Dopp Juice Archive

Occasionally, I run across a piece of literature that embodies the tone of a chunk of my life. I don’t go looking for these; they just arrive and surprise me. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about–that moment of recognition when realize your perception of reality isn’t isolated. Some writer out there went through it, too. This happened to me recently on The Writ. Nicole Elizabeth Chapin’s Tiger Chai describes my late teenage years–if not word-for-word, then at least in intention. If you identify at all with the path I took to get to where I am, you’ll probably see a piece of your own experience–genuinely inspiring and fashionably constructed as it was–in this reflection, too. I give you the piece in its entirety:

Tiger Chai There was a time in my life that I actually felt I had a little something special over the next person walking down the street.I drank my tiger chai. I read my Kerouac and Bukowski. I sang poetry in my room late at night.The smell of Nag Champa eases the burden of my discontent.Inquisitive, I was. I was a writer. I played guitar. I belted out sensual blue from the depths of a bari sax, man. I wrote at his computer with my legs crossed. I smoked cheap cigarettes. I had to smoke to write. And smoke the other so sleep. I drank cheap beer. I wrote cheap lyrics. Wasn’t I nineteen?I spoke Japanese in the park. I studied symbols and people, nestled deep in my special cafe booth. I was invisible. I served coffee in that cafe. I had a red bow and a black apron. I loved tips.I loved road trips. I loved a late afternoon drive to a polluted lake with a thousand other people watching. I loved changing in the car. And a cooler full of snacks. I miss getting lost. On purpose.I am lost. Without purpose. I work. I play. I get high.I have lost me. A cloud of smoke, my memory, me. Exhale. Go drifting by, bye.I stopped reading. I stay at home. He took my guitar and the sax and her car keys. I have a real day job; I don’t think. I still smoke. I smoke too much. I stopped to think; stop thinking. No inquiring mind here.I think I’ll go read. Get me my wine. —Nicole Elizabeth Chapin

[Cartoon removed as a result of a very friendly Cease and Desist Notice from Gary Larson.  Woops.]  Do you remember this Far Side comic by Gary Larson? I saw it as a young kid on the secretary’s wall at the veterinarian’s office. I thought it was hillarious, and somehow, it stuck with me. Whenever I find that I can’t understand (or I’m just not paying attention to) something I’m hearing, I’ll repeat in my head, “blah blah blah GINGER blah blah blah GINGER…”But I thought I was crazy for doing that, so I kept the inside joke to myself. Recently, though, in one of my classes, someone brought this up in perfect context. We were looking at examples of work that was hard to understand, and someone casually babbled, “blah blah blah GINGER…” Even more to my shock, most of the class chimed in!It’s beautiful moments like these when I realize that, even though some of us may think we’re crazy, the rest of the world is often up there with us. (props to redbrik.cu.ie for archiving these comics.)

Allow me to wax philosophical for a moment. I’m in my early twenties, and I’m experiencing daily surges of hope that I can make a positive impact on the world. These surges often arrive coupled with elaborate plans for how I can devote my life to large-scale contributions to the cause of my dreams–a cause which changes every few weeks.Nearly anyone in their forties could take one look at me and say, “I remember that phase. She’ll grow out of it.”Thus, I think I need to focus my energies less on scheming, and more on building a life that encourages rather than discourages more scheming. Because if I can hold onto my idealism for at least the next ten years, I should at some point in that time become adequately equipped to pick a scheme and carry it out full force.In the meantime, I’m collecting creative idealists to help me build my future Ethical Empire. Send me your résumé and personal statement for consideration.Or just tell me you’re in.