Last night, i dreamt that i was with a business associate, working out of a temporary office in a new high-rise building. We were both new to the job. Our company had rented a conference room, and set up flimsy room dividers and logos, trying to give the appearance of solidity. We were trying to sell some product or service to potential clients. We shucked and jived, always walking a high-wire act in danger of being exposed as insubstantial. Many of our marks walked out, but we were unfazed. One visitor saw through our facade, shook our walls a bit, and left. We suddenly noticed a news telecast about a man who had been found with knife wounds, and died. We knew they would trace the murder to us, as the victim had been a potential client who had left our building after receiving the fatal wounds. I was pretty sure we had repeatedly stabbed him, but my memory was hazy, as our obsessive focus had been on making the sale. My partner and i quickly but quietly made plans to throw each other under the bus, as we knew that the authorities were probably outside the building already. We tried to think of any escape plan, content to sacrifice each other.
Sometimes the connection between dreams and consciousness is tenuous. Other times, the connection is as obvious as a draft-dodging leader taking a photo op in a military uniform. The thoughts in our mind as we drift to sleep are soon enacted in the imaginarium of our dreams.
Yesterday, i tried to explain to my ex-cold warrior father that the U.S.-Soviet conflict had nothing to do with capitalism vs. communism, as Russia was communist in name only. One might charitably say that the conflict was between capitalism and socialism, but even that misses the mark by a good margin. The U.S. had a free market economy and the U.S.S.R. was state-controlled, but the Soviet Union's brand of socialism was closer to facist totalitarianism (like every other "communist" government of the past century), and our own brand of capitalism had been gradually turning socialist ever since the thirties. Ask yourself this: do you approve of social security? Congratulations, you're a socialist. You disgust me, you bleeding pinko.
Trying to explain to a cold warrior that he wasn't fighting communism, however, is a bit like painting in a blizzard. The thrust of my explanation was that a strong central government is inherently anti-communist, as communism is a system of no government at all. But this sounds like anarchy, which is how my father took it.
A better angle to use is the question of ownership. In communism, everybody owns everything. Everyone has a stake in every aspect of society, and decisions are made by short-term, elected "governments", through majority agreement. Understood in those terms, communism is profoundly more democratic than the bloated plutocracy the U.S. had become by the time of the Cold War.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
written by a gay friend about me
This week, i was chatting with a friend. He said some particularly complimentary things about me, so much so that i wrote to him the next day and jokingly suggested he should write a personal romance ad for me. I was not the least bit surprised when he actually did so. In the spirit of fun, i posted the ad on the craigslist M4W section, along with the picture above, and one bracketed section of my own words. The entire ad is below, in braces. I used my friend's own parenthetical as the title. It's also the title of this post, with only the last word changed. I didn't edit a single other word, which was a challenge, because i'm a writer and my sense of self is extremely pronounced. But in the interest of not being a control freak, i left his words untouched.
Wrob is a playwright and actor in his early 40s. While his emphatic lack of religious beliefs rules out sainthood, he is a fundamentally decent fellow who, despite a sometimes dry sense of humor, does not have a cruel bone in his body. Other bones, and muscles, are present, however -- he's wiry and has no body fat to speak of, so if you're looking for a beefy football type, he's not the best candidate. Wrestling, on the other hand, is a real strength, and you should ask him about it after a few drinks. His glass will contain tea, not liquor, not because he's in AA but because he's something of a purist about keeping his head clear. This makes him an enjoyable and lucid conversationalist who always has an interesting take on human nature and our place in the cosmos. (Just don't get him started on the Muppet movies.) It also means that when he misbehaves, he does so in complete control of his faculties. When it comes to sex, he has a refusal to follow external rules but an insistence on living up to a good moral code. Inevitably because of wrob's time in theater as a writer, actor, and director, a fair number of women around him show interest, and the occasional gay man, too, wondering if he might swing the other way. But in the world of wrob, a woman's body is her temple -- and his. (Maybe he's religious after all.) If I tell you that he loves Star Trek and has a photo of himself standing next to William Shatner, you might assume that he's a sexless wonk. Seeing a head shot of him should help dispel this concern. You'll also see his good skin and the fact that he still has a terrific head of hair, for which we hate him. If there's any incongruity in his appearance, it's that his strong jaw and large eyes suggest a certain manic quality (this explains why MTV cast him as the chainsaw wielding psycho for their recent Halloween promos), but he is really not a bad boy. Well... maybe if you really, really want him to be? Couldn't hurt to hit him back and find out.
I also posted the ad because it was nice to be emotionally able to do so, after not being able to even browse CL for six months after my last breakup. I always try to approach online romance without expectation...but this time, i have to say that i light-heartedly expected i might get a whole lot of responses.
Are you ready for the numbers?
In the four days since i posted, i've received approximately twenty responses. The first one was from an intelligent, literate woman in Nova Scotia, who wanted to say that my ad was the best she'd ever seen. The second response said "Dear prospective massage client". And the rest? Every single one has proven to be spam, some variation on "I loved your ad so much that i have to meet you, and would you please click onto another site, where you can find my pictures and we can then get to the sex we'll be enjoying soon?" The pictures accompanying these replies ranged from fairly wholesome to "wide-open beaver".
So basically, my ad brought in not one single response from a living, breathing NYC woman. Not one. Am i surprised? Well...yes. Almost dumbfounded, actually. How does that ad go unresponded to? My sharpest critique of it was that it made me seem more normal than i am...but i expected that factor to only increase my responses.
In my experience with online ads, i'd long ago learned that M4W is not a particularly fruitful way to approach things. I'd posted one of my poems from time to time, and never got more than a handful of real responses. But if i hadn't gotten that one appreciation note from the Canadian wilds (okay, she lives in a city of 350,000), i might be almost questioning my sanity now.
Anyone have any theories on why New York women did their best cricket impersonations? I suppose my only hypothesis is that CL has degraded even more in the time i've been away. But really, i'm just scratchin' my head.
So to my friend who wrote the ad, and to my new penpal in the frozen north, i love you both. Have a merry Maxmas and a romantic new year!
P.S. Friends and relatives have since offered opinions on why the ad was met with silence. The only one i've found interesting is my mother's idea that the ad is so impressive women might be intimidated. More morning breath and flatulence, next time?
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
"borrowers" refuted
Sometimes in writing a poem, in trying to capture a glimmer of something universal, you have to use tunnel vision. You have to consciously ignore relevant truths...deeper truths...and not just supplemental truths, but sometimes contradictory ones. It can make you want stand up and shout "Crap!" to your own poem. By way of example, i will now refute a premise at the core of my recent poem, "The Borrowers".
Would you want
the best lover you've ever had
if having meant borrowing
Would you want
the deepest desire of your life
if having meant borrowing
Would you offer
your eager virginity
to one gentle and true
if having meant borrowing
Would you want
to be the borrowed
Caught between the need to love
and knowing their dreams
are not your own
If this writer or his "borrowers" were better able to live in the moment, the question of "having" would become largely moot. If two people share a moment, but are focused on what happens next (or down the road at a time only imagined) they're selling the moment short, refusing to commit their entire beings. They're allowing fear, the specter of loss, to shadow their every thought. They're living in a world of negotiation, but a gift that comes with a price tag is in truth no gift at all. Why isn't the moment enough? Is the me-first mentality of capitalism the worm at the core? Is that the indoctrination of selfishness that poisons us?
P.S. Sometimes writers aren't even as smart as their creations...i just had a friend point out another interpretation, placing the pain of the borrowers in the fact that the borrowed isn't entirely "present" for the experience...which is not only a valid interpretation, it may also be true of at least some of the women who inspired the poem.
Would you want
the best lover you've ever had
if having meant borrowing
Would you want
the deepest desire of your life
if having meant borrowing
Would you offer
your eager virginity
to one gentle and true
if having meant borrowing
Would you want
to be the borrowed
Caught between the need to love
and knowing their dreams
are not your own
If this writer or his "borrowers" were better able to live in the moment, the question of "having" would become largely moot. If two people share a moment, but are focused on what happens next (or down the road at a time only imagined) they're selling the moment short, refusing to commit their entire beings. They're allowing fear, the specter of loss, to shadow their every thought. They're living in a world of negotiation, but a gift that comes with a price tag is in truth no gift at all. Why isn't the moment enough? Is the me-first mentality of capitalism the worm at the core? Is that the indoctrination of selfishness that poisons us?
P.S. Sometimes writers aren't even as smart as their creations...i just had a friend point out another interpretation, placing the pain of the borrowers in the fact that the borrowed isn't entirely "present" for the experience...which is not only a valid interpretation, it may also be true of at least some of the women who inspired the poem.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
maxmas music guide
Is anything more heartwarming than Maxmas music? Well, i suppose listening to Maxmas music while sipping soynog as your Honey rubs your feet with frankincense oil wearing nothing but a Santa hat...with a puppy asleep on your chest.
There was Maxmas music in there somewhere, right?
So here be your guide the very best Maxmas music i know! Aware of my own adorable biases, the first thing i've long screened for in a Maxmas album is the absence of religious falderal. Excellence, however, can trump bias.
I'll get the nog and the hat. You sit back.
A CHRISTMAS TOGETHER, John Denver & The Muppets
Who can explain the ineffable magic of transcendant chemistry? No one, otherwise it would be effable! Why was it that everything John and the Muppets did together went beyond normal Muppet greatness? We don't know, and we don't need to. This album is almost too good to use as holiday party music, as it's more entrancing than the average partygoer.
RUDOLF THE RED-NOSED REINDEER, Burl Ives
(music and lyrics by Johnny Marks)
Lifted straight from the soundtrack of the Rankin/Bass classic, with original versions plus full playouts of incidental versions. As magical as the film.
HOME FOR CHRISTMAS, Daryl Hall & John Oates
Released in limited quantities, years after the hits stopped coming. It's absolutely sublime. Arrangements that sparkle, vocals that entrance...the first note Daryl hits is perhaps the most singular first note of any album i know.
THE CHRISTMAS ALBUM, Neil Diamond
I can't imagine any album ever topping this one for dumbfounding brilliance in a staggering range of arrangements. Neil feels absolutely at home in each style, from blues to rock to choral to barbershop(!). It seems criminal to single out one track, but the original song "You Make It Feel Like Christmas" flies as high as the ones you already love.
HOLIDAY HARMONY, America
Another album released decades after the band's pop peak, this quiet delight lacks the flash of most great albums, but that's exactly what gives it strength. As Peter Griffin might say, it doesn't insist on itself. It's just richly layered harmonies sung by beautiful voices. Beckley and Bunnell mix new songs with classics, and nothing feels out of place. It will put you under its spell, rarely making you stop to say "Hey, this is really good".
IF EVERY DAY WAS LIKE CHRISTMAS, Elvis Presley
All hail the King. No, really.
SNOWED IN, Hanson
Yes.
I WANNA BE SANTA CLAUS, Ringo Starr
Know what you'd do if you could do anything, with no burden of expectation? You'd have fun, and your name would be Ringo. And the funny thing? He's occasionally brilliant. He lets rock n' joy fly on this one, so jump on the sleigh. It features the only song ever credited to Lennon/McCartney/Harrison/Starkey.
CHRISTMAS TIDINGS, Jim Prosser
THE CHRISTMAS ALBUM, V.2, Neil Diamond
I feared the "crappy sequel" syndrome, and wasn't entirely disappointed. Only about half the songs rise to the level of the first album. But do you have any idea how rare it is to have an album in which every other song is inspired? Neil adds jazz, swing, and reggae to his holiday bag.
JOY TO THE WORLD, Chuck Negron
Chuck, formerly of 70s uber-band Three Dog Night, released this in 1996. I approached it with trepidation, not sure how well Chuck could fly on his own, and noticing that the album had its share of god tunes. It also seemed like an invitation to cheesy badness to marry Three Dog Night's biggest hit, "Joy to the World", in a medley with the carol "Joy to the World". The first time i heard the album, it was as bad as i could have imagined. But the second time, it started falling into place. Chuck's voice has never sounded sweeter, and the production/arrangement is simply beautiful. The title track is a joy, and there's also a lovely medley of "When You Wish Upon a Star"/"A Place For Us".
Merry Maxmas, one and all.
There was Maxmas music in there somewhere, right?
So here be your guide the very best Maxmas music i know! Aware of my own adorable biases, the first thing i've long screened for in a Maxmas album is the absence of religious falderal. Excellence, however, can trump bias.
I'll get the nog and the hat. You sit back.
A CHRISTMAS TOGETHER, John Denver & The Muppets
Who can explain the ineffable magic of transcendant chemistry? No one, otherwise it would be effable! Why was it that everything John and the Muppets did together went beyond normal Muppet greatness? We don't know, and we don't need to. This album is almost too good to use as holiday party music, as it's more entrancing than the average partygoer.
RUDOLF THE RED-NOSED REINDEER, Burl Ives
(music and lyrics by Johnny Marks)
Lifted straight from the soundtrack of the Rankin/Bass classic, with original versions plus full playouts of incidental versions. As magical as the film.
HOME FOR CHRISTMAS, Daryl Hall & John Oates
Released in limited quantities, years after the hits stopped coming. It's absolutely sublime. Arrangements that sparkle, vocals that entrance...the first note Daryl hits is perhaps the most singular first note of any album i know.
THE CHRISTMAS ALBUM, Neil Diamond
I can't imagine any album ever topping this one for dumbfounding brilliance in a staggering range of arrangements. Neil feels absolutely at home in each style, from blues to rock to choral to barbershop(!). It seems criminal to single out one track, but the original song "You Make It Feel Like Christmas" flies as high as the ones you already love.
HOLIDAY HARMONY, America
Another album released decades after the band's pop peak, this quiet delight lacks the flash of most great albums, but that's exactly what gives it strength. As Peter Griffin might say, it doesn't insist on itself. It's just richly layered harmonies sung by beautiful voices. Beckley and Bunnell mix new songs with classics, and nothing feels out of place. It will put you under its spell, rarely making you stop to say "Hey, this is really good".
IF EVERY DAY WAS LIKE CHRISTMAS, Elvis Presley
All hail the King. No, really.
SNOWED IN, Hanson
Yes.
I WANNA BE SANTA CLAUS, Ringo Starr
Know what you'd do if you could do anything, with no burden of expectation? You'd have fun, and your name would be Ringo. And the funny thing? He's occasionally brilliant. He lets rock n' joy fly on this one, so jump on the sleigh. It features the only song ever credited to Lennon/McCartney/Harrison/Starkey.
CHRISTMAS TIDINGS, Jim Prosser
THE CHRISTMAS ALBUM, V.2, Neil Diamond
I feared the "crappy sequel" syndrome, and wasn't entirely disappointed. Only about half the songs rise to the level of the first album. But do you have any idea how rare it is to have an album in which every other song is inspired? Neil adds jazz, swing, and reggae to his holiday bag.
JOY TO THE WORLD, Chuck Negron
Chuck, formerly of 70s uber-band Three Dog Night, released this in 1996. I approached it with trepidation, not sure how well Chuck could fly on his own, and noticing that the album had its share of god tunes. It also seemed like an invitation to cheesy badness to marry Three Dog Night's biggest hit, "Joy to the World", in a medley with the carol "Joy to the World". The first time i heard the album, it was as bad as i could have imagined. But the second time, it started falling into place. Chuck's voice has never sounded sweeter, and the production/arrangement is simply beautiful. The title track is a joy, and there's also a lovely medley of "When You Wish Upon a Star"/"A Place For Us".
Merry Maxmas, one and all.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
greatest U.S.americans (& worst)
(There may of course be enormous fallacies herein, as certitude and history are almost mutually exclusive. And of course, subjectivity renders this exercise almost silly. But it's fun. Brown or William Lloyd Garrison? Lincoln or Douglass? Twain or Vonnegut? Both Debs and Keller? Yeah, otherwise no woman. Bruce or Flynt? Should Brown also be on the "worst" list?)
GREATEST AMERICANS IN U.S. HISTORY
Ben Franklin
Thomas Jefferson
John Brown
Abraham Lincoln
Mark Twain
Eugene Debs
Thomas Edison
Helen Keller
Lenny Bruce
Martin Luther King, Jr.
Cesar Chavez
Muhammed Ali
(honorable mention: native american genocide victims)
WORST AMERICANS IN U.S. HISTORY
Anthony Comstock
Alexander Hamilton
Andrew Jackson
Woodrow Wilson
Joe McCarthy
J. Edgar Hoover
Karl Rove
(dishonorable mention: Christopher Columbus)
GREATEST AMERICANS IN U.S. HISTORY
Ben Franklin
Thomas Jefferson
John Brown
Abraham Lincoln
Mark Twain
Eugene Debs
Thomas Edison
Helen Keller
Lenny Bruce
Martin Luther King, Jr.
Cesar Chavez
Muhammed Ali
(honorable mention: native american genocide victims)
WORST AMERICANS IN U.S. HISTORY
Anthony Comstock
Alexander Hamilton
Andrew Jackson
Woodrow Wilson
Joe McCarthy
J. Edgar Hoover
Karl Rove
(dishonorable mention: Christopher Columbus)
Sunday, December 13, 2009
greatest maxmas movies
1) HOW THE GRINCH STOLE CHRISTMAS!
Thurl Ravenscroft. I just like saying "Thurl Ravenscroft".
2) IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE
Get him. He's givin' out wings.
3) THE YEAR WITHOUT A SANTA CLAUS
Heat Miser. Cold Miser. 'Nuff said.
4) SANTA CLAUS IS COMIN' TO TOWN
"Burgermeister Meisterburger" is the second-coolest nickname anyone's ever called me (the other one's a bit sexier).
5) MIRACLE ON 34th STREET
I resisted watching this one for many years, out of some sort of bizarre loyalty to #2 on this list. I was wrong, i was wrong, i've said it, i was wrong.
6) LOVE ACTUALLY
The most grown-up Maxmas film, the most "real" romantic comedy, and the greatest ensemble film. Ever. If someone described the "naughty" bits to a prude, they'd never watch it. Yet it's so deftly made that it feels like a family comedy, suitable for all...which it is.
7) RUDOLF, THE RED-NOSED REINDEER
Bumbles bounce!
8) RUDOLF'S SHINY NEW YEAR
And the Rankin-Bass stop-motion magic rolls on...
9) 'TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
Rankin-Bass showing they can do conventional animation too...brilliant performances by Joel Grey and George Gobel, and the unforgettable "Even a Miracle Needs a Hand".
10) A MUPPET CHRISTMAS CAROL
The hands-down best performance of Michael Caine's career. The most startling endorsement i can give is that for more than fifteen minutes, i forgot that Jim Henson had died.
************************
Special Awards of Merit:
A CHARLIE BROWN CHRISTMAS
-Not unlike a photographic negative of the following two films. But for one moment of (religious) mawkishness, it's quite sublime.
EMMET OTTER'S JUGBAND CHRISTMAS & THE NIGHTMARE BEFORE CHRISTMAS
-Each has one song ("What's This", "River Bottom Nightmare Band") that is as off-the-charts good as any moment of any Maxmas magic ever.
Thurl Ravenscroft. I just like saying "Thurl Ravenscroft".
2) IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE
Get him. He's givin' out wings.
3) THE YEAR WITHOUT A SANTA CLAUS
Heat Miser. Cold Miser. 'Nuff said.
4) SANTA CLAUS IS COMIN' TO TOWN
"Burgermeister Meisterburger" is the second-coolest nickname anyone's ever called me (the other one's a bit sexier).
5) MIRACLE ON 34th STREET
I resisted watching this one for many years, out of some sort of bizarre loyalty to #2 on this list. I was wrong, i was wrong, i've said it, i was wrong.
6) LOVE ACTUALLY
The most grown-up Maxmas film, the most "real" romantic comedy, and the greatest ensemble film. Ever. If someone described the "naughty" bits to a prude, they'd never watch it. Yet it's so deftly made that it feels like a family comedy, suitable for all...which it is.
7) RUDOLF, THE RED-NOSED REINDEER
Bumbles bounce!
8) RUDOLF'S SHINY NEW YEAR
And the Rankin-Bass stop-motion magic rolls on...
9) 'TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
Rankin-Bass showing they can do conventional animation too...brilliant performances by Joel Grey and George Gobel, and the unforgettable "Even a Miracle Needs a Hand".
10) A MUPPET CHRISTMAS CAROL
The hands-down best performance of Michael Caine's career. The most startling endorsement i can give is that for more than fifteen minutes, i forgot that Jim Henson had died.
************************
Special Awards of Merit:
A CHARLIE BROWN CHRISTMAS
-Not unlike a photographic negative of the following two films. But for one moment of (religious) mawkishness, it's quite sublime.
EMMET OTTER'S JUGBAND CHRISTMAS & THE NIGHTMARE BEFORE CHRISTMAS
-Each has one song ("What's This", "River Bottom Nightmare Band") that is as off-the-charts good as any moment of any Maxmas magic ever.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
the sap
The trouble with love is...
It can tear you up inside
Make your heart believe a lie
It's stronger than your pride
Yes, i'm quoting the Kelly Clarkson theme song to LOVE ACTUALLY. Get over it.
To me, being a fool is what life is all about. Being unafraid to throw yourself into any situation, without caring how you'll look, whether the world might laugh, or lash out...for a hopeless cause, for love, for a friend...
That's the me i like, when i'm at my best.
So i'm not embarrassed by most of the million and three things that bother regular folk. And when i do get embarrassed, i can't wait to tell you about it.
This time, however, i almost kept a stupid embarrassment to myself. But here i am.
I fell for a fake personal ad.
And not in a small way.
Oh, i didn't walk into a fake rendezvous, to be stripped of my wallet and boxer briefs by Fagin's gang...but in my spirit, oh my did i fall.
I recently returned to the world of online personals. One year ago, i started seeing someone, and it took me six months after the breakup to be able to even look at a personal ad. The only romance site i can imagine using is craigslist, a free site where you can create your own ad or look at others', and come and go as you like. Paying for a romance service invokes a level of neediness that's not me. The right CL attitude? Don't take it too seriously. Early on, i learned another lesson: don't get emotionally involved before you meet. Understand, a part of me wants to believe that humans can connect on an unseen level, even when they're far apart, or have never met. But in a romance ad correspondence, it just seems that you're begging for disaster if you get emotionally invested before meeting. Even if you do end up having an amazing spiritual connection, there are far too many compatibility factors which can trip up the best potential in the world. So i try to have an attitude of easygoing fun, and if i meet someone, cool. CL is, i might add, a phantasmagoria of fraud. A sea of spam. A morass of moronities subtle and glaring. I consider myself an operator with a high level of discernment. It's probably fair to call it a conceit, that i fancied i could never be taken in by a fake.
Ahem.
See that supine bowling pin with my face on it?
It's not just that i fell, but it's the extent to which i did, even before i'd finished writing my response. My heartrate went into overdrive. As i awaited a reply in the hours after, i felt a stronger feeling than i have felt for any real woman in years. Frankly, i can't swear that i didn't feel a stronger feeling than i've felt for a woman ever. I suddenly knew that when the reply appeared, my life would change, probably forever.
And then it arrived. Ready to know the first personal thoughts of a woman i had dreamt of all my life, i opened it.
And the enthusiastic note asked me to come talk to her on a paid dating site.
Her enthusiasm would have been more affecting, if there were one single thing in the note to indicate that she was a living human who had, y'know, actually read my letter.
It took me less than a minute to chuckle at myself.
But wow.
Any other conceits you'd care to cultivate, smart guy?
A part of me wishes i had the text of the ad to share with you, and a part of me is relieved i don't. It just seemed so sincere and off-beat...a paragraph or three of a woman talking about how this materialistic society is such a put-off, and then pushing more of my buttons, for good measure. And with it, a pic of a perky pixie dressed the way i'd imagine my love dressing. That the visual element was a factor in my response, i cannot for a second deny.
I guess the part that's most distressing (though looked at from another way, it could be encouraging) is the thought that i'm generic enough to fall for a fake, even a fake aimed at non-generic sorts. I guess i considered myself at least two levels of generic removed from the norm.
Conceit number two, come on down!
But it's about more than conceit, it's about how even though i rail against our society's attitudes on romance (unnatural views on monogamy, unhealthy stress on defining our lives by romantic status), i'm such a profound semi-closeted romantic. It's idiotic beyond belief, but there's a part of me waiting to embark on one of the greatest love stories of all time, or some such nonsense. This week my "heart" believed a lie, in a most profound way...and all it took was a bogus ad. I've always wanted to throw blunt objects at anyone reading a Harlequin novel, yet i cry within moments of seeing LOVE ACTUALLY, a movie in which many of the people get absolutely creamed by love, yet the movie plays like a romantic comedy, and you love and cheer those who do find "the dream". The idiotic, numnut dream.
I'm not kidding, either. The dream is idiotic.
And that strong feeling i felt? Just Narcissus staring at his reflection. Do you know what the difference is between that and the "real thing"? If most people knew the answer to that question, we'd have a social revolution the likes of which the world has never known.
The woman i broke up with this year let me into her most sacred places, and dared to dream a dream with me as the hero. I walked away, though she was as wonderful as any of us. I walked away, because the difference between "wonderful" and "wonderful for me" proved to be too big a chasm.
WROB: Stop waiting for a dream, wrob.
wrob: No WROB, i don't think i will.
WROB: Idiot.
wrob: Yeah, sure. Would it make you feel better if i said i just like sex, and this kind of idiocy is the only way to get the really fan-fuckin'-tastic kind?
WROB: Are you trying to bullshit me or yourself, wrob?
wrob: Complex question, WROB.
It can tear you up inside
Make your heart believe a lie
It's stronger than your pride
Yes, i'm quoting the Kelly Clarkson theme song to LOVE ACTUALLY. Get over it.
To me, being a fool is what life is all about. Being unafraid to throw yourself into any situation, without caring how you'll look, whether the world might laugh, or lash out...for a hopeless cause, for love, for a friend...
That's the me i like, when i'm at my best.
So i'm not embarrassed by most of the million and three things that bother regular folk. And when i do get embarrassed, i can't wait to tell you about it.
This time, however, i almost kept a stupid embarrassment to myself. But here i am.
I fell for a fake personal ad.
And not in a small way.
Oh, i didn't walk into a fake rendezvous, to be stripped of my wallet and boxer briefs by Fagin's gang...but in my spirit, oh my did i fall.
I recently returned to the world of online personals. One year ago, i started seeing someone, and it took me six months after the breakup to be able to even look at a personal ad. The only romance site i can imagine using is craigslist, a free site where you can create your own ad or look at others', and come and go as you like. Paying for a romance service invokes a level of neediness that's not me. The right CL attitude? Don't take it too seriously. Early on, i learned another lesson: don't get emotionally involved before you meet. Understand, a part of me wants to believe that humans can connect on an unseen level, even when they're far apart, or have never met. But in a romance ad correspondence, it just seems that you're begging for disaster if you get emotionally invested before meeting. Even if you do end up having an amazing spiritual connection, there are far too many compatibility factors which can trip up the best potential in the world. So i try to have an attitude of easygoing fun, and if i meet someone, cool. CL is, i might add, a phantasmagoria of fraud. A sea of spam. A morass of moronities subtle and glaring. I consider myself an operator with a high level of discernment. It's probably fair to call it a conceit, that i fancied i could never be taken in by a fake.
Ahem.
See that supine bowling pin with my face on it?
It's not just that i fell, but it's the extent to which i did, even before i'd finished writing my response. My heartrate went into overdrive. As i awaited a reply in the hours after, i felt a stronger feeling than i have felt for any real woman in years. Frankly, i can't swear that i didn't feel a stronger feeling than i've felt for a woman ever. I suddenly knew that when the reply appeared, my life would change, probably forever.
And then it arrived. Ready to know the first personal thoughts of a woman i had dreamt of all my life, i opened it.
And the enthusiastic note asked me to come talk to her on a paid dating site.
Her enthusiasm would have been more affecting, if there were one single thing in the note to indicate that she was a living human who had, y'know, actually read my letter.
It took me less than a minute to chuckle at myself.
But wow.
Any other conceits you'd care to cultivate, smart guy?
A part of me wishes i had the text of the ad to share with you, and a part of me is relieved i don't. It just seemed so sincere and off-beat...a paragraph or three of a woman talking about how this materialistic society is such a put-off, and then pushing more of my buttons, for good measure. And with it, a pic of a perky pixie dressed the way i'd imagine my love dressing. That the visual element was a factor in my response, i cannot for a second deny.
I guess the part that's most distressing (though looked at from another way, it could be encouraging) is the thought that i'm generic enough to fall for a fake, even a fake aimed at non-generic sorts. I guess i considered myself at least two levels of generic removed from the norm.
Conceit number two, come on down!
But it's about more than conceit, it's about how even though i rail against our society's attitudes on romance (unnatural views on monogamy, unhealthy stress on defining our lives by romantic status), i'm such a profound semi-closeted romantic. It's idiotic beyond belief, but there's a part of me waiting to embark on one of the greatest love stories of all time, or some such nonsense. This week my "heart" believed a lie, in a most profound way...and all it took was a bogus ad. I've always wanted to throw blunt objects at anyone reading a Harlequin novel, yet i cry within moments of seeing LOVE ACTUALLY, a movie in which many of the people get absolutely creamed by love, yet the movie plays like a romantic comedy, and you love and cheer those who do find "the dream". The idiotic, numnut dream.
I'm not kidding, either. The dream is idiotic.
And that strong feeling i felt? Just Narcissus staring at his reflection. Do you know what the difference is between that and the "real thing"? If most people knew the answer to that question, we'd have a social revolution the likes of which the world has never known.
The woman i broke up with this year let me into her most sacred places, and dared to dream a dream with me as the hero. I walked away, though she was as wonderful as any of us. I walked away, because the difference between "wonderful" and "wonderful for me" proved to be too big a chasm.
WROB: Stop waiting for a dream, wrob.
wrob: No WROB, i don't think i will.
WROB: Idiot.
wrob: Yeah, sure. Would it make you feel better if i said i just like sex, and this kind of idiocy is the only way to get the really fan-fuckin'-tastic kind?
WROB: Are you trying to bullshit me or yourself, wrob?
wrob: Complex question, WROB.
Friday, December 11, 2009
go (star wars) figure
I opened the greatest gift of my life on Christmas morning, 1977. The movie STAR WARS had been released seven months before. I was nine years old, and will forever maintain that no demographic was ever more perfectly vulnerable to the cultural flashbang George Lucas had dropped on the world that May. The moment Vader walked in, i was inextricably, forever taken.
I had dreamt of this gift. I tried not to think about my chances of getting it. I was still a year or two away from being able to conceive of acquiring such a gift on my own. Perhaps never again would my desire for something be so pure, and my grasp so tenuous.
I unwrapped it, and my starry eyes beheld...the Star Wars Creature Cantina action figure set.
I already had a few figures. But this set was special. Not available in stores. I'd never seen one in person, and was now the only person i knew in the world who had one. It consisted of four figures and a cardboard backdrop which folded, dividing it into a wall section and a ground section. The wall was the outside of the cantina, with aliens walking by, and one sandtrooper. The ground had holes in which you inserted plastic foot pegs, on which you could stand your figures. The figures were Greedo, Hammerhead, Walrus Man, and Snaggletooth. Snaggletooth would become a rarity, as the version finally released in stores was shorter, more stocky, and bootless. The one i had was regular height, with a blue uniform, not red. I played with my figures and took good care of them, but a couple years later i threw out the backdrop after the seam wore out, and split apart. Had i been just a year older, i perhaps wouldn't have let it come to that point of disrepair, or would have kept the pieces.
Other kids were tougher on their figures, playing with them until the paint or limbs came off. When my original Luke lost some paint, i got a replacement. I also noticed when Kenner started using a different mold for Han's head. I got the new one, and kept the old. I started keeping my figures individually wrapped in ziplock bags. I never lost accessories, and the one exception to this led to the only time i ever stole anything as a child. Princess Leia had the thinnest blaster, and back in the seventies we had a thing called shag carpet, which in my room was a mix of brown, tan, and black. Not the best place to keep track of tiny black pieces of plastic, but i only ever lost one: Leia's. With Mom's supervision, i took apart the vacuum cleaner bag, but to no avail. I carried the weight of that loss for a year or so, resolving to someday reunite Princess and pea shooter. Then one day, i found myself in a department store, looking at a row of figures, and noticed that someone had taken a Leia out of its box, but left the box. And there, taped to the dangling plastic shell, was the blaster. I took a long, hard look into my soul, and then a look in either direction. I reached out my hand, and made my collection whole.
I wasn't proud, but i learned that day that anyone's principles can be bought.
Did i have all the figures? Can you even ask? I remember the first one i didn't have, and the whole flap over Boba Fett's spring-loaded, child-choking jetpack rocket. I hadn't gotten Fett early enough to have one of the banned ones.
By EMPIRE, i was saving my weekly allowance to get the figures for myself. As much as 90% of my weekly 50-cent allowance from 1977-1983 went to Kenner. They started out at $2.75, and were $5 or more by the time JEDI finished. I got 'em all...and some more than once. I remember when the sales tapered off after EMPIRE, they had a $1.99 clearance sale. I picked up seven or eight stormtroopers, and two Imperial commanders (the ones with the black domed helmets, who weren't really commanders, but that's another story). And therein lied my passion-within-a-passion: the Imperials. You might not guess this, given my life's quest for goodness and truth, but my favorites were the Imperials. They were just too cool (though when i went through my naval history phase, i gravitated to the Axis powers, so there was obviously a trend going on). The coolness stemmed from Vader, with the stormtroopers close behind. I never got doubles of single-identity figures, but by the time my chest was full, i had ten troopers, four snowtroopers, and three rebel snow soldiers for good measure.
I kept the faith until JEDI. But the "Gold Medal" series is the straw that broke this camel's back (or possibly the two separate Niktos). I had been slowly facing the reality that there was a certain amount of bald-faced, corporate greed going on. The number of figures released per film kept going up, and the characters kept getting more obscure, until there were ones you didn't even recognize. The "Gold Medal" series was maybe the fourth for JEDI, and my principles finally won out over devotion. I said "no more", and didn't buy a one. In years to come, i sometimes regretted that just the teeniest bit, particularly because i missed out on having Han in carbonite.
There were a handful of others i had missed by the end of JEDI. It would be many years before i finally found Zuckuss, a TIE fighter pilot, and Artoo with sensor-scope.
I had actually manifested a little resistance to corporate greed even from the start, though. I'd decided that figures were sufficient, and that i didn't need the vehicles. With a couple exceptions (X-wing, Imperial troop transport), i maintained that purity. By EMPIRE, my brothers were old enough to be enamored too, and i let them get vehicles while i focused on figures.
I saved every proof-of-purchase, too. For what, i'm still not sure. I might have made one or two trade-in deals over the years, but that leaves a hundred or two at the bottom of my chest, to this day.
And i never understood the fans who kept the figures in the case. If you're an investor, go play the market, but if you love your figures, take 'em out and let 'em run around.
The only time i almost regret not getting the vehicles is when i see one of the old Death Star sets. But i could do better than Kenner anyway. When they finally released the Falcon, i almost did a spit-take at how pitiful it was, all shrunken and distorted. I had made my own in the early days. I took a piece of cardboard over three feet wide, and cut out a Falcon shape. I made walls four or five inches high, divided the ship into sections, and then made a topside. It hit the trash after a year or so, but it was better than what the store-going kids had. I also made some Hoth fortresses out of styrofoam.
I have a friend whose young son has fallen in love with Star Wars. He gave him all his old figures to play with. He's a better man than i, Gunga Din. Me, i dream (along with my brothers) of that future day when one of us has a house with a Star Wars room.
And here's another dream...for anyone else who remembers 1977 like i do. A couple decades later, when they released a Tarkin figure for the Special Edition, yeah, i bought it. A Tarkin figure had long been the one gaping hole in the Star Wars universe. Peter Cushing, however, had been perhaps the skinniest actor in the history of Hollywood, and the figure that finally emerged did not reflect that.
So imagine for just a moment that it's 1977 again, and instead of the Death Star droid, they released a Tarkin. Picture what it would have looked like...hold the image in your mind, and lock it away in a special place.
Okay, come on back now.
I love you all.
I had dreamt of this gift. I tried not to think about my chances of getting it. I was still a year or two away from being able to conceive of acquiring such a gift on my own. Perhaps never again would my desire for something be so pure, and my grasp so tenuous.
I unwrapped it, and my starry eyes beheld...the Star Wars Creature Cantina action figure set.
I already had a few figures. But this set was special. Not available in stores. I'd never seen one in person, and was now the only person i knew in the world who had one. It consisted of four figures and a cardboard backdrop which folded, dividing it into a wall section and a ground section. The wall was the outside of the cantina, with aliens walking by, and one sandtrooper. The ground had holes in which you inserted plastic foot pegs, on which you could stand your figures. The figures were Greedo, Hammerhead, Walrus Man, and Snaggletooth. Snaggletooth would become a rarity, as the version finally released in stores was shorter, more stocky, and bootless. The one i had was regular height, with a blue uniform, not red. I played with my figures and took good care of them, but a couple years later i threw out the backdrop after the seam wore out, and split apart. Had i been just a year older, i perhaps wouldn't have let it come to that point of disrepair, or would have kept the pieces.
Other kids were tougher on their figures, playing with them until the paint or limbs came off. When my original Luke lost some paint, i got a replacement. I also noticed when Kenner started using a different mold for Han's head. I got the new one, and kept the old. I started keeping my figures individually wrapped in ziplock bags. I never lost accessories, and the one exception to this led to the only time i ever stole anything as a child. Princess Leia had the thinnest blaster, and back in the seventies we had a thing called shag carpet, which in my room was a mix of brown, tan, and black. Not the best place to keep track of tiny black pieces of plastic, but i only ever lost one: Leia's. With Mom's supervision, i took apart the vacuum cleaner bag, but to no avail. I carried the weight of that loss for a year or so, resolving to someday reunite Princess and pea shooter. Then one day, i found myself in a department store, looking at a row of figures, and noticed that someone had taken a Leia out of its box, but left the box. And there, taped to the dangling plastic shell, was the blaster. I took a long, hard look into my soul, and then a look in either direction. I reached out my hand, and made my collection whole.
I wasn't proud, but i learned that day that anyone's principles can be bought.
Did i have all the figures? Can you even ask? I remember the first one i didn't have, and the whole flap over Boba Fett's spring-loaded, child-choking jetpack rocket. I hadn't gotten Fett early enough to have one of the banned ones.
By EMPIRE, i was saving my weekly allowance to get the figures for myself. As much as 90% of my weekly 50-cent allowance from 1977-1983 went to Kenner. They started out at $2.75, and were $5 or more by the time JEDI finished. I got 'em all...and some more than once. I remember when the sales tapered off after EMPIRE, they had a $1.99 clearance sale. I picked up seven or eight stormtroopers, and two Imperial commanders (the ones with the black domed helmets, who weren't really commanders, but that's another story). And therein lied my passion-within-a-passion: the Imperials. You might not guess this, given my life's quest for goodness and truth, but my favorites were the Imperials. They were just too cool (though when i went through my naval history phase, i gravitated to the Axis powers, so there was obviously a trend going on). The coolness stemmed from Vader, with the stormtroopers close behind. I never got doubles of single-identity figures, but by the time my chest was full, i had ten troopers, four snowtroopers, and three rebel snow soldiers for good measure.
I kept the faith until JEDI. But the "Gold Medal" series is the straw that broke this camel's back (or possibly the two separate Niktos). I had been slowly facing the reality that there was a certain amount of bald-faced, corporate greed going on. The number of figures released per film kept going up, and the characters kept getting more obscure, until there were ones you didn't even recognize. The "Gold Medal" series was maybe the fourth for JEDI, and my principles finally won out over devotion. I said "no more", and didn't buy a one. In years to come, i sometimes regretted that just the teeniest bit, particularly because i missed out on having Han in carbonite.
There were a handful of others i had missed by the end of JEDI. It would be many years before i finally found Zuckuss, a TIE fighter pilot, and Artoo with sensor-scope.
I had actually manifested a little resistance to corporate greed even from the start, though. I'd decided that figures were sufficient, and that i didn't need the vehicles. With a couple exceptions (X-wing, Imperial troop transport), i maintained that purity. By EMPIRE, my brothers were old enough to be enamored too, and i let them get vehicles while i focused on figures.
I saved every proof-of-purchase, too. For what, i'm still not sure. I might have made one or two trade-in deals over the years, but that leaves a hundred or two at the bottom of my chest, to this day.
And i never understood the fans who kept the figures in the case. If you're an investor, go play the market, but if you love your figures, take 'em out and let 'em run around.
The only time i almost regret not getting the vehicles is when i see one of the old Death Star sets. But i could do better than Kenner anyway. When they finally released the Falcon, i almost did a spit-take at how pitiful it was, all shrunken and distorted. I had made my own in the early days. I took a piece of cardboard over three feet wide, and cut out a Falcon shape. I made walls four or five inches high, divided the ship into sections, and then made a topside. It hit the trash after a year or so, but it was better than what the store-going kids had. I also made some Hoth fortresses out of styrofoam.
I have a friend whose young son has fallen in love with Star Wars. He gave him all his old figures to play with. He's a better man than i, Gunga Din. Me, i dream (along with my brothers) of that future day when one of us has a house with a Star Wars room.
And here's another dream...for anyone else who remembers 1977 like i do. A couple decades later, when they released a Tarkin figure for the Special Edition, yeah, i bought it. A Tarkin figure had long been the one gaping hole in the Star Wars universe. Peter Cushing, however, had been perhaps the skinniest actor in the history of Hollywood, and the figure that finally emerged did not reflect that.
So imagine for just a moment that it's 1977 again, and instead of the Death Star droid, they released a Tarkin. Picture what it would have looked like...hold the image in your mind, and lock it away in a special place.
Okay, come on back now.
I love you all.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
"Lies My Teacher Told Me"
(Everything Your American History Textbook Got Wrong)
-by james w. loewen
2007
Within a chapter, i knew it was one of the greatest books i'd ever read, one that will soon appear on my "required reading for every human" list: http://nakedmeadow.blogspot.com/2008/12/8-books.html. In 1995, loewen deconstructed twelve high school history textbooks to find out what they say, what they don't, and then he sought to find out why. He investigates why history classes are the subject of such profound student apathy. It turns out that students are too smart for the crap we feed them. When presented with a history which celebrates only the eurocentric american experience and avoids the hint of anything even the tiniest bit controversial, students subconsciously know they're being conned, and manifest resistance behavior. Loewen offers statistics on how history is unique among school subjects, in that the more classes one takes, the more measurably dumb one becomes. The higher one climbs on the educational ladder, the more one identifies with one's society, and subconsciously adopts the view that one's country is "right". Loewen also talks about the myth of american exceptionalism, inherent in which is the notion that our moral and ethical growth has been an upward constant. As just one rather stunning counter-example, in 1870 a white state senator from Mississippi married a black woman...and got re-elected. To say nothing about this continent's ethical/moral plane pre-columbus, which was at a level we're still well short of. And don't get loewen started on columbus. Not only did people NOT think the world was flat before he sailed, he was quite the johnny-come-lately, as archaeological evidence suggests that sailors from Indonesia, Africa, Asia, and other parts of Europe explored this land centuries, if not millenia, before columbus. To say nothing of explorers from this land themselves, who visited Scotland or Scandinavia some two thousand years ago. But columbus fits the "Europe-leading-the-world" archetype, so hey-ho, with columbus we go! Anyway, there's lots more, and it's not all euro-bashing; i'm much more a lincoln fan now than ever before.
-by james w. loewen
2007
Within a chapter, i knew it was one of the greatest books i'd ever read, one that will soon appear on my "required reading for every human" list: http://nakedmeadow.blogspot.com/2008/12/8-books.html. In 1995, loewen deconstructed twelve high school history textbooks to find out what they say, what they don't, and then he sought to find out why. He investigates why history classes are the subject of such profound student apathy. It turns out that students are too smart for the crap we feed them. When presented with a history which celebrates only the eurocentric american experience and avoids the hint of anything even the tiniest bit controversial, students subconsciously know they're being conned, and manifest resistance behavior. Loewen offers statistics on how history is unique among school subjects, in that the more classes one takes, the more measurably dumb one becomes. The higher one climbs on the educational ladder, the more one identifies with one's society, and subconsciously adopts the view that one's country is "right". Loewen also talks about the myth of american exceptionalism, inherent in which is the notion that our moral and ethical growth has been an upward constant. As just one rather stunning counter-example, in 1870 a white state senator from Mississippi married a black woman...and got re-elected. To say nothing about this continent's ethical/moral plane pre-columbus, which was at a level we're still well short of. And don't get loewen started on columbus. Not only did people NOT think the world was flat before he sailed, he was quite the johnny-come-lately, as archaeological evidence suggests that sailors from Indonesia, Africa, Asia, and other parts of Europe explored this land centuries, if not millenia, before columbus. To say nothing of explorers from this land themselves, who visited Scotland or Scandinavia some two thousand years ago. But columbus fits the "Europe-leading-the-world" archetype, so hey-ho, with columbus we go! Anyway, there's lots more, and it's not all euro-bashing; i'm much more a lincoln fan now than ever before.
"The Cartoon History of the United States"
-by larry gonick
1990
Brilliant. I was going to rattle off a long list of adjectives, but really, "brilliant" in every sense of the word pretty much covers it. It's the first history book you'll ever read that is both page-turner and giggler. Everything that was wrong with your high school history book (the avoidance of anything controversial or resembling a viewpoint other than "Yay, eurocentric America!") is set aright. I first learned of gonick through "The Cartoon History of the Universe", which only impressed me enough to make it the first book that every thinking human should read. It was successful enough to spawn over ten sequels...i myself can't wait to read the one on genetics, and (whee!) the one on sex. His website: http://www.larrygonick.com/. Gonick doesn't disappoint in this one. There's an initial letdown that his drawings are less fleshed out, as though he'd been facing a publication deadline. But you get used to that quickly enough, for the content is lovingly fleshed. Gonick is beautiful at making the big picture accessible. The big picture often escapes even the most intelligent among us, but i here offer twenty words from this book that will give any seventh grader a better understanding of the world than the four stupifying (or stupidifying?) years of history courses to come: "And technology begat industry...and industry begat capitalism...and capitalism begat communism...and communism begat anti-communism...and anti-communism begat fascism...". If you're looking for the perfect gift for a young mind, or a youthful mind, or a mind that you'd given up on, look no further.
1990
Brilliant. I was going to rattle off a long list of adjectives, but really, "brilliant" in every sense of the word pretty much covers it. It's the first history book you'll ever read that is both page-turner and giggler. Everything that was wrong with your high school history book (the avoidance of anything controversial or resembling a viewpoint other than "Yay, eurocentric America!") is set aright. I first learned of gonick through "The Cartoon History of the Universe", which only impressed me enough to make it the first book that every thinking human should read. It was successful enough to spawn over ten sequels...i myself can't wait to read the one on genetics, and (whee!) the one on sex. His website: http://www.larrygonick.com/. Gonick doesn't disappoint in this one. There's an initial letdown that his drawings are less fleshed out, as though he'd been facing a publication deadline. But you get used to that quickly enough, for the content is lovingly fleshed. Gonick is beautiful at making the big picture accessible. The big picture often escapes even the most intelligent among us, but i here offer twenty words from this book that will give any seventh grader a better understanding of the world than the four stupifying (or stupidifying?) years of history courses to come: "And technology begat industry...and industry begat capitalism...and capitalism begat communism...and communism begat anti-communism...and anti-communism begat fascism...". If you're looking for the perfect gift for a young mind, or a youthful mind, or a mind that you'd given up on, look no further.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
three as a bird
(many possible titles for this piece have been percolating in my brainpan...most of them pretty bad)
The Power of Three.
Three's Company.
When Two Become Three.
When Three Become Fun.
(yes, those were Spice Girl homages)
The Giving Three.
Born Three.
The Chimes of Threedom.
I Feel Three.
(any more semi-obscure song references, you wonder?)
No, but how 'bout "A Three Grows in Brooklyn". Whee!
(okay, i'll stop now)
I have seen the future, the future of love.
Alright, what i've seen is less vague and poetic, but "i've seen the future, the future of the child-rearing family unit" doesn't quite have that MLK panache.
The ship of marriage is creaking and leaking. Will it be patched, or will the bulkheads split wide, pouring all of our throbbing erections and yearning uteri into the sea of humanity, with nary a life preserver to be found?
Some blame feminism for marriage's woes. This is not entirely baseless, as modern woman embraces the concept that she's more than a cow (yes Daddy, moo, yes husband, moo). But i think it's truer to say that capitalism killed Dick and Jane, by isolating them in their single-family dwelling. Cut off from any support system, is it any wonder that even the most loving couples are at each other's throats after a decade or so? In a time gone by, extended families lived under the same roof, providing on-site marriage counseling and full-time babysitting.
So marriage is dying. Okay. If it were up to me (and it may well be), we can toss the baby, the bathwater, and the unrealistic treatment of monogamy out the window.
But someone's gotta raise the kids.
Whither shall we go? (drumrolls, please)
Him and her...and him.
Or her and him and her. Or him and her and that other one who's never felt comfy with the whole him/her thing. Whatever.
Crazy talk? Sure. But lay down your sense of decency, and think about it.
In the two-parent isolation paradigm, there's no reprieve from the presence of the other (except in bolting to the pub, or the arms of the nearest Mr. or Mrs. Jones). Introduce a third person into the mix, and you suddenly have a buffer between any two personalities, to keep them from scraping each other raw.
In the two-parent paradigm, once children arrive, the honeymoon is over. There always has to be one parent looking after the kids, so couples find their together time essentially gone. With three parents, that third set of hands means that any two of them can run off at any time, to rediscover the joy and love that brought them together in the first place.
Need i even mention the added benefit of slowing down population expansion, in a world ill-suited to supporting six billion, to say nothing of the ten billion coming in the lifetime of anyone not named Abe Vigoda? Curiously, this side benefit may be the way this paradigm gets in the door, as nations search for ways to stem a literal human tide. It wouldn't be the first time a great idea came to fruition not because of its merits, but because of some fluke of history.
Not convinced? Ready for the most compelling part of the argument? Three (or even four or five) parents would be a FAR healthier atmosphere in which to raise children. Sometimes the personalities of a child and parent clash. It doesn't mean anyone's right or wrong - some personalities just clash. In the two-parent paradigm, there's little escape from that, and parents/children end up with decades worth of emotional trauma, just trying to coexist. In a multi-parent paradigm, there are more human resources to deflect any conflicts. It's like always having your favorite aunt or uncle around. Kids would be less neurotic, and parents would be less stressed (and less likely to break up the family, which is the rule these days, not the exception).
So how would this new paradigm work? To be sure, it would take a generation (or three) to adjust. There would be pitfalls, the biggest being that NO ONE PERSON can be the focus. There has to be deep affection between each member, strong enough to survive the loss of any one of them.
Is this necessarily a bisexual paradigm? Not at all! Each family would work that out for themselves. You could have one threesome who share everything at any time, another threesome in a conventional heterosexual menage a trois, or another who keep the sex limited to just two at a time. Heck, you could even have her and her and her, or him and him and him. Go crazy. However you arranged it, this paradigm would undoubtedly lay to rest the specter of homophobia just as surely as couples like Tiger and Elin (and their beautiful babies) will forever end racism on this rock. By the way, did you notice how i slipped the phrase "conventional heterosexual menage a trois" into the discussion? Sneaky, eh?
Beyond affection, there would have to be a natural balance between the three parents. Personality clashes and synchronicities would have to even out. Disputes would be settled by majority, but as long as the members of the majority shifted from time to time, you'd be okay. If two of the three love tennis, but the third hates it, there would have to be other mutual passions to offset the imbalances.
And the best part of all?
A million girlfriends (and a few boyfriends) would never again have to pretend they like STAR WARS.
The Power of Three.
Three's Company.
When Two Become Three.
When Three Become Fun.
(yes, those were Spice Girl homages)
The Giving Three.
Born Three.
The Chimes of Threedom.
I Feel Three.
(any more semi-obscure song references, you wonder?)
No, but how 'bout "A Three Grows in Brooklyn". Whee!
(okay, i'll stop now)
I have seen the future, the future of love.
Alright, what i've seen is less vague and poetic, but "i've seen the future, the future of the child-rearing family unit" doesn't quite have that MLK panache.
The ship of marriage is creaking and leaking. Will it be patched, or will the bulkheads split wide, pouring all of our throbbing erections and yearning uteri into the sea of humanity, with nary a life preserver to be found?
Some blame feminism for marriage's woes. This is not entirely baseless, as modern woman embraces the concept that she's more than a cow (yes Daddy, moo, yes husband, moo). But i think it's truer to say that capitalism killed Dick and Jane, by isolating them in their single-family dwelling. Cut off from any support system, is it any wonder that even the most loving couples are at each other's throats after a decade or so? In a time gone by, extended families lived under the same roof, providing on-site marriage counseling and full-time babysitting.
So marriage is dying. Okay. If it were up to me (and it may well be), we can toss the baby, the bathwater, and the unrealistic treatment of monogamy out the window.
But someone's gotta raise the kids.
Whither shall we go? (drumrolls, please)
Him and her...and him.
Or her and him and her. Or him and her and that other one who's never felt comfy with the whole him/her thing. Whatever.
Crazy talk? Sure. But lay down your sense of decency, and think about it.
In the two-parent isolation paradigm, there's no reprieve from the presence of the other (except in bolting to the pub, or the arms of the nearest Mr. or Mrs. Jones). Introduce a third person into the mix, and you suddenly have a buffer between any two personalities, to keep them from scraping each other raw.
In the two-parent paradigm, once children arrive, the honeymoon is over. There always has to be one parent looking after the kids, so couples find their together time essentially gone. With three parents, that third set of hands means that any two of them can run off at any time, to rediscover the joy and love that brought them together in the first place.
Need i even mention the added benefit of slowing down population expansion, in a world ill-suited to supporting six billion, to say nothing of the ten billion coming in the lifetime of anyone not named Abe Vigoda? Curiously, this side benefit may be the way this paradigm gets in the door, as nations search for ways to stem a literal human tide. It wouldn't be the first time a great idea came to fruition not because of its merits, but because of some fluke of history.
Not convinced? Ready for the most compelling part of the argument? Three (or even four or five) parents would be a FAR healthier atmosphere in which to raise children. Sometimes the personalities of a child and parent clash. It doesn't mean anyone's right or wrong - some personalities just clash. In the two-parent paradigm, there's little escape from that, and parents/children end up with decades worth of emotional trauma, just trying to coexist. In a multi-parent paradigm, there are more human resources to deflect any conflicts. It's like always having your favorite aunt or uncle around. Kids would be less neurotic, and parents would be less stressed (and less likely to break up the family, which is the rule these days, not the exception).
So how would this new paradigm work? To be sure, it would take a generation (or three) to adjust. There would be pitfalls, the biggest being that NO ONE PERSON can be the focus. There has to be deep affection between each member, strong enough to survive the loss of any one of them.
Is this necessarily a bisexual paradigm? Not at all! Each family would work that out for themselves. You could have one threesome who share everything at any time, another threesome in a conventional heterosexual menage a trois, or another who keep the sex limited to just two at a time. Heck, you could even have her and her and her, or him and him and him. Go crazy. However you arranged it, this paradigm would undoubtedly lay to rest the specter of homophobia just as surely as couples like Tiger and Elin (and their beautiful babies) will forever end racism on this rock. By the way, did you notice how i slipped the phrase "conventional heterosexual menage a trois" into the discussion? Sneaky, eh?
Beyond affection, there would have to be a natural balance between the three parents. Personality clashes and synchronicities would have to even out. Disputes would be settled by majority, but as long as the members of the majority shifted from time to time, you'd be okay. If two of the three love tennis, but the third hates it, there would have to be other mutual passions to offset the imbalances.
And the best part of all?
A million girlfriends (and a few boyfriends) would never again have to pretend they like STAR WARS.
Monday, November 30, 2009
buff stevie
I was in a strange land of suspicion and oppression. The landscape was barren and tinged with hues of orange. I was with two friends, and we were on the run, hiding from the authorities. If we were found, we would be imprisoned with no reprieve, or worse. There were other fugitives in this land, starting to create a freedom underground. We were a part of this nascent movement, but never would we be more imperiled than at this time. We made our way through a high rise building, using the stairwells. At one point a flight was missing, and we had to jump. We needed to find something or someone, and be quickly away. One of us split from the group, leaving the other two to stall for time and go unnoticed. We entered a floor where Stevie Wonder was playing a recruitment concert for the authorities. He wore a sleeveless shirt, and had a densely-muscled, sculpted physique. He played the crowd well, but behind the facade of love and celebration, his aura had a sinister tinge. We moved about. My partner wasn't quite as circumspect as i, and i had to shepherd him or her. An attractive food server with long, auburn, wavy hair took an interest in us. She seemed friendly, but i knew she was having suspicions the second time she saw us. She wanted to do good, and was genuinely interested in me, but she was about to have us questioned, and i knew playing on her sympathies wouldn't work...
Sunday, November 29, 2009
1000
Some writers let the words flow out, and are done. One poet told me that she felt editing compromised the creation, distilling the product of a unique moment in time.
Some writers take years working and working and re-working a single sentence.
I suppose i'm closer to the former, but i edit the hell out of most of my work. Oftentimes i'll continue editing even after i've posted (the irony being that people who follow me most closely often read work that will be better a few days later).
I'll give just one little example of my dedication to getting it right. In a recent article, i wrote the words "kidnapping, killing, robbery, and rape". The first draft had the first two words inverted. By the time i got to the final draft, i had altered the order of those four words more times than i could possibly recount. I tried synonyms too, before deciding that the original alliteration best served the sentence. I did all this in search of the grail of great writing. The flow of language has rhythm...each speech, each verse, each sentence, has an inherent emotional cadence. Take out one word, change it, or put it in a different spot, and an entire essay can go zowie (or pffft).
If you like my writing, you didn't need to know that. I just wanted to share.
As this blog approaches the two-year mark, i'm still unburdened by any abundance of outside appreciation. Which is fine, even enviable...not having anyone's expectations but my own to deal with, makes purity and unself-consciousness easier to achieve.
I've never installed a program which tracks site hits. I like to think it wouldn't affect me greatly, but i'd be fooling myself if i thought i wouldn't be affected at all, either by finding out that an astronomic number of people are tuning in, or that my three fans and a cricket are keepin' the faith.
Absent a "hits" count, the next most reliable way of assessing readership is comments.
Chirp chirp chirp chirp...so de cricket say.
Subtracting my own responses, no post has had more than a few comments, and the majority have had none at all. This is good. It keeps me humble.
But you know what?
I've had a little half-cheat going on these past two years: the site count for profile views. If there's a way to disable it, i don't know what that is...but i haven't looked for it, either. My ego hasn't been able to resist peeking at the "views" tally once every month or two, as a quasi-indicator of how many people are hitting me. It's fair to say that only a small percentage of the total visitors even view the profile at all, yes? Regular readers probably look at it only once (if that), and the majority of irregular readers never look at all.
Please, no cheap cracks about all my readers being irregular.
I've never tried to come up with a formula to translate "Profile Views" into site hits, my dedication to unself-consciousness is too strong for that.
But not long ago, a milestone arrived...and with it came a distressing change in the nature of the tally itself.
Four figures.
1000 views.
Without allowing myself to conjure up a number, it must be assumed that "Profile Views" is a fraction (and very possibly a small fraction) of site hits.
For just a moment, i gave myself a woo-woo.
And then i took in the change that had occurred. "Profile Views" had become "Profile Views (approximate)". Since the milestone, the odometer is firmly stuck on 1000.
It's as though the gods of modesty saw my tiny conceit, and smited it.
Ah well. Just another day in the big city, where the tourists dwell, the well-to-do are shameless, the homeless ain't goin' anywhere, and i do love you all.
Some writers take years working and working and re-working a single sentence.
I suppose i'm closer to the former, but i edit the hell out of most of my work. Oftentimes i'll continue editing even after i've posted (the irony being that people who follow me most closely often read work that will be better a few days later).
I'll give just one little example of my dedication to getting it right. In a recent article, i wrote the words "kidnapping, killing, robbery, and rape". The first draft had the first two words inverted. By the time i got to the final draft, i had altered the order of those four words more times than i could possibly recount. I tried synonyms too, before deciding that the original alliteration best served the sentence. I did all this in search of the grail of great writing. The flow of language has rhythm...each speech, each verse, each sentence, has an inherent emotional cadence. Take out one word, change it, or put it in a different spot, and an entire essay can go zowie (or pffft).
If you like my writing, you didn't need to know that. I just wanted to share.
As this blog approaches the two-year mark, i'm still unburdened by any abundance of outside appreciation. Which is fine, even enviable...not having anyone's expectations but my own to deal with, makes purity and unself-consciousness easier to achieve.
I've never installed a program which tracks site hits. I like to think it wouldn't affect me greatly, but i'd be fooling myself if i thought i wouldn't be affected at all, either by finding out that an astronomic number of people are tuning in, or that my three fans and a cricket are keepin' the faith.
Absent a "hits" count, the next most reliable way of assessing readership is comments.
Chirp chirp chirp chirp...so de cricket say.
Subtracting my own responses, no post has had more than a few comments, and the majority have had none at all. This is good. It keeps me humble.
But you know what?
I've had a little half-cheat going on these past two years: the site count for profile views. If there's a way to disable it, i don't know what that is...but i haven't looked for it, either. My ego hasn't been able to resist peeking at the "views" tally once every month or two, as a quasi-indicator of how many people are hitting me. It's fair to say that only a small percentage of the total visitors even view the profile at all, yes? Regular readers probably look at it only once (if that), and the majority of irregular readers never look at all.
Please, no cheap cracks about all my readers being irregular.
I've never tried to come up with a formula to translate "Profile Views" into site hits, my dedication to unself-consciousness is too strong for that.
But not long ago, a milestone arrived...and with it came a distressing change in the nature of the tally itself.
Four figures.
1000 views.
Without allowing myself to conjure up a number, it must be assumed that "Profile Views" is a fraction (and very possibly a small fraction) of site hits.
For just a moment, i gave myself a woo-woo.
And then i took in the change that had occurred. "Profile Views" had become "Profile Views (approximate)". Since the milestone, the odometer is firmly stuck on 1000.
It's as though the gods of modesty saw my tiny conceit, and smited it.
Ah well. Just another day in the big city, where the tourists dwell, the well-to-do are shameless, the homeless ain't goin' anywhere, and i do love you all.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
vanilla
An acquaintance of mine recently sent me a link to some explicit lesbian porn, in celebration of Porn Day or some such. I applauded her spirit, and thanked her. It was a 10-20 minute film, and i didn't watch it all, as it got boring by the time the sex began. I mentioned this to her, and that i prefer erotica with intelligent dialogue and character development. She said i was being silly, and that porn was simply for revving up and gettin' off.
I told her that my tastes in porn were more vanilla than hers.
I was being a little self-deprecating and disingenuous with my word choice, just to make sure she felt affirmed in sending me the link, and affirmed in her love of porn. Vive la porn! Even though the hardcore stuff bores me, the free expression of any kind of porn is tied into progressive social strides in general, and for women in particular.
I'm pretty historically comfy in my shoes, but there have been one or two moments over the years when i entertained the thought that my tastes in porn were a reflection of repressed, middle-class morality. An analogy clicked into my mind recently however, which has made me comfy with saying that my disinterest is not because i'm an uptight white boy, or worse (gulp), an elitist.
I realized i relate to hardcore porn much the same way i relate to hiking/climbing magazines. I adore hiking and rock climbing, yet have absolutely no interest in hiking/climbing magazines. When a friend shares one with me, i'm singularly unmoved. Why? Because i have NO interest in watching someone else climb. If i'm not doing it myself, i just don't care. It doesn't matter how pretty the trail or mountain is. I don't care if someone's discovered a new climbing technique, or lived some amazing adventure...i don't care, i don't care, i don't care. I don't want to look at climbing, i just want to do it.
Ding ding!
And just so, is my attitude on hardcore porn. Porn loses me when it's simply about "the act". And it's not explicit depictions per se that turn me off...there are some NC-17 films that i love, for the drama and for the titillation.
For that matter, i can also get swept away in a really good book about climbing.
And for what it's worth, my visual titillation doesn't always have to involve a high level of artistic merit...i still haven't seen BATTLESHIP POTEMKIN or LAWRENCE OF ARABIA, yet i've viewed PARADISE (or at least fast forwarded through to the good parts) more times than i can recall.
But i'm generally not interested in other people "doing it" (either activity). I'm not an elitist or snob, and i'm not vanilla...i'm just self-absorbed. Or more flatteringly, i believe life is too short to be on the sidelines.
Show me a picture of a mountain, and i'm ready to climb it. I don't need you to backlight it or adorn it with lacy lingerie, or show me people having a GREAT time climbing it. You're boring me, i was already sold.
Show me a picture of a woman, and i'm ready to free climb her peaks, bivouac in the curve of her neck, and whisper in her valley. No, i don't want trail guide Ron Jeremy!
As Ron White said so perfectly, "Seen one pair of boobies......you wanna see the rest of 'em." But i can take it from there. If you want to show me a gloriously indulgent carnal act involving the aforementioned boobies, you'd better have some damned fine writer attached to the project...
Either that, or have all the men wearing latex "wrob" masks.
But really, that's not necessary.
I'll take it from there.
I told her that my tastes in porn were more vanilla than hers.
I was being a little self-deprecating and disingenuous with my word choice, just to make sure she felt affirmed in sending me the link, and affirmed in her love of porn. Vive la porn! Even though the hardcore stuff bores me, the free expression of any kind of porn is tied into progressive social strides in general, and for women in particular.
I'm pretty historically comfy in my shoes, but there have been one or two moments over the years when i entertained the thought that my tastes in porn were a reflection of repressed, middle-class morality. An analogy clicked into my mind recently however, which has made me comfy with saying that my disinterest is not because i'm an uptight white boy, or worse (gulp), an elitist.
I realized i relate to hardcore porn much the same way i relate to hiking/climbing magazines. I adore hiking and rock climbing, yet have absolutely no interest in hiking/climbing magazines. When a friend shares one with me, i'm singularly unmoved. Why? Because i have NO interest in watching someone else climb. If i'm not doing it myself, i just don't care. It doesn't matter how pretty the trail or mountain is. I don't care if someone's discovered a new climbing technique, or lived some amazing adventure...i don't care, i don't care, i don't care. I don't want to look at climbing, i just want to do it.
Ding ding!
And just so, is my attitude on hardcore porn. Porn loses me when it's simply about "the act". And it's not explicit depictions per se that turn me off...there are some NC-17 films that i love, for the drama and for the titillation.
For that matter, i can also get swept away in a really good book about climbing.
And for what it's worth, my visual titillation doesn't always have to involve a high level of artistic merit...i still haven't seen BATTLESHIP POTEMKIN or LAWRENCE OF ARABIA, yet i've viewed PARADISE (or at least fast forwarded through to the good parts) more times than i can recall.
But i'm generally not interested in other people "doing it" (either activity). I'm not an elitist or snob, and i'm not vanilla...i'm just self-absorbed. Or more flatteringly, i believe life is too short to be on the sidelines.
Show me a picture of a mountain, and i'm ready to climb it. I don't need you to backlight it or adorn it with lacy lingerie, or show me people having a GREAT time climbing it. You're boring me, i was already sold.
Show me a picture of a woman, and i'm ready to free climb her peaks, bivouac in the curve of her neck, and whisper in her valley. No, i don't want trail guide Ron Jeremy!
As Ron White said so perfectly, "Seen one pair of boobies......you wanna see the rest of 'em." But i can take it from there. If you want to show me a gloriously indulgent carnal act involving the aforementioned boobies, you'd better have some damned fine writer attached to the project...
Either that, or have all the men wearing latex "wrob" masks.
But really, that's not necessary.
I'll take it from there.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
two nayked
When you're in a wounded headspace, it can start to feel like attacks are imminent from any and all directions. You brace yourself for blows, even when you have no reason to think one is coming. You pull away from human contact, even from people you know mean you no harm. The ringing of the phone becomes something that might bite. Your spirit holds its breath as you open an e-mail or letter.
To recap the past two years, i've been vandalized, robbed, had my identity stolen, my life threatened, lived with a severely leaking ceiling while my landlord counted my money, and been in a romance which felt like getting my head kicked once a day.
I've also had one beautifully gentle romance (the end of which has so far been a cold, hard shunning...though it's telling, that even in my battered state i don't focus on the negative, as this parenthetical didn't even occur to me while writing the first draft). Plus, there are people who have been there for me, my life's been an amazing picnic compared to anyone in Rwanda, and i even sometimes still burst into joyful laughter walking down the street.
But there are times for perspectives, and times to say, "This is my wound. These are my wounds." Even before the past two years, there had been a growing many-years-accumulation soul-loneliness kind of wound in me.
It also just hit me that it was two years ago that my brother moved to CA. We'd lived together for five years, and accumulated such a deep well of shared references...humor, music, shows...a word or glance was all it took for laughter to start. It wasn't an emotion-sharing relationship, but we laughed every day. So that's been a two-year hole in my life.
And it also occurs to me...do you know how long i've been talking to you?
How long i've been reaching out into this world of faces i cannot see, hoping to touch someone?
Almost two years.
Another coincidence.
Yet not entirely.
In a small way, this blog has been another source of hurt. Though "hurt" isn't quite right. Something closer to vulnerability. I put myself out there in these posts. Nakedly. I know how most people hide and protect their innermost selves, even from those closest to them. That's not the life i want. But it's so hard to not live that way, when everyone around you is so damaged, and doesn't want other people to be really alive and beautiful, because then they might feel they should be alive and beautiful too, and THAT MIGHT HURT. I run in, and open myself wide...to being judged, to being misunderstood.
There's also the weight of knowing that anyone who gets close to me may have to deal with being written about in a naked way...even protecting certain anonymities, i've probably lost the intimacy of several who weren't ready for that.
In any forum, naked vulnerability carries a staggering weight. And this kind of nakedness, while in one way anonymous, is significantly more vulnerable in another, knowing that ANYONE can view it.
But that's what i signed up for. Willingly, joyfully. I'm all growed up, and that's why i'm here. Warts, blood, ugliness, ecstasies, failures, idiocies.
When i'm at my best, that's where i thrive.
For example, this week i wrote about how social restraints fell apart during the bubonic plague, and my mind dwelled in that reality. Today, i imagined what it would feel like to rape a woman. For a minute or less, i "lived" in that moment as much as i could.
I see human nature more clearly than most, and know that most men would become rapists very easily, if society said it was okay (which is part of America's not-so-distant racial past). Your dad, your son, your brother...very few would resist the call of societally-sanctioned rape.
So i imagined what it would feel like. I summoned an imaginary woman, and raped her. I didn't recoil at the thought, nor did i enjoy it...it just was.
Does this disgust you? Would you be equally disgusted by a woman saying she imagined being raped? If not, are you comfortable with your double standard? That's fine...there are moments like this when the bloodied, self-destructive, messianic part of me doesn't care about being misunderstood.
Anyway...
Like i said, this kind of nakedness is where i thrive, when i'm at my best.
We all have our demons. And dedications. And dreams.
Fuck the demons.
You have to walk in truth before you can walk in beauty.
To recap the past two years, i've been vandalized, robbed, had my identity stolen, my life threatened, lived with a severely leaking ceiling while my landlord counted my money, and been in a romance which felt like getting my head kicked once a day.
I've also had one beautifully gentle romance (the end of which has so far been a cold, hard shunning...though it's telling, that even in my battered state i don't focus on the negative, as this parenthetical didn't even occur to me while writing the first draft). Plus, there are people who have been there for me, my life's been an amazing picnic compared to anyone in Rwanda, and i even sometimes still burst into joyful laughter walking down the street.
But there are times for perspectives, and times to say, "This is my wound. These are my wounds." Even before the past two years, there had been a growing many-years-accumulation soul-loneliness kind of wound in me.
It also just hit me that it was two years ago that my brother moved to CA. We'd lived together for five years, and accumulated such a deep well of shared references...humor, music, shows...a word or glance was all it took for laughter to start. It wasn't an emotion-sharing relationship, but we laughed every day. So that's been a two-year hole in my life.
And it also occurs to me...do you know how long i've been talking to you?
How long i've been reaching out into this world of faces i cannot see, hoping to touch someone?
Almost two years.
Another coincidence.
Yet not entirely.
In a small way, this blog has been another source of hurt. Though "hurt" isn't quite right. Something closer to vulnerability. I put myself out there in these posts. Nakedly. I know how most people hide and protect their innermost selves, even from those closest to them. That's not the life i want. But it's so hard to not live that way, when everyone around you is so damaged, and doesn't want other people to be really alive and beautiful, because then they might feel they should be alive and beautiful too, and THAT MIGHT HURT. I run in, and open myself wide...to being judged, to being misunderstood.
There's also the weight of knowing that anyone who gets close to me may have to deal with being written about in a naked way...even protecting certain anonymities, i've probably lost the intimacy of several who weren't ready for that.
In any forum, naked vulnerability carries a staggering weight. And this kind of nakedness, while in one way anonymous, is significantly more vulnerable in another, knowing that ANYONE can view it.
But that's what i signed up for. Willingly, joyfully. I'm all growed up, and that's why i'm here. Warts, blood, ugliness, ecstasies, failures, idiocies.
When i'm at my best, that's where i thrive.
For example, this week i wrote about how social restraints fell apart during the bubonic plague, and my mind dwelled in that reality. Today, i imagined what it would feel like to rape a woman. For a minute or less, i "lived" in that moment as much as i could.
I see human nature more clearly than most, and know that most men would become rapists very easily, if society said it was okay (which is part of America's not-so-distant racial past). Your dad, your son, your brother...very few would resist the call of societally-sanctioned rape.
So i imagined what it would feel like. I summoned an imaginary woman, and raped her. I didn't recoil at the thought, nor did i enjoy it...it just was.
Does this disgust you? Would you be equally disgusted by a woman saying she imagined being raped? If not, are you comfortable with your double standard? That's fine...there are moments like this when the bloodied, self-destructive, messianic part of me doesn't care about being misunderstood.
Anyway...
Like i said, this kind of nakedness is where i thrive, when i'm at my best.
We all have our demons. And dedications. And dreams.
Fuck the demons.
You have to walk in truth before you can walk in beauty.
say hey ray!
A guacamole-spattered welcome to Ray DeJohn, the newest and fairest devotee of this humble site! Ray hails from Baltimore, and is an authentic oyster shucker, following his mother and grandmother in the business (he's the first Dejohn male in five generations over 5'1"). He's a tournament-level whist player, and dabbles in animal husbandry. His wife of forty-three years dresses him, and sometimes he wears his undies inside-out, to both annoy her and pay homage to Travolta. You're lucky follower number 7, Ray (go Cal Sr!). By any fair measure, he's at least a middling-plus member of society. Go Birds, Ray!
Friday, November 20, 2009
squanto's thanksgiving message
The story of Thanksgiving is the most central story in the american saga. It set the stage for all that was to come. "Europeans bring civilization to a savage land" became the catch-all rationale for everything that followed. And i was there. My name is Tisquantum. Many of you know me as "Squanto".
There are small myths and large in the history of any land. And things that get forgotten. Did you know, for instance, that at the height of the slave trade, 10,000 native american slaves were exported in a single year? I know...for i was one. I was first abducted by a british captain as a child in 1605. I spent nine years serving several masters in England, until one returned me to my home in Massachusetts. Less than a year later, i was enslaved again, this time to be sold in Spain. I escaped and made my way to England, where i convinced a captain to take me home. I walked back into the village of my people, the patuxet, the very same year the Mayflower sailed into the harbor.
One small american myth is that we natives were hunter/gatherers. Many of us were farmers. We all became hunter/gatherers when it became necessary to run from europeans at a moment's notice. Faced with kidnapping, killing, robbery, and rape, you might head for the hills too.
One of the bigger myths about the birth of this country is how europeans "tamed the wilderness". They didn't...because they didn't have to. The pattern was set in Plymouth. When i walked back into my village, there were only corpses to greet me. Everyone had been killed by one of the european diseases. The pilgrims moved in. They didn't have to clear any forest, or remove rocks from the ground to make fields for planting. I joined them, because i had no one else.
What made America so different from what was going on in the rest of the world? The period of european imperialism saw every single continent unquestionably dominated. So why didn't Europe settle Asia or Africa? Because the good spots there were already taken.
But when the Mayflower landed, America was becoming a ghost town.
Before european diseases swept our shores, the population of the Americas was as high as 100 million. But we had no immunities with which to fight back. Getting a flu was a death sentence. School books teach that the most devastating disaster in history was the Black Plague. 30% of Europe died, in just two years. People believed it was the hand of God. Crops went unplanted, social restraints were disregarded.
The epidemics that struck New England in 1617 carried a mortality rate of 90%. The survivors scattered, carrying death inland, where populations that had never seen a white person were leveled. As a result, it would be fifty years before the invaders met any real resistance. In the words of Plymouth governor William Bradford, "It pleased God to afflict these Indians with such a deadly sickness, that out of 1000, over 950 of them died, and many...lay rotting above ground."
The second great myth was "the frontier", which is thought of as a moving line on a map. But there was no border - the frontier was profoundly multi-cultural and interracial. A striking example of this was a town in northern Ohio known as "the Glaize", where french, africans, british, and members of at least six tribes lived together. They all celebrated native holidays, St. Patrick's Day, and Mardi Gras. It will surprise no one that escaped blacks ran to the arms of the natives. What may come as a surprise is that europeans were also defecting. Innumerable laws sprang up, to punish whites who "went native". The pilgrims even made it a crime for a man to wear long hair. If you've ever wondered why Granddad calls Billy a fairy when his hair gets a little long, we may have just found the reason.
This defection of men and women was mostly one-way; myself and Pocahantas notwithstanding, natives were not trying to get into white society. Ben Franklin himself said, "No European who has tasted Savage Life can afterwards bear to live in our societies...there is no Force; there are no Prisons, no officers to compel Obedience, or inflict Punishment." Perhaps the most alluring part of native life was the lack of hierarchy. History's famous native american leaders were not leaders in the way you understand them. Though some tribal positions were hereditary, anyone could rise to a position of prominence, and no one was denigrated or ignored, including women.
And therein may lie the greatest myth of all, the idea that native american culture has been killed. When one culture absorbs another, both are forever changed. Each one of you here today is far more native american than you've probably ever considered. Native ideas most certainly made their way back to Europe, to thinkers like John Locke, who would write of "life, liberty, and property". Is it a coincidence that America's "founding fathers" embraced such radical ideas? All evidence suggests that the settlers were not driven by social experiments, but profit. A small minority came for religious freedom...even on the Mayflower, the pilgrims were a minority...but religious freedom is not the same thing as democracy.
My own time with the pilgrims was neither long nor happy. I was a go-between with the nearest tribe, the Wampanoag, who never trusted me because i was not one of their own. Less than two years after the Mayflower arrived, i was overcome by a sudden, bloody fever. A victim of either disease or poison, my spirit finally came to rest.
But on this day of Thanksgiving, in this country where any man or woman is free to go to any school, to work at any job, to express any opinion...it is perhaps entirely appropriate to give thanks to those who first lived in this beautiful land, and honor them by carrying in your spirits and manifesting in your deeds the best part of their desires and dreams.
There are small myths and large in the history of any land. And things that get forgotten. Did you know, for instance, that at the height of the slave trade, 10,000 native american slaves were exported in a single year? I know...for i was one. I was first abducted by a british captain as a child in 1605. I spent nine years serving several masters in England, until one returned me to my home in Massachusetts. Less than a year later, i was enslaved again, this time to be sold in Spain. I escaped and made my way to England, where i convinced a captain to take me home. I walked back into the village of my people, the patuxet, the very same year the Mayflower sailed into the harbor.
One small american myth is that we natives were hunter/gatherers. Many of us were farmers. We all became hunter/gatherers when it became necessary to run from europeans at a moment's notice. Faced with kidnapping, killing, robbery, and rape, you might head for the hills too.
One of the bigger myths about the birth of this country is how europeans "tamed the wilderness". They didn't...because they didn't have to. The pattern was set in Plymouth. When i walked back into my village, there were only corpses to greet me. Everyone had been killed by one of the european diseases. The pilgrims moved in. They didn't have to clear any forest, or remove rocks from the ground to make fields for planting. I joined them, because i had no one else.
What made America so different from what was going on in the rest of the world? The period of european imperialism saw every single continent unquestionably dominated. So why didn't Europe settle Asia or Africa? Because the good spots there were already taken.
But when the Mayflower landed, America was becoming a ghost town.
Before european diseases swept our shores, the population of the Americas was as high as 100 million. But we had no immunities with which to fight back. Getting a flu was a death sentence. School books teach that the most devastating disaster in history was the Black Plague. 30% of Europe died, in just two years. People believed it was the hand of God. Crops went unplanted, social restraints were disregarded.
The epidemics that struck New England in 1617 carried a mortality rate of 90%. The survivors scattered, carrying death inland, where populations that had never seen a white person were leveled. As a result, it would be fifty years before the invaders met any real resistance. In the words of Plymouth governor William Bradford, "It pleased God to afflict these Indians with such a deadly sickness, that out of 1000, over 950 of them died, and many...lay rotting above ground."
The second great myth was "the frontier", which is thought of as a moving line on a map. But there was no border - the frontier was profoundly multi-cultural and interracial. A striking example of this was a town in northern Ohio known as "the Glaize", where french, africans, british, and members of at least six tribes lived together. They all celebrated native holidays, St. Patrick's Day, and Mardi Gras. It will surprise no one that escaped blacks ran to the arms of the natives. What may come as a surprise is that europeans were also defecting. Innumerable laws sprang up, to punish whites who "went native". The pilgrims even made it a crime for a man to wear long hair. If you've ever wondered why Granddad calls Billy a fairy when his hair gets a little long, we may have just found the reason.
This defection of men and women was mostly one-way; myself and Pocahantas notwithstanding, natives were not trying to get into white society. Ben Franklin himself said, "No European who has tasted Savage Life can afterwards bear to live in our societies...there is no Force; there are no Prisons, no officers to compel Obedience, or inflict Punishment." Perhaps the most alluring part of native life was the lack of hierarchy. History's famous native american leaders were not leaders in the way you understand them. Though some tribal positions were hereditary, anyone could rise to a position of prominence, and no one was denigrated or ignored, including women.
And therein may lie the greatest myth of all, the idea that native american culture has been killed. When one culture absorbs another, both are forever changed. Each one of you here today is far more native american than you've probably ever considered. Native ideas most certainly made their way back to Europe, to thinkers like John Locke, who would write of "life, liberty, and property". Is it a coincidence that America's "founding fathers" embraced such radical ideas? All evidence suggests that the settlers were not driven by social experiments, but profit. A small minority came for religious freedom...even on the Mayflower, the pilgrims were a minority...but religious freedom is not the same thing as democracy.
My own time with the pilgrims was neither long nor happy. I was a go-between with the nearest tribe, the Wampanoag, who never trusted me because i was not one of their own. Less than two years after the Mayflower arrived, i was overcome by a sudden, bloody fever. A victim of either disease or poison, my spirit finally came to rest.
But on this day of Thanksgiving, in this country where any man or woman is free to go to any school, to work at any job, to express any opinion...it is perhaps entirely appropriate to give thanks to those who first lived in this beautiful land, and honor them by carrying in your spirits and manifesting in your deeds the best part of their desires and dreams.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
squanto, the frozen man
One of my favorite songs is "The Frozen Man", by james taylor. And i'll never be able to hear it in the same way again.
===========
Last thing i remember is the freezing cold
Water reaching up just to swallow me whole
Ice in the rigging and the howling wind
Shock to my body as we tumbled in
Then my brothers and the others are lost at sea
I alone am returned to tell thee
Hidden in ice for a century
To walk the world again
Lord have mercy on the frozen man
Next words that were spoken to me
Nurse asked me what my name might be
She was all in white at the foot of my bed
I said angel of mercy, I'm alive or am I dead?
My name is William James McPhee
I was born in 1843
Raised in Liverpool by the sea
But that ain't who I am
Lord have mercy, I'm the frozen man
It took a lot of money to start my heart
To peg my leg and to buy my eye
Newspapers call me state of the art
And the children, when they see me, cry
I thought it'd be nice just to visit my grave
See what kind of tombstone I might have
I saw my wife and my daughter and it seemed so strange
Both of them dead and gone from extreme old age
See here, when I die make sure I'm gone
Don't give 'em nothing to work on
You can raise you arm and you can wiggle your hand
(not like myself)
And you can wave goodbye to the frozen man
I know what it means to freeze to death
To lose a little life with every breath
To say goodbye to life on earth
And come around again
Lord have mercy on the frozen man
===============
There are other taylor songs that have deeply touched the lyrical part of my spirit, most notably "Secret O' Life" and "Sleep Come Free Me", but none moreso than this one. Something about poignant beauty in the face of profound isolation.
Every year, my dad and step-mom host a Thanksgiving pageant at their home in the mountains. As friends and neighbors gather at the lakeside dock, a group dressed in pilgrim and native indian costumes arrive in a boat. Upon reaching the dock, there is a skit. Songs are sung, cider and pumpkin soup eaten.
I've been part of the pageant for years, usually as squanto or the turkey (or the tofurkey). I've done so in the face of mild personal uneasiness. Something about putting a happy face on the most horrific genocide in human history. A couple others have shared my reservations, but we haven't quite turned our backs on this well-intentioned celebration of family and community, and we've done what we can to inject some enlightened and historically realistic touches.
I've been reading "Lies My Teacher Told Me", by james loewen. It's about how textbooks avoid the truth or tell outright lies, in the service of making our country more noble or palatable. Chapter Three is about our Thanksgiving myth. Needless to say, i've found material for this year's pageant. The point of my contribution, and indeed in large part the point of loewen's book, is not to make white people feel terrible guilt (although that's part of the process). Loewen's greater goal is an understanding of how native indians shaped our country in profounder ways than have ever been credited. One of the key elements of the "american saga" is the idea that persecuted europeans brought democratic ideals to a new land, for a grand new social experiment. But it might be truer to say that those ideals owe a greater debt to the non-hierarchical native societies we absorbed. It's also credible to suggest that the seeds of our views on gender equality sprang from the same source.
I'll go into more detail in a few days, when i post the squanto speech i'll be inserting into this year's pageant.
For now, back to why i'll never hear "The Frozen Man" in the same way...
If asked who squanto was, most would say that when the Mayflower landed, he came as an emissary from the natives to help the pilgrims survive that first brutal year. He taught them how to fish, and grow corn and other foods. A few might also mention that he had been taught our language by english fishermen.
Corn was indeed involved...so the textbooks aren't entirely wrong.
When the Mayflower landed, squanto had already crossed the Atlantic as many as six times. His early life is historically uncertain, but according to one source, in 1605 this patuxet boy was kidnapped by a british captain, along with four penobscots. He spent nine years as a servant in England, before his master returned him to Massachusetts. What is more certain is that in 1614, a british slave ship captured squanto and two dozen others, and sold them in Spain. He escaped, made his way to England, and then to Newfoundland in 1617. Unable to get home, he joined the crew of captain thomas dermer, heading back to England. Ultimately, he convinced the captain to return him home on his next voyage to Cape Cod. In 1620, a grown man, he walked into the village he had been stolen from twice, to find nothing but corpses. One of the diseases europeans brought to America had hit the patuxet two years before, killing most and scattering the few who were left. This was squanto's world when the Mayflower landed. He joined them not out of goodwill, but because he was utterly alone. They called him a savage, yet he was far more worldly than they. Most of them spoke but one language, while he knew at least three. They looted his people's graves and smelled awful, as regular bathing was not the european way (a big part of the reason why they were so disease-ridden...that plus the shit in the streets, of course). Squanto became the go-between for the pilgrims (or separatists as they were known, who were but a 1/3 minority on the Mayflower) and the wampanoag, the nearest tribe, who befriended the pilgrims out of self-preservation; the plagues had so decimated them that they were vulnerable to other tribes. Their relationship with Squanto was strained, as he was not one of them. They assigned a messenger to oversee his dealings. In 1622 a bloody fever overcame squanto, and he died, possibly poisoned.
Take a moment, then round back to the song that began this article. A man looking at his family's graves, waking up in a world so horrific or alien that it couldn't possibly be real...
I know what it means to freeze to death, to lose a little life with every breath, to say goodbye to life on earth...and come around again.
Lord have mercy on the frozen man.
===========
Last thing i remember is the freezing cold
Water reaching up just to swallow me whole
Ice in the rigging and the howling wind
Shock to my body as we tumbled in
Then my brothers and the others are lost at sea
I alone am returned to tell thee
Hidden in ice for a century
To walk the world again
Lord have mercy on the frozen man
Next words that were spoken to me
Nurse asked me what my name might be
She was all in white at the foot of my bed
I said angel of mercy, I'm alive or am I dead?
My name is William James McPhee
I was born in 1843
Raised in Liverpool by the sea
But that ain't who I am
Lord have mercy, I'm the frozen man
It took a lot of money to start my heart
To peg my leg and to buy my eye
Newspapers call me state of the art
And the children, when they see me, cry
I thought it'd be nice just to visit my grave
See what kind of tombstone I might have
I saw my wife and my daughter and it seemed so strange
Both of them dead and gone from extreme old age
See here, when I die make sure I'm gone
Don't give 'em nothing to work on
You can raise you arm and you can wiggle your hand
(not like myself)
And you can wave goodbye to the frozen man
I know what it means to freeze to death
To lose a little life with every breath
To say goodbye to life on earth
And come around again
Lord have mercy on the frozen man
===============
There are other taylor songs that have deeply touched the lyrical part of my spirit, most notably "Secret O' Life" and "Sleep Come Free Me", but none moreso than this one. Something about poignant beauty in the face of profound isolation.
Every year, my dad and step-mom host a Thanksgiving pageant at their home in the mountains. As friends and neighbors gather at the lakeside dock, a group dressed in pilgrim and native indian costumes arrive in a boat. Upon reaching the dock, there is a skit. Songs are sung, cider and pumpkin soup eaten.
I've been part of the pageant for years, usually as squanto or the turkey (or the tofurkey). I've done so in the face of mild personal uneasiness. Something about putting a happy face on the most horrific genocide in human history. A couple others have shared my reservations, but we haven't quite turned our backs on this well-intentioned celebration of family and community, and we've done what we can to inject some enlightened and historically realistic touches.
I've been reading "Lies My Teacher Told Me", by james loewen. It's about how textbooks avoid the truth or tell outright lies, in the service of making our country more noble or palatable. Chapter Three is about our Thanksgiving myth. Needless to say, i've found material for this year's pageant. The point of my contribution, and indeed in large part the point of loewen's book, is not to make white people feel terrible guilt (although that's part of the process). Loewen's greater goal is an understanding of how native indians shaped our country in profounder ways than have ever been credited. One of the key elements of the "american saga" is the idea that persecuted europeans brought democratic ideals to a new land, for a grand new social experiment. But it might be truer to say that those ideals owe a greater debt to the non-hierarchical native societies we absorbed. It's also credible to suggest that the seeds of our views on gender equality sprang from the same source.
I'll go into more detail in a few days, when i post the squanto speech i'll be inserting into this year's pageant.
For now, back to why i'll never hear "The Frozen Man" in the same way...
If asked who squanto was, most would say that when the Mayflower landed, he came as an emissary from the natives to help the pilgrims survive that first brutal year. He taught them how to fish, and grow corn and other foods. A few might also mention that he had been taught our language by english fishermen.
Corn was indeed involved...so the textbooks aren't entirely wrong.
When the Mayflower landed, squanto had already crossed the Atlantic as many as six times. His early life is historically uncertain, but according to one source, in 1605 this patuxet boy was kidnapped by a british captain, along with four penobscots. He spent nine years as a servant in England, before his master returned him to Massachusetts. What is more certain is that in 1614, a british slave ship captured squanto and two dozen others, and sold them in Spain. He escaped, made his way to England, and then to Newfoundland in 1617. Unable to get home, he joined the crew of captain thomas dermer, heading back to England. Ultimately, he convinced the captain to return him home on his next voyage to Cape Cod. In 1620, a grown man, he walked into the village he had been stolen from twice, to find nothing but corpses. One of the diseases europeans brought to America had hit the patuxet two years before, killing most and scattering the few who were left. This was squanto's world when the Mayflower landed. He joined them not out of goodwill, but because he was utterly alone. They called him a savage, yet he was far more worldly than they. Most of them spoke but one language, while he knew at least three. They looted his people's graves and smelled awful, as regular bathing was not the european way (a big part of the reason why they were so disease-ridden...that plus the shit in the streets, of course). Squanto became the go-between for the pilgrims (or separatists as they were known, who were but a 1/3 minority on the Mayflower) and the wampanoag, the nearest tribe, who befriended the pilgrims out of self-preservation; the plagues had so decimated them that they were vulnerable to other tribes. Their relationship with Squanto was strained, as he was not one of them. They assigned a messenger to oversee his dealings. In 1622 a bloody fever overcame squanto, and he died, possibly poisoned.
Take a moment, then round back to the song that began this article. A man looking at his family's graves, waking up in a world so horrific or alien that it couldn't possibly be real...
I know what it means to freeze to death, to lose a little life with every breath, to say goodbye to life on earth...and come around again.
Lord have mercy on the frozen man.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
hello nancy!
A warm welcome to the sixth follower of this blog, Nancy Clause! Nancy hails from East Grinstead, England, where she lives with three pygmies and a mastiff named Ravenscroft. She is a commodities broker. Her finger paintings have been displayed at the local tuck shop, and she likes pineapple.
Monday, November 16, 2009
freedom from beauty
Women are slaves to beauty.
So are men, of course, but it's more accurate to say that women are slaves, while men are indentured servants. Women's yoke is more overt, and controls their actions in ways that would be painfully obvious to any alien watching from space.
The average American woman spends over an hour a day on beauty, and $10,000 a year. Don't adjust your dials, that's not a typo. I agree, it sounds not possible, but i found three estimates, and that was the smallest (that number doesn't include cosmetic surgery, but it also may be the most obvious instance i've ever come across wherein the mode might be more revealing than the mean).
British women spend only $7000 a year. No wonder they're such an unholy mess.
Women are slaves...and they are not to be pitied. For they sit in their cage, while the cell door swings in the wind.
Are they content in their bondage? No. Two thirds of them report being unhappy with the time they devote to beauty. Most of them simply aren't aware, however, that they could have walked out of the cage years ago.
Is it vanity that chains them?
It is not.
It is fear. Fear of being alone, or poor, or unloved. These fears are not hysterical. Attractive people are measurably more successful in the workplace, in romance, in court aquittals, and in overall happiness.
So what would women have to do to free themselves? Would it be a long, bloody revolution, with unendurable casualties?
Um, no. It could all be organized, carried out, and irrevocably won by this time tomorrow.
By every woman in the world simply agreeing that beauty's chains are no longer needed.
Really. Just like that.
What would stop them?
If every woman threw down her paints, sprays, accessories, heels, and gels, men would look at each other and say, "Uh...okay". And do you know what would change in the relationships between the sexes?
Nothing.
Men would still desire women. They would still pursue them, and woo them. They would still infuriate them, and sometimes rub their little feet. It would take men one week to get used to the change, and two weeks to be thrilled by it.
Men and women would still be under beauty's sway, in some ways that are natural, and some that are not. We'd still have our work cut out for us, in making this a world where intelligence and morals and talent are valued above looks. If we get our act together, that world will be ours in a few generations.
There are many places in the world where women are not free enough for this revolution, many places where such actions would be greeted with the closed fist of an ignorant man. But once free, how much better equipped would the rest of the women be to end that kind of global degradation forever? Once free, how much better equipped would women be to make everything in the world better, starting with themselves?
How much more powerful, educated, and energetic will each woman be? Each one will have instantly given herself a blank check for hundreds of thousands of dollars. What could American women do with the 7 billion dollars they spend each year on beauty? Let's add cosmetic surgery to the mix. There were 12 million cosmetic surgeries in the U.S. last year. Women accounted for almost 90%. If next year there were none, women would have an additional 9 billion dollars.
What mountains could be moved with 16 billion dollars...or with the 160 billion spent worldwide?
More importantly, each woman will have given herself two additional years of life...two round-the-clock, 24-hour-day years, spread out over the course of her adult life (i arrived at that number not by subtracting beauty-hours altogether, but by making woman's burden equal to man's).
What could you do with those 20,000 hours? How many degrees could you get? How many books could you write? How many events could you organize, or offices run for? How many people could you love?
How many songs could you sing?
So are men, of course, but it's more accurate to say that women are slaves, while men are indentured servants. Women's yoke is more overt, and controls their actions in ways that would be painfully obvious to any alien watching from space.
The average American woman spends over an hour a day on beauty, and $10,000 a year. Don't adjust your dials, that's not a typo. I agree, it sounds not possible, but i found three estimates, and that was the smallest (that number doesn't include cosmetic surgery, but it also may be the most obvious instance i've ever come across wherein the mode might be more revealing than the mean).
British women spend only $7000 a year. No wonder they're such an unholy mess.
Women are slaves...and they are not to be pitied. For they sit in their cage, while the cell door swings in the wind.
Are they content in their bondage? No. Two thirds of them report being unhappy with the time they devote to beauty. Most of them simply aren't aware, however, that they could have walked out of the cage years ago.
Is it vanity that chains them?
It is not.
It is fear. Fear of being alone, or poor, or unloved. These fears are not hysterical. Attractive people are measurably more successful in the workplace, in romance, in court aquittals, and in overall happiness.
So what would women have to do to free themselves? Would it be a long, bloody revolution, with unendurable casualties?
Um, no. It could all be organized, carried out, and irrevocably won by this time tomorrow.
By every woman in the world simply agreeing that beauty's chains are no longer needed.
Really. Just like that.
What would stop them?
If every woman threw down her paints, sprays, accessories, heels, and gels, men would look at each other and say, "Uh...okay". And do you know what would change in the relationships between the sexes?
Nothing.
Men would still desire women. They would still pursue them, and woo them. They would still infuriate them, and sometimes rub their little feet. It would take men one week to get used to the change, and two weeks to be thrilled by it.
Men and women would still be under beauty's sway, in some ways that are natural, and some that are not. We'd still have our work cut out for us, in making this a world where intelligence and morals and talent are valued above looks. If we get our act together, that world will be ours in a few generations.
There are many places in the world where women are not free enough for this revolution, many places where such actions would be greeted with the closed fist of an ignorant man. But once free, how much better equipped would the rest of the women be to end that kind of global degradation forever? Once free, how much better equipped would women be to make everything in the world better, starting with themselves?
How much more powerful, educated, and energetic will each woman be? Each one will have instantly given herself a blank check for hundreds of thousands of dollars. What could American women do with the 7 billion dollars they spend each year on beauty? Let's add cosmetic surgery to the mix. There were 12 million cosmetic surgeries in the U.S. last year. Women accounted for almost 90%. If next year there were none, women would have an additional 9 billion dollars.
What mountains could be moved with 16 billion dollars...or with the 160 billion spent worldwide?
More importantly, each woman will have given herself two additional years of life...two round-the-clock, 24-hour-day years, spread out over the course of her adult life (i arrived at that number not by subtracting beauty-hours altogether, but by making woman's burden equal to man's).
What could you do with those 20,000 hours? How many degrees could you get? How many books could you write? How many events could you organize, or offices run for? How many people could you love?
How many songs could you sing?
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
flatbushexodus
And so, we wave farewell to the......
Okay, i can't quite wax poetic about Flatbush. It was a fine home, for the month i was there. Mike and Sandy, bless them, did a great turn for me in the world of karma. It came and went pretty quickly. The time i'd hoped to spend really getting to know Mike didn't quite materialize. I was away on trips for one week or so, and Mike was visiting his family in Columbia for the past two. My departure was also hastened when they found they could get a rent refund if they moved out on the 15th. They were quite ready for their own exodus to the Jersey suburbs. Still not having found a new home that's right for me, i found a friend here in Jersey City who offered his guestroom for the rest of the month, in exchange for dogsitting.
I'll miss Pookie, the racist chihuahua. And Princess was all sweetness. There was one sudden death while i was there, Pebbles the teeny cat. I had bonded with her more than anyone, and was out of town when it happened, so i never got to say goodbye.
I had some fine moments with Sandy, but also moments of stress. I think Mike had seen that coming, but i was out of town when he left, so he never got to fully brief me on what to do and expect. At one point she snapped at me, in a way that suggested she was unhappy about more than what she was snapping about. I hadn't been the best houseguest in the world, but i was a long way from the worst. After that, my schedule slowed down and i was more attentive to housekeeping, but the damage had been done, and she wouldn't talk about it. The tension may not have even been about housekeeping. It made me wish i had pushed harder when offering Mike rent money, but if someone refuses twice, it feels ungracious to protest further.
I'm happy for Mike, and a bit sad that he's moving. It remains to be seen whether he'll be working in the city. If not, i probably won't get out to visit very often. I'm optimistic, though.
On my last day there, i packed all my stuff into boxes (two thirds of which i'd never unpacked anyway). The landlord Raj says i can store it in the basement for a fee, if i don't find my new home by the 15th. I loaded up 1-3 weeks of supplies into packs, a huge one on my back, a regular one on my front, and a bag of food around my neck. I'm guessing it all weighed ninety pounds. I walked my bike into the street. I briefly tried to mount up, but quickly decided that my dedication to providing the neighborhood quality entertainment only went so far. I carefully dismounted, and walked the bike to the subway.
And now...JC, baby! I lived here for five wonderful years with my brother John, plus insane several-times removed (some of them forcibly) sibling Kevin upstairs. When i left, i didn't even consider living in JC again. It had been great, but that was pretty much because of the company, and i wanted to live in NYC proper. It was a bit sweet to bike around the neighborhood the other day, visit my old thrift stores, see Al at the bodega...
I may be here as little as a week. After three awful landlords and two temp homes, my desire for the tranquility of a happy home is so very great.
My company here is April, a sweet old lady mutt. She can't hear anymore, and isn't as much of a chick magnet as Pookie, but she has her moments. Yogeesh is delightful too. I've done handyman work for him for years. He's always been one of those clients who has threatened to morph into a friend, which may happen when he returns next week. His friend Michael is a regular presence too, and i think the world of him. Delightful fellow.
Keepin' it real in JC.
Okay, i can't quite wax poetic about Flatbush. It was a fine home, for the month i was there. Mike and Sandy, bless them, did a great turn for me in the world of karma. It came and went pretty quickly. The time i'd hoped to spend really getting to know Mike didn't quite materialize. I was away on trips for one week or so, and Mike was visiting his family in Columbia for the past two. My departure was also hastened when they found they could get a rent refund if they moved out on the 15th. They were quite ready for their own exodus to the Jersey suburbs. Still not having found a new home that's right for me, i found a friend here in Jersey City who offered his guestroom for the rest of the month, in exchange for dogsitting.
I'll miss Pookie, the racist chihuahua. And Princess was all sweetness. There was one sudden death while i was there, Pebbles the teeny cat. I had bonded with her more than anyone, and was out of town when it happened, so i never got to say goodbye.
I had some fine moments with Sandy, but also moments of stress. I think Mike had seen that coming, but i was out of town when he left, so he never got to fully brief me on what to do and expect. At one point she snapped at me, in a way that suggested she was unhappy about more than what she was snapping about. I hadn't been the best houseguest in the world, but i was a long way from the worst. After that, my schedule slowed down and i was more attentive to housekeeping, but the damage had been done, and she wouldn't talk about it. The tension may not have even been about housekeeping. It made me wish i had pushed harder when offering Mike rent money, but if someone refuses twice, it feels ungracious to protest further.
I'm happy for Mike, and a bit sad that he's moving. It remains to be seen whether he'll be working in the city. If not, i probably won't get out to visit very often. I'm optimistic, though.
On my last day there, i packed all my stuff into boxes (two thirds of which i'd never unpacked anyway). The landlord Raj says i can store it in the basement for a fee, if i don't find my new home by the 15th. I loaded up 1-3 weeks of supplies into packs, a huge one on my back, a regular one on my front, and a bag of food around my neck. I'm guessing it all weighed ninety pounds. I walked my bike into the street. I briefly tried to mount up, but quickly decided that my dedication to providing the neighborhood quality entertainment only went so far. I carefully dismounted, and walked the bike to the subway.
And now...JC, baby! I lived here for five wonderful years with my brother John, plus insane several-times removed (some of them forcibly) sibling Kevin upstairs. When i left, i didn't even consider living in JC again. It had been great, but that was pretty much because of the company, and i wanted to live in NYC proper. It was a bit sweet to bike around the neighborhood the other day, visit my old thrift stores, see Al at the bodega...
I may be here as little as a week. After three awful landlords and two temp homes, my desire for the tranquility of a happy home is so very great.
My company here is April, a sweet old lady mutt. She can't hear anymore, and isn't as much of a chick magnet as Pookie, but she has her moments. Yogeesh is delightful too. I've done handyman work for him for years. He's always been one of those clients who has threatened to morph into a friend, which may happen when he returns next week. His friend Michael is a regular presence too, and i think the world of him. Delightful fellow.
Keepin' it real in JC.
affinity fingerprints
Some people love books. They discover an author they like, and know that they must read everything the author ever wrote.
Some people love movies. They can tell you who played the little sister in TANGO & CASH, even though they've never seen it.
Some people love sports. They can tell you what position Danny White played before taking over at quarterback.
Some people love music. They can tell you Roy Harper's connections to Floyd, Zeppelin, the Who, and James Paul McCartney, too.
Some people love TV. They can name every series Robert Urich starred in.
Some people love many things. Like me.
Living in a country of 300 million, trying to wrap your mind around a number like that, it's fair to say that none of us are particularly unique. People like me are probably more a dime a dozen than i'd like to admit...though there are times when i'd give all my dimes for just one of them dozen.
Physically, it's fair to say that i've never met someone who looks like me. Even within my family, my looks are so singular that i've always been prepared for the ol' orphan-on-a-doorstep story. Although once every few years someone will tell me they spotted my double. One time my Mom was able to snap a photo of one of these doppelgangers, in Russia. She was absolutely right, and it was frankly a little disturbing.
More often, i think about my uniqueness in terms of personality. For example, i've thought about the acting roles i've played. An actor probably has to do more shows than they realize, before having a resume that is one-of-a-kind. After doing one show, there are probably millions of others who have acted in just that one. After two shows, there are perhaps hundreds of thousands who still have an identical resume. After three or four, that number is in the tens of thousands. After five or six, that number is maybe in the thousands. Is seven or eight enough to put you in the company of only hundreds? Maybe. But you've still got the tens and the ones to navigate before you're...unique!
I've done eighty or so shows, so statistically i should have passed the uniqueness threshold years ago. I can in fact guarantee it, for i've done original plays and films. Ergo, there has never been another actor in the history of the WORLD with a resume identical to mine.
The need to be different is part of the human psyche. Studies have shown that people who live in housing units indistinguishable from their neighbors, suffer adverse psychological affects.
So in a world of six billion, the knowledge that no actor has ever had my career is a source of some comfort. My resume becomes my unique fingerprint. Heck, i'd be ecstatic to learn how many other actors in the world have played both Oscar and Felix. I've never heard of another...but statistically, there have to be some. Right? I think of how cool it would be to suddenly have all of us zapped into a room together.
We each collect our own personality "fingerprints" over our lifetimes, many of them tied into our likes and dislikes. The combination of foods we like, or teams, or authors...each one of these can contribute to our sense of uniqueness. Often the key to compatibility lies not in beliefs, but in affinities. If you have two people whose political beliefs are alike, and two people who love the same music, which pair do you think has better odds of becoming friends?
Just as it's exciting to meet an actor whose resume resembles mine (the closer the match, the greater the excitement), so is it exciting to meet someone who has an affinity fingerprint that resembles mine.
I offer one fingerprint...the television shows i've loved, in approximate order. I mean deep inside, couldn't get enough of, loved loved loved: THE LITTLE RASCALS, TARZAN (Ron Ely), STAR TREK, CAROL BURNETT, THE MUPPET SHOW, M*A*S*H, BATTLESTAR GALACTICA, STARSTUFF, BUCK ROGERS, CARSON, MATCH GAME, STAR BLAZERS, HILL STREET BLUES, SOAP, MONTY PYTHON, MST 3000, WHOSE LINE IS IT ANYWAY?, AFV, CHAPELLE'S SHOW, MXC, WEST WING, STUDIO 60.
Even in a world of six billion, i'd call it long odds that i'll ever meet someone with the same fingerprint. It would be amazing and wonderful, but a similar fingerprint is cause for happiness enough.
Some people love movies. They can tell you who played the little sister in TANGO & CASH, even though they've never seen it.
Some people love sports. They can tell you what position Danny White played before taking over at quarterback.
Some people love music. They can tell you Roy Harper's connections to Floyd, Zeppelin, the Who, and James Paul McCartney, too.
Some people love TV. They can name every series Robert Urich starred in.
Some people love many things. Like me.
Living in a country of 300 million, trying to wrap your mind around a number like that, it's fair to say that none of us are particularly unique. People like me are probably more a dime a dozen than i'd like to admit...though there are times when i'd give all my dimes for just one of them dozen.
Physically, it's fair to say that i've never met someone who looks like me. Even within my family, my looks are so singular that i've always been prepared for the ol' orphan-on-a-doorstep story. Although once every few years someone will tell me they spotted my double. One time my Mom was able to snap a photo of one of these doppelgangers, in Russia. She was absolutely right, and it was frankly a little disturbing.
More often, i think about my uniqueness in terms of personality. For example, i've thought about the acting roles i've played. An actor probably has to do more shows than they realize, before having a resume that is one-of-a-kind. After doing one show, there are probably millions of others who have acted in just that one. After two shows, there are perhaps hundreds of thousands who still have an identical resume. After three or four, that number is in the tens of thousands. After five or six, that number is maybe in the thousands. Is seven or eight enough to put you in the company of only hundreds? Maybe. But you've still got the tens and the ones to navigate before you're...unique!
I've done eighty or so shows, so statistically i should have passed the uniqueness threshold years ago. I can in fact guarantee it, for i've done original plays and films. Ergo, there has never been another actor in the history of the WORLD with a resume identical to mine.
The need to be different is part of the human psyche. Studies have shown that people who live in housing units indistinguishable from their neighbors, suffer adverse psychological affects.
So in a world of six billion, the knowledge that no actor has ever had my career is a source of some comfort. My resume becomes my unique fingerprint. Heck, i'd be ecstatic to learn how many other actors in the world have played both Oscar and Felix. I've never heard of another...but statistically, there have to be some. Right? I think of how cool it would be to suddenly have all of us zapped into a room together.
We each collect our own personality "fingerprints" over our lifetimes, many of them tied into our likes and dislikes. The combination of foods we like, or teams, or authors...each one of these can contribute to our sense of uniqueness. Often the key to compatibility lies not in beliefs, but in affinities. If you have two people whose political beliefs are alike, and two people who love the same music, which pair do you think has better odds of becoming friends?
Just as it's exciting to meet an actor whose resume resembles mine (the closer the match, the greater the excitement), so is it exciting to meet someone who has an affinity fingerprint that resembles mine.
I offer one fingerprint...the television shows i've loved, in approximate order. I mean deep inside, couldn't get enough of, loved loved loved: THE LITTLE RASCALS, TARZAN (Ron Ely), STAR TREK, CAROL BURNETT, THE MUPPET SHOW, M*A*S*H, BATTLESTAR GALACTICA, STARSTUFF, BUCK ROGERS, CARSON, MATCH GAME, STAR BLAZERS, HILL STREET BLUES, SOAP, MONTY PYTHON, MST 3000, WHOSE LINE IS IT ANYWAY?, AFV, CHAPELLE'S SHOW, MXC, WEST WING, STUDIO 60.
Even in a world of six billion, i'd call it long odds that i'll ever meet someone with the same fingerprint. It would be amazing and wonderful, but a similar fingerprint is cause for happiness enough.
Friday, November 6, 2009
linda
WOMEN 40
After college, i spent a couple of years working with the mentally retarded. Linda was a case supervisor in the complex where i worked as a vocational instructor. Friendliness turned into dating, which mostly consisted of visits with her and her 4 year-old Brian. He and i got along great, and when he fell asleep, Linda and i would kiss and cuddle. One night she started kissing my stomach, and then my pants were undone and she had my head in her mouth for a moment. I put the brakes on, uncertain about what it meant. The next evening she took me to a play in Philadelphia. Later that night we were on her bed, and she asked whether i wanted to make love. I suddenly knew, long before Cuba admonished Jerry, i had to get out of this woman's life. For a long time after, i held the stupid desire to be with her once more, to give her oral pleasure, in the name of balance or something. Stupid, stupid…
After college, i spent a couple of years working with the mentally retarded. Linda was a case supervisor in the complex where i worked as a vocational instructor. Friendliness turned into dating, which mostly consisted of visits with her and her 4 year-old Brian. He and i got along great, and when he fell asleep, Linda and i would kiss and cuddle. One night she started kissing my stomach, and then my pants were undone and she had my head in her mouth for a moment. I put the brakes on, uncertain about what it meant. The next evening she took me to a play in Philadelphia. Later that night we were on her bed, and she asked whether i wanted to make love. I suddenly knew, long before Cuba admonished Jerry, i had to get out of this woman's life. For a long time after, i held the stupid desire to be with her once more, to give her oral pleasure, in the name of balance or something. Stupid, stupid…
Thursday, November 5, 2009
being earnestly important
THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST
THEATER 25
-fall 1989
I returned to WCU for my almost-senior year (i was on the 4.5-year plan, which was actually speedy compared to some). Sandi's show was up, and to the surprise of no one, i got cast. Oscar Wilde at his witty best. I had rather fancied one of the male leads, which i didn't get, but at this point i had such faith in Sandi that she could have cast me as a tiffany lamp, and i would have jumped in feet-first. There was a moment between Greg Longenhagen and Lou and i that fall. Greg was one year ahead of us, and we found ourselves chatting in the hall. He looked around, lowered his voice, and smilingly said, "It looks like it's pretty much the three of us, doesn't it?" Meaning that at that point, we were the cream of the department. It was a sweet moment, because i admired Greg. Anyway, Jeff Bleam and a newcomer named Walt were the leads. Kathy Herd and a nice, talented newcomer played the female leads. Lady Bracknell was played by my ON TIDY ENDINGS buddy Bree. Jeff was his overly-witty self, calling her Bree-cheese once too often. Miss Prim was played by Jennie Armstrong, and i played opposite her as the Reverend Chasuble. Jennie had been around the department a couple of years, and this was her first role. I had spent a lot of time with her my sophomore year, letting her unload her life on me (romance, an abusive past). She was the first person who ever told me i had a lot of female energy. It took me a long time to understand that she was complimenting me. She was blonde with fair skin, and a Mansfieldesque figure. I had fallen for her that sophomore year, and offered her my love. But i had also sensed that she needed time away from romance, and my invitation was so gentle that my senior year she needed to be reminded that i had even opened that door...indeed, during EARNEST she chastened me for not doing so back then. She had taken a year off from school, and now we were cast together as the proper Canon and the strict chaperone, who were bursting with repressed desire for each other. This was the second time i wondered whether Sandi was using casting to try to give my love life a boost. Or perhaps she just sensed the connection between Jennie and i. My clerical costume i borrowed from Dr. Platt, an Episcopalian Minister in the Philosophy department and one of my favorite people. There were many newcomers in the cast, and i got on real well with them, moreso than most other department veterans, who could be standoffish. Overall it was a good show, but it didn't reach the level of other Sandi productions. Well done in some ways, but the cast unity and overall talent were less than ideal. I was almost sad that Lou hadn't auditioned; he might have made it a better play. Jennie and i enjoyed our time together very much. At one point Bree had to leave the run because of a family death. Sandi donned the Lady Bracknell costume that night, and went on, book in hand. Getting to act with Sandi became one of the best memories of my most loved teacher ever. For the last two shows, Lady Bracknell was played by a faculty member named Bob Green. He took a particular liking to me, and working with him was a fun adventure too.
THEATER 25
-fall 1989
I returned to WCU for my almost-senior year (i was on the 4.5-year plan, which was actually speedy compared to some). Sandi's show was up, and to the surprise of no one, i got cast. Oscar Wilde at his witty best. I had rather fancied one of the male leads, which i didn't get, but at this point i had such faith in Sandi that she could have cast me as a tiffany lamp, and i would have jumped in feet-first. There was a moment between Greg Longenhagen and Lou and i that fall. Greg was one year ahead of us, and we found ourselves chatting in the hall. He looked around, lowered his voice, and smilingly said, "It looks like it's pretty much the three of us, doesn't it?" Meaning that at that point, we were the cream of the department. It was a sweet moment, because i admired Greg. Anyway, Jeff Bleam and a newcomer named Walt were the leads. Kathy Herd and a nice, talented newcomer played the female leads. Lady Bracknell was played by my ON TIDY ENDINGS buddy Bree. Jeff was his overly-witty self, calling her Bree-cheese once too often. Miss Prim was played by Jennie Armstrong, and i played opposite her as the Reverend Chasuble. Jennie had been around the department a couple of years, and this was her first role. I had spent a lot of time with her my sophomore year, letting her unload her life on me (romance, an abusive past). She was the first person who ever told me i had a lot of female energy. It took me a long time to understand that she was complimenting me. She was blonde with fair skin, and a Mansfieldesque figure. I had fallen for her that sophomore year, and offered her my love. But i had also sensed that she needed time away from romance, and my invitation was so gentle that my senior year she needed to be reminded that i had even opened that door...indeed, during EARNEST she chastened me for not doing so back then. She had taken a year off from school, and now we were cast together as the proper Canon and the strict chaperone, who were bursting with repressed desire for each other. This was the second time i wondered whether Sandi was using casting to try to give my love life a boost. Or perhaps she just sensed the connection between Jennie and i. My clerical costume i borrowed from Dr. Platt, an Episcopalian Minister in the Philosophy department and one of my favorite people. There were many newcomers in the cast, and i got on real well with them, moreso than most other department veterans, who could be standoffish. Overall it was a good show, but it didn't reach the level of other Sandi productions. Well done in some ways, but the cast unity and overall talent were less than ideal. I was almost sad that Lou hadn't auditioned; he might have made it a better play. Jennie and i enjoyed our time together very much. At one point Bree had to leave the run because of a family death. Sandi donned the Lady Bracknell costume that night, and went on, book in hand. Getting to act with Sandi became one of the best memories of my most loved teacher ever. For the last two shows, Lady Bracknell was played by a faculty member named Bob Green. He took a particular liking to me, and working with him was a fun adventure too.
Monday, November 2, 2009
a couple of odds
THE ODD COUPLE
THEATER 24
-summer 1989
My high school buddy Ken Hartman had completed a couple years of college, and came to me about putting on a show in our old church Fellowship Hall. He wanted me to be Felix in THE ODD COUPLE. I said "Oh yes". Ken nabbed ex-Youth Clubber Chuck Bunting for Oscar. He had presence and comedic energy out the wazoo. Ex-Youth Clubber Heidi Stohler played one Pigeon sister, and Cindy Saupe the other. I don't know where Ken found Cindy, but she was very open and talented. Senior Youth Clubber Mark Turner played Murray. He was mature and funny, just great to be around. Ben Plavin played Speed, Geoff Leonard was Vinnie, Brian Toleno was Roy, and they were all great. Ben had been hesitant to accept me, but after i demonstrated talent in improv games, he warmed up. Ken built a great set, and we packed houses. Chuck was always ready to break from rehearsal for a nachos run, and he was often tardy, but that was the price of talent, and we had great chemistry. One performance i tripped over a basketball during a chase scene, did a mid-air somersault, and landed in a chair with the ball in my lap. I told Ken i'd been in complete control the whole time (who knows, maybe i had been). That whole sequence had been great, taking us through the audience, in and out of the kitchen at the back of the hall, back through the audience, into the wings, and back onstage. After we opened, Cindy and i found ourselves kissing one night at my house, but perplexingly nothing came of it. The funniest moment came in rehearsal during the Pigeon scene. Felix forgets about a pot roast in the oven, and when i dejectedly bring it out, it's a blackened hunk. The girls peer into the tin-foiled tray. I guess i was holding it a little low, because suppressed laughter started as the girls examined my crotch area, while one of them gives the line "Well it's not that bad." I reply, "But it's black meat. Nobody likes black meat!" I stop, because someone had burst out laughing. On the second take i hold the tray higher, but the damage is done. We're all trying not to laugh, but we can't get past that "black meat" line. We try time after time after time, but one glance into each other's eyes and we're all dying again, rolling about, crying and laughing. Ken is just nodding, saying "Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Any chance we're going to try some acting this evening?" We gather our serious faces, try again, and are soon howling. We had to give up for the night. The greatest laughter of my life, anywhere anytime ever.
THEATER 24
-summer 1989
My high school buddy Ken Hartman had completed a couple years of college, and came to me about putting on a show in our old church Fellowship Hall. He wanted me to be Felix in THE ODD COUPLE. I said "Oh yes". Ken nabbed ex-Youth Clubber Chuck Bunting for Oscar. He had presence and comedic energy out the wazoo. Ex-Youth Clubber Heidi Stohler played one Pigeon sister, and Cindy Saupe the other. I don't know where Ken found Cindy, but she was very open and talented. Senior Youth Clubber Mark Turner played Murray. He was mature and funny, just great to be around. Ben Plavin played Speed, Geoff Leonard was Vinnie, Brian Toleno was Roy, and they were all great. Ben had been hesitant to accept me, but after i demonstrated talent in improv games, he warmed up. Ken built a great set, and we packed houses. Chuck was always ready to break from rehearsal for a nachos run, and he was often tardy, but that was the price of talent, and we had great chemistry. One performance i tripped over a basketball during a chase scene, did a mid-air somersault, and landed in a chair with the ball in my lap. I told Ken i'd been in complete control the whole time (who knows, maybe i had been). That whole sequence had been great, taking us through the audience, in and out of the kitchen at the back of the hall, back through the audience, into the wings, and back onstage. After we opened, Cindy and i found ourselves kissing one night at my house, but perplexingly nothing came of it. The funniest moment came in rehearsal during the Pigeon scene. Felix forgets about a pot roast in the oven, and when i dejectedly bring it out, it's a blackened hunk. The girls peer into the tin-foiled tray. I guess i was holding it a little low, because suppressed laughter started as the girls examined my crotch area, while one of them gives the line "Well it's not that bad." I reply, "But it's black meat. Nobody likes black meat!" I stop, because someone had burst out laughing. On the second take i hold the tray higher, but the damage is done. We're all trying not to laugh, but we can't get past that "black meat" line. We try time after time after time, but one glance into each other's eyes and we're all dying again, rolling about, crying and laughing. Ken is just nodding, saying "Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Any chance we're going to try some acting this evening?" We gather our serious faces, try again, and are soon howling. We had to give up for the night. The greatest laughter of my life, anywhere anytime ever.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
moments away
Yesterday i was walking April, a friend's dog. A woman walking toward us slowed, and with a smile said the dog was adorable. I stopped, and told her about April.
Time suddenly accordioned, as i searched for a way to extend a brief, common social moment. I wanted to live in her smile. After a minute of eternity, we continued on our ways. I looked back twice, then turned a corner.
I didn't ask her name, though that was one of the things that almost jumped off my tongue. I almost responded to her final "she's adorable", with "So are you." Later, i imagined putting my hand on hers, and guiding it over April's coat. April doesn't like having her head touched, so the pretext would have almost had merit.
Moments like these come, and disappear. Often, in the aftermath all we can do is say "Why didn't i say something??" Different things stay our tongue. Mostly insecurity. It's possible that the forwardness she showed was a huge thing for her, she may have been tongue-tied with nerves. It's also possible she simply thought April was cute, and had no trouble saying so. Now, April is cute...but perhaps not high enough on the adorable scale to merit such fuss. So i'll go so far as to propose a 56% probability that the object of this woman's attention was me.
I let the moment slip away partly for feminist reasons...in a world where demeaning objectification of women is common, i will perhaps always have trouble manifesting any behavior that smacks of "masher".
Maybe i also let her go because she was a black woman who straightened her hair, and my feelings about what that says about self-worth...that we live in a world where black women seem to have learned exactly none of the lessons Malcolm X taught...how he spent years burning his head with lye, in an effort to be less "black"...my feelings on this issue are so strong that it's almost hard to imagine getting involved with a woman who straightens.
Maybe i also let the moment go because i didn't want to risk rejection, when my battered spirit was suddenly happy. I wanted to look into her eyes forever...she didn't seem damaged, just sincere and gentle and beautifully alive.
A strange thing about moments like these...while they're happening, you're in such a world of possibility that it's almost like being drugged. You know you could lose the moment, but your euphoria makes you feel that moments like these must grow on trees.
The next day, week, or month, you feel all too keenly how that's not so.
It's also hard pegging me in regard to these matters. Though i am in so many ways the polar opposite of a "player", i've also been envied for my fearlessness in approaching women.
In most of my recent romances, there hasn't been that instant rush. I've been trying to be more "evolved", having learned that infatuation actually can grow, when there was none at first. But it starts to feel like i've been pushing this openness too far. What i felt yesterday...more often than not it seems to not grow, if it's not there at first.
I think i've also dabbled in infatuationless romance because it's easy to imagine a woman who's right for me, but finding her is a solitary path. Maybe that's why i let the moment go, too...if no woman is likely to work out, it's easier to lose someone you weren't crazy about in the first place, right?
Mind you, my spirit has long been a stranger to such dark places...yet this is where the wounded bleed...
And after a thousand nights of loneliness, having anyone feels like it must be better than having no one.
Sometimes it is, maybe.
Still...
We let these moments slip away, promising ourselves to never let it happen again.
Until that next moment comes...
And flies away...
Time suddenly accordioned, as i searched for a way to extend a brief, common social moment. I wanted to live in her smile. After a minute of eternity, we continued on our ways. I looked back twice, then turned a corner.
I didn't ask her name, though that was one of the things that almost jumped off my tongue. I almost responded to her final "she's adorable", with "So are you." Later, i imagined putting my hand on hers, and guiding it over April's coat. April doesn't like having her head touched, so the pretext would have almost had merit.
Moments like these come, and disappear. Often, in the aftermath all we can do is say "Why didn't i say something??" Different things stay our tongue. Mostly insecurity. It's possible that the forwardness she showed was a huge thing for her, she may have been tongue-tied with nerves. It's also possible she simply thought April was cute, and had no trouble saying so. Now, April is cute...but perhaps not high enough on the adorable scale to merit such fuss. So i'll go so far as to propose a 56% probability that the object of this woman's attention was me.
I let the moment slip away partly for feminist reasons...in a world where demeaning objectification of women is common, i will perhaps always have trouble manifesting any behavior that smacks of "masher".
Maybe i also let her go because she was a black woman who straightened her hair, and my feelings about what that says about self-worth...that we live in a world where black women seem to have learned exactly none of the lessons Malcolm X taught...how he spent years burning his head with lye, in an effort to be less "black"...my feelings on this issue are so strong that it's almost hard to imagine getting involved with a woman who straightens.
Maybe i also let the moment go because i didn't want to risk rejection, when my battered spirit was suddenly happy. I wanted to look into her eyes forever...she didn't seem damaged, just sincere and gentle and beautifully alive.
A strange thing about moments like these...while they're happening, you're in such a world of possibility that it's almost like being drugged. You know you could lose the moment, but your euphoria makes you feel that moments like these must grow on trees.
The next day, week, or month, you feel all too keenly how that's not so.
It's also hard pegging me in regard to these matters. Though i am in so many ways the polar opposite of a "player", i've also been envied for my fearlessness in approaching women.
In most of my recent romances, there hasn't been that instant rush. I've been trying to be more "evolved", having learned that infatuation actually can grow, when there was none at first. But it starts to feel like i've been pushing this openness too far. What i felt yesterday...more often than not it seems to not grow, if it's not there at first.
I think i've also dabbled in infatuationless romance because it's easy to imagine a woman who's right for me, but finding her is a solitary path. Maybe that's why i let the moment go, too...if no woman is likely to work out, it's easier to lose someone you weren't crazy about in the first place, right?
Mind you, my spirit has long been a stranger to such dark places...yet this is where the wounded bleed...
And after a thousand nights of loneliness, having anyone feels like it must be better than having no one.
Sometimes it is, maybe.
Still...
We let these moments slip away, promising ourselves to never let it happen again.
Until that next moment comes...
And flies away...
Sunday, October 25, 2009
i want my MTV2!!
A DAY IN THE MIND OF A NEW YORK ACTOR
(an account of my work on a one-day TV shoot, filming a five-second promo/lead-in for a series of horror movies airing on MTV2)
I want my MTV too? No, that's not it.
I want my MTV to...play actual music videos?
I want my MTV two? Closer...
I want my MTV2! That's it, now we got it. I want my MTV2.
I show up for the shoot fifteen minutes late, unusual for me, a result of my first-time bike ride from my temporary home in Flatbush. The ride to 27th St. takes an hour and fifteen minutes(!) Gotta move back closer to Manhattan. But no one seems to notice. I know that there's going to be a big chunk of time devoted to getting the actors into scary makeup, and then a lot of waiting.
Here's Brandon, the producer who made all the arrangements over the phone. He had my headshot in his files for the past couple years, and when the need arose for a serial killer, he remembered my eyes. He's every bit as friendly and cool in person.
There are three actors on the shoot today. Back to the green room to meet them...here's Josach, an African or island man already in zombie makeup and costume. Very friendly. And here's Saglara, playing a bloody corpse-ghost type. Wow, so cute. Asian women kill me. Ooh, intelligent too. Speaks three languages, including Russian. I keep butchering her name. Okay, got it.
And here's Margo, the makeup person. Very friendly, she thinks we've worked together before. It's possible, but she doesn't seem familiar. She says they want a killer with pale skin and smushy scads of red lipstick. And my costume? Ah, a black rubber butcher's apron, with long matching gloves. No shirt, dialing up the sexy? Yes, i remember Brandon asking whether i was still in muscled shape. Cool. I'm there.
And here's the director, Charlie. What a sweet, friendly young person. The crew, too. What a fun day this shall be. Charlie wants more transsexual? That prairie dress, will i fit into that, they wonder? Probably not? They don't know me and my 36-28-35 measurements, do they? Fitting like a tight second skin, the dress is a smash! The crew loves it, it's the hit of the day so far. Party on.
The smushed lipstick is too Heath Ledger? Okay, Margo cleans it up. Still too Jokerish, we lose the lipstick altogether.
I watch Saglara being filmed. It's a green screen studio, with the acting in a tight space. Mostly bunches of scary faces and screams, with a few menacing walks toward the camera. Between takes, i hike up my dress and pull my boxers to super-wedgie levels. The crew is disgusted and delighted. Brandon says it's the first time in his life he's been happy to see a man's ass. Good times.
And here's the MTV rep. Hello, another attractive Asian woman. And how genuine she seems. She's just happy to be here, to watch it all happen. Okay, her ass is a little thin...no matter! She's great.
Back in the green room with the actors, we talk about Mark Twain, travel, and racism. Saglara is of Kalmyk Mongolian descent, and was the victim of racial violence in Russia. She says American racism is tame. I ask her to talk about the attack, but she demurs. Too bad. She mentions her boyfriend, and that she likes drinking and clubbing. Okay, my little fantasy is going poof. Ah well, she's still bright and fun. I ask her to call me an idiot in Kalmyk, but she doesn't seem interested. She was so friendly at first, but now she seems faintly standoffish, perhaps even to me personally.
I'm on! The prairie dress has been nixed, as Margo hands me a plain old bloody white apron. Really? Seems like a bit of a wet noodle compared to my first two costumes. And a white T-shirt? Dialing down the sexy, too? How lame. I tell Charlie i have three looks for him. #1 is eyes narrowed, #2 is open and penetrating, and #3 is wide-eyed maniac. And here are my toys, a cleaver and a machete! They bloody them (and me) up. I do all sorts of looks and swipes at the camera, and a scary charge. I do screams too, though i'd imagined they wouldn't be recording audio. Our voices might not end up in the final cut of course, but i'll strain my vocal cords a bit in the pursuit of horror excellence. Charlie asks me to do a maniacal laugh, but it comes out pretty flaccid. And with one of my forward attacks, i realize it would have been perfect if i had grabbed camera eye contact firmly after the slashes. That's the problem with these shoots, there's little or no prep time, it's just in and out bang, you're done. You try to keep a million subtleties together in your head, but when the camera rolls you have to let go of a lot of structured thought. Sometimes you end up forgetting things (and sometimes the same thing over and over), but that's the price of being alive in the moment, for this pea-brained actor anyway. With one day of rehearsal, i'd be better. But i know not to be hard on myself, and some of my moments have actually felt really cool. With skillful editing, they might come up with something wonderful.
Lunch break! I get a veggie wrap, and a Naked protein shake (my favorite). Brandon's taking very good care of us. And here's a fourth actor, Danielle. She has to be at a bartending job at three, so has precious little time. She's got a scrubbed all-American look. Very attractive. We actors have lunch in the green room. Danielle mentions her boyfriend in passing. Okay, nix another fantasy. As we finish eating, they want to get her wrapped, so they'll finish me after her.
I finish my Twain short story. I nap through Danielle's costuming and shooting.
Back on set! And my final prop...a chainsaw! I have them tape down the, um, unused electrical plug at the end of it. I slash. I scream.
After i'm done, they put some of the crew into makeup and costume, and shoot them, mostly for fun.
When the shoot wraps, Brandon tells me he thinks my footage will be the stuff they use most. He and other crew members are complimentary of my work, in a way that seems a touch more sincere than the regular bullshit. I get $150 for my efforts. Not much when you consider that MTV is attached to the project, but the experience was great, they were done with me in under eight hours, and i can now give you and my nephews a laugh.
Coming soon, to a cathode ray tube near you!
(an account of my work on a one-day TV shoot, filming a five-second promo/lead-in for a series of horror movies airing on MTV2)
I want my MTV too? No, that's not it.
I want my MTV to...play actual music videos?
I want my MTV two? Closer...
I want my MTV2! That's it, now we got it. I want my MTV2.
I show up for the shoot fifteen minutes late, unusual for me, a result of my first-time bike ride from my temporary home in Flatbush. The ride to 27th St. takes an hour and fifteen minutes(!) Gotta move back closer to Manhattan. But no one seems to notice. I know that there's going to be a big chunk of time devoted to getting the actors into scary makeup, and then a lot of waiting.
Here's Brandon, the producer who made all the arrangements over the phone. He had my headshot in his files for the past couple years, and when the need arose for a serial killer, he remembered my eyes. He's every bit as friendly and cool in person.
There are three actors on the shoot today. Back to the green room to meet them...here's Josach, an African or island man already in zombie makeup and costume. Very friendly. And here's Saglara, playing a bloody corpse-ghost type. Wow, so cute. Asian women kill me. Ooh, intelligent too. Speaks three languages, including Russian. I keep butchering her name. Okay, got it.
And here's Margo, the makeup person. Very friendly, she thinks we've worked together before. It's possible, but she doesn't seem familiar. She says they want a killer with pale skin and smushy scads of red lipstick. And my costume? Ah, a black rubber butcher's apron, with long matching gloves. No shirt, dialing up the sexy? Yes, i remember Brandon asking whether i was still in muscled shape. Cool. I'm there.
And here's the director, Charlie. What a sweet, friendly young person. The crew, too. What a fun day this shall be. Charlie wants more transsexual? That prairie dress, will i fit into that, they wonder? Probably not? They don't know me and my 36-28-35 measurements, do they? Fitting like a tight second skin, the dress is a smash! The crew loves it, it's the hit of the day so far. Party on.
The smushed lipstick is too Heath Ledger? Okay, Margo cleans it up. Still too Jokerish, we lose the lipstick altogether.
I watch Saglara being filmed. It's a green screen studio, with the acting in a tight space. Mostly bunches of scary faces and screams, with a few menacing walks toward the camera. Between takes, i hike up my dress and pull my boxers to super-wedgie levels. The crew is disgusted and delighted. Brandon says it's the first time in his life he's been happy to see a man's ass. Good times.
And here's the MTV rep. Hello, another attractive Asian woman. And how genuine she seems. She's just happy to be here, to watch it all happen. Okay, her ass is a little thin...no matter! She's great.
Back in the green room with the actors, we talk about Mark Twain, travel, and racism. Saglara is of Kalmyk Mongolian descent, and was the victim of racial violence in Russia. She says American racism is tame. I ask her to talk about the attack, but she demurs. Too bad. She mentions her boyfriend, and that she likes drinking and clubbing. Okay, my little fantasy is going poof. Ah well, she's still bright and fun. I ask her to call me an idiot in Kalmyk, but she doesn't seem interested. She was so friendly at first, but now she seems faintly standoffish, perhaps even to me personally.
I'm on! The prairie dress has been nixed, as Margo hands me a plain old bloody white apron. Really? Seems like a bit of a wet noodle compared to my first two costumes. And a white T-shirt? Dialing down the sexy, too? How lame. I tell Charlie i have three looks for him. #1 is eyes narrowed, #2 is open and penetrating, and #3 is wide-eyed maniac. And here are my toys, a cleaver and a machete! They bloody them (and me) up. I do all sorts of looks and swipes at the camera, and a scary charge. I do screams too, though i'd imagined they wouldn't be recording audio. Our voices might not end up in the final cut of course, but i'll strain my vocal cords a bit in the pursuit of horror excellence. Charlie asks me to do a maniacal laugh, but it comes out pretty flaccid. And with one of my forward attacks, i realize it would have been perfect if i had grabbed camera eye contact firmly after the slashes. That's the problem with these shoots, there's little or no prep time, it's just in and out bang, you're done. You try to keep a million subtleties together in your head, but when the camera rolls you have to let go of a lot of structured thought. Sometimes you end up forgetting things (and sometimes the same thing over and over), but that's the price of being alive in the moment, for this pea-brained actor anyway. With one day of rehearsal, i'd be better. But i know not to be hard on myself, and some of my moments have actually felt really cool. With skillful editing, they might come up with something wonderful.
Lunch break! I get a veggie wrap, and a Naked protein shake (my favorite). Brandon's taking very good care of us. And here's a fourth actor, Danielle. She has to be at a bartending job at three, so has precious little time. She's got a scrubbed all-American look. Very attractive. We actors have lunch in the green room. Danielle mentions her boyfriend in passing. Okay, nix another fantasy. As we finish eating, they want to get her wrapped, so they'll finish me after her.
I finish my Twain short story. I nap through Danielle's costuming and shooting.
Back on set! And my final prop...a chainsaw! I have them tape down the, um, unused electrical plug at the end of it. I slash. I scream.
After i'm done, they put some of the crew into makeup and costume, and shoot them, mostly for fun.
When the shoot wraps, Brandon tells me he thinks my footage will be the stuff they use most. He and other crew members are complimentary of my work, in a way that seems a touch more sincere than the regular bullshit. I get $150 for my efforts. Not much when you consider that MTV is attached to the project, but the experience was great, they were done with me in under eight hours, and i can now give you and my nephews a laugh.
Coming soon, to a cathode ray tube near you!
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
shannon, jenn, abbey's friend
WOMEN 37-39
Shannon
After graduation, i returned for one WCU production as guest artist, and hooked up a couple times with Shannon. She wore makeup and had fashion model looks, with long wavy hair and heavy breasts. She was a little soft around the middle. Kissing and disrobing in her dorm bed, she wanted to have sex. I said we shouldn't go any further. If she had depth it wasn't obvious, though i didn't try too hard to find it.
Jenn
A tech student at Rider College, where i did a show as guest performer. We spent a night cuddling in her dorm bed, and i’m pretty sure we kissed. She was sweet and interested, but i didn’t feel as strongly…
Abbey's friend
An actor buddy's wife's friend, we hooked up and disrobed a couple times. She had burn scars over her mid-torso. I told her truthfully that it made her no less attractive to me. I'm sure i didn't act assertively enough to keep her interest, though.
Shannon
After graduation, i returned for one WCU production as guest artist, and hooked up a couple times with Shannon. She wore makeup and had fashion model looks, with long wavy hair and heavy breasts. She was a little soft around the middle. Kissing and disrobing in her dorm bed, she wanted to have sex. I said we shouldn't go any further. If she had depth it wasn't obvious, though i didn't try too hard to find it.
Jenn
A tech student at Rider College, where i did a show as guest performer. We spent a night cuddling in her dorm bed, and i’m pretty sure we kissed. She was sweet and interested, but i didn’t feel as strongly…
Abbey's friend
An actor buddy's wife's friend, we hooked up and disrobed a couple times. She had burn scars over her mid-torso. I told her truthfully that it made her no less attractive to me. I'm sure i didn't act assertively enough to keep her interest, though.
they call us babes in arms
BABES IN ARMS
THEATER 23
-summer 1989
In my fifth year with the Pennington Players, i finally landed a lead. And wouldn't you know it, this was the first year we didn't play at Washington Crossing State Park. I was crushed. We performed at Villa Victoria Academy, a girls' school. Traditional auditorium, blah blah blah. Hmpf. Oh well. Judi directed, and my loyalty to her and the company made me not grouse about the choice of show, one of those insipid musicals wherein songs appear for little discernable reason. BABES IN ARMS had no plot, only a theme: "plucky kids face problems by putting on a show!". Okay, maybe i groused. But damn it, i was a lead, so i was going to enjoy it. I played Gus. My counterpart was Joyce LaBriola, a blossoming young woman who had been with us a couple of years. Our duet was "I Wish I Were in Love Again". Offstage, Joyce was dating the first male lead, newcomer Joe Southard, and he and i hit it off. The first female lead was Amy Gilroy, last year's Katherine. The third female lead was Randie Brotman, whom i had befriended two years before, and who had taken a summer off for self-image issues. She was now a very talented and mature sixteen, and rightfully playing an older role. She developed a monumental crush on me, and deflecting it while growing as friends was no mean feat. We nine "babes" had a great time. I had a couple dates with one of the girls, but didn't pursue it further. Randie's older brother Adam was a "babe", and i thought the world of him. He had a few throwaway lines which he somehow made incredibly funny ("Lunch, yeah!" comes to mind). The audition process had been very validating. Walt Cupit, last year's Pippin, had gotten a supporting role, which he then dropped out of. Assistant director Cathy told me that i had rated higher than Walt in singing and acting, which was nice, as i had wanted to be Pippin very much. I had also been attracted to his girlfriend Amy, and they were no longer together. She was bright-eyed and beautiful, intelligent and open, silly and spunky. During BABES i spent a lot more time with her, and toward the end of the run i told her the two ways i had been jealous of Walt. She said i might have been a better choice for both jobs. We were interrupted just after she said it. It was one of those moments when something you never thought you could have, suddenly becomes possible. And to this day, it is one of the mysteries of my life why i didn't rush through the door that opened that night. Was she seeing someone new? Was i afraid of failing? John Kling played the uppity southern businessman who seeks to buy our barn (or some such nonsense). In one scene, i stand up to his bluster and he ends up on his derriere. It was our first real scene together after four years, and it was nice. Later on he pulls a ladder out from under me as i'm working in the flies. Betty Henninger was back, and Diane Wargo, a longtime Player, was our den mother. Also back was Charlie Leeder, as Fleming, the nasty landlord. It was great having him and his puns and all-nighters. He had one voiceover speech, which he beautifully ad libbed from night to night. One of the greatest misread lines was Amy's. She says "What do you think of that, Flem' old man?", but it sounded like she was saying "Flemo-man", and it stuck as Charlie's superhero nickname. We all made fun of the show, but had a kinda sweet time, truth be told. One of my funnier moments was when i'm supposed to enter whistling, thinking there's no one around. I couldn't whistle, so i came in singing the title song, in a thrash-rock style. It got the best laughs in rehearsal, but worked in performance, too. My high point was at a "babes" party. A couple of the guys had left, so it was Adam and i and the girls. We played Truth or Dare, and Randie asked how many of the girls had been attracted to me. I tried not to let my eyes widen as all hands went up. They told me not to let it go to my head, that it wasn't like i was Superman. I did my best not to, girls, i really did...but it was the first time in my life i'd had an oversized dose of female sexual affirmation. Later on that summer, a big group from the show came to see me in my next play, which made me so happy.
THEATER 23
-summer 1989
In my fifth year with the Pennington Players, i finally landed a lead. And wouldn't you know it, this was the first year we didn't play at Washington Crossing State Park. I was crushed. We performed at Villa Victoria Academy, a girls' school. Traditional auditorium, blah blah blah. Hmpf. Oh well. Judi directed, and my loyalty to her and the company made me not grouse about the choice of show, one of those insipid musicals wherein songs appear for little discernable reason. BABES IN ARMS had no plot, only a theme: "plucky kids face problems by putting on a show!". Okay, maybe i groused. But damn it, i was a lead, so i was going to enjoy it. I played Gus. My counterpart was Joyce LaBriola, a blossoming young woman who had been with us a couple of years. Our duet was "I Wish I Were in Love Again". Offstage, Joyce was dating the first male lead, newcomer Joe Southard, and he and i hit it off. The first female lead was Amy Gilroy, last year's Katherine. The third female lead was Randie Brotman, whom i had befriended two years before, and who had taken a summer off for self-image issues. She was now a very talented and mature sixteen, and rightfully playing an older role. She developed a monumental crush on me, and deflecting it while growing as friends was no mean feat. We nine "babes" had a great time. I had a couple dates with one of the girls, but didn't pursue it further. Randie's older brother Adam was a "babe", and i thought the world of him. He had a few throwaway lines which he somehow made incredibly funny ("Lunch, yeah!" comes to mind). The audition process had been very validating. Walt Cupit, last year's Pippin, had gotten a supporting role, which he then dropped out of. Assistant director Cathy told me that i had rated higher than Walt in singing and acting, which was nice, as i had wanted to be Pippin very much. I had also been attracted to his girlfriend Amy, and they were no longer together. She was bright-eyed and beautiful, intelligent and open, silly and spunky. During BABES i spent a lot more time with her, and toward the end of the run i told her the two ways i had been jealous of Walt. She said i might have been a better choice for both jobs. We were interrupted just after she said it. It was one of those moments when something you never thought you could have, suddenly becomes possible. And to this day, it is one of the mysteries of my life why i didn't rush through the door that opened that night. Was she seeing someone new? Was i afraid of failing? John Kling played the uppity southern businessman who seeks to buy our barn (or some such nonsense). In one scene, i stand up to his bluster and he ends up on his derriere. It was our first real scene together after four years, and it was nice. Later on he pulls a ladder out from under me as i'm working in the flies. Betty Henninger was back, and Diane Wargo, a longtime Player, was our den mother. Also back was Charlie Leeder, as Fleming, the nasty landlord. It was great having him and his puns and all-nighters. He had one voiceover speech, which he beautifully ad libbed from night to night. One of the greatest misread lines was Amy's. She says "What do you think of that, Flem' old man?", but it sounded like she was saying "Flemo-man", and it stuck as Charlie's superhero nickname. We all made fun of the show, but had a kinda sweet time, truth be told. One of my funnier moments was when i'm supposed to enter whistling, thinking there's no one around. I couldn't whistle, so i came in singing the title song, in a thrash-rock style. It got the best laughs in rehearsal, but worked in performance, too. My high point was at a "babes" party. A couple of the guys had left, so it was Adam and i and the girls. We played Truth or Dare, and Randie asked how many of the girls had been attracted to me. I tried not to let my eyes widen as all hands went up. They told me not to let it go to my head, that it wasn't like i was Superman. I did my best not to, girls, i really did...but it was the first time in my life i'd had an oversized dose of female sexual affirmation. Later on that summer, a big group from the show came to see me in my next play, which made me so happy.
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