concerts

Here, I admit to rampant bias. I went to high school with Jeff (he was two years behind me), and we went to State Solo & Ensemble contest singing a Henry Purcell duet my senior year. Back then, he had a lovely, clear tenor. Now he sounds like someone put his voice in the dryer with a box of rocks–it’s as gravelly and aged and worn as the best old pair of blue jeans. He’s a fantastic songwriter, and he’s developed a sound that fits perfectly between old country music like Bill Monroe and Ralph Stanley, ’60s folk like Bob Dylan, and new Americana like Alison Krauss and Crooked Still. I can’t believe I know someone so wildly talented. It’s only a matter of time before he hits the big time.

Here, try this: “Ghost Repeater” or “Hello In There”

5.  1 Giant Leap

What they sound like: World Music + Trance  + Deep Philosophy

You may have heard them: in the movie they made about recording their album

So I was flipping channels one day, and I came across this movie with Michael Stipe (of R.E.M.) singing. I paused to see what it was, and suddenly, Asha Bhosle, the high priestess of Bollywood music, is singing too. I watch longer, and see Robbie Williams, and Tuvan throat singers, and a West African tribe, and Michael Franti. Stitching together the songs and travel footage from all over the world are clips of interviews with people like Kurt Vonnegut Jr. and Tom Robbins, talking about concepts like love and beauty and death. My Mind Was Blown. Their greatest strength is in combining musical styles in geographically impossible, yet perfectly complimentary ways. If you’re a fan of world music at all, you need to hear their eponymous album.

Here, try this: “Braided Hair” or “The Way You Dream”

6.  Hem

What they sound like: Southern folk + Dream Academy

You may have heard them: in the first Liberty Mutual “random acts of kindness” ad

I saw that ad, too, and searched the Internets all evening to find out what that gorgeous song was. Turns out, it’s “Half Acre” from Hem’s album Rabbit Songs. Lead singer Sally Ellyson’s voice is soft and sweet and haunting, and the instrumentals include steel pedal guitar, mandolin, and a nice assortment of acoustic music. Funnel Cloud is my favorite of their albums. If you want something to play as you enjoy a drowsy, humid summer night on the porch, look no further.

Here, try this: “Half Acre” or “Not California”

7.  Flogging Molly

What they sound like: The Chieftains + Green Day

You may have heard them: at the last show of the night at Irish Fest

This band kicks all kinds of ass. Add another dram of punk to The Pogues, subtract a little hardcore from the Dropkick Murphys, and you’ll find the sweet spot called Flogging Molly. They do heartwrenching ballads, wild jigs and reels with a driving Ramones-like drum line, and recklessly cheerful drinking songs equally well. Not only do they sprinkle Irish nationalism liberally through their lyrics, but they also make forays into piratical themes. It’s almost impossible to sit still through their music, and the whole crowd feels like one big, Irish family by the end of their phenomenal live shows.

Here, try this: “What’s Left of the Flag” or “Float”

8.  The Mutton Birds

What they sound like: Crowded House + R.E.M. + a trombone

You may have heard them: if you lived in New Zealand in the ’90s, or on The Frighteners soundtrack

You didn’t know there’s a “New Zealand sound”? Well, there is! My Darling Husband included a few of their tracks on the first mix tape he sent during our courtship, and I couldn’t get enough. It’s pretty straightforward pop/rock, with the quirky addition of a trombone here and there. But Don McGlashan, the band’s primary singer/songwriter, has an uncanny knack for telling complex stories in his songs, stories that each listener can interpret like a Rorschach inkblot. Each one is like a novel set to music. They’ve also done a few covers that did well on the antipodeal charts–they contributed “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” to Peter Jackson’s film The Frighteners.

Here, try this: “Dominion Road” or “Ngaire”

9.  E.S. Posthumus

What they sound like: John Williams + electronica + world music

You may have heard them: in many, many movie trailers

This group produces grandiose, classically styled themes, blended with electronic beats and distinctive regional instruments. The combination yields majestic landscapes of sound that lend themselves perfectly to big, impressive cinematic visuals–hence their popularity as movie trailer music. The only problem was that I would get so jazzed by the fantastic music in the trailer that I couldn’t wait to hear a whole score of it in the movie, only to go see the movie and hear its entirely different (often underwhelming) original music. If you listen to this, whatever you’re doing at the time will seem Much More Exciting!

Here, try this: “Pompeii” or “Nara”

10.  Gillian Welch

What she sounds like: an Appalachian woman from the 1700s

You may have heard her: in the O Brother, Where Art Thou? and Hunger Games soundtracks

When I listen to Gillian Welch, I am certain the Space-Time Continuum has been subverted to project her voice 200 years into the future. Or she’s an evolutionary throwback, a weird genetic accident that gives her the purest, keenest folk voice I’ve ever heard. With songwriting and performance partner Dave Rawlings, she channels that exact moment in music when the English and Irish music that came over with early immigrants turned into something American. Her murder ballads will make your hair stand on end; everything else is simply riveting. She’s one of the three sirens at the river in O Brother, Where Art Thou? but, unlike Emmylou Harris and Alison Krauss, it seems impossible to imagine that ancient voice singing modern music. And that’s just fine.

Here, try this: “Didn’t Leave Nobody But The Baby” or “Caleb Meyer”

I feel like I’m living my life as an autistic in reverse. I was aware of Autism Spectrum Disorders and Asperger’s Syndrome generally, but quite frankly, I never applied myself to really learning anything substantial about them. I had trained as a crisis counselor while I was doing my undergrad at the University of Kansas; Headquarters is the oldest, continuously operating phone and walk-in crisis center in the nation. In the ’90s, their training didn’t include anything specific about how to talk to autistics, but their Rogerian approach and general attitude of acceptance provided me with a good footing for dealing with all sorts of neurodiverse folks.

Then,  my eldest son was diagnosed in 2008. That diagnosis was a blessing, to be perfectly honest. Until the school showed us how all the strange, inexplicable things about him actually formed a pattern that belonged to Asperger’s, the leading theory for what was wrong with Connor was crap parenting. When presented with a new situation, my primary coping method is to build a fortress of books on the subject, then read my way out, like you would escape a marshmallow dungeon if you were handcuffed by eating a hole to crawl through. (Hey, don’t mock–it works for me.)

The more I read, the more I recognized of myself. It came as a complete shock, how well the Asperger’s pattern explained pieces of my life that I’d never been able to make fit. The spotlight of memory swiveled back to all the times I’d been called “intellectually advanced but socially backward” in my childhood. My fixations on weird trivia, the First Ladies, native costumes around the world, Sherlock Holmes (so much like an autistic, himself), foreign languages, and others. How much like learning those languages was like learning to “read” people. All my weird sensory issues with fabrics and foods. My strong visual memory and how I see everything play out in my head as I read. My sensitivity to sounds, both good (perfect relative pitch) and bad (loud sudden noises are my only migraine trigger). A million little things, none forgotten, but suddenly in focus.

And while my primary preoccupation has been on using my own understanding of the autistic experience to help unlock doors for my son, the corrective lens of identity and memory also sharpens things that stayed in the background so long, I’d almost lost sight of them.

Like Clarence Treutel.

When I was nine, my mom remarried and we moved to Whitewater, WI, where my new stepdad was a professor of music education at the state university. It’s a gorgeous little town full of Victorian homes and stately elms. The university, with about 10,000 students, somehow manages to be insulated from everyday life, both for those on-campus and those off. Its presence made itself known in funny, mostly advantageous little ways. We had a disproportionate amount of cultural resources–world-class concerts, technology, a great public library. The people of color were most often Indian, African, or Asian, as opposed to Latino or African-American (this has changed a lot in the years since I moved away, thanks to a large influx of Hispanic workers for the big farms all around town).

Clarence was probably in his 50s when I met him, a perpetually smiling man with Mad Men-styled glasses and a salt-and-pepper buzzcut. He had an old bicycle that he rode sometimes, but mostly just walked along the sidewalks around town. He’d known my dad for a long time; my dad was very kind to him, and it didn’t occur for our family to treat him otherwise. He offered to walk my brother, sister, and me to and from our new school, a little less than a mile each way.

As we walked and talked, we got on well with him. His sense of humor and world outlook was that of a sixth-grade boy, generally, except for when it came to his interests. On town history, radio shows, old movies and TV, and professional wrestling, he could hold court. He was the only person I’d ever met who remembered as many facts, as clearly, as I did, and we genuinely enjoyed each other’s company. I didn’t know what autism was, then, and he wouldn’t have known either, even if his mom and he hadn’t been Christian Scientists, which kept them from ever getting a diagnosis. But he was my first contact with a mind like mine.

Only when the school year got fully underway did I start getting questions about why I was spending time with Clarence. “He’s so weird,” my classmates would say. “Did he ask you to sign his bike seat? Don’t do it. My brother did, and he, like, talked to him for years! Like they were friends.” I noticed how the older kids would abuse him as we went past the junior high; they danced around him, chanting stupid taunts, accusing him of unspeakable things, occasionally daring to take a swipe at his body or bike. He would scowl and wave them off, trying to come back with clever retorts, sometimes. But mostly, he just held his chin firm, sadness in his grey eyes. I learned how to chase that look away by asking him about his favorite things.

Just like I do now for my son, when the world makes him so unbearably sad.

His mother died around the time I graduated from high school, leaving him alone; his father and brother had died quite some time earlier. My parents became his Powers of Attorney, and they continued to treat him with care, patience, and affection until they moved away in 1995. Another family took over his care. I heard that Clarence died in 2002, but it turns out he’s still around–a good friend back home corrected my misinformation, much to my happiness.

Don’t bother looking for him on the Internet. I did. He’s not there. There’s a 2002 Walworth County tax record for the property where he lived. That’s all. No pictures, no mention anywhere. Like he doesn’t exist. Like he hasn’t walked so many generations of kids to school, their self-elected protector. Like he hasn’t learned to stop across the street, so the parents can’t complain that he was a pedophile, and the bullies can’t be heard so loudly. I wish I had a picture, so you could see his kindness. But that absence tells an important story, too.

I’m so afraid, when I think of all the autistic kids who are aging out of the schools and social services, adults as alone as Clarence, always outside looking in. How many of them will find families and friends to give them help and love? How many of them don’t know how to ask for it? How many of us will see them and judge the surface, never taking the time to find out what chases away the sadness in their eyes?

I’m of two minds about shopping. I love seeing pretty, cool, interesting new things. Some of them, I even enjoy trying on or, if the stars are right, buying them. I also love seeing what Nightmares of Fashion Past are currently visiting themselves upon kids too young to have suffered them the first time.

On the other hand, we’re a lower-middle class, half-Aspergian family. We have young sons with voices that can shatter glass and the combined attention span of a brain-damaged goldfish. Big-box stores and malls not only stress the hell out of me, they often hurt me physically–cement floors are the bane of my existence.

And then there’s the fact that I’m fat. Clothes shopping is an exercise in frustration and self-loathing. Women’s sizes are frequently not available in stores, and when they are, those stores seem to think that plus-sized women are both color- and pattern-blind, and happy to spend another $10-15 for the same design in one size larger than the range they’ve decided is “normal.” My particular body shape further complicates things by being both tall and hourglass-shaped. Consequently, I’m forced to buy shirts a size bigger than I actually need them if I want them to button, and I’ve never once owned a pair of jeans that fit well at waist, hip, and length.

My boys at the Mall of America LEGO store last summer. The mech and helicopter behind them? Made of LEGO.

In any case, the underwire on my next-to-last bra broke suddenly this week, leaving me with one, count ’em, one bra to wear. This is not an Acceptable Situation. Since we’d already promised Connor he could pick out a new LEGO set as a reward for a week of good, steady progress in his program, and they didn’t have the Marvel Super Heroes LEGO at the local stores, we committed to making the pilgrimage to the Mall of America’s LEGO store. It’s pretty epic, and with a budget firmly established in advance, it’s a bunch of fun for all of us. I figured I’d make my own quick trip to Nordstrom, which is widely regarded as the best place to get fitted properly for a bra, and actually find one in irregular sizes like mine.

While the thought of a new bra or two appeals greatly, for practicality and pleasure, the thought of submitting to the handling and scrutiny of my gigantic bosom and scarred, lumpy midsection by a stranger with a measuring device appeals not at all. But I’d worked my heart and mind up to a place where I could tolerate the humiliation and inevitable revulsion I would face in that dressing room. I’d taken some Xanax to dull the psychic trauma of being in a place with so much ambient noise and stress. And I’d settled the boys comfortably, post-LEGO acquisition, so I wouldn’t have to take them into the highbrow hush of Nordstrom.

I went up to the the Lingerie section and spent a few minutes admiring both the lovely underthings and the signs that said “Sizes up to 44H.” A saleslady approached me and asked if she could help. I asked the general price range of their bras. She responded, “They go up to $200.” I nodded, more nonchalant than I felt, and asked again, “But the average price? Around $30 or 40?”

She laughed at me, a sniffy sound of disbelief. “Ah ha ha, um, no. They average around $60.” I thanked her for the information, and left with as much speed and dignity as I could muster.

Let me say that again: The Nordstrom saleswoman laughed at me.

I’d gone in there, ready to face shaming for my size and shape. I wasn’t ready to be shamed for my income before I’d even taken off a stitch of clothing. It was more than I could bear, and there were tears welling in the rim of my glasses before I even got back to the table where my boys were sitting. I didn’t trust myself to say out loud what had happened, so I typed it quickly on my phone so my Darling Husband would know: “Ever walk into a place and immediately feel like you’re not welcome, that you’re not good enough to be there and everyone knows it? She laughed at me when I asked if there were any bras in the $30 range.”

My sons saw the tears rolling silently down my face, and not knowing why, they still rose to press tiny, tight hugs around me. My Darling Husband, whom anyone who knows him is not quick to anger, got that tight set to his jaw, and walked silently into the store. When he came back, he told me he’d found the saleswoman and asked for her manager.  The woman’s response to the confrontation was that she certainly hadn’t intended it that way; he informed her that, when the effect was so horrendous, her intentions weren’t worth a damn. We both worked in retail for a long time, coming up, so he knew precisely the right words to invoke. He told them both that, in humiliating his wife, they had both failed utterly at customer service and managed to permanently lose at least two customers.

But I was wrecked, and the only passive-aggressive revenge I could manage at the time was to tweet my grief and horror. And as I told the friends on Twitter and Facebook who immediately rallied to me and suggested both solutions and unspeakable tortures upon the saleswoman, if I could find a bra as supportive as all those wonderful people, I’d be set for life. It wasn’t until today that I realized I have a teeny tiny platform of my own.

So let me say this. The difference between the haves and the have-nots has rarely been greater in this country. This divide isn’t just social or economic–it’s also geographic. There are places where people who don’t have much money are not only not welcomed, but where they will be humiliated for even daring to darken the doorstep. Don’t even breathe on the merchandise–your poorness might be catching, and we wouldn’t want that. I’ve already learned that, the fewer pieces of merchandise in a store, the less likely it is someone like me could afford anything in there. And if there are no price tags, don’t even bother asking–it’s out of your range.

The people who staff these places make snap judgments on the fitness of a patron in a split second, on purely superficial impressions, the very least reliable kind. That scene from Pretty Woman? It doesn’t only happen on Rodeo Drive. Apparently it happens in a Minnesota department store, too.

Want to know the saddest thing? Nordstrom has a discount sister store, Nordstrom Rack. I’ve bought clothes with retail prices in the hundreds of dollars for $20 or less at Nordstrom Rack. There is even, in fact, a Nordstrom Rack in the Mall of America (something I didn’t know yesterday). If that saleswoman was serious about the customer service reputation and/or the bottom line of Nordstrom, Inc., she could have easily directed me to that location for bras in my price range, and I would’ve left a happy customer likely to spend my hard-earned money on their merchandise. I might even have tweeted how pleased I was by the service I’d received.

But she didn’t. So I left her workplace feeling like dirt for daring to step outside Walmart with my grubby, contagious, working-class, overweight self.

So here’s what I have to say. Even if you’ve got the money to spend at Nordstrom–maybe even especially if you do–don’t. Unless you like that atmosphere that judges people, that says there’s a different America for those who don’t look right or make their money the right way. Give your money to the places that wait to see that your money’s as green as anyone else’s, or better yet, the ones that see a person first, instead of a class.

I’m a very phasey kind of person. I’ve got two big cycles that dictate a lot of my recreational activity/spending. One is my crafting cycle. Because I get bored with repetitive actions, but am utterly dependent on them for my sanity (Bored Hands are Bad Hands), I flow through phases when one craft particularly seizes me, and I do it until it stops scratching the Busy Hands itch, then switch to another. It usually goes in this pattern: Cross-Stitching –> Crochet/Knitting –> Jewelrymaking.

The second is the Books –> Music –> Movies cycle. In each stage, my goal is to Open The Brainbox And Put All Of It In. I’ve been in Books phase for a few months, but I can feel myself sliding toward Music (perhaps checking out 15 CDs on my last library trip was a clue). Another good clue was producing 7 music-related lists on a 20 minute car ride last week. So, this is week 2 of my music jag here on Friday Night Lists. If you didn’t catch the 5 Vastly Overrated Bands (and 5 that aren’t), check that list out as well.

As always, I’m happy when people argue with me! But if my lists provide more of a “FINALLY! Someone who thinks that too!” kind of experience, that’s pretty cool too. In this list, as in others, these are all groups that I’m heavily invested in–the vast majority of them, I love. And now, in no particular order…

5 BANDS THAT WERE BETTER WITHOUT THEIR ORIGINAL FRONTMAN

1. Genesis — Peter Gabriel is a phenomenal musician; you’ll get absolutely no argument from me there. But he’s clearly his best as a solo act, with complete creative control–his influences and personal tonal language come to life when not moderated by the group dynamic of a band. The best thing Genesis ever did was move the mike in front of Phil Collins, and set Gabriel free.
2. Joy Division — Heartless, I know. Suicide is definitely NOT the best reason to look for a new frontman, and I really like Ian Curtis’ dark, earthy sound; after all, it was a big parcel of the seedbed for every goth/alternative artist that followed. But, after Curtis’ death–apocrypha says he put a noose around his neck and stood on an ice block until it melted–the group splintered into New Order, which rewrote the electronica field, and Love & Rockets, which helped build the bridge forward from punk to grunge. Two awesome bands for the price of one frontman–sorry, Ian, but the kids turned out okay.
3. Chicago — I have this theory, you see. I believe certain voices are genetically keyed to appeal, no matter what kind of music/text they’re performing, no matter how much you want to hate them. Peter Cetera has one of those voices (so does Celine Dion. Go ahead, tell me I’m wrong). He was one of the founding members of the band, and one of three singers–keyboardist Robert Lamm and guitarist Terry Kath also sang. Both have a more baritone range, but Cetera’s keen, clean tenor blends so much better with the horns that became part of their signature. Without him, it’s hard to recognize a “Chicago” sound. Besides, when I was in junior high, he said he would fight for my honor. What’s a girl to do?
4. Depeche Mode — As with the first two bands on this list, I’m a fan through and through, but Vince Clarke, who provided vocals for DM’s initial offering Speak & Spell, just wasn’t the right voice for the gloomy, mournful, surprisingly danceable songs that defined them. And the fact that their first hit, “Just Can’t Get Enough,” sounds so much more like Vince Clarke’s later and longer project Erasure means he was onto something even then. But Dave Gahan’s deep, coffee-dark tone is what puts that naughty shiver into songs like “Master and Servant” and “World In My Eyes.” Martin Gore also provides vocals for DM; it’s his sweet, tremulous voice that gives a soul to songs like “Somebody.”
5. Faith No More — I have a big soft spot for these guys, if only because Gus’ Pizza in my hometown had them on the jukebox as “Safe No More,” and as high schoolers, we found that hilarious. They only had one big hit under their belt with the original (at least, at point of first recording) frontman Chuck Mosley, “We Care A Lot,” most memorable now for its reference to the Garbage Pail Kids of yore. And the bass-slapping thrash-punk sound remained consistent, but the addition of Mike Patton on vocals gave their songs the kick in the teeth needed to match the instrumentals. Patton has extraordinary flexibility–for whatever reason, his voice reminds me of John Leguizamo’s, with all its chameleonesque range–and the songs he fronted with Faith No More (and later efforts like Mr. Bungle) are whiplash rides through a wide swath of emotions. Revisit “Epic” if you’ve forgotten.

And just for contrast, here are:

5 BANDS THAT WEREN’T

1. Queen — I put this at Number One for a reason, for once. Queen, Queen, Queen. You were a great backup band for the Greatest Frontman Of All Time, Freddie Mercury. Be content with that.
2. Van Halen — Sorry, Sammy, no dice. Your brand of caterwauling was a lame substitute for David Lee Roth’s sexy, rockin’ purr and shriek. Nice that the rest of the group finally came around on that, too.
3. 10,000 Maniacs — I’m sure the woman who followed Natalie Merchant was very nice and all, but she was the sonic equivalent of watching paint dry, compared with Natalie’s sinusy, kittenesque, sort of Pre-Raphaelite melodic lyricism.
4. Talking Heads — Are you kidding me? EVERYTHING is better with David Byrne in it! No Talking, Just Head sounded just like their name choice: poorly thought-out and missing the best part.
5. INXS — With Michael Hutchence, they were all rowr. Without him, after his suicide in 1997, they were all over the place. They’ve had a variety of singers–one even chosen in a reality TV show–and a string of singles, but nothing that sticks the wall. They’re like the opposite of Joy Division: tragic loss of singer, but they just keep flogging away, instead of growing up and moving on.

I’ve always been comfortable around guys; for many periods of my life, I’ve been more comfortable with guys than other women. Part of this was about common interests. From preschool to high school, if I wanted to hang out with other people who loved Star Wars and sci-fi/fantasy and punk rock and hobby games, that pretty much left me with male companions. For instance, I was the only female among 23 males in the high school Strategy & Tactics Gaming Club. It wasn’t until I got to college that I met other women who liked the same things I did, but even still, I felt more at home around men. They were less maintenance, less complicated, and to a girl with Asperger’s (though I didn’t know it then), the big surface emotions of my male friends were far easier to navigate, and less fraught with booby-trapped layers of meaning, than my interactions with the majority of the females I knew.

It’s not that hard to get into those male social groups. You prove you can give as good as you can get on crass humor and double (or, in the case of high school guys, single) entendres. You show that you can avoid overt emotional displays that make them uncomfortable, but also that you can be a silently commiserating soundingboard on those occasions (read: breakups) that demanded support and solidarity.

I was so successful at this that I sat, one female in a car with six other males, through a one-hour conversation about all the mysteries of the fairer sex. Only ten minutes from home–after a pee break on the side of the country road, in which I clearly did not participate, for heaven’s sake–did someone pipe up, in a tone of dawning discovery, “Hey! Jess is a girl! We can ask Jess!” I didn’t know whether to be insulted that this feature of my identity had been so thoroughly forgotten, or flattered that I’d assimilated into their group so seamlessly. The sudden and emphatic arrival of the Boob Fairy around my junior year of high school was the only thing that disturbed my status, but even that came to be regarded as a sort of personal quirk, as if I’d shaved my head without warning–a change, to be sure, but superficial and easily ignored once the novelty had passed. So I’ve got a very thick skin when it comes to matters of sexism and creepiness. Part of that also came as defense in the wake of my sexual assault and abusive relationship–if every expression of sexism has the capacity to personally wound, how would any person ever recover from overt damage?

Obviously, though, because I’m an attentive, intelligent, enlightened woman, I perceive sexism in my environment, as it’s expressed both individually and institutionally. There’s been a great deal of discussion about this lately, especially in the context of the Internet. Sady Doyle of Tiger Beatdown collected comments from fellow female bloggers, made by men, attacking them specifically and often violently as women when they didn’t agree with their arguments; in many cases, the initial argument had absolutely nothing to do with gender. A Twitterstorm blew up around similar attacks on women who play multi-user video games. The basic pattern is this, for those of you who haven’t followed these discussions: Woman says X. Man disagrees with X. Man does not say, “I disagree with X because of Y.” Man instead says, “You’re a stupid whore for thinking X. I hope someone rapes you to death.” Woman decides to shut up instead of writing about Z. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see sexism in this.

A secondary pattern has emerged when lots of my fellow smart, sensitive friends of both genders discuss the ways in which the enviroment for women is not the same as men. People of earlier generations thought they were being enlightened and anti-racist by saying, “I don’t see race” or “There are no black or white people; we’re all our own individual shades of human.” This is no longer acceptable, because duh, of course we see race, and racism is real, and pretending it’s not relevant doesn’t fix anything. Similarly, some men, when confronted with something which screams SEXISM to women, say well-meaning but unhelpful things like “No, no, it’s not sexism, it’s this other thing,” or (even more maddeningly) “You say those behaviors make you feel scared/threatened/objectified? No, you actually feel this other thing.” As if my lady parts somehow impaired my feelings.

Here’s the thing: If someone feels a particular way in response to something, that’s how they feel. That feeling is valid, and they really are feeling it, even if it’s completely incomprehensible to you how they could feel that way. You can try to explain how you see that something differently, but it is Highly Inadvisable to tell someone that they are feeling it wrong, especially if you are not a member of the class that is particularly singled out or threatened by that thing. So if a person of color says something feels racist to them, or a woman says something feels sexist to them, the correct answer is, “I’m sad to hear that you’re so upset by that” or “I can tell it really bothers you.” In fact, this is just a general Rule of Thumb in life–people feel how they feel, and nobody knows better than they do what those feelings are.

Nobody would argue that some of these situations are clearly sexist.  I’ve had entire conversations in which I felt like I, too, should be looking at my breasts. But the saddest thing about this whole sexism debate is that, often within geek/nerd culture, there’s a fundamental disconnect between a man’s intention and a woman’s reception. Things that men do to express their admiration for women frequently make those women feel creeped out, the exact opposite reaction the men are trying to elicit. I’ve known guys who lavished extravagant compliments, frequently couched in quasi-faux-RenFaire-style language and great flourishing gestures, on women who are painfully embarrassed at being singled out for such attention. Those women seek to put as much distance between themselves and that attention as possible, and contrary to the man’s intention, they feel objectified–they feel that all that flowery language and dramatic attention would be directed at any woman, by virtue of being a woman. The objectified gaze is not the same thing as the public gaze. Sure, this sounds very Women’s Studies 101, but it’s true nonetheless. There’s a world of difference between being looked at and admired for a striking, elaborate costume or a particularly smart/funny/insightful comment, and being stared at like a piece of meat.

But sexism is so much more than this, and it’s so complicated, even women argue about this stuff. And frankly, a lot of it is gut reaction. Anyone would feel threatened if someone says, “I hope someone stabs you to death.” You get a cold ball in the pit of your stomach and a hot rush up the back of the neck. You feel queasy, your vision blurs, the space around you seems to shift unexpectedly. You need to run. This is primal stuff–flashes of neurochemicals deep in your amygdala and hippocampus–pure lizard brain, fight-freeze-or-flee response. It’s your danger sense. It can save your life.

But it doesn’t only get triggered by death threats. Those same chemicals kick in when someone’s creeping on you, and you can’t always explain it. I’ve never been explicitly threatened with sexual violence at a gaming convention, but I’ve been creeped on. The time that sticks out most vividly had no sexual overtones at all. The guy started with the extravagant attention that I described earlier, despite the presence of my husband at the table and a two month old baby in my arms. He made persistent decisions that forced our characters into proximity, and he “roleplayed” that with physical proximity that violated all acceptable boundaries among strangers. This man was so close and so loud and so intrusive, he actually startled my son awake; the baby wouldn’t stop crying until I left the room entirely. I shook badly, and worked to swallow my nausea as my husband and friends tried to comfort me. My reaction was as violent as the one that followed a too-close brush with stranger rape years earlier.

I can’t explain this, but if someone tried to convince me I shouldn’t have felt threatened or completely creeped out because I wasn’t in actual danger, or that the root of that interaction wasn’t sexist, I may slap that person. My feelings were very real, and therefore very valid. I have an unexpectedly strong sensory memory of that event even now, almost ten years later. And, really, do you want to train women to turn off that response? Do you want women to stop listening to those early, physically rooted danger senses that tell them something is not quite right? It happens, you know–women are taught to mistrust those feelings. It’s called gaslighting, from the unforgettable Ingrid Bergman/Charles Boyer movie Gaslight. When women stop listening to their danger sense–that creeped-out feeling–it makes it easier to manipulate and abuse them.

So please, don’t tell anyone who says they’re feeling singled out, discriminated against, or creeped out that they’re not entitled to feel that way. Racism and sexism are real, and they have undeniable histories (and current realities) of violence. If someone tells you that what you’re doing is creepy, just stop. If you don’t understand why that behavior registers as creepy, ask others. If they say, “If you can’t tell, I can’t help you,” keep asking until someone explains it in a way you can understand.

This stuff is as complicated as human nature, and everyone needs a guide, women just as much as men. If you want to understand, surround yourself with sherpas–folks who have seen the terrain before, know where the pitfalls and footholds are, and can explain the culture you’re exploring. Don’t have someone you feel you can ask? Ask me. Gods know, I wish I’d had the knowledge I have now, back when my high school friends asked me for the secrets of the feminine mind. They could’ve really used a good sherpa.

I’m kicking off a new series on Friday Night Lists, all about music. I’m a longtime musician–vocal and instrumental–and an avid fan of almost every type of music. The most common question when people look through our CD collection is, “How many people did you say live here?” So I thought I’d share a few lists that have been stewing in my head for a while.

Obviously, I have very definite opinions about stuff, but I’m always willing to be talked down from wherever I’ve treed myself lately. Please, try to convince me I’m wrong! Until then…

THE FIVE MOST OVERRATED BANDS EVER

1. Led Zeppelin–They’re good instrumentalists, I’ll give them that, but DEAR GODS THE SCREAMING. Robert Plant sounds like a cat in heat being skint. And just because you CAN play the same song for fifteen minutes doesn’t mean you should. I’m looking at you, too, Phish.
2. Wings–Paul, you know I love you. I really do. But after The Beatles broke up, you went a little mad. Synthesizers aren’t a step on the Stages of Grief. If I ever have to hear that Christmas song again while I’m shopping for gifts, I swear, there will be blood.
3. Rush–I’m not picking on the ’70s, really, I’m not. Lots of great bands came out of the ’70s (seriously). But Rush has only has two things going for it: concept albums (which almost never work the way you mean them to) and the utterly inimitable voice of Geddy Lee. And by “inimitable,” I mean, I’m glad nobody else can sing like him.
4. The Stone Roses–The biggest of the bands to come out of the Manchester movement in the ’90s, they seemed to think that massive distortion and a whiny, mumbly frontman somehow equaled “cool and inscrutable.” I don’t want to scrut them or anything else. Just ghastly.
5. The Rolling Stones–If I want to listen to music influenced by American blues and R&B, I will listen to ANY OTHER BLACK MUSICIAN EVER. If I specifically want to hear blues miraculously done well by a pasty Brit, I’ll listen to Clapton. If I want to watch someone strut bizarrely around the stage or play drunk/stoned off his ass, I’ll hire a chicken and Slash. They wrote some good songs, but every single one of them, I like better when covered by somebody else.

Now, if you haven’t stopped reading out of sheer fury yet, here are five bands that are/were huge that totally deserved it:

1. The Beatles–The single best assemblage of songwriters in rock & roll history. From their delightfully proto-punk early garage-band sound, to jangly fun teen pop, to wild concept albums like Sgt. Pepper, to the incomparably elegant simplicity of songs like “Yesterday” and “Let It Be,” they deserved every superlative in the book.
2. Pink Floyd–Every time I put on one of their albums, I’m immediately struck by how far ahead of their time they were. I’ve done that for over 20 years now, and I have every reason to think that they’ll still sound that way in another 40. “The Wall” is the concept album that made everyone else want to try one, and some of David Gilmour’s guitar solos bring tears to my eyes every time I hear them. Not to mention the fact that they put on a HELL of a show–I had the great good luck to see them on the Division Bell tour. Staggeringly weird, beautiful images and insane production values. Incomparable.
3. U2–Say what you want about Bono’s politics, or which of the sounds they’ve attempted over the years may have been ill-advised, but they execute like professionals every single time. The best of their stuff is the simplest, the most stripped-down. And time and time again, they changed the direction of modern rock. Another phenomenal show, as well.
4. R.E.M.–I’ll admit to major bias here; they’re one of my all-time favorite bands. But they’re another group that consistently shaped the sound of musicians around them for decades. Michael Stipe’s voice isn’t perfect, and his lyrics are more like abstract word paintings than poetry, but Peter Buck and Mike Mills are virtuosic in their skills, and Bill Berry is a freaking metronome with improv chops to boot. Again, their simplicity is their strength, and even the songs you love to hate, you find yourself singing along with.
5. Metallica–Say what you will about metal, but its mainstream acceptance today owes itself entirely to Metallica. Whether they’re better than Iron Maiden or Black Sabbath or any of the bands that came before them isn’t my department. I’m not even a big fan. But they radically changed the landscape of acceptable music and opened the front door for Punk and Industrial and host of other genres that we can hear on the radio today.

We spent most of Saturday in the park. I know, it’s not very glamorous, but you see, we were celebrating an anniversary.

Now, some of my friends no doubt spent this remarkable centenary in the dark of the theater. And at least two I know celebrated it in truly lavish style, dressing like their counterparts a century ago and eating the very foods on which they dined that historic day.

But our anniversary didn’t celebrate a shocking tragedy that cost scores of lives. We were marking the 100th anniversary of my grandpa John’s birth. The fact that he was born on the exact day that the Titanic met with that fateful iceberg only made it easier for me to remember that historic event. I only ever saw one of those things as worth celebrating. [Note: my mom just corrected me about something rather embarrassing. My grandpa’s birthday was actually April 5, not April 15. April 5 is the date the Titanic launched, which was the source of my confusion. The sentiments that follow remain true, but for future reference, I am A Bad Granddaughter.]

The Kresser brothers: Fritz, Rudy, John, and Augie

Let me tell you a bit about John Kresser. He was the first child of his family born in America–his parents and older siblings moved to Wisconsin from southern Germany (technically part of Austro-Hungarian territory) a few years earlier. He was one of ten children who lived to adulthood, five boys and five girls. They were too poor to keep the milk their cow produced, so rickets gave him bowed legs like a cowboy forty years in the saddle. He went to work after he finished fourth grade. When the Depression hit, he went into the Civilian Conservation Corps in upstate Wisconsin.

John met my grandma, Nell (of whom I’ve written before), and they dated briefly before marrying in 1935. During the courtship, he would take her out on Friday nights. He offered to buy her ice cream; she suggested that they should go out for a beer. It wasn’t until after they’d married and she started turning down beer when offered that he thought to ask why she’d always suggested it for their dates. Her answer: she figured that, as a German, he’d much rather have a beer after a hard day’s work. His answer: no way, I’d have much rather had the ice cream! 62 years together wasn’t nearly enough.

He worked at Ladish Company for 40 years, pulling seamless rings of burning steel from beneath the four-story pneumatic hammer that pounded them flat. Even on the hottest day of the year, he had to cover every inch of his skin in at least two layers, to prevent burns. These were the days before OSHA regulations, and he suffered significant nerve deafness from the constant percussion of the hammer. His fingers were gnarled and crippled like jagged bolts of lightning. But those hands were capable of great skill and delicacy. He tied his own fishing jigs and lures, and crafted wooden fittings and furniture.

My grandpa, holding one of his salmon next to my brother Tim

Quite simply, nature was his domain. He fished for coho salmon on Lake Michigan in his 15-foot aluminum canoe, and the ones he brought back often overhung the cooler on both sides, 22 inches of flashing silver wrested from the deep. He hunted deer every fall, and nothing ever went to waste. He grew dozens of beautiful flowers, but his irises and roses were stunning. Vegetables flourished in the backyard all summer long, a lush backdrop to his Wile E. Coyote-like battle with the squirrels that feasted at his birdfeeders.

In every undertaking, he fretted, tweaked, measured, re-measured, jiggered, and planned until the product was meticulous. It drove my grandma, with her Irish practicality and genius for the slap-dash and shortcut, rather mad. But the combination of them was just about perfect, and they played a huge role in raising my siblings and me. Weekends, vacations, long summers–any stretch of days was an excuse to hitch their pop-up canvas trailer to the car and head for parts unknown. We cooked over campfires, read by kerosene lanterns, and slept in sleeping bags with the skies of mountains and deserts, coastlines and great plains above our green canvas tent.

They showed us the wonder to be found close to home, too. They would take us on long, rambling nature walks in the birch forests on the cliffs above Lake Michigan, letting us collect treasures like the armloads of wildflowers I would amass (even though they made us all sneeze), while teaching us the values of preservation and the beauty of a thing in its proper environment. My grandma named the plants and animals for us; my grandpa named the trees and tracks.

My grandpa with (L to R) my cousin Star, my sister Jenn, and me

While he was a man of quiet dignity, faith, and pride, he was happily a fool for his grandkids. He rode sleds, roller coasters, and water slides with us. He ate every dubious baking effort, accepted our art projects like treasures of the western world. We’ve got Super 8 footage somewhere of him playing with my cousin in Rocky Mountain National Park. She’s from Florida, so snow was always a special treat. In the film, she decides she wants to slide some snow down Grandpa’s pants, so she sneaks up behind him and starts trying to cram a snowball past his belt. But Gramps was a skinny guy, pants always tightly cinched, so there’s nowhere to slide the chilly bundle. Not wanting to disappoint her, the film shows him unbuckle his belt, undo the top button of his pants, then hold the back open for her. In goes the snowball, and my cousin claps with glee, as Grandpa does a herky-jerky dance of put-on shock and discomfort. Anything for the kids.

So it was a no-brainer to celebrate his birthday out in nature. We talked of him as we walked to the park, as I named the trees with their buds unfurling. I watched the wind in the branches as I sat beside the playground, and I thought of what he would have made of my two bright boys. What hijinks they would talk him into. What wisdom he would etch in their hearts. 100 years after he came into this world, I still look at it the way he taught me: with reverence and gratitude for all its gifts.

So, Friday Night Lists is a good intention, and even after this last installment of my Dinner Guests series, I’ll be keeping it up (so suggest topics for lists you’d like to see!), but here’s the thing about Friday night: If I’ve been singlemomming since oh-dark-early Thursday morning, my Friday night “WOO HOO” excitement is sneaking an ice cream bar over the kitchen sink before crashing into bed at 8.30. (More on this subject in another post.)

This list was perhaps the hardest of all three to write, because some of my favorite characters from film or fiction just wouldn’t make good dinner guests or conversationalists. I mean, need I cite passages of Katniss’ table conversation, or post the video of Denethor eating? (Not that I like Denethor, just to be clear.) But that’s why you won’t find Gamera on my list, much as I love him. Other favorite characters are not included because I would prefer to host them in more intimate settings (I’m looking at you, Frank N. Furter).

I’ve included pictures of those characters for which there are photos/clips or official pictures from things like dust jackets. In a couple of cases, though, with book characters, I’ve chosen not to post a picture. I’m a really visual reader, and I prefer to keep my pictures in my head uncontaminated by other people’s faces as long as possible.

As always with my Friday Night Lists, please add your own in comments!

MY FICTIONAL GUESTS

• Barbara Gordon: daughter of Police Commissioner James Gordon; Batgirl; Oracle. Her evolution just takes her from one powerful female rolemodel to another. (Batman)
• Death: one of The Endless. Her gentle manner is an aspect of the most inescapable of all fates that both frightens and comforts. (The Sandman)
• Dr. Sheldon Cooper: theoretical physicist; super-genius. Some may find him abrasive, insulting, and annoying. I just find him familiar. Plus, I want to see my next guest make his eye twitch. (The Big Bang Theory) 
• Harry Dresden: wizard-for-hire. One of my best friends, Jim Butcher, invented this wry, embattled, deeply human character, and plopped him in a high-wire act of a life. I just want to feed the man one good, homecooked meal without someone shooting at him. (The Dresden Files)
• Iorek Byrnison: king of the Panserbjorne. I’m sure he’s a lovely conversationalist, especially with the voice of Sir Ian McKellan, but I mostly just want to cuddle with him. (His Dark Materials by Philip Pullman)
• Jamie & Claire Fraser: Scottish rebel, American colonist; WWII nurse, time-traveller, healer, surgeon. One of my two favorite couples in all literature. It’s hard to explain, but I hunger for news of them like they’re family. (Outlander by Diana Gabaldon)
• Jed Bartlet: president of the United States. He’s the president every liberal dreams of; it helps that he gets his lines from Aaron Sorkin and his gravitas from Martin Sheen. (The West Wing)
• Mary Russell & Sherlock Holmes: detectives. My other favorite couple in literature. A man of boggling intellect, the more recent incarnation with a strong, smart wife and partner only makes him more interesting. While my first Holmesian love will always be Doyle’s erratic, exuberant, brilliant misanthrope, I I think I may like Laurie King’s older, steadier, but just as adventurous and insightful version. (Mary Russell novels by Laurie R. King)
• Phineas & Ferb: brilliant inventor kids. Just because I want to see what they’d come up with for dessert, and how it would disappear before their mom arrived. (Phineas & Ferb)
• Diana Bishop: historian; witch. She embodies the dichotomy of science and magic, power and restraint, reason and passion. I want to read manuscripts and cast spells with her. (A Discovery of Witches by Deborah Harkness)
• The 10th Doctor: Time Lord; explorer. My favorite Doctor for so many reasons. I’d have him to dinner just to give the man a rest from all the running. (Doctor Who)

Convention Season has started in Geekland–though it never really ends, just takes a brief winter breather–and that means that the Darling Husband is in high demand. This is nothing to complain about, and I generally see the exertion of multi-day stretches of single parenting as the price I pay to have him so flexible the rest of the year. Some stretches are better than others, and there’s always a day in there somewhere that doesn’t exactly show any of us at our best. But we muddle through pretty well, for the most part.

Here’s how these weekends usually go:

DAY 1–Darling Husband departs with hugs and kisses early in the morning. Kids are at school, I’m at work. I have to leave a little early to be there when the bus drops them off, but that’s like a little vacation. I sit out in the sun while they play on the playground with friends, maybe do a little reading between general referreeing. I ask what they want for dinner. They say McDonalds. I playfully swat that idea, and we all pile into the car, go to the grocery store, and get ingredients for me to cook dinner. We munch on pasta carbonara or a casserole while watching Cartoon Network. They get ready for bed without a fight, and I tuck them in with a story and a kiss. I watch a documentary with a glass of wine, and go to bed relatively early, but read a few chapters of a trashy novel before sleep.

DAY 2–Boy, that alarm goes off early. Good thing I got a decent night’s sleep. I bulldoze the kids out of bed, dump them in the shower to general protests, and get them out the door to the bus. I find the missing jacket they swore was nowhere lying in the middle of the living room floor. I drop off a forgotten sheet of homework at school on my way to work. I’m yawning by 2pm, but there’s no time for a nap before the bus arrives at 3. I bring a book to read on the playground, but I CANNOT STAND THE SCREAMING. I retreat inside, and break up fights through the window screen. I pull them off the playground to run a few errands; there are many tears and recriminations. I ask what they want for dinner. They say McDonalds. I say fine, whatever, just use your inside voices. I catch them eating french fries off the carpet and wiping ketchup on their pants. More protests at bedtime–“I’m not tired! My show’s not done! We don’t have school tomorrow!”–until I’m the one who’s yelling now. I do not care that you don’t have school. I do not care that your show isn’t done. I do not care that we didn’t read a story. Get in bed and give me ten freaking minutes of silence, would you? I skip the documentary, maybe get a few pages of my book before sleep. Kids call me into their room at 2-hour intervals all night for essential services as covering and restarting music. Unfortunately, they never need these things at the same time.

DAY 3–No alarm set, but then again, no alarm needed. The sound of arguing awakens me earlier than the birds get up. Control of screens suddenly needs a UN peacekeeping force. I settle the fight, and try to go back to bed, but if I have to say more than a yes/no, my brain boots up to day speed. No more sleep for me. I watch the red light on the TiVo box that says fascinating news shows are taping; they watch another Phineas & Ferb marathon (things could be much worse). I’ve planned to take us out to a museum today to kill time. I feed them breakfast and pack many snacks, to avoid exorbitant museum food prices. I give the kids a long leash because I’m too tired to keep up, but I still feel like I got dragged around the block by a pair of St Bernard’s. I’m just glad I don’t have to break up any fist fights in the pirate exhibit. The exit, however, is through the gift shop. This should be outlawed. I consider myself lucky to escape with an exhibit book, though I play the parental version of Whack-A-Mole in which I yank an overpriced “science” toy out of a child’s hand every time they say “MOM!” I apologize to the actual parent of one of the kids from whose hands I take a toy. I reach around while driving home to tickle and pinch the kids so they don’t fall asleep. I don’t ask them what they want for dinner. They get macaroni and cheese. They also get to stay up later because I’ve fallen asleep on the couch while they ate. They wake me up to tuck them in, and I stagger off to my own bed.

DAY 4–I wake up hurting before the sun comes up. Kids are sleeping soundly, so I take painkillers and figure I’ll catch up on news shows I’ve taped. Alas, one kid rises 20 minutes after me, so I surrender the TV and try to read. The other kid sleeps in until 9, at which point I ask if I can go back to sleep for a little while. Sometimes this works, and I get another hour of rest. Sometimes this does not work, and I end up yelling at them through my bedroom door until I give up. They ask where we’re going today. I say nowhere–all my money and energy is gone after yesterday. They cry and call me the worst mom ever. They wish Daddy was home instead of me. I cry and say I wish that too. I feed them fruit snacks and graham crackers for brunch. They spend a few hours running back and forth between apartment and playground in random and irritating patterns. One kid does something incredibly dumb/dangerous/dumb outside, and I am forced to put on a bra and non-pajama pants and go outside and watch them. The sun melts a little of the pain in my back. The look I give the kids when they get close buys me a little time to read. I say a little prayer to the makers of ibuprofen and Xanax. I feel better; they get tired. I ask what they want for dinner. They say McDonalds. I make them spaghetti. They say, “This isn’t McDonalds.” I say, “This is all you’re getting.” I remember they haven’t showered since Day 2. I cannot care. I send them to bed early under the pretense of “school night.” Daddy comes home late. I give him a kiss and go to bed, where I stay for much of the next day.

RESULT: No hospital, no Child Services, no overdrafts, no corporal punishment. I declare victory.