 |
| |
 |
Now on one page! Revised versions
of your Pindeldyboz favorites, including:
FIND MY DOPPELGANGER
STRUGGLE FOR THE INNER CIRCLE
of your Pindeldyboz favorites, including:
FIND MY DOPPELGANGER
STRUGGLE FOR THE INNER CIRCLE
They
Know
by Stephen Ausherman
Know
by Stephen Ausherman
They're keeping tabs on you. They know all about you. Don't believe me? Just look at your credit
report: Bounced checks, a maxed out Discovery Card, and they say you never returned that video,
Sure, you say you never rented that. But they know better. They know what you don't: You forgot to
eject the tape before you got drunk and traded your VCR for a box of crayons.
They got it all: You still owe five bucks to Jerry's Kids for a pledge outstanding since 1982. And you still
owe your brother an apology for shooting him with a bb gun in 1976. It's all right here, and there's more
since they changed your college transcripts. Now there's an asterisk next to the B you got in Spanish,
indicating that you've since forgotten how to conjugate irregular verbs.
They tell about the time you faked a massive head injury to get out of an ethics exam, and the time you
stuffed the ballot boxes at student elections with 156 votes for Pat Benatar. And they say you attended
Free Nelson Mandela rallies with the sole intension of finding a date.
They're digging up everything. According to their research, you don't floss as often as you should. And
according to their data, you can be sort of stuck-up at times, but they say you're not fooling anybody but
yourself, and that you need to give up your lifelong dream to found a secret cult that would one day
overthrow the Masons.
They're telling on you, all about how you'd always forget your grandma's birthday and that broke her
heart and it's too late to make up for it now because now she's dead. They told about how you used to
keep pictures under your mattress, pictures of that chick who played Nancy Drew, and about how
you're still afraid you might go to hell for the impure thoughts she conjured in your twisted little head.
They say you're not going to hell, not for that. You would if it were up to them. But it isn't. Not yet.
With all their power and technology and omniscience, they got everything on you. And now I do too.
But don't worry, I won’t name names here. I think we all know who you are.
report: Bounced checks, a maxed out Discovery Card, and they say you never returned that video,
Sure, you say you never rented that. But they know better. They know what you don't: You forgot to
eject the tape before you got drunk and traded your VCR for a box of crayons.
They got it all: You still owe five bucks to Jerry's Kids for a pledge outstanding since 1982. And you still
owe your brother an apology for shooting him with a bb gun in 1976. It's all right here, and there's more
since they changed your college transcripts. Now there's an asterisk next to the B you got in Spanish,
indicating that you've since forgotten how to conjugate irregular verbs.
They tell about the time you faked a massive head injury to get out of an ethics exam, and the time you
stuffed the ballot boxes at student elections with 156 votes for Pat Benatar. And they say you attended
Free Nelson Mandela rallies with the sole intension of finding a date.
They're digging up everything. According to their research, you don't floss as often as you should. And
according to their data, you can be sort of stuck-up at times, but they say you're not fooling anybody but
yourself, and that you need to give up your lifelong dream to found a secret cult that would one day
overthrow the Masons.
They're telling on you, all about how you'd always forget your grandma's birthday and that broke her
heart and it's too late to make up for it now because now she's dead. They told about how you used to
keep pictures under your mattress, pictures of that chick who played Nancy Drew, and about how
you're still afraid you might go to hell for the impure thoughts she conjured in your twisted little head.
They say you're not going to hell, not for that. You would if it were up to them. But it isn't. Not yet.
With all their power and technology and omniscience, they got everything on you. And now I do too.
But don't worry, I won’t name names here. I think we all know who you are.
THE NEW MEXICO STORIES
Find My Doppelganger
Considering I had just left some Third World country for Albuquerque, where I knew no one and had
little reason to be, the rumors of my debut on world-famous Canyon Road in Santa Fe came as a big
surprise to the small number of people I’d met since my arrival here. And discovering that I was the
Art Pick of the Week in the city paper was like seeing my name in lights on Broadway: Deeply
disturbing.
I studied the featured artwork. It was fiercely erotic. It didn't look familiar and wasn't quite my style.
But there was my full name, including my unusual surname, which (I'd once heard) roughly defined my
German ancestors as strangers or outsiders. Aside from that, I'd never heard nor seen it used to refer
to anyone outside of my immediate family. But now this: My complete name in print and headlining an
exhibition for reasons unknown.
It could only mean one thing: My evil twin was here.
He appears in many places and in many forms. In college, classmates alleged that I gave a wondrous
performance at a concert to benefit the Chapel Hill food bank. Oddly enough, two hours prior to the
concert and a hundred miles due west, a case of mistaken identity landed me in Forsythe County Jail
on charges of public indecency. So I could not have possibly been on stage on the night in question.
Or any other night, for that matter, because I have less musical talent than a singing raisin. That was
what troubled me most over the years of allegations, that my double was always doing things I could
never do and having more fun than I ever would. That and his habit of disappearing long before I
could begin to investigate.
But this time I had proof. I had my name in the paper, along with the time, date and place that I would
appear next.
The turnout at the opening was overwhelming - or at least greater than any turnout for my exhibitions -
but I picked him out immediately. The spitting image of me, only slightly taller and better dressed. To
keep from staring at him, I took a copy of his vitae and studied it. I found my name above a decade
of achievements that immediately wrought within me a furious envy. I had the sudden urge to tear up
his vitae, knock the pictures off the wall and drag his monkey ass off into the desert, all the while
screaming: There can be only one!
It was a brief yet disturbing impulse. One that forced me to consider for a moment that I might in fact
be the evil twin. And it was in that moment that a stranger approached, a casually dressed young man
I hadn't noticed earlier. He noted the crumpled paper in my hands, then introduced himself.
"I’m Stephen Ausherman," he said.
I hesitantly accepted his handshake and replied, "So am I."
I glanced back to where my twin had been, but he was gone.
Albuquerque, 1996
Struggle for the Inner Circle
Why is Tony Aragon pummeling my head?
The reason, he explains, is I need to loosen up. Instead, I'm clenching up, shuffling awkwardly, and
leaving my face exposed to his armada of hooks and jabs. The boxing ring is an unfamiliar
environment to me.
What can I do to feel more natural here?
It will come, he promises. It just takes time.
Five years have passed since I moved to New Mexico, and I still don't feel natural here. Boxing is my
latest attempt to accessorize my image as a local. Albuquerque tends to embrace pugilists as local
heroes. I'd hoped to absorb some of that urban admiration, but then three minor concussions in as
many rounds got me rethinking what it means to be a part of the community.
I'm not asking for induction into the Navajo nation and I don’t envy the descendents of the
Conquistadors who crashed the region a century before the birth of Virginia Dare. But I do want
some stake in the heritage, along with the security and sagacity it seems to offer. I've never had that.
I sought out the lands of my lineage, but could find no rapport with my place of birth (China) nor my
mother's (Holland) and certainly not my father's (Chicago).
If I'd ever established my sense of place, it was in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. But I severed those
ties long ago, as did my friends and family, and I've since heeded one Carolina native's most
memorable warning: You Can't Go Home Again.
So now I look to Albuquerque for acceptance. And to speed up the process, I moved into one of its
older neighborhoods, into a pueblo-style home with Spanish tiles, a kiva fireplace, and adobe brick
walls. I also got a pickup truck and a tattoo of Jesus on my shoulder. I grow green chile in my garden
and I know how to grill a mean quesadilla. I tried to practice Spanish in the neighborhood bars and
markets, but few folks had the patience for it. So instead I study a subtitled version of Fight Club.
I am learning Spanish (and a few boxing tips) from Brad Pitt and Ed Norton.
I am also learning that cultural mimicry will not improve my status here. None of this is helping me
loosen up in the native sense. And why should it? I didn't pledge my allegiance to Chapel Hill by
emulating its local legends. I never tried to be James Taylor or Michael Jordan. I acculturated through
nearly two formative decades - K through MA - and submerged myself in Southern indoctrinations
that don't wash out easily. Even if I drove a lowrider, excavated Anasazi ruins, forged O'Keeffe
landscapes, and crawled on wounded knees to receive penance atop El Cerro Tome, I'd still be
about as New Mexican as kudzu. A Southern cracker like me would find better luck assimilating into
Harlem, New York. It’s true. Just look at Bill Clinton.
But I have to face it: I need roots and I need them fast.
Recently, while celebrating the fifth anniversary of my arrival here, I was informed of an old letter
discovered a thousand miles away. Its contents renewed my faith in finding fellowship in the Duke
City. It illustrated a family tree in a way I thought miraculous.
New Mexico is plentiful in miracles, and this one begins with Gabriel.
More specifically, Inspector-General of the Department of New Mexico Gabriel Rene Paul, who
begat Julia, who, in 1861, begat John in a prominent Albuquerque home. Stay with me here: John
begat Duffy, who begat Mary Jo, who begat Betsy, who married me.
I know it's a stretch, but I can now say I have roots in this town that go back 140 years. In Southern
terms, such a legacy would probably near qualify me for induction into the Daughters of the
Confederacy.
But it's different here. My wife and I have since visited that Old Town home (now a restaurant) to
share the news of our kinship. The response we received glowed with complete apathy and sincere
indifference. It seems access to Albuquerque’s inner circle isn't granted with a wedding ring or in a
boxing ring, though I do believe both can help. Either way, it will take time. I just sometimes wish the
local sport were more akin to caning for catfish.
Albuquerque, 2001
[original version]
Considering I had just left some Third World country for Albuquerque, where I knew no one and had
little reason to be, the rumors of my debut on world-famous Canyon Road in Santa Fe came as a big
surprise to the small number of people I’d met since my arrival here. And discovering that I was the
Art Pick of the Week in the city paper was like seeing my name in lights on Broadway: Deeply
disturbing.
I studied the featured artwork. It was fiercely erotic. It didn't look familiar and wasn't quite my style.
But there was my full name, including my unusual surname, which (I'd once heard) roughly defined my
German ancestors as strangers or outsiders. Aside from that, I'd never heard nor seen it used to refer
to anyone outside of my immediate family. But now this: My complete name in print and headlining an
exhibition for reasons unknown.
It could only mean one thing: My evil twin was here.
He appears in many places and in many forms. In college, classmates alleged that I gave a wondrous
performance at a concert to benefit the Chapel Hill food bank. Oddly enough, two hours prior to the
concert and a hundred miles due west, a case of mistaken identity landed me in Forsythe County Jail
on charges of public indecency. So I could not have possibly been on stage on the night in question.
Or any other night, for that matter, because I have less musical talent than a singing raisin. That was
what troubled me most over the years of allegations, that my double was always doing things I could
never do and having more fun than I ever would. That and his habit of disappearing long before I
could begin to investigate.
But this time I had proof. I had my name in the paper, along with the time, date and place that I would
appear next.
The turnout at the opening was overwhelming - or at least greater than any turnout for my exhibitions -
but I picked him out immediately. The spitting image of me, only slightly taller and better dressed. To
keep from staring at him, I took a copy of his vitae and studied it. I found my name above a decade
of achievements that immediately wrought within me a furious envy. I had the sudden urge to tear up
his vitae, knock the pictures off the wall and drag his monkey ass off into the desert, all the while
screaming: There can be only one!
It was a brief yet disturbing impulse. One that forced me to consider for a moment that I might in fact
be the evil twin. And it was in that moment that a stranger approached, a casually dressed young man
I hadn't noticed earlier. He noted the crumpled paper in my hands, then introduced himself.
"I’m Stephen Ausherman," he said.
I hesitantly accepted his handshake and replied, "So am I."
I glanced back to where my twin had been, but he was gone.
Albuquerque, 1996
Struggle for the Inner Circle
Why is Tony Aragon pummeling my head?
The reason, he explains, is I need to loosen up. Instead, I'm clenching up, shuffling awkwardly, and
leaving my face exposed to his armada of hooks and jabs. The boxing ring is an unfamiliar
environment to me.
What can I do to feel more natural here?
It will come, he promises. It just takes time.
Five years have passed since I moved to New Mexico, and I still don't feel natural here. Boxing is my
latest attempt to accessorize my image as a local. Albuquerque tends to embrace pugilists as local
heroes. I'd hoped to absorb some of that urban admiration, but then three minor concussions in as
many rounds got me rethinking what it means to be a part of the community.
I'm not asking for induction into the Navajo nation and I don’t envy the descendents of the
Conquistadors who crashed the region a century before the birth of Virginia Dare. But I do want
some stake in the heritage, along with the security and sagacity it seems to offer. I've never had that.
I sought out the lands of my lineage, but could find no rapport with my place of birth (China) nor my
mother's (Holland) and certainly not my father's (Chicago).
If I'd ever established my sense of place, it was in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. But I severed those
ties long ago, as did my friends and family, and I've since heeded one Carolina native's most
memorable warning: You Can't Go Home Again.
So now I look to Albuquerque for acceptance. And to speed up the process, I moved into one of its
older neighborhoods, into a pueblo-style home with Spanish tiles, a kiva fireplace, and adobe brick
walls. I also got a pickup truck and a tattoo of Jesus on my shoulder. I grow green chile in my garden
and I know how to grill a mean quesadilla. I tried to practice Spanish in the neighborhood bars and
markets, but few folks had the patience for it. So instead I study a subtitled version of Fight Club.
I am learning Spanish (and a few boxing tips) from Brad Pitt and Ed Norton.
I am also learning that cultural mimicry will not improve my status here. None of this is helping me
loosen up in the native sense. And why should it? I didn't pledge my allegiance to Chapel Hill by
emulating its local legends. I never tried to be James Taylor or Michael Jordan. I acculturated through
nearly two formative decades - K through MA - and submerged myself in Southern indoctrinations
that don't wash out easily. Even if I drove a lowrider, excavated Anasazi ruins, forged O'Keeffe
landscapes, and crawled on wounded knees to receive penance atop El Cerro Tome, I'd still be
about as New Mexican as kudzu. A Southern cracker like me would find better luck assimilating into
Harlem, New York. It’s true. Just look at Bill Clinton.
But I have to face it: I need roots and I need them fast.
Recently, while celebrating the fifth anniversary of my arrival here, I was informed of an old letter
discovered a thousand miles away. Its contents renewed my faith in finding fellowship in the Duke
City. It illustrated a family tree in a way I thought miraculous.
New Mexico is plentiful in miracles, and this one begins with Gabriel.
More specifically, Inspector-General of the Department of New Mexico Gabriel Rene Paul, who
begat Julia, who, in 1861, begat John in a prominent Albuquerque home. Stay with me here: John
begat Duffy, who begat Mary Jo, who begat Betsy, who married me.
I know it's a stretch, but I can now say I have roots in this town that go back 140 years. In Southern
terms, such a legacy would probably near qualify me for induction into the Daughters of the
Confederacy.
But it's different here. My wife and I have since visited that Old Town home (now a restaurant) to
share the news of our kinship. The response we received glowed with complete apathy and sincere
indifference. It seems access to Albuquerque’s inner circle isn't granted with a wedding ring or in a
boxing ring, though I do believe both can help. Either way, it will take time. I just sometimes wish the
local sport were more akin to caning for catfish.
Albuquerque, 2001
[original version]
AUSHERMAN'S MANY CONTRIBUTIONS TO |
