Today, I discovered that Dolly Parton has a Twitter and Youtube account thanks to a retweet from Jason S. So, of course I had to check it out. I have a sometimes obsession with Dolly Parton. I like 9 to 5: The Musical and Steel Magnolias. I like the fact that she built Dollywood in her home area. Plus, anyone who made a career somewhat off of their breasts and is completely upfront about that is totally okay in my books.
I was looking at her Youtube page and she has a video blog. I watched the latest entry, and it was pretty standard fare. Her being Southern and wishing everyone a happy 4th of July and telling everyone that they can change the world and that 2010 is now officially halfway over. See, but what struck me about this article is that Dolly Parton looked old.
Not bad, mind you, but older. I always get struck by that when I see people that I don't get to see very often. I imagine that people, when I don't see them, pause. They're waiting for me to get back for their lives to continue. They don't age. Things don't break down. Everything is going to be okay and the same when I come back.
This is obviously not true. Things change. Entropy reigns. And as Tom Disch reminds us, "Things break down in different ways/We can't for that omit their praise."
I don't feel myself growing up or getting earlier. I think that I'm the same that I always have been, but I guess that I have grown up. Somehow, I became what I never thought I'd live long enough to be: an adult. And I'm having an adult life and adult problems. And things don't stop. The march of progress marches relentlessly forward.
And I like the hum of moving forward. But sometimes I want to grab at the images flashing by outside the window. And I can't. Because time marches on, and it truly is, as Tennessee Williams says, "the greatest distance between two points."
There's always tomorrow, but it never looked the same as the incomparable today or yesterday. It's a copy of a copy: similar but never the same.
Showing posts with label Past. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Past. Show all posts
New Movies
For those of you who know me pretty well, you can probably count on one hand the number of times we've been to a movie theatre together. It's because I rarely go. In fact, the last movie I went and saw was Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief. I saw it with Catie in February. Not only is that the last movie I saw (nearly four months ago now), but it is the only movie that I have seen in a theatre in Los Angeles.
It's not that I don't like movies. I actually love movies. But, I grew up in Tifton. It has one movie theatre that has six screens. It showed movies that would appeal to children, Southerners, and mainstream America. Thus, Rachel Getting Married was never shown there. Nor was Rent. Or Brokeback Mountain. Or I would say the majority of the Academy Award winners of the last decade. Because it wouldn't have sold tickets. And since I'm not a teen comedy kinda guy, I just didn't go.
Plus, there was another reason I didn't go to the movies: in a one Starbucks town like Tifton, the place to go to be seen when I was in school was the movie theatre. It was always packed on Friday and Saturday nights with every preppy kid or scene kid or anyone who needed to be seen from middle school to the point in high school when those kids moved on to house parties and cheap beer. Anyway, even though I was school friends with a lot of these people, I never felt like I belonged there. I didn't understand the main principle of belonging to a group: acting like you belong is 80%. If you get that far, you're practically in. But I didn't know that then, so I stayed away. Hung by myself. It was safer that way.
Anywho, this means that I always see movies at home. Which is great, because I can pause them, make them as loud as I want them to be, and walk away if I don't want to see it anymore. It's a good deal cheaper, and I get to see exactly what I want to see. In pretty much every category for me, watching a movie at home beats watching a movie at a theatre (did I mention that there are strangers in movie theatres? Gross.). Except one big one:
It's hard to talk about movies.
Not cinema. Or film. Talking about the concept is kind of universal if you've seen enough of the right kind of movies. But, I can't talk about popular movies. Because I don't see them in theatres when everybody else does, I'm behind the curve on it. And when I finally do see it, the movie is old news and nobody wants to talk it. Like, I watched Zombieland earlier tonight. I remember when everybody saw it for the first time and was talking about it. They were totally right; it was fantastic. But, my viewpoint is neither timely nor relevant right now. So, I'm just going to keep it to myself.
I do that a lot with movies I see by myself. But it's okay. It's got to be better than sitting through a lot of crap waiting to see something mildly interesting. And I think that Netflix and I will continue to get along famously.
It's not that I don't like movies. I actually love movies. But, I grew up in Tifton. It has one movie theatre that has six screens. It showed movies that would appeal to children, Southerners, and mainstream America. Thus, Rachel Getting Married was never shown there. Nor was Rent. Or Brokeback Mountain. Or I would say the majority of the Academy Award winners of the last decade. Because it wouldn't have sold tickets. And since I'm not a teen comedy kinda guy, I just didn't go.
Plus, there was another reason I didn't go to the movies: in a one Starbucks town like Tifton, the place to go to be seen when I was in school was the movie theatre. It was always packed on Friday and Saturday nights with every preppy kid or scene kid or anyone who needed to be seen from middle school to the point in high school when those kids moved on to house parties and cheap beer. Anyway, even though I was school friends with a lot of these people, I never felt like I belonged there. I didn't understand the main principle of belonging to a group: acting like you belong is 80%. If you get that far, you're practically in. But I didn't know that then, so I stayed away. Hung by myself. It was safer that way.
Anywho, this means that I always see movies at home. Which is great, because I can pause them, make them as loud as I want them to be, and walk away if I don't want to see it anymore. It's a good deal cheaper, and I get to see exactly what I want to see. In pretty much every category for me, watching a movie at home beats watching a movie at a theatre (did I mention that there are strangers in movie theatres? Gross.). Except one big one:
It's hard to talk about movies.
Not cinema. Or film. Talking about the concept is kind of universal if you've seen enough of the right kind of movies. But, I can't talk about popular movies. Because I don't see them in theatres when everybody else does, I'm behind the curve on it. And when I finally do see it, the movie is old news and nobody wants to talk it. Like, I watched Zombieland earlier tonight. I remember when everybody saw it for the first time and was talking about it. They were totally right; it was fantastic. But, my viewpoint is neither timely nor relevant right now. So, I'm just going to keep it to myself.
I do that a lot with movies I see by myself. But it's okay. It's got to be better than sitting through a lot of crap waiting to see something mildly interesting. And I think that Netflix and I will continue to get along famously.
Edit: I was so excited to go see The Last Airbender this weekend. Rene and I checked Rotten Tomatoes before going...it had an 8% positive rating. See, yet another reason not to go...I don't want to waste the time and money if the movie is just going to suck.
Stories from the Past: Riding Home
Music has always been a huge part of transportation for me, and I'm not strictly speaking emotional distances. I have always been a huge believer that what you are listening to while driving is the single most important part of driving. If you're tired, then the choice of The Decemberists is probably ill-advised, because that will cause you to veer into oncoming traffic on your way home from a funeral (or maybe that's just me). If you're driving 300 miles home starting at midnight because you had a full day of class, rehearsal, and an improv show, then might I suggest cranking classic Brittney Spears and Eminem. There's nothing in there that is going to let you nod off.
But, as I was waking up this morning, getting ready for today, letting iTunes play whatever it wanted to in the background, Train's "Drops of Jupiter" came on. For about two weeks in high school, I was really into this song. And I still like this song, but mostly because it reminds me of one specific memory.
I was getting out of a long rehearsal. This must have been tenth grade, because I was carrying a backpack that weighed about 85 pounds, threatening to tip me backward with every step. At one point, it almost realigned my spine into skuliosis, but that's another story for another day. Anyway, I got into my father's truck, and this song was playing. My dad, who had been waiting on me, was singing along to it. For some reason, I just found this absolutely bizarre.
My father is someone who loves classic rock. And some classic pop. But he's the quintessential my-taste-in-music-froze-in-my-twenties person. I imagine that that happens a lot. However, there's not really a huge selection of stations in south GA that aren't Christian, country, or rap, so the one 80's through present day station was his general fixture. And he ended up liking it.
I told this story to K'Fain a few years ago and she said, "Of course your dad liked "Drops of Jupiter." Everybody's dad likes Train. Nobody you know actually likes Train except for your dad." I laughed, and we probably kept watching Law and Order: SVU.
---
Posts may be sporadic for the next two weeks because Camp City Year is ramping into its home stretch. Keep safe 'til then, and look for posts from the dark side.
But, as I was waking up this morning, getting ready for today, letting iTunes play whatever it wanted to in the background, Train's "Drops of Jupiter" came on. For about two weeks in high school, I was really into this song. And I still like this song, but mostly because it reminds me of one specific memory.
I was getting out of a long rehearsal. This must have been tenth grade, because I was carrying a backpack that weighed about 85 pounds, threatening to tip me backward with every step. At one point, it almost realigned my spine into skuliosis, but that's another story for another day. Anyway, I got into my father's truck, and this song was playing. My dad, who had been waiting on me, was singing along to it. For some reason, I just found this absolutely bizarre.
My father is someone who loves classic rock. And some classic pop. But he's the quintessential my-taste-in-music-froze-in-my-twenties person. I imagine that that happens a lot. However, there's not really a huge selection of stations in south GA that aren't Christian, country, or rap, so the one 80's through present day station was his general fixture. And he ended up liking it.
I told this story to K'Fain a few years ago and she said, "Of course your dad liked "Drops of Jupiter." Everybody's dad likes Train. Nobody you know actually likes Train except for your dad." I laughed, and we probably kept watching Law and Order: SVU.
---
Posts may be sporadic for the next two weeks because Camp City Year is ramping into its home stretch. Keep safe 'til then, and look for posts from the dark side.
Mikhail Was a Friend of Mine
Whenever my past intersects my present, I always take a second to stop and consider whether I wish that this thing or person were still in my life. Usually, it's people from Tifton or Shorter that look me on FB.
And, sadly, usually I don't miss them.
Take tonight's find. We'll call him Mikhail in this age of Googling ourselves. Mikhail was someone that I was friendly with in high school. He acted the part of the philosopher. If we had gone to school in the city, I'm sure he would have read a lot of Camus and psychedelic poetry while preaching that everything we were taught was simultaneously beneath him and a lie. He was someone who believed that truth came from pop culture. He was one of the few people I knew who still believed in the power of parables. He could play chess. For some reason, it seemed like he wasn't built to any model. I stole pieces of him that I liked and modeled parts of my life after that. He left before my junior year.
The one time I saw him after he left my daily existence, he proved himself to be one of the most homophobic people in my social set. Until that point, I thought that ignorance equated to prejudice, but on that Halloween night, that illusion was shattered. (On a side note, that was one of two nights that proved to me that I will never want to be a cool kid).
I guess I like that Mikhail friended me on FB. It gave me the chance to think of old conversations and old lies. He's a great example from my high school life of when I realized that everyone had the potential for great good and great evil at the same time. And it proved to me what I've come to internalize recently: pretension blows. People consistently describe what I say or write, no matter how much work is put into it, as "raw." Maybe it's because I don't give a shit what other people think about the words I say, I want them to get the message, and I'll use whatever verbal weaponry is necessary to do that.
And people who talk and circles and argue for its own sake and break out of boxes for the sake of breaking and nothing more, I guess that's their prerogative. But if I'm going to do something to waste time, I'd rather watch SVU.
And, sadly, usually I don't miss them.
Take tonight's find. We'll call him Mikhail in this age of Googling ourselves. Mikhail was someone that I was friendly with in high school. He acted the part of the philosopher. If we had gone to school in the city, I'm sure he would have read a lot of Camus and psychedelic poetry while preaching that everything we were taught was simultaneously beneath him and a lie. He was someone who believed that truth came from pop culture. He was one of the few people I knew who still believed in the power of parables. He could play chess. For some reason, it seemed like he wasn't built to any model. I stole pieces of him that I liked and modeled parts of my life after that. He left before my junior year.
The one time I saw him after he left my daily existence, he proved himself to be one of the most homophobic people in my social set. Until that point, I thought that ignorance equated to prejudice, but on that Halloween night, that illusion was shattered. (On a side note, that was one of two nights that proved to me that I will never want to be a cool kid).
I guess I like that Mikhail friended me on FB. It gave me the chance to think of old conversations and old lies. He's a great example from my high school life of when I realized that everyone had the potential for great good and great evil at the same time. And it proved to me what I've come to internalize recently: pretension blows. People consistently describe what I say or write, no matter how much work is put into it, as "raw." Maybe it's because I don't give a shit what other people think about the words I say, I want them to get the message, and I'll use whatever verbal weaponry is necessary to do that.
And people who talk and circles and argue for its own sake and break out of boxes for the sake of breaking and nothing more, I guess that's their prerogative. But if I'm going to do something to waste time, I'd rather watch SVU.
Court TV
Okay, so I've already written about my (slightly) neurotic obsession with QVC as a child. However, this wasn't the only channel on television that I ever had a fling with. In fact, my next thematic obsession was to swing from campy to carnal--I became a Court TV addict.
I'm not such a fan of truTV, Court TV's new name and format. It adds in reality shows that I don't care about. I basically need a channel devoted to playing reruns of Forensic Files, The Investigators, Masterminds, and any other show like this (I'll take a Psychic Detectives in a pinch). For some reason, this sort of televised misery told in a systematic, unemotional way lulls me to sleep. Some people watch the news or reruns of Sex and the City, but give me misery, mayhem, and the guy who says "blunt force trauma" in that oh-so-special way.
I started my true crime kick when Court TV did a special one Christmas when I was spending a lot of time at my G'ma Helen's house. Late at night, they were doing a "12 Serial Killers of Christmas" special. I got introduced to all of the big names in mayhem and terror: Dahmer, Gacy, Bundy, Eichmann, BTK (before he was caught), the Boston Strangler, the Manson Family, the Son of Sam...a motley crew of death dealers. Anyone who had ever had a well-publicized trial was fair game. Their televesion introductions made me want to know more. This was something different, this was something...dare I say it...cool. Although I liked the story of Eichmann being abducted from Argentina by the Israelis to stand trial (and that his final meal was a bottle of red wine), the stories that affected me the most were Dahmer and Gacy by scaring the absolute shit out of me. What Bundy did to co-eds, these two freaks did to me.
But, regardless of how they scared me, I wanted to know more, like a violence junkie. Because, as GI Joe knows, knowing is half the battle. Plus, the stories, well, I just had to know more. Motives, methods, victims, styles, years, numbers...if I could quantify it, then maybe I could understand it. Because when you're nine, you think that everything can be understood if you just get enough information.
That makes me sound like a creep, but most people are interested. I just put my fascination from a young age up front.
I eventually became fascinated with all sorts of true crime statistics and stories, but those are tales for another day.
I'm not such a fan of truTV, Court TV's new name and format. It adds in reality shows that I don't care about. I basically need a channel devoted to playing reruns of Forensic Files, The Investigators, Masterminds, and any other show like this (I'll take a Psychic Detectives in a pinch). For some reason, this sort of televised misery told in a systematic, unemotional way lulls me to sleep. Some people watch the news or reruns of Sex and the City, but give me misery, mayhem, and the guy who says "blunt force trauma" in that oh-so-special way.
I started my true crime kick when Court TV did a special one Christmas when I was spending a lot of time at my G'ma Helen's house. Late at night, they were doing a "12 Serial Killers of Christmas" special. I got introduced to all of the big names in mayhem and terror: Dahmer, Gacy, Bundy, Eichmann, BTK (before he was caught), the Boston Strangler, the Manson Family, the Son of Sam...a motley crew of death dealers. Anyone who had ever had a well-publicized trial was fair game. Their televesion introductions made me want to know more. This was something different, this was something...dare I say it...cool. Although I liked the story of Eichmann being abducted from Argentina by the Israelis to stand trial (and that his final meal was a bottle of red wine), the stories that affected me the most were Dahmer and Gacy by scaring the absolute shit out of me. What Bundy did to co-eds, these two freaks did to me.
But, regardless of how they scared me, I wanted to know more, like a violence junkie. Because, as GI Joe knows, knowing is half the battle. Plus, the stories, well, I just had to know more. Motives, methods, victims, styles, years, numbers...if I could quantify it, then maybe I could understand it. Because when you're nine, you think that everything can be understood if you just get enough information.
That makes me sound like a creep, but most people are interested. I just put my fascination from a young age up front.
I eventually became fascinated with all sorts of true crime statistics and stories, but those are tales for another day.
True Life: I Love Jewelry on TV
I'm going to start doing what I say I'm going to do on this blog, otherwise, what's the point in making promises? You become the stereotypical bad father from a television children's comedy, and my metaphorical children would thus be abandoned and have to fend for themselves, engineering a world in which their imaginations are as good as the love and care that they have been deprived of from a caring parent.
That metaphor got dark in a hurry.
So, yesterday, I said that I'd spent a good chunk of the last week watching television that sells jewelry. My favorite network (there are at least 10 on the south Georgia extended satellite package) is by far the Gems TV. They employ a reverse auction system. Basically, what they do is they start at a price and they keep lowering the price until the entire stock of a gemstone is sold.
Okay, now I know some of you don't compulsively watch the Gems, so here are some terms to be aware of:
-Let's Play the Game-This phrase starts every game. A game is any round where jewelry is sold. No, it's not a commercial; it's a game. Commerce is a hobby that you can be good at.
-The Crash-this is when the price drops dramatically (usually around 70-80%) from the original start price. In some games, the price might crash multiple times.
-AAA Tanzanite (Triple A Tanzanite)-The single most expensive gem sold on TV. Usually starts at a list price of about five or six thousand dollars. A purple cut gem, it usually actually sells for about a thousand dollars. The realization that someone bought a 1k piece of jewelry on TV is truly it's own reward.
-The host-Each host hosts for FOUR HOURS by themselves and they talk and yammer and sell as much jewelry as possible in that time. They don't go to the bathroom, they don't take a phone call, nothing. Sometimes, they talk to the unseen producer or the phone bank people. Occasionally, they'll yell random names of "shoppers" out to encourage people...I doubt these names are real. I guess they sit on a bucket and piss while smiling on camera and selling saltwater black pearls.
Why do I love the game? No idea, but I have ever since I was a young child. Flipping channels one night in the giant house in Panama City (it had three stories and I have no idea what the street name was), I stopped on QVC selling a ring that had five different colored gemstones in it (pink, green, orange, red, and blue). It was horribly ugly and gaudy, but I loved it. I started watching QVC so I could see it again. I never did. But that didn't matter, I was hooked. Toys, Star Wars memorabelia, vacuums, make-up...it didn't matter. I wanted to watch people sell things. But jewelry was always my favorite.
I got so into this selling (and QVC would sell multiple things at once) that I kept a record in a notebook of everything that was sold. In columns, I had, in order of item introduction: item number, description, type of item, cost, and flex pay cost. I would keep records for hours. It was fascinating. I'd get up and watch it. I never did quite like HSN as much. And I didn't like outdoor shows. But I'd slug through them for the chance to look at some truly tacky things.
Why
do I watch this for hours now? Because I like seeing "beautiful" things. Not all of it is tacky and awful but enough it is that I wonder who buys it. Who wears it? Do they have a lot of it? Do I need citrine in my wardrobe? Is iconocline a real gemstone? The questions, the path...that's what's important. And to find the answers...
Well, I just have to play the game.
That metaphor got dark in a hurry.
So, yesterday, I said that I'd spent a good chunk of the last week watching television that sells jewelry. My favorite network (there are at least 10 on the south Georgia extended satellite package) is by far the Gems TV. They employ a reverse auction system. Basically, what they do is they start at a price and they keep lowering the price until the entire stock of a gemstone is sold.
Okay, now I know some of you don't compulsively watch the Gems, so here are some terms to be aware of:
-Let's Play the Game-This phrase starts every game. A game is any round where jewelry is sold. No, it's not a commercial; it's a game. Commerce is a hobby that you can be good at.
-The Crash-this is when the price drops dramatically (usually around 70-80%) from the original start price. In some games, the price might crash multiple times.
-AAA Tanzanite (Triple A Tanzanite)-The single most expensive gem sold on TV. Usually starts at a list price of about five or six thousand dollars. A purple cut gem, it usually actually sells for about a thousand dollars. The realization that someone bought a 1k piece of jewelry on TV is truly it's own reward.
-The host-Each host hosts for FOUR HOURS by themselves and they talk and yammer and sell as much jewelry as possible in that time. They don't go to the bathroom, they don't take a phone call, nothing. Sometimes, they talk to the unseen producer or the phone bank people. Occasionally, they'll yell random names of "shoppers" out to encourage people...I doubt these names are real. I guess they sit on a bucket and piss while smiling on camera and selling saltwater black pearls.
Why do I love the game? No idea, but I have ever since I was a young child. Flipping channels one night in the giant house in Panama City (it had three stories and I have no idea what the street name was), I stopped on QVC selling a ring that had five different colored gemstones in it (pink, green, orange, red, and blue). It was horribly ugly and gaudy, but I loved it. I started watching QVC so I could see it again. I never did. But that didn't matter, I was hooked. Toys, Star Wars memorabelia, vacuums, make-up...it didn't matter. I wanted to watch people sell things. But jewelry was always my favorite.
I got so into this selling (and QVC would sell multiple things at once) that I kept a record in a notebook of everything that was sold. In columns, I had, in order of item introduction: item number, description, type of item, cost, and flex pay cost. I would keep records for hours. It was fascinating. I'd get up and watch it. I never did quite like HSN as much. And I didn't like outdoor shows. But I'd slug through them for the chance to look at some truly tacky things.
Why
do I watch this for hours now? Because I like seeing "beautiful" things. Not all of it is tacky and awful but enough it is that I wonder who buys it. Who wears it? Do they have a lot of it? Do I need citrine in my wardrobe? Is iconocline a real gemstone? The questions, the path...that's what's important. And to find the answers...Well, I just have to play the game.
Stories from the Past: Coming Out Cow
My senior year of high school, the theatre director a TCHS declared that we would do a one-act version of the three-hour Sondheim monster Into the Woods. Because I didn't sing, I would be the Narrator for the play, and she had planned to enlist all of the pretty, preppy, show choir kids to play most of the parts. The traditional corps of the department would serve as back-up artists and crew...which, while crappy, was better than an earlier idea to dress them all up as trees and have them dance around as different parts of the scenery.
Just like this...but made of dancing high school theatre kids. Image via Wikipedia
Anyway, I had decided months ago that I was going to come out before my senior year started because I was tired of living the lie. So, on Sunday, August 8th, 2004, I told my parents, which is another story for another day. It intersects with Into the Woods because I was working on that show at the time. In fact, I was the theatre intern with my friend Alisabeth. Between us and Mandy, we were given the job of doing the cow.
For those of you who aren't very familiar with Into the Woods, it's a musical mash-up of the stories of Jack, Cinderella, Rapunzel, and Little Red Riding Hood all going into the woods to get their dreams. Okay, well, Jack obviously has to have a cow because he's going to the market to sell his cow for food for him and his mother. Now, there are two ways that you can do this. You can either hire an actor to play the part of the cow or you can build a cow prop.
We, sadly, attempted the latter. It was maybe the most dangerous weapon that I've ever seen on wheels. Made of two-by-four, chicken wire, plaster, paper-mache, and white paint, more people bled on this cow than I would have thought possible. It was a hot disaster. The casters wouldn't stay straight, the back of the cow buckled, and it needed so much plaster to make it look like a cow verses a box covered in chicken wire that that was what I was assigned to do with Alisabeth for the second week of school.
Friday, we were sitting out in the courtyard outside the drama room. This was right after the outdoor furniture that had been used at the previous year's prom had been donated to the school but before they screwed on that brass nameplate that dedicated it to that kid that died. Alisabeth and I are slathering plaster on the cow and talking about the election. She had proven to be mostly conservative, and this being 2004, my senior class could vote for the first time, and it was shaping up to be an important decision: you could either vote for President Bush or you could vote against him (Kerry not actually counting as a canditate because he stood for nothing). Although we could agree on the upcoming pro-liquor referendum for Tift County (which was dry at that time), we eventually ended up on thornier subjects. Like gay marriage.
Obviously, I defended gay marriage against her arguments, but at the same time, I had to admit to myself that it looked like it was going to be an uphill battle, even for civil unions. I mean, two of the four states to have same sex marriage have happened in 2009, and this was five years ago. If I'm not mistaken, Massachusettes was the only state to have anything like this going on. My fervent support made Alisabeth ask me if I was gay. To which I immediately replied "no."
I started to kick myself and got really quiet. I guess Alisabeth was either embarassed that she had asked and I wasn't or didn't know what to say because she knew I was closetted. I actually surprised most people when I came out. And I had promised myself that although I wasn't going to throw myself a "coming out" party like a debutante, I also wasn't going to deny it any longer if anyone asked me. And this was my first test, and I had already screwed it up. After another couple of minutes of silence, I back-tracked:
"Wait, scratch that."
"Scratch what?"
"I am gay. Not many people know. Don't spread it around."
"Okay..."
We talked about my coming out for a little bit. I didn't want the news to get around because I was afraid, this being the deep South, that I'd be harrassed. But, I didn't trust this girl, and the circle of people who knew was getting big. Soon, it was going to explode. But for now, I was just another guy covered in plaster, trying to make a cow for the musical theatre. And the future was a story for another day.
By the way, the cow never did become satisfactory. Instead, we dressed up a short girl like a cow. She did a much better job than a plaster representation.
Just like this...but made of dancing high school theatre kids. Image via WikipediaAnyway, I had decided months ago that I was going to come out before my senior year started because I was tired of living the lie. So, on Sunday, August 8th, 2004, I told my parents, which is another story for another day. It intersects with Into the Woods because I was working on that show at the time. In fact, I was the theatre intern with my friend Alisabeth. Between us and Mandy, we were given the job of doing the cow.
For those of you who aren't very familiar with Into the Woods, it's a musical mash-up of the stories of Jack, Cinderella, Rapunzel, and Little Red Riding Hood all going into the woods to get their dreams. Okay, well, Jack obviously has to have a cow because he's going to the market to sell his cow for food for him and his mother. Now, there are two ways that you can do this. You can either hire an actor to play the part of the cow or you can build a cow prop.
We, sadly, attempted the latter. It was maybe the most dangerous weapon that I've ever seen on wheels. Made of two-by-four, chicken wire, plaster, paper-mache, and white paint, more people bled on this cow than I would have thought possible. It was a hot disaster. The casters wouldn't stay straight, the back of the cow buckled, and it needed so much plaster to make it look like a cow verses a box covered in chicken wire that that was what I was assigned to do with Alisabeth for the second week of school.
Friday, we were sitting out in the courtyard outside the drama room. This was right after the outdoor furniture that had been used at the previous year's prom had been donated to the school but before they screwed on that brass nameplate that dedicated it to that kid that died. Alisabeth and I are slathering plaster on the cow and talking about the election. She had proven to be mostly conservative, and this being 2004, my senior class could vote for the first time, and it was shaping up to be an important decision: you could either vote for President Bush or you could vote against him (Kerry not actually counting as a canditate because he stood for nothing). Although we could agree on the upcoming pro-liquor referendum for Tift County (which was dry at that time), we eventually ended up on thornier subjects. Like gay marriage.
Obviously, I defended gay marriage against her arguments, but at the same time, I had to admit to myself that it looked like it was going to be an uphill battle, even for civil unions. I mean, two of the four states to have same sex marriage have happened in 2009, and this was five years ago. If I'm not mistaken, Massachusettes was the only state to have anything like this going on. My fervent support made Alisabeth ask me if I was gay. To which I immediately replied "no."
I started to kick myself and got really quiet. I guess Alisabeth was either embarassed that she had asked and I wasn't or didn't know what to say because she knew I was closetted. I actually surprised most people when I came out. And I had promised myself that although I wasn't going to throw myself a "coming out" party like a debutante, I also wasn't going to deny it any longer if anyone asked me. And this was my first test, and I had already screwed it up. After another couple of minutes of silence, I back-tracked:
"Wait, scratch that."
"Scratch what?"
"I am gay. Not many people know. Don't spread it around."
"Okay..."
We talked about my coming out for a little bit. I didn't want the news to get around because I was afraid, this being the deep South, that I'd be harrassed. But, I didn't trust this girl, and the circle of people who knew was getting big. Soon, it was going to explode. But for now, I was just another guy covered in plaster, trying to make a cow for the musical theatre. And the future was a story for another day.
By the way, the cow never did become satisfactory. Instead, we dressed up a short girl like a cow. She did a much better job than a plaster representation.
Stories from the Past: Dot's Gun
Today, I had to go into town to make some phone calls (don't ask...), go by the bank, and drop off a letter at the post office. Of that, I only accomplished making one of the two phone calls I needed to make. It wasn't that I got busy, necessarily. I mean, yesterday I watched the last 14 episodes of Buffy Season 5 (a fantastic way to spend a stormy Sunday if I do say so myself). I was talking to my mother...and then to my father when my mom went to rehearsal. And they were both in the mood to tell me stories about my family. Naturally, I probed the deep dark past. I got answers to a lot of questions that had been puzzling me for a while...but I promised my mother that the stories wouldn't end up on this blog...well, most of them.
Okay, some of them.
Anyway, here's a snippet of a story from this afternoon:
My Grandma Dot shot her husband in the leg.
Okay, not exactly. See, the thing is, my G'ma Dot (my mom's mom) has been married eight times, and the man she was married to at the time, DeWitt, was husband number two. My mom was sixteen and she and her younger brother David were the only two of her four siblings who were still at home. G'ma Dot and DeWitt met, got married, and things seemed to be okay. And then, things started to go bad. DeWitt started drinking and acting crazy. And my grandmother, back in her firecracker days, wasn't going to have any of that.
DeWitt was standing out on the front porch, drunk and banging on the door, demanding to be let in. He was a big man...250 pounds...over six feet...and redneck as hell. Mixing his upbringing with his liquid courage, he pounded on the door, promising that he would beat the hell out of Dot the moment he got inside. My grandmother knew that he wasn't lying. So, she went back to her bedroom, pulled out her pistol, ran to the front door, and shot through the door.
DeWitt immediately began cussing her for all that she was worth and started limping back to his car. Dottie (my mom) screamed "Shoot him again!" Dot barely nicked the man...the bullet when clean through his pants and only grazed his legs (Tis merely a flesh wound). DeWitt drove off, but he swore that he'd be back and get his revenge.
Dot believed that he would be back and that he'd do exactly what he said. She was effectively now a single woman who had two children to look after and protect. So, she pulled a disappearing act. In the course of that single night, she moved all of her stuff out of the house that she shared with DeWitt. She quit her job so that he couldn't follow her to her new house from work and got a new job. She moved on and considered divorcing DeWitt to protect herself and her children.
Well, DeWitt got off the sauce. And Dot came back to him. By this time, DeWitt's daughter (from a previous marriage, as all of Dot's kids were from her first marriage as well) had gotten pregnant and, because she was...white trash-y...she gave the baby to Dot and DeWitt to raise. Well, DeWitt started drinking again. And Dot wasn't going to stand it. So, she pulled another disappearing act. This time, she got her mother Eula involved, and they disappeared with David to Panama City Beach...but not before dropping that baby off at DeWitt's parents house. It was hard to lose that baby, but it was easier to lose that baby than lose her life...and that's how the Panama City chapter of my mother's life began.
Okay, some of them.
Anyway, here's a snippet of a story from this afternoon:
My Grandma Dot shot her husband in the leg.
Okay, not exactly. See, the thing is, my G'ma Dot (my mom's mom) has been married eight times, and the man she was married to at the time, DeWitt, was husband number two. My mom was sixteen and she and her younger brother David were the only two of her four siblings who were still at home. G'ma Dot and DeWitt met, got married, and things seemed to be okay. And then, things started to go bad. DeWitt started drinking and acting crazy. And my grandmother, back in her firecracker days, wasn't going to have any of that.
DeWitt was standing out on the front porch, drunk and banging on the door, demanding to be let in. He was a big man...250 pounds...over six feet...and redneck as hell. Mixing his upbringing with his liquid courage, he pounded on the door, promising that he would beat the hell out of Dot the moment he got inside. My grandmother knew that he wasn't lying. So, she went back to her bedroom, pulled out her pistol, ran to the front door, and shot through the door.
DeWitt immediately began cussing her for all that she was worth and started limping back to his car. Dottie (my mom) screamed "Shoot him again!" Dot barely nicked the man...the bullet when clean through his pants and only grazed his legs (Tis merely a flesh wound). DeWitt drove off, but he swore that he'd be back and get his revenge.
Dot believed that he would be back and that he'd do exactly what he said. She was effectively now a single woman who had two children to look after and protect. So, she pulled a disappearing act. In the course of that single night, she moved all of her stuff out of the house that she shared with DeWitt. She quit her job so that he couldn't follow her to her new house from work and got a new job. She moved on and considered divorcing DeWitt to protect herself and her children.
Well, DeWitt got off the sauce. And Dot came back to him. By this time, DeWitt's daughter (from a previous marriage, as all of Dot's kids were from her first marriage as well) had gotten pregnant and, because she was...white trash-y...she gave the baby to Dot and DeWitt to raise. Well, DeWitt started drinking again. And Dot wasn't going to stand it. So, she pulled another disappearing act. This time, she got her mother Eula involved, and they disappeared with David to Panama City Beach...but not before dropping that baby off at DeWitt's parents house. It was hard to lose that baby, but it was easier to lose that baby than lose her life...and that's how the Panama City chapter of my mother's life began.
Oblique Look at Early Childhood
A piece of the Internet:
A writing device that I use when I get stuck is Brian Eno's Oblique Strategies. While I've never seen an actual deck of these cards, I do use this website to provide me a unique way of looking at a situation when I get stuck writing. It's a random server that gives a lot of different ways of looking at problems.
A story:
Scenes from the Academy
When I was four years old, I attended Covenant Christian Academy, a Christian private school in Panama City, FL. Originally, I only went three days a week: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Other kids went everyday, so I had to learn very early that if I wanted to participate and do everything, I had to be able to do tasks quickly so I could catch-up on what I missed. If I wanted to make a J out of assorted legumes and construction paper, then I would to have blaze through my math sheets and eschew coloring in true colors for broad strokes.
In the first grade, we had a school-wide Thanksgiving event. My class was better than the other first grade class because we had real feathers for a pine-cone turkeys. The other class had construction paper feathers. We won so hardcore. We glammed up our turkeys with so many feathers that they looked more like a drag queens centerpiece or the NBC logo than an actual Thanksgiving symbol, but we as children fully embraced the concept that more is more.
And then there was the meal. They took us to the meeting hall and sat us all at long tables. Half of us were dressed as Indians and the other half as Pilgrims. As a child who hated being sticky, I obviously sided with the more civilized English. From there, the meal started.
Our re-enactment was pretty true to the original: we Pilgrims brought guns and smallpox and the Indians brought corn and that commercial 80's where the Indian cries that tear because of littering. We ate a big meal and the Pilgrims forced all of the people dressed as Indians (which, why did we call them Indians? As a child, I'm sure I could have wrapped my mouth around the words "Native American.") to march the Trail of Tears and go live in Oklahoma. Then, we fought the British. Okay, maybe not really. But we did have a meal.
I have always been a huge fan of ketchup, and the fact that there was no bottle on the table for either my potatoes or turkey was distressing. However, on the side of my plate, nuzzled between the roll and the dressing, there was this gelatinous blob in roughly the same color as ketchup. I tried to dip my turkey in it, but it wouldn't give. Always a rational child, I assumed that the ketchup had congealed because it was too cold in the kitchen. Thus, I scraped some on my turkey and ate it. I promptly wretched--as much as I loved ketchup, my first encounter with cranberry sauce left something to be desired. One of the den mothers of my class explained the dish to me and told me that I'd like it later in life.
I've always hated that--just because someone is older doesn't mean they know a damn thing about you as a person. Instead, what it means is that they think that the next generation will be a copy of the current one, and, thus, their experience can inform the future.
A writing device that I use when I get stuck is Brian Eno's Oblique Strategies. While I've never seen an actual deck of these cards, I do use this website to provide me a unique way of looking at a situation when I get stuck writing. It's a random server that gives a lot of different ways of looking at problems.
A story:
Scenes from the Academy
When I was four years old, I attended Covenant Christian Academy, a Christian private school in Panama City, FL. Originally, I only went three days a week: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Other kids went everyday, so I had to learn very early that if I wanted to participate and do everything, I had to be able to do tasks quickly so I could catch-up on what I missed. If I wanted to make a J out of assorted legumes and construction paper, then I would to have blaze through my math sheets and eschew coloring in true colors for broad strokes.
In the first grade, we had a school-wide Thanksgiving event. My class was better than the other first grade class because we had real feathers for a pine-cone turkeys. The other class had construction paper feathers. We won so hardcore. We glammed up our turkeys with so many feathers that they looked more like a drag queens centerpiece or the NBC logo than an actual Thanksgiving symbol, but we as children fully embraced the concept that more is more.
And then there was the meal. They took us to the meeting hall and sat us all at long tables. Half of us were dressed as Indians and the other half as Pilgrims. As a child who hated being sticky, I obviously sided with the more civilized English. From there, the meal started.
Our re-enactment was pretty true to the original: we Pilgrims brought guns and smallpox and the Indians brought corn and that commercial 80's where the Indian cries that tear because of littering. We ate a big meal and the Pilgrims forced all of the people dressed as Indians (which, why did we call them Indians? As a child, I'm sure I could have wrapped my mouth around the words "Native American.") to march the Trail of Tears and go live in Oklahoma. Then, we fought the British. Okay, maybe not really. But we did have a meal.
I have always been a huge fan of ketchup, and the fact that there was no bottle on the table for either my potatoes or turkey was distressing. However, on the side of my plate, nuzzled between the roll and the dressing, there was this gelatinous blob in roughly the same color as ketchup. I tried to dip my turkey in it, but it wouldn't give. Always a rational child, I assumed that the ketchup had congealed because it was too cold in the kitchen. Thus, I scraped some on my turkey and ate it. I promptly wretched--as much as I loved ketchup, my first encounter with cranberry sauce left something to be desired. One of the den mothers of my class explained the dish to me and told me that I'd like it later in life.
I've always hated that--just because someone is older doesn't mean they know a damn thing about you as a person. Instead, what it means is that they think that the next generation will be a copy of the current one, and, thus, their experience can inform the future.
A Quote and "A Childhood Savior"
"The only thing of value anyone has to offer
is their uniqueness
and individuality
no matter who you are or what you do.
Life your life.
Notice what you are really thinking about
Write about that.
Show us what you don't want anyone to see.
Remember that while art can be product
product can never be art."
--Penny Arcade, "Manifesto" (as anthologized in Verses That Hurt)
I think that the above quote is a beautiful rendering of an artist's place in the world. Her whole "Manifesto" is fantastic, but that's the big point right there. Now, I'm going to tell a story about something. I'm not feeling very inspired today, so we'll just see what happens.
A Childhood Savior
When I was young (think like a wee child of six and on), my grandmother had this enormous Rottweiler named Ledi. Ledi was the first of my G'ma Helen's dogs. Ledi ruled the north side of the kitchen, curled on her side against the indentation in the wall on top of a ratty blanket. She was a big girl, so she had trouble with her knees. But she a good dog and I can always remember my grandmother having this dog when I was young.
A lot of people say that Rottweilers are evil killer dogs. They can be. Ledi and Bandit (the other Rottie) would attack someone if they thought that any of us were in danger. But that doesn't make them killers; that makes them protectors. Ledi couldn't be allowed outside while the kids were in the pool. We would go under the water, and she would instantly run to the spot on the side of the pool where we went under and bark at us until we returned to the service. Then, she would run along the edge, trailing us, making sure that we were okay.
I know that dogs can't have panic attacks, but if a dog could have, it would have been this one.
I was in the pull one day by myself when I was eleven. It was hot, I was pale, but I do love the water. I always have. In my grandmother's pool, there is a railing, like in a lot of pools, that leads down the center of the steps. Because my brother Mason and I were small, we could slide down this railing in lieu of having an actual slide. Sure, it wasn't the episcent of cool, but it was fun and different. The fact that the adults told us not to do it made it that much more inviting.
So, I was in the pool by myself, the adults trusting me to my own safety. Maybe they were in the kitchen, shelling peas and talking about people, maybe they were asleep--I don't recall. What I do know is that I was playing on the "slide" and Ledi was walking around the backyard, patrolling for threats. I went down the rail a few times, and everything was good. And then, I got up on to it, slick with the water from the pool, sat on it, and fell off the other side.
I had neglected to think of a few things. First, the rail was hot and slick and I should've been more careful. Second, the rail anchored into the concrete on the side of the pool. Third, the top of the rail that I was falling from was about four feet off the ground. Add that to my height of about four feet, and I was looking at a pretty good bash of my head. I could already see the stitches, the blood, and the emergency room in my future. I was ready for it. I Zen-ned out, and tried to just take the fall.
Suddenly, though, I hit something warm and hard in mid-air and tumbled into the pool. From out of nowhere, Ledi had ended up beside me and I fell on her, knocking me into the pool and away from the concrete. I scraped my arm and stomach on the side, but I was fine. Ledi yelped and ran off. She wasn't very fond of me for a while after that, but she saved me then. No one else around and I was headed for a concussion.
Rotties are protectors.
I wasn't one of the people in my family that helped bury Ledi a few years later. She had gotten older and bigger and more arthritic and it had become a tragedy to watch her. The thought of her dying was sad, but it wasn't nearly as sad as the thought of her having to live a life confined to a messy palette on the floor, barely able to get up and eat.
So, she was put to sleep. I don't really remember what happened. I remember watching my dad go out with G'ma Helen and my aunt Lani, but I don't remember digging the hole. I remember a sad meal afterwards. I remember it was twilight, back before the back yard had been completely cleaned out and it was a bit of a jungle back there, teeming with snakes and boyhood games.
They walked back in, and it bothered me that nothing had been said over that grave, and that such a good protector was sent to the earth. But we mourn our pets, and we move on. And the day gives all new opportunities to save and be saved.
is their uniqueness
and individuality
no matter who you are or what you do.
Life your life.
Notice what you are really thinking about
Write about that.
Show us what you don't want anyone to see.
Remember that while art can be product
product can never be art."
--Penny Arcade, "Manifesto" (as anthologized in Verses That Hurt)
I think that the above quote is a beautiful rendering of an artist's place in the world. Her whole "Manifesto" is fantastic, but that's the big point right there. Now, I'm going to tell a story about something. I'm not feeling very inspired today, so we'll just see what happens.
A Childhood Savior
When I was young (think like a wee child of six and on), my grandmother had this enormous Rottweiler named Ledi. Ledi was the first of my G'ma Helen's dogs. Ledi ruled the north side of the kitchen, curled on her side against the indentation in the wall on top of a ratty blanket. She was a big girl, so she had trouble with her knees. But she a good dog and I can always remember my grandmother having this dog when I was young.
A lot of people say that Rottweilers are evil killer dogs. They can be. Ledi and Bandit (the other Rottie) would attack someone if they thought that any of us were in danger. But that doesn't make them killers; that makes them protectors. Ledi couldn't be allowed outside while the kids were in the pool. We would go under the water, and she would instantly run to the spot on the side of the pool where we went under and bark at us until we returned to the service. Then, she would run along the edge, trailing us, making sure that we were okay.
I know that dogs can't have panic attacks, but if a dog could have, it would have been this one.
I was in the pull one day by myself when I was eleven. It was hot, I was pale, but I do love the water. I always have. In my grandmother's pool, there is a railing, like in a lot of pools, that leads down the center of the steps. Because my brother Mason and I were small, we could slide down this railing in lieu of having an actual slide. Sure, it wasn't the episcent of cool, but it was fun and different. The fact that the adults told us not to do it made it that much more inviting.
So, I was in the pool by myself, the adults trusting me to my own safety. Maybe they were in the kitchen, shelling peas and talking about people, maybe they were asleep--I don't recall. What I do know is that I was playing on the "slide" and Ledi was walking around the backyard, patrolling for threats. I went down the rail a few times, and everything was good. And then, I got up on to it, slick with the water from the pool, sat on it, and fell off the other side.
I had neglected to think of a few things. First, the rail was hot and slick and I should've been more careful. Second, the rail anchored into the concrete on the side of the pool. Third, the top of the rail that I was falling from was about four feet off the ground. Add that to my height of about four feet, and I was looking at a pretty good bash of my head. I could already see the stitches, the blood, and the emergency room in my future. I was ready for it. I Zen-ned out, and tried to just take the fall.
Suddenly, though, I hit something warm and hard in mid-air and tumbled into the pool. From out of nowhere, Ledi had ended up beside me and I fell on her, knocking me into the pool and away from the concrete. I scraped my arm and stomach on the side, but I was fine. Ledi yelped and ran off. She wasn't very fond of me for a while after that, but she saved me then. No one else around and I was headed for a concussion.
Rotties are protectors.
I wasn't one of the people in my family that helped bury Ledi a few years later. She had gotten older and bigger and more arthritic and it had become a tragedy to watch her. The thought of her dying was sad, but it wasn't nearly as sad as the thought of her having to live a life confined to a messy palette on the floor, barely able to get up and eat.
So, she was put to sleep. I don't really remember what happened. I remember watching my dad go out with G'ma Helen and my aunt Lani, but I don't remember digging the hole. I remember a sad meal afterwards. I remember it was twilight, back before the back yard had been completely cleaned out and it was a bit of a jungle back there, teeming with snakes and boyhood games.
They walked back in, and it bothered me that nothing had been said over that grave, and that such a good protector was sent to the earth. But we mourn our pets, and we move on. And the day gives all new opportunities to save and be saved.
1957
There are some things that I associate with another time and place because of television and movies. One of those things happened today. I left Amanda's house this morning, having fallen asleep on the futon at around 2 AM, to discover some gunk all over my windshield. At first, I had no idea what it was.
I was parked under a pine tree, but no pine tree (at least in the South) saps that much, that thickly in one night. The yard man had been there that morning, so maybe he had hit a bird and the blood had hit my car. But that couldn't be it, because it wasn't red and there were no feathers. It also wasn't any sort of fuel, because when I tried to use my wipers to clear it, it didn't move.
I drove home trying to figure out what it was. By now, I'm sure you know what happened. But it wasn't until I parked outside of the apartment that I found the tiny bit of shell that would clue me in: my car had been egged. With an egg. And the yellow in the middle of my windshield was dried on yolk. And it stank, like an egg rotting in the sun does.
I went upstairs and got a rag, tried to clean it off, but that was of limited success. So, I took my car, for the first time in three years, to the car wash.
I have never been to the car wash because my car doesn't get that dirty. I rarely go on dirt roads, and even when pollen coats the ground so thick that it looks like a gypsy wonderland, I still won't go. The rain will remove anything grossly huge. Anything else I can live with because it does not affect the way my car runs. Egg on the windshield, however, is impairing visibility to a grossly unsatisfactory level.
So, I cleaned it off...it didn't even remove the paint from my car.
But to get back to the topic I started with at the top. It pissed me off because it felt so childish. No one hates me enough to egg my car (no one who even dislikes me knows that I'm in Tifton right now). So, it was vandals. From 1957. They were then going to go heckle a black person and go home to watch Hee Haw.
Why do I hate people as a collective? Because of the tendency to chaos for no damn reason.
I was parked under a pine tree, but no pine tree (at least in the South) saps that much, that thickly in one night. The yard man had been there that morning, so maybe he had hit a bird and the blood had hit my car. But that couldn't be it, because it wasn't red and there were no feathers. It also wasn't any sort of fuel, because when I tried to use my wipers to clear it, it didn't move.
I drove home trying to figure out what it was. By now, I'm sure you know what happened. But it wasn't until I parked outside of the apartment that I found the tiny bit of shell that would clue me in: my car had been egged. With an egg. And the yellow in the middle of my windshield was dried on yolk. And it stank, like an egg rotting in the sun does.
I went upstairs and got a rag, tried to clean it off, but that was of limited success. So, I took my car, for the first time in three years, to the car wash.
I have never been to the car wash because my car doesn't get that dirty. I rarely go on dirt roads, and even when pollen coats the ground so thick that it looks like a gypsy wonderland, I still won't go. The rain will remove anything grossly huge. Anything else I can live with because it does not affect the way my car runs. Egg on the windshield, however, is impairing visibility to a grossly unsatisfactory level.
So, I cleaned it off...it didn't even remove the paint from my car.
But to get back to the topic I started with at the top. It pissed me off because it felt so childish. No one hates me enough to egg my car (no one who even dislikes me knows that I'm in Tifton right now). So, it was vandals. From 1957. They were then going to go heckle a black person and go home to watch Hee Haw.
Why do I hate people as a collective? Because of the tendency to chaos for no damn reason.
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