Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
This ain't your principal's suspension
Spectators cringe and groan as, one by one, six thick hooks are pierced through the skin of Justin’s back.
“He’s insane,” some say.
“Don’t get blood on the bed,” the girlfriend of the apartment owner warns.
Some hooks slide smoothly through. Others hit veins, sending blood trickling. The piercer, a friend of Justin’s, comments that he’s done more piercings on one person in the past 20 minutes than he did in three hours at work in a tattoo parlor. Throughout the hurried piercing, 20-year-old Justin Scott is fed Kit Kats to keep his blood sugar high. This will keep him from passing out later, like he did last time. “Later” refers to when he plans to hang from those hooks on a questionable wooden stand that a few friends built 10 minutes earlier.
Suspension—the act of hanging oneself by multiple hooks pierced through the skin—never receives a mild reaction. Lately, it has been receiving attention and spawning a slew of Web sites and groups across the country, mainly in large cities (However, Google “suspension” in San Francisco and the most you’ll find are Web sites for auto shops, unusual sexual devices, and one actual occurrence at the Fetish Ball in 2003).
Some consider suspension to be an act of stupidity. Justin’s girlfriend, for example. After the piercing, she leaves the room to hide her tears of dread. While friends comfort her, she curses the boyish sense of mortality she usually admires in her boyfriend. “Unlike Peter Pan,” she vehemently sputters, “he can’t actually fly!”
Others gulp the experience down like an adrenaline-spiked cocktail of euphoria, a reminder that nothing exists besides the current moment. The main propagators of this viewpoint are a group of women in their 20’s, who are chain-smoking on the porch. If Justin and his friends are adrenaline junkies, these women are adrenaline groupies. They seem to glorify the thrill-seekers as if they are actually capable of floating through air.
“I’ve always noticed the euphoric state that people go in. It’s like a haze,” explains Bailey Foehr, 23, who has attended several suspensions. “Because of the euphoria, the out-of-body experience, you get in touch with who you really are in essence. Like some people walk on fire, it’s their version of an outer body experience, overcoming death and overcoming pain.”
Others also consider the out-of-body feeling that suspension induces to be a spiritual experience. As far back as the history of suspension is known, it has been linked to spirituality. According to bellaonline.com, a Body Art site, North American tribes practiced piercing and then hanging themselves from the piercing as a form of spiritual sacrifice during Sundance, which occurred around the Summer Solstice. Similarly, the Tamils of South Asia fused piercing practices with the worship of their god, Murugan.
In modern times, “people are seeking the opportunity to discover a deeper sense of themselves and to challenge pre-determined belief systems which may not be true,” reads the Web site www.suspension.org. “Some are seeking a right of passage or a spiritual encounter to let go of the fear of not being whole or complete inside their body.”
Others, like Justin, see suspension as a defiance of the impossible through the embrace of pain. With a buzzed head, multiple tattoos, and holes in his ears that were created by one fell clutch of a hole punch, Justin defies norms in his appearance as well as through his actions. He’s the traditional image of a badass, someone who Hollywood would type-cast as the guy who inadvertently burns down an orphanage when he flicks a cigarette out of his car window. However, Justin breaks stereotypes as well as traditions. His many tattoos are in honor of his mother and sisters. His fuzzy head is less noticeable than his sharp sense of humor. He works as a piercer himself, but hates to hurt people. And most interestingly, in this Berkeley apartment filled with alcohol and probably other substances, he refuses to partake. After drinking his last beer three years ago, Justin has been completely sober despite his surroundings and peers. Suspension, it turns out, is his last high. More importantly than the high, however, hanging from hooks is a middle finger to the safe. It is an act that will separate him from the normality of others.
“I think it’s awesome doing something that barely anyone on earth has done,” Justin says. “To know how much pain your body can actually take is cool.”
Considering Justin’s desire to attempt the unlikely, it is fitting that he is about to try a suspension named after a superhero. Suspended only from his back, he will be attempting the “Superman.”
Before the hanging, he meditates and exhibits confidence in what he is about to do.
“You can’t think about the pain or the people watching,” he said. “You just have to center yourself, no matter how much partying is going on.”
Despite the superhero allusion, however, friends worried about Justin’s mortality.
“I pray to God that it goes smooth and there are no injuries,” said friend Travis Souders, 18. “I was shaken up at first (when he was pierced). I had to step out of the room.”
When it comes time for the actual suspension, the group of about 30 people crowds into the apartment’s living room. Everyone grows silent. While friends look for a stool for him to stand on as he lowers himself, some appear to grow more anxious. Justin’s girlfriend clutches her fists and is incapable of looking at the people patting her back, incapable of acknowledging anyone besides her boyfriend. Even Foehr nervously fidgets and picks at her nails.
Justin himself remains silent and calm. An appropriate stool is found.
As Justin slowly lowers himself, people start muttering encouragement. When he is hanging only by the skin of his back, Justin’s face exhibits something between a grin and a grimace. Cheers grow louder as the skin of his back starts to resemble hills of flesh, rising up to where the hooks are pierced through. The stool is abandoned as Justin’s body, like a grotesque puppet, is held off the ground only by the hooks.
Now, fully suspended, Justin is steadily swung back and forth. His ease appears to grow as friends shout “Mission accomplished!” mingled with “take it easy man.” As Justin’s legs dangle and his face breaks into a smile, a friend of Justin’s jokes “makes you feel like river dancing.”
After a couple of minutes of suspension, Justin comes off of the hooks. Spectators, both relieved that their friend is whole and amazed at what they have just witnessed, talk excitedly. Many give him words of praise like “tonight you became a man.”
Afterwards, Justin talks about the pleasure in accomplishing something he has wanted to do for years and the reality of what it felt like. It is in his nature to stay calm and cool, but he also seems satisfied.
“I felt it more than I thought I would, but I liked it,” he says. “It felt like pressure, like someone was standing on me.”
“But I’m happy,” he adds.
Friends are also excitedly in shock.
“Oh man, that was gnarly. His skin just stretching, it was insane, it was ridiculous, it took my breath away!” Souder says before starting to sing his rendition of “Take My Breath Away.”
He then breaks into “I Believe I Can Fly,” appropriately ending the night.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Miceli's
On the stretch of Cahuenga Blvd., Italy intersects with Disneyland. Though these directions may sound surreally jumbled, they lead directly to Miceli’s—a Los Angeles version of Italy mixed with a dash of fantasy and theatrics.
Heading down the gray city street, the smell of the bread that the restaurant is known for wafts warmly into my nostrils. The smell of bread is accompanied by cheerful singing. Judging from sound alone, the place possesses a vibe that is more likely to be found at a house party than at a restaurant. Hoots and hollers can be heard amidst glasses clinking and a woman singing opera. As I pass under a neon sign boasting “serving until 12,” I wonder what exactly I’m entering into.
The restaurant is a theatrical version of Italy. Plastic checkered tablecloths that probably wouldn’t be found in Rome or Venice bedeck the tables. A red sign flashing “Vino” that looks like it came from the same origins as “Live Nudes” down the street flaunts itself over the bar in all of its promising glory. Like Julia Roberts in “Pretty Woman,” it is charming in its provocation.
Walking inside, I find that I’m not supposed to actually feel like I’m indoors. The restaurant is flanked by brick arches that are being swallowed up vines and hanging plants. Each wall gives a different view of the painted countryside. Red, white, and green lights are draped throughout the restaurant. Sitting next to a high fence, I almost forget I’m surrounded by In ‘N Outs and porn chains. In fact, I forget I’m inside at all.
One reminder that I’m sitting in a restaurant in Los Angeles is the collection of headshots covering the entry wall. At first glance, I merely suppose they’re of B-list actors I don’t recognize. I soon realize, however, that the aspiring talents covering the walls are actually the servers. The hollers heard earlier had been for their performances. In between taking orders and running food, each server performs on a stage in the middle of the restaurant. Accompanied by a swanky man on the piano, they belt soul songs like “At Last” or theatre classics like “Hello Dolly.” After taking my table’s order, our waitress takes the stage and delivers a sultry rendition of “Can’t Help Loving that Man of Mine.” Breathless, she smiles at the applause. As soon as she hops down, however, her post-performance high disappears as the manager tells her to take Table 5.
The traditional smells of Italian food—heavy garlic and sumptuous tomatoes—draw me back to reality. Though the service is flashy, the food is authentic. Micheli’s was the first Italian restaurant to open in Los Angeles, on what was once known as Restaurant Row. Family-owned, the restaurant survived as the eateries surrounding it like “The Roaring 20’s” and “The Gay 90’s” (as in the 1890’s, when the owners probably had no idea they were foretelling the future), slipped away.
As various dishes temptingly waft by me, the bread comes and I learn why it’s so popular. The rolls are light and heavy at the same time, with flaky layers surrounding a thick center that’s just barely cooked enough. The service is as quick as the restaurant is flashy, and our calamari arrives in minutes. The calamari is deep-fried with a heavy tomato sauce that could stand as a dish by itself. For the most part, the food is like the atmosphere—it’s good in a way that knocks you in the head with a stocking-ed heel rather than introduces itself subtly to your palette. The veal, particularly the Veal Milanese, is so heavily breaded that the meat barely makes an appearance. However, the pastas and pizzas are excellent, proving that the restaurant specializes in starches and spices rather than meats. The creamy pesto fettucini is smooth and the sauce is surprisingly light. Desert can be side-stepped, but the canolis are recommended by the singing staff.
What with the heavy food, the illusion of an outdoor veranda, and the sneakily singing wait-staff that sprung up behind me just as I was taking a sip of my water, Mecili’s left me feeling a bit disoriented. However, that is the charm of it. Mecili’s doesn’t claim to be subtle or classy. Like Disneyland, it creates a fantasy world that is both ludicrous and charming. Fun-dining, this place is perfect for family gatherings, people who are bored with the manners that accompany high-class restaurants, and birthday outings looking for a more entertaining song than “Happy Birthday.”
3655 Cahuenga Blvd W.
Universal City, CA 90068
Phone: (323) 851-3344
http://www.micelisrestaurant.com/
Serves until 12 a.m. everyday
Heading down the gray city street, the smell of the bread that the restaurant is known for wafts warmly into my nostrils. The smell of bread is accompanied by cheerful singing. Judging from sound alone, the place possesses a vibe that is more likely to be found at a house party than at a restaurant. Hoots and hollers can be heard amidst glasses clinking and a woman singing opera. As I pass under a neon sign boasting “serving until 12,” I wonder what exactly I’m entering into.
The restaurant is a theatrical version of Italy. Plastic checkered tablecloths that probably wouldn’t be found in Rome or Venice bedeck the tables. A red sign flashing “Vino” that looks like it came from the same origins as “Live Nudes” down the street flaunts itself over the bar in all of its promising glory. Like Julia Roberts in “Pretty Woman,” it is charming in its provocation.
Walking inside, I find that I’m not supposed to actually feel like I’m indoors. The restaurant is flanked by brick arches that are being swallowed up vines and hanging plants. Each wall gives a different view of the painted countryside. Red, white, and green lights are draped throughout the restaurant. Sitting next to a high fence, I almost forget I’m surrounded by In ‘N Outs and porn chains. In fact, I forget I’m inside at all.
One reminder that I’m sitting in a restaurant in Los Angeles is the collection of headshots covering the entry wall. At first glance, I merely suppose they’re of B-list actors I don’t recognize. I soon realize, however, that the aspiring talents covering the walls are actually the servers. The hollers heard earlier had been for their performances. In between taking orders and running food, each server performs on a stage in the middle of the restaurant. Accompanied by a swanky man on the piano, they belt soul songs like “At Last” or theatre classics like “Hello Dolly.” After taking my table’s order, our waitress takes the stage and delivers a sultry rendition of “Can’t Help Loving that Man of Mine.” Breathless, she smiles at the applause. As soon as she hops down, however, her post-performance high disappears as the manager tells her to take Table 5.
The traditional smells of Italian food—heavy garlic and sumptuous tomatoes—draw me back to reality. Though the service is flashy, the food is authentic. Micheli’s was the first Italian restaurant to open in Los Angeles, on what was once known as Restaurant Row. Family-owned, the restaurant survived as the eateries surrounding it like “The Roaring 20’s” and “The Gay 90’s” (as in the 1890’s, when the owners probably had no idea they were foretelling the future), slipped away.
As various dishes temptingly waft by me, the bread comes and I learn why it’s so popular. The rolls are light and heavy at the same time, with flaky layers surrounding a thick center that’s just barely cooked enough. The service is as quick as the restaurant is flashy, and our calamari arrives in minutes. The calamari is deep-fried with a heavy tomato sauce that could stand as a dish by itself. For the most part, the food is like the atmosphere—it’s good in a way that knocks you in the head with a stocking-ed heel rather than introduces itself subtly to your palette. The veal, particularly the Veal Milanese, is so heavily breaded that the meat barely makes an appearance. However, the pastas and pizzas are excellent, proving that the restaurant specializes in starches and spices rather than meats. The creamy pesto fettucini is smooth and the sauce is surprisingly light. Desert can be side-stepped, but the canolis are recommended by the singing staff.
What with the heavy food, the illusion of an outdoor veranda, and the sneakily singing wait-staff that sprung up behind me just as I was taking a sip of my water, Mecili’s left me feeling a bit disoriented. However, that is the charm of it. Mecili’s doesn’t claim to be subtle or classy. Like Disneyland, it creates a fantasy world that is both ludicrous and charming. Fun-dining, this place is perfect for family gatherings, people who are bored with the manners that accompany high-class restaurants, and birthday outings looking for a more entertaining song than “Happy Birthday.”
3655 Cahuenga Blvd W.
Universal City, CA 90068
Phone: (323) 851-3344
http://www.micelisrestaurant.com/
Serves until 12 a.m. everyday
Castro Characters
The trio walks down Church Street, headed towards the Castro. Holding candles cradled by blue plastic cups, they seem to be headed for the taping of “Milk.” Such colorful spirits would never otherwise be draped in black on a Friday night.
As they make their way down the street, the women dance to the disco tracks of their minds while the man strolls contentedly. When they hit the Castro, however, his stroll morphs into a sashay. He seems to be channeling an 18th century woman in a bustier and heels as he daintily maneuvers the streets. His walk is far more intricate than the dance moves of the girls, who have transformed from commanding sexual presences into the gay man’s ultimate accessory.
As they continue their journey, his movements become more exaggerated. His hands fly through the neon-lit sky with style and intention. A tight-shirted passerby glances over as the man tells a story that is obviously meant to seem both ground-breaking and hilarious. The man speaking is so enamored with the appearance of hilarity that he fails to notice the tight shirt’s subtle gaze until his blonde friend whispers nonchalantly into his ear. His cool blown, he looks up just in time to smile as they pass each other.
In the meantime, the brunette woman asks yet another group of men for a cigarette. She’s been trying for the past ten minutes, but to no avail. The Castro is probably the worst place in the city for her to ask random men for nicotine gratification.
As they reach the heart of the district, the group notices a place where they’d like to eat. While he sashays sexily, she sulks—cigaretteless—into the Sausage Factory.
As they make their way down the street, the women dance to the disco tracks of their minds while the man strolls contentedly. When they hit the Castro, however, his stroll morphs into a sashay. He seems to be channeling an 18th century woman in a bustier and heels as he daintily maneuvers the streets. His walk is far more intricate than the dance moves of the girls, who have transformed from commanding sexual presences into the gay man’s ultimate accessory.
As they continue their journey, his movements become more exaggerated. His hands fly through the neon-lit sky with style and intention. A tight-shirted passerby glances over as the man tells a story that is obviously meant to seem both ground-breaking and hilarious. The man speaking is so enamored with the appearance of hilarity that he fails to notice the tight shirt’s subtle gaze until his blonde friend whispers nonchalantly into his ear. His cool blown, he looks up just in time to smile as they pass each other.
In the meantime, the brunette woman asks yet another group of men for a cigarette. She’s been trying for the past ten minutes, but to no avail. The Castro is probably the worst place in the city for her to ask random men for nicotine gratification.
As they reach the heart of the district, the group notices a place where they’d like to eat. While he sashays sexily, she sulks—cigaretteless—into the Sausage Factory.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Stranger Article
Growing up Palestinian in the Holy Land
“You must not tell people you are Palestinian. You must not speak Arabic above a whisper or you will be followed. When you talk about where you’re from, you must only say ‘the Homeland.’”
On her first plane ride, five-year-old Haneen Qutami was much more frightened by her mother’s urgently whispered words than she was by the mysterious vehicle carrying her through the sky. After living in the U.S. since birth, she was used to being different but she was not accustomed to hiding it. These words would begin a clash within her identity that would last during her entire upbringing in Jerusalem.
Qutami descended from Palestinian grandparents who were given Israeli citizenship after refusing to flee their village when Israel invaded in 1948. The tension between Israelis and Palestinians that has existed and exploded for years created a tense environment for Qutami to grow up in. According to Rhashid Khalidi’s “Resurrecting Empire, “despair and anger spread among ordinary Palestinians as their daily life grew harder and harder” after the second infitada. Partially affected by the hardship of her people, but also connected to an Israeli city, Qutami grew up in a split world. Her mother practices her own interpretation of the Muslim faith (one that keeps the long sleeves but casts off the uncomfortable hajibs and burkas) in the center of Judaism. Her family is Palestinian, with most relatives living “across the strip.” Her coloring marks her as an Arab, a characteristic that resulted in her being stopped nearly every time she ventured so far as the half-mile to her grandmother’s house. In her hometown, she was treated as a second-class citizen and upon coming to the U.S., she said she felt the most connection with discriminated-against black people.
It was not until her return to the U.S. for college, this time at 20 years old, that Qutami felt she could fully embrace her Palestinian identity and realize the injustice of the situation that she had become accustomed to.
“Then I didn’t know how bad it was. I grew up with it,” Qutami said. “Now when I think about it, I realize how awful the way I was treated was. We were second-class citizens.”
The discrimination that surrounded her led Qutami to seek a college education in the United States. In Israel, she would have had to wait until she was 22 years old to enter most universities because that is the age when the Jewish men and women would be finished with their mandatory army service.
“I didn’t feel like I would have the same opportunities there,” she said. “You can be what you want to be here. There, you have to be excellent to even have a chance at success.”
In terms of success, Qutami is thriving. She is about to graduate from San Francisco State University with a degree in speech therapy, and hopes to return to Jerusalem and become the second speech therapist in the entire city who speaks Arabic. She feels a sense of duty towards the Palestinians still living in Jerusalem and unquestionably plans to give back for the opportunities she has been afforded here.
The mixture of cultural traits she has developed from her varied upbringing results in her appearance today—she smiles easily but holds herself with a sense of detached grace, wearing an elaborately embroidered shirt her mother sent from her homeland with pearl earrings and Converse sneakers. After moving and changing for years, she has cultivated an identity that lies somewhere outside of race.
“You must not tell people you are Palestinian. You must not speak Arabic above a whisper or you will be followed. When you talk about where you’re from, you must only say ‘the Homeland.’”
On her first plane ride, five-year-old Haneen Qutami was much more frightened by her mother’s urgently whispered words than she was by the mysterious vehicle carrying her through the sky. After living in the U.S. since birth, she was used to being different but she was not accustomed to hiding it. These words would begin a clash within her identity that would last during her entire upbringing in Jerusalem.
Qutami descended from Palestinian grandparents who were given Israeli citizenship after refusing to flee their village when Israel invaded in 1948. The tension between Israelis and Palestinians that has existed and exploded for years created a tense environment for Qutami to grow up in. According to Rhashid Khalidi’s “Resurrecting Empire, “despair and anger spread among ordinary Palestinians as their daily life grew harder and harder” after the second infitada. Partially affected by the hardship of her people, but also connected to an Israeli city, Qutami grew up in a split world. Her mother practices her own interpretation of the Muslim faith (one that keeps the long sleeves but casts off the uncomfortable hajibs and burkas) in the center of Judaism. Her family is Palestinian, with most relatives living “across the strip.” Her coloring marks her as an Arab, a characteristic that resulted in her being stopped nearly every time she ventured so far as the half-mile to her grandmother’s house. In her hometown, she was treated as a second-class citizen and upon coming to the U.S., she said she felt the most connection with discriminated-against black people.
It was not until her return to the U.S. for college, this time at 20 years old, that Qutami felt she could fully embrace her Palestinian identity and realize the injustice of the situation that she had become accustomed to.
“Then I didn’t know how bad it was. I grew up with it,” Qutami said. “Now when I think about it, I realize how awful the way I was treated was. We were second-class citizens.”
The discrimination that surrounded her led Qutami to seek a college education in the United States. In Israel, she would have had to wait until she was 22 years old to enter most universities because that is the age when the Jewish men and women would be finished with their mandatory army service.
“I didn’t feel like I would have the same opportunities there,” she said. “You can be what you want to be here. There, you have to be excellent to even have a chance at success.”
In terms of success, Qutami is thriving. She is about to graduate from San Francisco State University with a degree in speech therapy, and hopes to return to Jerusalem and become the second speech therapist in the entire city who speaks Arabic. She feels a sense of duty towards the Palestinians still living in Jerusalem and unquestionably plans to give back for the opportunities she has been afforded here.
The mixture of cultural traits she has developed from her varied upbringing results in her appearance today—she smiles easily but holds herself with a sense of detached grace, wearing an elaborately embroidered shirt her mother sent from her homeland with pearl earrings and Converse sneakers. After moving and changing for years, she has cultivated an identity that lies somewhere outside of race.
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