THE MOTION PICTURE **
Despite having robert wise (THE SOUND OF MUSIC, WEST SIDE STORY) at the helm, this ponderous film might best be appreciated on methamphetamines. It's not as bad as its reputation - if you adjust your attitude and can get comfortable with character-heavy, deliberate pacing, it can even be enjoyable. Stephen collins shines as will decker, and persis khambatta proves that bald women are the sexiest force in the universe.
THE WRATH OF KHAN ****
Shatner and ricardo montalban enact a revenge tale of shakespearean proportions. Add a mind-killing worm in chekov's ear and maybe the greatest death scene in movie history, and you have the best TREK film ever. See http://nakedmeadow.blogspot.com/2011/11/wrath-of-khan.html
THE SEARCH FOR SPOCK ***
It suffers a bit from the contrivance of resurrection, and having to tred in giant spacebootprints. But despite occasional lags, a decent effort. They steal the Enterprise! Christopher lloyd's bloodthirsty klingon shines...they kill kirk's son! Robin curtis is underappreciated as one of TREKdom's three best vulcans. De kelley's finest (movie) hour. And the fiery destruction of the Enterprise A!
THE VOYAGE HOME ****
The little movie that could. Character-driven + story + humor = winner. Our heroes bumble around modern day San Francisco, amused and horrified by the barbaric natives. Catherine hicks finds kirk heavenly...well, who wouldn't? Double dumbass on you.
THE FINAL FRONTIER *
Ew. Well, there actually are fine moments...the kirk/spock/mccoy camping scenes are a hoot...but of the million and three things that have to go right to make a great movie, too many just didn't. Laurence luckinbill is a gamer as spock's half-brother, but the script founders, and spock's feelings about emotions do a pointless U-turn from the previous film.
THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY ****
Of all the TREK films, this one comes closest to the impact of the original show. As the real-world Berlin Wall was coming down, kirk must face peace with the klingons, and doesn't know how to stop hating. Christopher plummer is fantastic as the villain all too delighted to sabotage a fragile truce. David warner shines as the ill-fated chancellor gorkon. Sulu gets his own ship!
GENERATIONS ***
A bit awkward, despite fantastic performances. Would a ninety-minute patrick stewart monologue have been too much? Data gets emotions, and it nearly kills him. Malcolm mcdowell's villain doesn't hit a single false note. And shatner picks up the death scene glove nimoy laid down, and acquits himself honorably.
FIRST CONTACT ****
Fantastic pacing, fantastic performances, fantastic visuals, fantastic...everything. Alice krige gives a powerhouse performance as the borg queen who beds data. James cromwell is pitch-perfect as zefram cochrane. Alfre woodard shines as lily, and stewart's "no farther" monologue is towering.
INSURRECTION ****
The NEXT GEN film that most evokes the original series. Every cast member shines. F. murray abraham oozes hatred. Donna murphy creates the most beautiful character in franchise history. Full review: http://nakedmeadow.blogspot.com/2012/03/star-trek-insurrection_24.html
NEMESIS ***
So close to greatness...it was right there for the taking, and the producers balked (and not just because they left wil wheaton's one line on the cutting room floor). Full review:
http://nakedmeadow.blogspot.com/2009/01/nemesis.html
STAR TREK *
I've met STAR TREK. You sir, are no STAR TREK. Why, leonard, oh why? Ditto for the re-boot sequel. See: http://nakedmeadow.blogspot.com/2010/01/star-trek.html and http://nakedmeadow.blogspot.com/2015/08/star-trek-into-darkness.html
Bonus: GALAXY QUEST
TREK in all but name, a brilliant parody of the highest order. You don't even need to be a trekkie to appreciate it. Alan rickman, sigourney weaver, and tim allen are priceless. It's not just a spot-on sendup...few films hit the mark so perfectly (and perfectly-balanced) in adventure, comedy, and heart. Never give up - never surrender!
Sunday, February 28, 2010
infinite parkeing space?
A salubrious welcome to this blog's eighth follower, Amanda Parke-Davis! "8" is the symbol for infinity, which is apt, as Amanda tells anecdotes that wander in the wilderness for years, vainly searching for an end. Balancing that is her infinite patience with drunkards and fooles, and infinite orgasmic capacity (though that last may be apocryphal). She spends her days on a hill, dispensing nuggets of wisdom and fresh tabouli to the unwashed, and her nights volunteering as the designated driver at Bubba's Boozy Beach Broads, on Rt. 41. She lives in a Chevy van (custom, of course) with her pet half-tree Stilldaughter. The senior snowplow operator for the state of Florida, it's rumored that she was the inspiration for the Jay Reatard classic "Hammer I Miss You".
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
merian's monkeys
Okay, they weren't monkeys, they were apes. A twelve-foot gorilla would certainly be an ape. A twenty-foot gorilla and a forty-foot gorilla...probably stretch the definition of "gorilla" beyond the breaking point, but let's give 'em the benefit of the doubt. Monkeys or apes, they were merian's, and the world had never seen their like.
Merian c. cooper was a man with a bag full of dreams as big as the moon.
He dreamed up king kong. The eighth wonder of the world.
Heck, anyone could dream up a wonder of the world, you say. But merian didn't just dream, he delivered. And he lived the kind of life that was so outsized that i'm not the first to be amazed no one's made a movie of it.
He chased pancho villa with the Georgia National Guard. A bomber pilot in WW1, he was shot down and spent the the rest of the war a German prisoner. After the war, he joined a volunteer American squadron fighting the Soviets in the Polish-Soviet War. He was shot down, then escaped from a prison camp. He joined the Air Force again in WW2, reaching the rank of brigadier general.
In the 20s, he set his fearless sights on the new field of documentary filmmaking, going to the farthest corners of the earth to bring back stunning images of nature, and the struggle for human survival. It was during these adventures that he met and teamed up with ernest schoedsack. After KONG, he left directing to become a full-time producer. He produced 66 films, among them some notable john ford westerns. He was a driving force behind Technicolor, trans-atlantic commercial flight, and Cinerama (movies presented in widescreen!). He greeted women friends by picking them up and spinning them (okay, that might have been some sexist bullshit). His anti-communist zeal never wavered, and he was a dedicated backer of eugene mccarthy. Somewhere along the way, he had a nervous breakdown.
But in the long run, those apes are what we remember. So today we celebrate merian's big three:
KING KONG (1933)
The idea came to him in a dream. In addition to the jaw-dropping, ground-breaking stop-motion animatronics of willis o'brien, the movie was also the first hit film with a complete, original musical score. The character carl denham was based on merian himself. Few films (if any) have had such a profound effect on audiences, and no film has ever inspired more people to become filmmakers. Look for the best dvd special features ever, with a fantastic documentary of cooper's life, on the two-disc release. How they created the film, is almost as amazing as the film itself.
THE SON OF KONG (1933)
Set one month after the original, robert armstrong is back as denham. Besieged by creditors and lawsuits, he and captain engelhorn split town aboard the Venture. Lured by the promise of treasure, they return to Skull Island. Cooper and director schoedsack knew they could never make a bigger movie than KONG, so they went for funnier and more character-driven. Many people dismiss this one. Kong's friendly son, an albino half dad's size, flirts with cheese in his too-human gestures. But faced with following up the biggest cinematic footprints ever, this movie is a little delight. It's funny and sweet, and the o'brien creations are stunning as ever.
MIGHTY JOE YOUNG (1949)
Cooper, schoedsack, o'brien, armstrong, and writer ruth rose reunite a third time (although most of the hands-on stop motion work went to novice and future legend ray harryhausen). Armstrong plays another cooper-inspired character, promoter max o'hara, a bit of a con man. It's arguably a children's film, as no humans die and it doesn't end with a big dead ape. The story follows the life of a gorilla, and the young woman who raises him. O'hara comes to Africa looking for a "hook" for his new nightclub, and the oversized ape being led by a sweet teen exceeds his dreams. Back in the States, predictable unhappiness ensues, but the way it all resolves is not so predictable. At first glance it might feel a tad flaccid, but absent comparisons to KONG, it's charming. The tug-of-war scene, with primo carnera and other famous strongmen, is especially special.
Merian c. cooper was a man with a bag full of dreams as big as the moon.
He dreamed up king kong. The eighth wonder of the world.
Heck, anyone could dream up a wonder of the world, you say. But merian didn't just dream, he delivered. And he lived the kind of life that was so outsized that i'm not the first to be amazed no one's made a movie of it.
He chased pancho villa with the Georgia National Guard. A bomber pilot in WW1, he was shot down and spent the the rest of the war a German prisoner. After the war, he joined a volunteer American squadron fighting the Soviets in the Polish-Soviet War. He was shot down, then escaped from a prison camp. He joined the Air Force again in WW2, reaching the rank of brigadier general.
In the 20s, he set his fearless sights on the new field of documentary filmmaking, going to the farthest corners of the earth to bring back stunning images of nature, and the struggle for human survival. It was during these adventures that he met and teamed up with ernest schoedsack. After KONG, he left directing to become a full-time producer. He produced 66 films, among them some notable john ford westerns. He was a driving force behind Technicolor, trans-atlantic commercial flight, and Cinerama (movies presented in widescreen!). He greeted women friends by picking them up and spinning them (okay, that might have been some sexist bullshit). His anti-communist zeal never wavered, and he was a dedicated backer of eugene mccarthy. Somewhere along the way, he had a nervous breakdown.
But in the long run, those apes are what we remember. So today we celebrate merian's big three:
KING KONG (1933)
The idea came to him in a dream. In addition to the jaw-dropping, ground-breaking stop-motion animatronics of willis o'brien, the movie was also the first hit film with a complete, original musical score. The character carl denham was based on merian himself. Few films (if any) have had such a profound effect on audiences, and no film has ever inspired more people to become filmmakers. Look for the best dvd special features ever, with a fantastic documentary of cooper's life, on the two-disc release. How they created the film, is almost as amazing as the film itself.
THE SON OF KONG (1933)
Set one month after the original, robert armstrong is back as denham. Besieged by creditors and lawsuits, he and captain engelhorn split town aboard the Venture. Lured by the promise of treasure, they return to Skull Island. Cooper and director schoedsack knew they could never make a bigger movie than KONG, so they went for funnier and more character-driven. Many people dismiss this one. Kong's friendly son, an albino half dad's size, flirts with cheese in his too-human gestures. But faced with following up the biggest cinematic footprints ever, this movie is a little delight. It's funny and sweet, and the o'brien creations are stunning as ever.
MIGHTY JOE YOUNG (1949)
Cooper, schoedsack, o'brien, armstrong, and writer ruth rose reunite a third time (although most of the hands-on stop motion work went to novice and future legend ray harryhausen). Armstrong plays another cooper-inspired character, promoter max o'hara, a bit of a con man. It's arguably a children's film, as no humans die and it doesn't end with a big dead ape. The story follows the life of a gorilla, and the young woman who raises him. O'hara comes to Africa looking for a "hook" for his new nightclub, and the oversized ape being led by a sweet teen exceeds his dreams. Back in the States, predictable unhappiness ensues, but the way it all resolves is not so predictable. At first glance it might feel a tad flaccid, but absent comparisons to KONG, it's charming. The tug-of-war scene, with primo carnera and other famous strongmen, is especially special.
Monday, February 22, 2010
masturbation montage 2
The women i currently dream of loving, when dreams are all there is.
PERIPHERY #1
My friend D. In most ways, a virgin. One time, she possibly hinted that she was attracted to me. Our romantic compatibility is negligible and my lust for her is minimal, but she creeps into my sexual thoughts because i care for her, and she's never had the chance to explore her sexuality in a relaxed, loving environment. I dream of giving her booty calls.
PERIPHERY #2
My friend Penny. She's carried a torch for me for many, many years. She is a gentle spirit, and i am honored to have her friendship. We've never acknowledged her attraction, except in ways so circumspect that deniability or ignorance are still plausible. Our romantic compatibility is negligible, and my lust for her is minimal. But there is great power in attraction, even one-sided...if it goes on long enough, it becomes impossible to not think about what it would be like. I dream of having one weekend of wild carnal indulgence, to defuse the tension, but i doubt she's built for that kind of thing.
PERIPHERY #3
My penpal in Nova Scotia. We've exchanged e-mails for a month or more, during which time she's revealed her feeling that we are soul mates. We've talked about "us" in a half-serious manner. But there are strong incompatibilities, and because of hard experience, cyber-romance is something i hellaciously shy away from. This week, i felt something akin to shame when i wasn't visually attracted to her picture, so i asked that we put aside the thought that we are a romance-in-waiting, and haven't heard from her since.
CENTRAL #1
Kris. The client i did a moving job for yesterday. I felt no particular physical or spiritual attraction to her, but after the move my partner Mike told me that she was divorced...and something shifted in me. Though she's not especially young, she seemed too young to be divorced, or too young to be so sad. Last night, i dreamt of giving her sexual healing.
CENTRAL #2
Kat. I lived with her in Astoria for nine months. She's been in China for the last year and a half, and will be returning here this summer. I felt a strong sexual response to her when we first met, and there are some compelling spiritual compatibilities...she's an irreligious, hippy peace-chaser. My attraction for her dimmed while we lived together, to the point of being annoyed by some of her personal habits. When she left, she told me that she had never considered romance with me because she didn't want to risk domestic unrest...i didn't pursue the point, but her unspoken message seemed to be that she'd been attracted to me. We've been in occasional contact since she left, and i recently offered her a place to crash for a few days when she gets back. She told me that might be exactly what she needs. I was instantly almost absolutely sure that she and i are going to have sex. I even know how it will happen...without words. I won't have a couch for her to sleep on, so she'll share my big bed. In the middle of the night, our limbs will brush. We'll be on our sides, with me behind her, and she'll make the first overtly sexual move. We'll make love in that position, and over the next few days, every time i come home, she and i will explore a new position, a new energy. We won't talk about what it means for a few days, or perhaps not even then.
CENTRAL #3
Bhauna. She occupies most of my fantasy world these days...i met her a week or two ago, at a local bodega where she works. We usually chat at checkout. Sometimes my heart does funny things when she's near, and my presence lights her up as well. Her co-workers are older Indian men, and i suspect they are her family, for they seem bothered by the fact that she and i spark each other...so bothered, that i've wondered whether she's younger than i thought. I fantasize about her telling me that the only way she can escape their oppression is through marriage, and the only way they'll allow her to marry is if she becomes pregnant. Such beautiful love do we make, in my dreams.
PERIPHERY #1
My friend D. In most ways, a virgin. One time, she possibly hinted that she was attracted to me. Our romantic compatibility is negligible and my lust for her is minimal, but she creeps into my sexual thoughts because i care for her, and she's never had the chance to explore her sexuality in a relaxed, loving environment. I dream of giving her booty calls.
PERIPHERY #2
My friend Penny. She's carried a torch for me for many, many years. She is a gentle spirit, and i am honored to have her friendship. We've never acknowledged her attraction, except in ways so circumspect that deniability or ignorance are still plausible. Our romantic compatibility is negligible, and my lust for her is minimal. But there is great power in attraction, even one-sided...if it goes on long enough, it becomes impossible to not think about what it would be like. I dream of having one weekend of wild carnal indulgence, to defuse the tension, but i doubt she's built for that kind of thing.
PERIPHERY #3
My penpal in Nova Scotia. We've exchanged e-mails for a month or more, during which time she's revealed her feeling that we are soul mates. We've talked about "us" in a half-serious manner. But there are strong incompatibilities, and because of hard experience, cyber-romance is something i hellaciously shy away from. This week, i felt something akin to shame when i wasn't visually attracted to her picture, so i asked that we put aside the thought that we are a romance-in-waiting, and haven't heard from her since.
CENTRAL #1
Kris. The client i did a moving job for yesterday. I felt no particular physical or spiritual attraction to her, but after the move my partner Mike told me that she was divorced...and something shifted in me. Though she's not especially young, she seemed too young to be divorced, or too young to be so sad. Last night, i dreamt of giving her sexual healing.
CENTRAL #2
Kat. I lived with her in Astoria for nine months. She's been in China for the last year and a half, and will be returning here this summer. I felt a strong sexual response to her when we first met, and there are some compelling spiritual compatibilities...she's an irreligious, hippy peace-chaser. My attraction for her dimmed while we lived together, to the point of being annoyed by some of her personal habits. When she left, she told me that she had never considered romance with me because she didn't want to risk domestic unrest...i didn't pursue the point, but her unspoken message seemed to be that she'd been attracted to me. We've been in occasional contact since she left, and i recently offered her a place to crash for a few days when she gets back. She told me that might be exactly what she needs. I was instantly almost absolutely sure that she and i are going to have sex. I even know how it will happen...without words. I won't have a couch for her to sleep on, so she'll share my big bed. In the middle of the night, our limbs will brush. We'll be on our sides, with me behind her, and she'll make the first overtly sexual move. We'll make love in that position, and over the next few days, every time i come home, she and i will explore a new position, a new energy. We won't talk about what it means for a few days, or perhaps not even then.
CENTRAL #3
Bhauna. She occupies most of my fantasy world these days...i met her a week or two ago, at a local bodega where she works. We usually chat at checkout. Sometimes my heart does funny things when she's near, and my presence lights her up as well. Her co-workers are older Indian men, and i suspect they are her family, for they seem bothered by the fact that she and i spark each other...so bothered, that i've wondered whether she's younger than i thought. I fantasize about her telling me that the only way she can escape their oppression is through marriage, and the only way they'll allow her to marry is if she becomes pregnant. Such beautiful love do we make, in my dreams.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
tia
WOMEN 43
I visited my grandmother in Florida for six months, and met Tia from Indiana, who was visiting her own grandparents. We hung out at the community pool, and spent much time together. She had a minor heart condition, was a touch conservative and prudish, and was just dy-no-mite in a bikini. She was on the outs with her boyfriend back home, and was eager to fall in love and get married, as she was "saving herself". She may be the one underage girl i've ever kissed. Was she eighteen yet? It happened during a moonlit walk, on the bridge over the stream. I kissed her, lifted her up, she wrapped her legs around me…magic. The next night, we kissed again. When i was walking her home, her grandfather found us in his car. He told me to stay away from her, he knew what kind of boy i was, always putting moves on granddaughters (there had been one other, it's true). No one had ever thought me a "bad boy", and i'd be lying if i said i didn't like it a little. Tia and i wrote letters for three years (with one reunion, when she was on the ins with her boyfriend). Our communication finally died when she got engaged. I returned a bunch of her photos, but kept one, of her in that bikini. Years later, i came across a photo on the internet, of a woman standing happy and naked by a Florida-ish dirt road as bikers passed. It could NEVER have been Tia. Yet if i was 100% certain of that, i'd post that picture with this article. Either way, bless you, Tia…
I visited my grandmother in Florida for six months, and met Tia from Indiana, who was visiting her own grandparents. We hung out at the community pool, and spent much time together. She had a minor heart condition, was a touch conservative and prudish, and was just dy-no-mite in a bikini. She was on the outs with her boyfriend back home, and was eager to fall in love and get married, as she was "saving herself". She may be the one underage girl i've ever kissed. Was she eighteen yet? It happened during a moonlit walk, on the bridge over the stream. I kissed her, lifted her up, she wrapped her legs around me…magic. The next night, we kissed again. When i was walking her home, her grandfather found us in his car. He told me to stay away from her, he knew what kind of boy i was, always putting moves on granddaughters (there had been one other, it's true). No one had ever thought me a "bad boy", and i'd be lying if i said i didn't like it a little. Tia and i wrote letters for three years (with one reunion, when she was on the ins with her boyfriend). Our communication finally died when she got engaged. I returned a bunch of her photos, but kept one, of her in that bikini. Years later, i came across a photo on the internet, of a woman standing happy and naked by a Florida-ish dirt road as bikers passed. It could NEVER have been Tia. Yet if i was 100% certain of that, i'd post that picture with this article. Either way, bless you, Tia…
does anything really go?
ANYTHING GOES
THEATER 28
-fall 1990
Back at WCU for my final semester, Bob's ANYTHING GOES was a curious tale. Or rather, my participation in it was. You have to go back one year to Bob's production of AS YOU LIKE IT. I was no fan of Shakespeare, i thought him too linguistically obscure (it wouldn't be until 1990 that i started to love the Bard, from doing an amazing MACBETH scene with Jeff). AS YOU LIKE IT had seemed meritless fluff. Bob had asked whether i would be auditioning. Mind you, he hadn't cast me since my freshman year, when he and Jane Saddoris, the children's director, had fundamentally critiqued my vocal technique. Jane worked with me, and the work strayed from technique to emotional barriers, which triggered much self-discovery (thank you, Jane). But by my senior year i had taken to thinking that i wasn't Bob's kind of actor, so i was non-committal when he asked me about auditioning. I decided that in my growth as an artist, it was important to assert what i wasn't interested in, so i didn't go. It was the first (and only) college show i didn't audition for. Bob chastened me, and i realized he had really wanted me to be there. If he had asked me to be in the show right then, i would have done it. Anyway, i had no misgivings. Fast forward to the following fall. I'm in my final semester. ANYTHING GOES is a Cole Porter musical, typical of those insipid pieces wherein the music has little relation to the plot (if there even is one). I wasn't interested, but Bob told me in no uncertain terms that i was going to audition. I truly felt bad that he had been counting on me the previous year, so i went. And what followed felt vaguely like he was trying to teach me a lesson. Whether he intended that, i don’t know, but he cast me...in the chorus. To humble me, to make me pay for my presumption? Or maybe it all just happened, as things do. I'd like to ask him someday. I decided that if i were going to be in the chorus, i'd be the best damn chorus member i could be. It was a big, sprawling show, a multi-departmental collaboration. Nearly half the cast was from the music department, and it was interesting to watch the actors and singers interact, and the snootiness exhibited by both sides. Barb Lappano was the choreographer. I'd had tap and jazz classes with her, and loved her. I played a sailor, the bartender, and the cameraman. I had one or two lines as the cameraman. A singer had the lead role of Billy; he sang well and was wooden. Stephanie Lord played Reno, and she was dynamite. Lou was the stowaway gangster, and he pretty much overcame the insipidness of his material. His moll (from the music department) was pretty damned good, too. I interacted with the music students much more than the other theater students did (i was the only "actor" sailor). My best sailor buddies were Jason Winkleblech and Dave Tillistrand. We had fun together, in rehearsal and out of it. A number of the singers told me i was the only theater person they could relate to. One of the funniest moments came in rehearsal. During a dance number, i got a nerve stinger in my shoulder. If you've never had one, it's like someone has shot you, and you go spasmodic for a second, like a puppet with its strings cut. I was dancing next to the Captain when it happened. I'll never forget the bewildered look on his face. During one performance i did an unintentional dyslexic butchering of some lyrics, and my buddies joked about it for a week or two. If Bob had intended my casting as a lesson, it didn't work, because i had a fun time. Occasionally i bemusedly bemoaned the insipidness of it all, but it didn't get me down, for even as the show was in production, i was in happy rehearsals for my first post-college play.
THEATER 28
-fall 1990
Back at WCU for my final semester, Bob's ANYTHING GOES was a curious tale. Or rather, my participation in it was. You have to go back one year to Bob's production of AS YOU LIKE IT. I was no fan of Shakespeare, i thought him too linguistically obscure (it wouldn't be until 1990 that i started to love the Bard, from doing an amazing MACBETH scene with Jeff). AS YOU LIKE IT had seemed meritless fluff. Bob had asked whether i would be auditioning. Mind you, he hadn't cast me since my freshman year, when he and Jane Saddoris, the children's director, had fundamentally critiqued my vocal technique. Jane worked with me, and the work strayed from technique to emotional barriers, which triggered much self-discovery (thank you, Jane). But by my senior year i had taken to thinking that i wasn't Bob's kind of actor, so i was non-committal when he asked me about auditioning. I decided that in my growth as an artist, it was important to assert what i wasn't interested in, so i didn't go. It was the first (and only) college show i didn't audition for. Bob chastened me, and i realized he had really wanted me to be there. If he had asked me to be in the show right then, i would have done it. Anyway, i had no misgivings. Fast forward to the following fall. I'm in my final semester. ANYTHING GOES is a Cole Porter musical, typical of those insipid pieces wherein the music has little relation to the plot (if there even is one). I wasn't interested, but Bob told me in no uncertain terms that i was going to audition. I truly felt bad that he had been counting on me the previous year, so i went. And what followed felt vaguely like he was trying to teach me a lesson. Whether he intended that, i don’t know, but he cast me...in the chorus. To humble me, to make me pay for my presumption? Or maybe it all just happened, as things do. I'd like to ask him someday. I decided that if i were going to be in the chorus, i'd be the best damn chorus member i could be. It was a big, sprawling show, a multi-departmental collaboration. Nearly half the cast was from the music department, and it was interesting to watch the actors and singers interact, and the snootiness exhibited by both sides. Barb Lappano was the choreographer. I'd had tap and jazz classes with her, and loved her. I played a sailor, the bartender, and the cameraman. I had one or two lines as the cameraman. A singer had the lead role of Billy; he sang well and was wooden. Stephanie Lord played Reno, and she was dynamite. Lou was the stowaway gangster, and he pretty much overcame the insipidness of his material. His moll (from the music department) was pretty damned good, too. I interacted with the music students much more than the other theater students did (i was the only "actor" sailor). My best sailor buddies were Jason Winkleblech and Dave Tillistrand. We had fun together, in rehearsal and out of it. A number of the singers told me i was the only theater person they could relate to. One of the funniest moments came in rehearsal. During a dance number, i got a nerve stinger in my shoulder. If you've never had one, it's like someone has shot you, and you go spasmodic for a second, like a puppet with its strings cut. I was dancing next to the Captain when it happened. I'll never forget the bewildered look on his face. During one performance i did an unintentional dyslexic butchering of some lyrics, and my buddies joked about it for a week or two. If Bob had intended my casting as a lesson, it didn't work, because i had a fun time. Occasionally i bemusedly bemoaned the insipidness of it all, but it didn't get me down, for even as the show was in production, i was in happy rehearsals for my first post-college play.
Monday, February 15, 2010
In. Out.
We got out of the car that morning, and saw the signs saying "DO NOT ATTEMPT TO HIKE IN AND OUT OF THE CANYON IN ONE DAY". I was traveling around Arizona and New Mexico with my brother John, dad Bob, and his wife Jan. Bob and Jan began making plans, settling on a lodge halfway down as the turnaround point.
Standing apart, i knew their plans would be no part of my day.
People talk about the Grand Canyon in visual terms, but it didn't affect me visually. As i looked out, i experienced the startling realization that i had gone through a transformation, of a sort that most probably never go through. I had altered the very nature of the way in which i process reality.
For most of my young life, intellectuality had been the filter through which all of my perceptions flowed. I had realized this about myself a few years before, and had been trying ever since to find out whether i could disconnect that filter, or replace it with another.
As i stood at the rim, i was stunned to find out that i'd succeeded.
My reaction wasn't visual, and it most definitely wasn't intellectual. It was visceral. In the deepest parts of my being, i felt a vibration. I could feel myself running and bounding and hurling over and through what lay before me. I almost felt no separation between myself and my imminent interaction with the rock and air and dirt.
I told them i'd be going all the way down. I looked to John and nodded, expecting him to follow my lead. But he demurred, as Bob and Jan attempted to dissuade me. I quieted their protests with the argument that the warning was geared toward the average hiker. No, less than the average hiker. The average tourist.
I had never been to the Canyon before, and didn't know when i might be again.
Not in one day?
I only had one day.
Party on, earthlings.
As we collected our packs, i gave John one last inviting look, and set off. I had plenty of water, and some trail mix. My main body of food was leftover pizza. Not the most healthful, but sustenance was all i would need, and sustenance it was.
I stood at the top of Bright Angel Trail. Another sign revealed that the temperature at the bottom was fifteen degrees hotter than up top. It was August. 105 degrees at the rim.
I plunged down, occasionally running and bounding. The winding path switched back and forth. The angle wasn't steep, i don't think i needed my hands all day. It was seven miles to the bottom. I passed dozens of groups of hikers, who gave me smiles as i breezed along. I smiled my love right back. I passed a couple burro caravans. Before i knew it, i was at the half-way point, where the trail branched off to the lodge where the rest of my party was headed. If time allowed, i might check it out on the way up.
A couple hundred yards further down, i met a solitary hiker who was struggling. She was in good spirits, but her body was taxed. She had camped at the bottom, and awoken early to get back to the top. Her friends had passed her coming up. I gave her some of my trail mix, and took her wobbly body by the arm. I didn't think about how this detour might affect my own day, i was just happy to be there. We slowly made our way, talking about this and that. She was a sweetheart. As we approached the trail fork, her concerned friends appeared. I turned her over to them, and resumed my trek.
On the lower half of the trail, the topography became surreal. The colors of the rocks, the shapes of the plants...it was like i was walking into an alien planet. I took pictures.
There were far fewer humans now, just a couple scattered parties coming up. The solitude contributed to the sense of alienness.
As i bottomed out onto the canyon floor, i saw a few people near smaller lodges where overnight hikers stayed. I kept on.
Standing at the edge of the Colorado, was a moment of such beauty. Such serenity. Then i gamboled about like the monkey i was, letting out whoops and caws, in the futile hope that my party above might hear.
Would you like to know what 120 degrees feels like?
Not much different than 90, actually.
It feels great.
There was a sign by the water's edge: INFECTED RIVER, DO NOT DRINK OR SWIM. The swollen waters rushed past. Anything caught in the current would be out of sight quickly.
I laughed.
I took off my shirt and footwear, and cavorted some more.
I returned to the edge. In that moment of living, there was only one choice.
I grabbed the rocks, and lowered myself in. Soooo cold and beautiful. Holding on tightly, i submerged and pushed myself down to the full extension of my arms. The pull of the current was awesome, lifting me almost horizontal. I stayed in that moment an eternity or so, then hauled myself back into the world. Pulling up onto the rocks above me, my joyful shouts echoed into the universe.
I took a picture of myself.
It was mid-day. I prepared my Canyon lunch.
And discovered that my pizza was essentially inedible. I had wrapped each slice in some sort of paper. The intense heat had congealed the paper and food so as to be inextricable. I nibbled at it, getting a bite or two.
I finished my trail mix and drank some water, which i still had plenty of. A bit undernourished, but all i had to do was get out of the Canyon. I filled one of my empty bottles with river water, as a souvenir. Knowing the stakes had been raised, i cut short my leisure, and moved out. The people at the lower lodges were gone, probably along the canyon floor.
I made good time, in the afternoon sun. When i got to the halfway point i was feeling fine, so i pressed on.
Within an hour, fatigue slowed my steps. In the hour after that, dozens and dozens of people i had passed earlier going down, passed me on the way up. Though i was wearying, i was alert and making progress, so i smiled and chatted with them.
I was soon stopping every one hundred feet.
Then every fifty.
Then every thirty. The breaks were getting longer.
I suddenly knew that getting out wasn't going to be a stroll.
Twenty feet.
When i only made ten on my next attempt, i was coherent enough to laugh at myself.
My earlier breaks had been standing or sitting. This time, i lay down. Closing my eyes felt so good. I couldn't see the top, so i didn't know how much further i had to go. I knew if i took one really long rest, i'd be fine.
Most of the hikers were now above me. One of them stopped, and sat with me.
Do you know the difference between heat stroke and heat exhaustion?
I do...now.
My new friend was a minister from Ohio. I had lived in Ohio as a child. He was youthful and energetic, an all-around sweet fellow.
Heat stroke (i later learned) can kill you. Heat exhaustion is nothing you want either, but you can recover quickly enough, without medical help.
My companion talked as i lay prone. He had food, but when it came near my lips, a feeling of revulsion came over me, and my mouth wouldn't let it in.
There's a quick way to know whether someone is suffering from heat stroke or heat exhaustion. If they're pale, it's exhaustion. If they're red-faced, it's stroke.
My buddy, who didn't know these things either, told me how white i was.
He wasn't sure i'd be able to get back up, so he was talking about contingencies. Hopefully someone else would come along to wait with me, while he headed up, to get some kind of rescue going.
I told him i'd be okay. Down, but not out.
After fifteen minutes, i said i might, maybe just might, be able to get something in my mouth, something very light and pure. He went through his inventory, finally coming across a Jolly Rancher hard candy stick. You know, the thin kind, maybe 1"x4"? I said, "Gimme".
But my lips sealed when i brought it close. For five minutes, i held that stick close to my mouth, and was finally able to open a little. A couple minutes later, i was able to touch my tongue. A few minutes later, i was able to leave it there for a few seconds.
The best candy of my life.
Within five minutes, i was actively sucking, and sitting up.
Then i was on my feet.
The shadows were now both friend and enemy. They were lengthening, providing respite from the sun...but this also meant that nightfall was coming. It would get cold, and we might lose the trail.
It was time to go.
I made it a good thirty feet before stopping. After a rest, i did fifty more. A man of god, and a Jolly Rancher.
The shadows kept lengthening. We moved on.
And as the last rays of the day disappeared, we saw the lights of the top, a couple hundred yards away. Before long, someone approached us, to ask whether i was okay. Word had gotten to the top that a hiker was struggling. I smiled, and nodded.
I've always wanted to calculate how many calories i burned that day, compared to how many i consumed. One average breakfast, one modest bag of trail mix, against fourteen miles down and up a one-mile deep canyon, in an average temperature of 110 degrees.
The coolness of the air was nice, now that it was no longer ominous. As we neared the parking lot, my friend gave me his card, and told me to stop by if i was ever in his neck of the woods. We shook hands, and shared a look that had more meaning than any words we could have said.
As he moved off, John and Bob and Jan spotted me. They had heard about a hiker in trouble, but couldn't know whether it was me. I was a little out of it, but i smiled, hugged them, and an hour later, tummy full and a smile on my face, i fell asleep in the car as we headed to our next destination.
In and out.
One day.
One contented fool, motoring out under my own power.
Standing apart, i knew their plans would be no part of my day.
People talk about the Grand Canyon in visual terms, but it didn't affect me visually. As i looked out, i experienced the startling realization that i had gone through a transformation, of a sort that most probably never go through. I had altered the very nature of the way in which i process reality.
For most of my young life, intellectuality had been the filter through which all of my perceptions flowed. I had realized this about myself a few years before, and had been trying ever since to find out whether i could disconnect that filter, or replace it with another.
As i stood at the rim, i was stunned to find out that i'd succeeded.
My reaction wasn't visual, and it most definitely wasn't intellectual. It was visceral. In the deepest parts of my being, i felt a vibration. I could feel myself running and bounding and hurling over and through what lay before me. I almost felt no separation between myself and my imminent interaction with the rock and air and dirt.
I told them i'd be going all the way down. I looked to John and nodded, expecting him to follow my lead. But he demurred, as Bob and Jan attempted to dissuade me. I quieted their protests with the argument that the warning was geared toward the average hiker. No, less than the average hiker. The average tourist.
I had never been to the Canyon before, and didn't know when i might be again.
Not in one day?
I only had one day.
Party on, earthlings.
As we collected our packs, i gave John one last inviting look, and set off. I had plenty of water, and some trail mix. My main body of food was leftover pizza. Not the most healthful, but sustenance was all i would need, and sustenance it was.
I stood at the top of Bright Angel Trail. Another sign revealed that the temperature at the bottom was fifteen degrees hotter than up top. It was August. 105 degrees at the rim.
I plunged down, occasionally running and bounding. The winding path switched back and forth. The angle wasn't steep, i don't think i needed my hands all day. It was seven miles to the bottom. I passed dozens of groups of hikers, who gave me smiles as i breezed along. I smiled my love right back. I passed a couple burro caravans. Before i knew it, i was at the half-way point, where the trail branched off to the lodge where the rest of my party was headed. If time allowed, i might check it out on the way up.
A couple hundred yards further down, i met a solitary hiker who was struggling. She was in good spirits, but her body was taxed. She had camped at the bottom, and awoken early to get back to the top. Her friends had passed her coming up. I gave her some of my trail mix, and took her wobbly body by the arm. I didn't think about how this detour might affect my own day, i was just happy to be there. We slowly made our way, talking about this and that. She was a sweetheart. As we approached the trail fork, her concerned friends appeared. I turned her over to them, and resumed my trek.
On the lower half of the trail, the topography became surreal. The colors of the rocks, the shapes of the plants...it was like i was walking into an alien planet. I took pictures.
There were far fewer humans now, just a couple scattered parties coming up. The solitude contributed to the sense of alienness.
As i bottomed out onto the canyon floor, i saw a few people near smaller lodges where overnight hikers stayed. I kept on.
Standing at the edge of the Colorado, was a moment of such beauty. Such serenity. Then i gamboled about like the monkey i was, letting out whoops and caws, in the futile hope that my party above might hear.
Would you like to know what 120 degrees feels like?
Not much different than 90, actually.
It feels great.
There was a sign by the water's edge: INFECTED RIVER, DO NOT DRINK OR SWIM. The swollen waters rushed past. Anything caught in the current would be out of sight quickly.
I laughed.
I took off my shirt and footwear, and cavorted some more.
I returned to the edge. In that moment of living, there was only one choice.
I grabbed the rocks, and lowered myself in. Soooo cold and beautiful. Holding on tightly, i submerged and pushed myself down to the full extension of my arms. The pull of the current was awesome, lifting me almost horizontal. I stayed in that moment an eternity or so, then hauled myself back into the world. Pulling up onto the rocks above me, my joyful shouts echoed into the universe.
I took a picture of myself.
It was mid-day. I prepared my Canyon lunch.
And discovered that my pizza was essentially inedible. I had wrapped each slice in some sort of paper. The intense heat had congealed the paper and food so as to be inextricable. I nibbled at it, getting a bite or two.
I finished my trail mix and drank some water, which i still had plenty of. A bit undernourished, but all i had to do was get out of the Canyon. I filled one of my empty bottles with river water, as a souvenir. Knowing the stakes had been raised, i cut short my leisure, and moved out. The people at the lower lodges were gone, probably along the canyon floor.
I made good time, in the afternoon sun. When i got to the halfway point i was feeling fine, so i pressed on.
Within an hour, fatigue slowed my steps. In the hour after that, dozens and dozens of people i had passed earlier going down, passed me on the way up. Though i was wearying, i was alert and making progress, so i smiled and chatted with them.
I was soon stopping every one hundred feet.
Then every fifty.
Then every thirty. The breaks were getting longer.
I suddenly knew that getting out wasn't going to be a stroll.
Twenty feet.
When i only made ten on my next attempt, i was coherent enough to laugh at myself.
My earlier breaks had been standing or sitting. This time, i lay down. Closing my eyes felt so good. I couldn't see the top, so i didn't know how much further i had to go. I knew if i took one really long rest, i'd be fine.
Most of the hikers were now above me. One of them stopped, and sat with me.
Do you know the difference between heat stroke and heat exhaustion?
I do...now.
My new friend was a minister from Ohio. I had lived in Ohio as a child. He was youthful and energetic, an all-around sweet fellow.
Heat stroke (i later learned) can kill you. Heat exhaustion is nothing you want either, but you can recover quickly enough, without medical help.
My companion talked as i lay prone. He had food, but when it came near my lips, a feeling of revulsion came over me, and my mouth wouldn't let it in.
There's a quick way to know whether someone is suffering from heat stroke or heat exhaustion. If they're pale, it's exhaustion. If they're red-faced, it's stroke.
My buddy, who didn't know these things either, told me how white i was.
He wasn't sure i'd be able to get back up, so he was talking about contingencies. Hopefully someone else would come along to wait with me, while he headed up, to get some kind of rescue going.
I told him i'd be okay. Down, but not out.
After fifteen minutes, i said i might, maybe just might, be able to get something in my mouth, something very light and pure. He went through his inventory, finally coming across a Jolly Rancher hard candy stick. You know, the thin kind, maybe 1"x4"? I said, "Gimme".
But my lips sealed when i brought it close. For five minutes, i held that stick close to my mouth, and was finally able to open a little. A couple minutes later, i was able to touch my tongue. A few minutes later, i was able to leave it there for a few seconds.
The best candy of my life.
Within five minutes, i was actively sucking, and sitting up.
Then i was on my feet.
The shadows were now both friend and enemy. They were lengthening, providing respite from the sun...but this also meant that nightfall was coming. It would get cold, and we might lose the trail.
It was time to go.
I made it a good thirty feet before stopping. After a rest, i did fifty more. A man of god, and a Jolly Rancher.
The shadows kept lengthening. We moved on.
And as the last rays of the day disappeared, we saw the lights of the top, a couple hundred yards away. Before long, someone approached us, to ask whether i was okay. Word had gotten to the top that a hiker was struggling. I smiled, and nodded.
I've always wanted to calculate how many calories i burned that day, compared to how many i consumed. One average breakfast, one modest bag of trail mix, against fourteen miles down and up a one-mile deep canyon, in an average temperature of 110 degrees.
The coolness of the air was nice, now that it was no longer ominous. As we neared the parking lot, my friend gave me his card, and told me to stop by if i was ever in his neck of the woods. We shook hands, and shared a look that had more meaning than any words we could have said.
As he moved off, John and Bob and Jan spotted me. They had heard about a hiker in trouble, but couldn't know whether it was me. I was a little out of it, but i smiled, hugged them, and an hour later, tummy full and a smile on my face, i fell asleep in the car as we headed to our next destination.
In and out.
One day.
One contented fool, motoring out under my own power.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
sambo & bimbo!
Dear Bob,
I've been puzzling over my reaction to some jokes you've shared, trying to figure out whether the fact that they bother me means that i'm too uptight. George Carlin said that one can joke about anything, so do my negative reactions simply mean that my head is too far up my ass? The first joke assessed the last Democratic Presidential primary as "Sambo vs. bimbo". The second one explained that Indian women have a dot on their forehead so that Indian men can rub the dot off to find out whether they've won a 7-11.
Innocent silliness?
I wish George were here to help. He used the example of rape. He said he thought it was hilarious, and offered up the image of Porky Pig raping Elmer Fudd. It wasn't one of his funnier jokes, but i understood his point.
Is "bimbo" a good word? Sure. I don't believe there's any such thing as a bad word, only bad intentions. "Bimbo" is descriptive, even playful. Would i want to live in a world where i couldn't say, "At 31, to the suprise of no one, Giuseppe married a bimbo"? I would not...though i can understand how hurtful it could be. It's possible i've never even used "bimbo" to reference a specific person.
And "Sambo"?
It makes me almost re-think my "no bad words" stance. I was even surprised to hear it being used north of the Mason-Dixon (incidentally, the history of Sambo's Restaurant is worth perusing, not least of all because the owner wants to bring the chain back).
Bob, you maintain that you're not a racist. On some levels, you're probably right. You're certainly less racist than the generation that preceded you, and maybe even in the world of your intent those jokes weren't racist/sexist.
The image associated with "Sambo" is that of a head-scratching, clueless, happy-go-lucky fellow. Hm. Well, there are worse fates than that. In fact, if we could remove the racial aspect, i'd even be open to reclaiming the word. I'm sure we've all known a clueless, happy-go-lucky sort. Cosmo Kramer could be the poster child for the new sambo. Paris Hilton? A big ol' sambo. Or the world's first bambo!
But at the moment, "Sambo" cannot be anything other than a racist slur. Does Obama fit the image? One could argue that he's clueless, but head-scratching? I've never seen him look like he didn't understand what was going on. Happy-go-lucky? Though i've seen him smile, he comes off as a serious-minded fella who understands the gravity of his place in the world. So no, he's no Sambo.
And Hillary? Can she reasonably be called "physically attractive but unintelligent"? I suspect that if you'd found her attractive, Bob, we'd have known, as your "admiration" for Governor Palin was never in doubt. As for intelligence, the idea that Hillary isn't at least average seems kinda ridiculous.
So what's the substance of the joke? Can it be anything other than racism, and vile sexism? The 7-11 joke struck me as one of the most destructive, xenophobic things i'd ever heard. You took one billion people who are every bit as smart and loving and decent as anybody on the planet, and reduced them to a servile punchline. That wasn't your intent? Imagine the Indian child who overhears their non-Indian schoolmates making that joke. Do you think for a second that their self-worth wouldn't forever bear a scar that no amount of healing could erase?
There's a problem with everything i'm saying, though.
I'm wrong.
Imagine, if you will, a late night at NOW headquarters, a boozy office party perhaps, with impromptu shouts of "Goooooo bimbo!" and "Gooooooo, Sambo!" suddenly bouncing back and forth. If you can't imagine it, i submit you've never been to NOW headquarters.
There is, in humor, an inescapable element of perversity. The more perverse one's world, the greater one's need for perverse humor. And kids, we live in a world where staggering amounts of non-humorous perversity assail us every single day.
So what might be offensive coming out of one mouth, can be innocent coming out of another.
Go bimbo.
I myself found both jokes repugnant. But earlier today, i was telling an Indian-American friend about this article. I shared the 7-11 joke. I gave it no kind of funny delivery. He nonetheless smiled immediately, and in a couple seconds we were both giggling away.
Make no mistake...the majority of those who laugh at "bimbo/Sambo" are white men with a deep problem. Whom does that joke hurt other than Bam and Hil, Bob? Only any woman who might dream of being President. Do you know what you're telling her? You're telling her that even if she graduates from college with honors, gets a Yale law degree, becomes one of the 100 most influential lawyers in America while embodying marital fidelity, you'll be out there in the tall grass, ready to call her a bimbo.
And Sambo, Bob? Please tell me you don't need me to figure out whom that might damage.
Of course, that doesn't mean that our current Secretary of State doesn't call POTUS "Sambo", in private meetings. And that Barack doesn't give her a good "bimbo" right back.
It even makes me feel better about the world, knowing that they might.
I've been puzzling over my reaction to some jokes you've shared, trying to figure out whether the fact that they bother me means that i'm too uptight. George Carlin said that one can joke about anything, so do my negative reactions simply mean that my head is too far up my ass? The first joke assessed the last Democratic Presidential primary as "Sambo vs. bimbo". The second one explained that Indian women have a dot on their forehead so that Indian men can rub the dot off to find out whether they've won a 7-11.
Innocent silliness?
I wish George were here to help. He used the example of rape. He said he thought it was hilarious, and offered up the image of Porky Pig raping Elmer Fudd. It wasn't one of his funnier jokes, but i understood his point.
Is "bimbo" a good word? Sure. I don't believe there's any such thing as a bad word, only bad intentions. "Bimbo" is descriptive, even playful. Would i want to live in a world where i couldn't say, "At 31, to the suprise of no one, Giuseppe married a bimbo"? I would not...though i can understand how hurtful it could be. It's possible i've never even used "bimbo" to reference a specific person.
And "Sambo"?
It makes me almost re-think my "no bad words" stance. I was even surprised to hear it being used north of the Mason-Dixon (incidentally, the history of Sambo's Restaurant is worth perusing, not least of all because the owner wants to bring the chain back).
Bob, you maintain that you're not a racist. On some levels, you're probably right. You're certainly less racist than the generation that preceded you, and maybe even in the world of your intent those jokes weren't racist/sexist.
The image associated with "Sambo" is that of a head-scratching, clueless, happy-go-lucky fellow. Hm. Well, there are worse fates than that. In fact, if we could remove the racial aspect, i'd even be open to reclaiming the word. I'm sure we've all known a clueless, happy-go-lucky sort. Cosmo Kramer could be the poster child for the new sambo. Paris Hilton? A big ol' sambo. Or the world's first bambo!
But at the moment, "Sambo" cannot be anything other than a racist slur. Does Obama fit the image? One could argue that he's clueless, but head-scratching? I've never seen him look like he didn't understand what was going on. Happy-go-lucky? Though i've seen him smile, he comes off as a serious-minded fella who understands the gravity of his place in the world. So no, he's no Sambo.
And Hillary? Can she reasonably be called "physically attractive but unintelligent"? I suspect that if you'd found her attractive, Bob, we'd have known, as your "admiration" for Governor Palin was never in doubt. As for intelligence, the idea that Hillary isn't at least average seems kinda ridiculous.
So what's the substance of the joke? Can it be anything other than racism, and vile sexism? The 7-11 joke struck me as one of the most destructive, xenophobic things i'd ever heard. You took one billion people who are every bit as smart and loving and decent as anybody on the planet, and reduced them to a servile punchline. That wasn't your intent? Imagine the Indian child who overhears their non-Indian schoolmates making that joke. Do you think for a second that their self-worth wouldn't forever bear a scar that no amount of healing could erase?
There's a problem with everything i'm saying, though.
I'm wrong.
Imagine, if you will, a late night at NOW headquarters, a boozy office party perhaps, with impromptu shouts of "Goooooo bimbo!" and "Gooooooo, Sambo!" suddenly bouncing back and forth. If you can't imagine it, i submit you've never been to NOW headquarters.
There is, in humor, an inescapable element of perversity. The more perverse one's world, the greater one's need for perverse humor. And kids, we live in a world where staggering amounts of non-humorous perversity assail us every single day.
So what might be offensive coming out of one mouth, can be innocent coming out of another.
Go bimbo.
I myself found both jokes repugnant. But earlier today, i was telling an Indian-American friend about this article. I shared the 7-11 joke. I gave it no kind of funny delivery. He nonetheless smiled immediately, and in a couple seconds we were both giggling away.
Make no mistake...the majority of those who laugh at "bimbo/Sambo" are white men with a deep problem. Whom does that joke hurt other than Bam and Hil, Bob? Only any woman who might dream of being President. Do you know what you're telling her? You're telling her that even if she graduates from college with honors, gets a Yale law degree, becomes one of the 100 most influential lawyers in America while embodying marital fidelity, you'll be out there in the tall grass, ready to call her a bimbo.
And Sambo, Bob? Please tell me you don't need me to figure out whom that might damage.
Of course, that doesn't mean that our current Secretary of State doesn't call POTUS "Sambo", in private meetings. And that Barack doesn't give her a good "bimbo" right back.
It even makes me feel better about the world, knowing that they might.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
...and the flowers laugh
Okay, i did it my way this time. I posted a craigslist romance ad. When i've posted in the past (aside from that time i let a friend speak for me), i've usually shared one of my poems about a dream lover. This time, prompted by musings over what's more important, shared values or affinities, i took a different tack. My title was an abbreviation of the phrase "Laugh, and the flowers laugh with you" (which is itself a bastardization, yes). Along with a thoughtful-looking photo, i posted this:
The most healing thing in the world is touch. The second-most healing thing? Laughter. Any idiots can feel each other up, but matching senses of humor are rare. So here is a rough skeleton of my funny bone (A skeleton of my funny bone? Hilarious!). Lenny Bruce/George Carlin/Monty Python/Marx Brothers/ZAZ/Christopher Guest/Chapelle's Show. Practical jokes and gallows humor are a hoot, too. If you fancy a nature boy who isn't into makeup, martinis, or makin' the scene, here i be.
My net total responses, aside from the obligatory spam?
Zip.
Zilch.
Dingus.
Donut hole.
Kickin' ass and takin' names, in the cyberworld.
The most healing thing in the world is touch. The second-most healing thing? Laughter. Any idiots can feel each other up, but matching senses of humor are rare. So here is a rough skeleton of my funny bone (A skeleton of my funny bone? Hilarious!). Lenny Bruce/George Carlin/Monty Python/Marx Brothers/ZAZ/Christopher Guest/Chapelle's Show. Practical jokes and gallows humor are a hoot, too. If you fancy a nature boy who isn't into makeup, martinis, or makin' the scene, here i be.
My net total responses, aside from the obligatory spam?
Zip.
Zilch.
Dingus.
Donut hole.
Kickin' ass and takin' names, in the cyberworld.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
dear chuck
Chuck,
We've never gone terribly deep, partly because there's never been a need. But there is one now. Mom may not be ready to talk about these things yet, but it's hurts me to see her hurting, particularly when she's perpetuating that hurt.
You're with her everyday, best positioned to help her.
We all sometimes need to go through dark times. I'm going through a bit of one myself. But i'm aware of it, and the reasons for it, and what i might gain from it.
She's sad about Dave and Jeff. But any good therapist (if that's not a contradiction in terms) would ask her why, if she wants them more in her life, is she acting in a way that is contrary to that desire?
She's wrapping herself in her sadness, becoming martyrlike. She's giving off ME ME ME energy, and "YOU don't understand". It's bordering on "you're my child, i own you, you don't get to walk away". In the bigger picture, it's not all about her...she's not even the most shunned person in the family, that honor would go to Jaymie. I went through an anti-family phase myself once, perhaps more benign, but just as real.
Sometimes we act in self-destructive ways, that therapist might say, for reasons we don't understand. Perhaps that applies to them and her both?
If she were to react to the situation with acceptance and love, she would move closer to what she desires, instead of away from it. If we manifest love, we make ourselves more loveable. Instead, she's making herself harder to love...bizarrely, she's becoming more like her ex...hard to love.
If this darkness is what she needs, i give her absolute permission to go through it, and i'll still love her. I just want her to be clear about what she's doing, and why. In my own way, i'm constantly trying to bring the scattered elements of our family closer together. She's not making my task easier. And it seems so unneccessary...she needs to have faith in the mother she was, and that ulitmately her kids will embrace the reality that she loved each and every one of them very much.
If this makes any sense to you, do what you can, giving her patience and permission to go through what she needs to.
thank you,
wrob
We've never gone terribly deep, partly because there's never been a need. But there is one now. Mom may not be ready to talk about these things yet, but it's hurts me to see her hurting, particularly when she's perpetuating that hurt.
You're with her everyday, best positioned to help her.
We all sometimes need to go through dark times. I'm going through a bit of one myself. But i'm aware of it, and the reasons for it, and what i might gain from it.
She's sad about Dave and Jeff. But any good therapist (if that's not a contradiction in terms) would ask her why, if she wants them more in her life, is she acting in a way that is contrary to that desire?
She's wrapping herself in her sadness, becoming martyrlike. She's giving off ME ME ME energy, and "YOU don't understand". It's bordering on "you're my child, i own you, you don't get to walk away". In the bigger picture, it's not all about her...she's not even the most shunned person in the family, that honor would go to Jaymie. I went through an anti-family phase myself once, perhaps more benign, but just as real.
Sometimes we act in self-destructive ways, that therapist might say, for reasons we don't understand. Perhaps that applies to them and her both?
If she were to react to the situation with acceptance and love, she would move closer to what she desires, instead of away from it. If we manifest love, we make ourselves more loveable. Instead, she's making herself harder to love...bizarrely, she's becoming more like her ex...hard to love.
If this darkness is what she needs, i give her absolute permission to go through it, and i'll still love her. I just want her to be clear about what she's doing, and why. In my own way, i'm constantly trying to bring the scattered elements of our family closer together. She's not making my task easier. And it seems so unneccessary...she needs to have faith in the mother she was, and that ulitmately her kids will embrace the reality that she loved each and every one of them very much.
If this makes any sense to you, do what you can, giving her patience and permission to go through what she needs to.
thank you,
wrob
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Dave & Amy
I visited my dad and step-mom in the Poconos last weekend. My brother Dave, who lives here in NYC, called to tell me he was visiting them. I spend time with him regularly, but it had been years since Dave, Bob, and i had been together. So off i went.
It was a nice trip, and fascinating to experience a long-absent family dynamic. Dave went though an anti-family phase for most of the past decade. He didn't talk to me for years, and he still doesn't talk to my sister, or come to holiday gatherings. Which is fine...we all must walk our own path. I myself went through an anti-family phase (albeit more benign). My youngest brother Jeff has absented himself from most family gatherings for a few years, too.
The weekend made me think about how family shapes us, and how i would be a different person if one of my siblings had never existed, or if there had been five kids, or if one of my parents had died when i was young. Are you a conformist? A mediator? An entertainer? A rebel? Passive aggressive? It can be amazing to deconstruct yourself in terms of family relationships. If you take out one tiny piece of the puzzle, the rest of "you" would have shifted.
Dave and i get along great, partly because we share many worldviews. Bob and i get along, despite a number of worldviews which are in opposition.
My ethics and morality are very strong, but in personal interactions i tend toward being a listener/nurturer, and generally don't need someone else to be wrong in order for me to be right.
It was fascinating watching Dave and Bob together. Dave's energy was light and interactive, but at no time did he shy away from zapping Bob if there was a point of contention. For example, Bob often objectifies women, and Dave was having none of it. Now, i don't think the objectification of women (or men) is unqualifiedly wrong. To appreciate Jessica Biel's physique or Paul Newman's eyes, you have to objectify them to a certain extent. I myself like being objectified from time to time.
Dave, however, wouldn't allow women to be talked about in terms of physical attractiveness.
And religion...oh, heavens (sorry). In contrast to Bob's fundamentalism (and my agnosticism), Dave is a militant athiest. I confess, a part of me enjoyed watching him zing Bob. I avoided "ganging up", and just sat back and took it in. Whether Bob appreciated my comparative gentleness, isn't even the point. I just found the whole dynamic fascinating (and okay, a tiny bit edifying).
Bob, after a couple of Super Bowl bloody marys, made a batch of his world-famous mashed potatoes. Except he didn't have enough milk, so he used half & half. Except, it was kahlua-flavored. My stomach still feels hinky thinking about it.
He also had put together some amazing family albums, with photos neither Dave nor i had ever seen.
The highlight of the weekend was a side trip i took with my uncle, to see my cousin Amy. I hadn't been with her in a couple years. A year younger, she was my favorite cousin growing up. For much of the past two years, she's been in prison for grand larceny. There are psychological issues...bipolar chemical imbalances and such. I love her dearly. I've written letters, but this was the first time i saw her. It was also the first time i've ever visited someone in jail. Plexiglass and phone, just like in the movies. I couldn't help thinking about NAKED GUN 33 1/3. I was told i'd have thirty minutes.
She was in wonderful spirits. The greatest testament i can give to that effect is that she didn't thank me for coming...which would have been a very self-conscious thing to do. I was pretty sure i'd be very relaxed, but a little part of me did wonder...would the time go quickly? Or would we run out of things to say?
Looking back, i'm stunned that we talked about so much in only thirty minutes. Our conversation ranged all over the place...we talked about family and recent experiences, and very often the talk delved into deep areas. She may have been in such good spirits partly because her freedom is looming. She starts a work release program this coming week. She joked that she was possibly in longer than she should have been, just because her jailors didn't want to let her go. She's been a model prisoner...she organized the production of a play, staged by the inmates. She wrote it, and acted. She may write a book about her life.
It saddens me, the thought of what has happened to her. Going back to family dynamics, i think about how losing their mother for two years will affect Amy's children...how it will subtly (or not so subtly) change the very nature of the adults they will one day be. Coincidentally, i was reading this weekend about the Iroquois, who had no jails or police. If someone acted anti-socially, they were shunned for a time. I'm not saying that their way is THE way, but...i do know that there will come a time when the human race will look back and be horrified that we once locked people inside cages. We will be wrenchingly horrified at the barbarians we once were.
Anyway...here's to Amy being at family gatherings next year. And the year after that. I'm not holding my breath for Dave, but that would be lovely too.
It was a nice trip, and fascinating to experience a long-absent family dynamic. Dave went though an anti-family phase for most of the past decade. He didn't talk to me for years, and he still doesn't talk to my sister, or come to holiday gatherings. Which is fine...we all must walk our own path. I myself went through an anti-family phase (albeit more benign). My youngest brother Jeff has absented himself from most family gatherings for a few years, too.
The weekend made me think about how family shapes us, and how i would be a different person if one of my siblings had never existed, or if there had been five kids, or if one of my parents had died when i was young. Are you a conformist? A mediator? An entertainer? A rebel? Passive aggressive? It can be amazing to deconstruct yourself in terms of family relationships. If you take out one tiny piece of the puzzle, the rest of "you" would have shifted.
Dave and i get along great, partly because we share many worldviews. Bob and i get along, despite a number of worldviews which are in opposition.
My ethics and morality are very strong, but in personal interactions i tend toward being a listener/nurturer, and generally don't need someone else to be wrong in order for me to be right.
It was fascinating watching Dave and Bob together. Dave's energy was light and interactive, but at no time did he shy away from zapping Bob if there was a point of contention. For example, Bob often objectifies women, and Dave was having none of it. Now, i don't think the objectification of women (or men) is unqualifiedly wrong. To appreciate Jessica Biel's physique or Paul Newman's eyes, you have to objectify them to a certain extent. I myself like being objectified from time to time.
Dave, however, wouldn't allow women to be talked about in terms of physical attractiveness.
And religion...oh, heavens (sorry). In contrast to Bob's fundamentalism (and my agnosticism), Dave is a militant athiest. I confess, a part of me enjoyed watching him zing Bob. I avoided "ganging up", and just sat back and took it in. Whether Bob appreciated my comparative gentleness, isn't even the point. I just found the whole dynamic fascinating (and okay, a tiny bit edifying).
Bob, after a couple of Super Bowl bloody marys, made a batch of his world-famous mashed potatoes. Except he didn't have enough milk, so he used half & half. Except, it was kahlua-flavored. My stomach still feels hinky thinking about it.
He also had put together some amazing family albums, with photos neither Dave nor i had ever seen.
The highlight of the weekend was a side trip i took with my uncle, to see my cousin Amy. I hadn't been with her in a couple years. A year younger, she was my favorite cousin growing up. For much of the past two years, she's been in prison for grand larceny. There are psychological issues...bipolar chemical imbalances and such. I love her dearly. I've written letters, but this was the first time i saw her. It was also the first time i've ever visited someone in jail. Plexiglass and phone, just like in the movies. I couldn't help thinking about NAKED GUN 33 1/3. I was told i'd have thirty minutes.
She was in wonderful spirits. The greatest testament i can give to that effect is that she didn't thank me for coming...which would have been a very self-conscious thing to do. I was pretty sure i'd be very relaxed, but a little part of me did wonder...would the time go quickly? Or would we run out of things to say?
Looking back, i'm stunned that we talked about so much in only thirty minutes. Our conversation ranged all over the place...we talked about family and recent experiences, and very often the talk delved into deep areas. She may have been in such good spirits partly because her freedom is looming. She starts a work release program this coming week. She joked that she was possibly in longer than she should have been, just because her jailors didn't want to let her go. She's been a model prisoner...she organized the production of a play, staged by the inmates. She wrote it, and acted. She may write a book about her life.
It saddens me, the thought of what has happened to her. Going back to family dynamics, i think about how losing their mother for two years will affect Amy's children...how it will subtly (or not so subtly) change the very nature of the adults they will one day be. Coincidentally, i was reading this weekend about the Iroquois, who had no jails or police. If someone acted anti-socially, they were shunned for a time. I'm not saying that their way is THE way, but...i do know that there will come a time when the human race will look back and be horrified that we once locked people inside cages. We will be wrenchingly horrified at the barbarians we once were.
Anyway...here's to Amy being at family gatherings next year. And the year after that. I'm not holding my breath for Dave, but that would be lovely too.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Lenny & Vaughn
I'm going to tell you about the funniest moment in the history of standup comedy.
Of course, for my opinion to be authoritative, i'd have to have watched every moment of standup ever. Not only have i not done that, i wasn't even there for this alleged "funniest moment". And not only wasn't i there, but i've never watched video of it, nor listened to audio.
Yet i'll still tell you it's the funniest moment of standup ever...by far.
The moment came at a Lenny Bruce concert, one week after JFK's assassination. The country was in shock, like it had never been before and would never be again. The thought of anything being funny was almost inconceivable.
But the concert had been scheduled, and the concert went on.
The curious thing is that Bruce wasn't bust-a-gut funny. People didn't come to his shows to laugh themselves silly. He did social commentary and satire, thinking person's humor. But none of his siblings in standup ever came close to the moment he created at the Village Theater in Soho, in 1963.
He came on, to polite applause. He removed the mic from the stand. The crowd probably expected some kind of disjointed, slow-starting diatribe, if they expected anything. The greatest professional challenge ever faced in this country belonged to the scientist who was asked to split the atom. The second-greatest professional challenge belonged to anyone who was asked to do comedy the week Kennedy died.
Bruce stood silently, as the applause faded. He didn't move. In stage time, one second of silence is noticeable. Several seconds is profound. Bruce stayed quiet for several seconds, then several more.
I'll suspend you in that moment, to tell you about Vaughn Meader. There were few stars burning as brightly in 1963 as comedian Vaughn Meader. His rise had been meteoric. One year earlier, this unknown landed the starring role as a JFK impersonater in the comedy album "The First Family". It set the Guiness record for the fastest-selling album of all time, at over a million a week for the first six weeks. Vaughn's life became a celebrity whirlwind, with non-stop TV appearances. He went from $7.50 a night in coffeehouses to $22,500 a week headlining in Vegas. A second "First Family" album was released. Sinatra asked him to join the Rat Pack. He refused. Vaughn's every performance centered on his JFK impersonation.
Stop me if you can see where this is heading.
Lenny stood on that stage, as an eternity passed. The images of Kennedy's funeral were still fresh in everybody's mind. He finally exhaled, and quietly said, "Psshew...poor Vaughn Meader". Nobody clocked how long it took for the first person to laugh, how long they all laughed once they started, or how many faces were tear-streaked by the time Bruce spoke his fourth word a minute or two later.
There are few things in this world more cathartically pure than laughter. It's why we need comedians and actors...when we laugh at them, we laugh at ourselves. Every mother-in-law jibe, every premature ejaculation jest, none of them would ever work unless they made us see ourselves. Comedians give us permission to laugh, even at things horrible.
In a world that had been turned upside down, Lenny stepped up and said that it's okay to laugh.
What a great story.
One that would be doubly great if it actually happened.
Oh, to be sure, something like it happened. But what exactly that was...well, it's not lost to history yet, because there are people alive who were there. But i don't know any of them, and opinions on what exactly happened couldn't be more diverse. I intended this article as a celebration of a great moment, but it became also a meditation on faulty memory, and the internet. In researching this article online, i was staggered to discover how many versions of the story exist. The date of the performance is variously given as the night of the assassination, three days later, one week later, and ten days later. The stories don't even agree on the most essential element, WHAT THE HELL HE SAID. Here are all the versions i found:
"Poor Vaughn Meader"
"Psshew...Vaughn Meader"
"Vaughn Meader is screwed"
"Two graves have been dug in Arlington National cemetary...one for John Kennedy and one for Vaughn Meader"
"Don't Shoot!"
Hunh?
To my ear, only one of these has the perfect poetry to be the greatest moment of standup ever.
Whether Vaughn's rise was the quickest in American history, is open to debate. What is less debateable, is that no white-hot celebrity ever disappeared as quickly and completely.
And Lenny? He died three short years later, and was one of the greatest Americans to ever live. A Mt. Rushmore of freedom might feature Lincoln, Stanton, King, and Bruce (and maybe, er um, Larry Flynt). In shaping this country, in determining what freedom of speech means, in forcing us to live up to our ideals, Lenny devoted and sacrificed his very life.
Don't take my word for it.
Of course, for my opinion to be authoritative, i'd have to have watched every moment of standup ever. Not only have i not done that, i wasn't even there for this alleged "funniest moment". And not only wasn't i there, but i've never watched video of it, nor listened to audio.
Yet i'll still tell you it's the funniest moment of standup ever...by far.
The moment came at a Lenny Bruce concert, one week after JFK's assassination. The country was in shock, like it had never been before and would never be again. The thought of anything being funny was almost inconceivable.
But the concert had been scheduled, and the concert went on.
The curious thing is that Bruce wasn't bust-a-gut funny. People didn't come to his shows to laugh themselves silly. He did social commentary and satire, thinking person's humor. But none of his siblings in standup ever came close to the moment he created at the Village Theater in Soho, in 1963.
He came on, to polite applause. He removed the mic from the stand. The crowd probably expected some kind of disjointed, slow-starting diatribe, if they expected anything. The greatest professional challenge ever faced in this country belonged to the scientist who was asked to split the atom. The second-greatest professional challenge belonged to anyone who was asked to do comedy the week Kennedy died.
Bruce stood silently, as the applause faded. He didn't move. In stage time, one second of silence is noticeable. Several seconds is profound. Bruce stayed quiet for several seconds, then several more.
I'll suspend you in that moment, to tell you about Vaughn Meader. There were few stars burning as brightly in 1963 as comedian Vaughn Meader. His rise had been meteoric. One year earlier, this unknown landed the starring role as a JFK impersonater in the comedy album "The First Family". It set the Guiness record for the fastest-selling album of all time, at over a million a week for the first six weeks. Vaughn's life became a celebrity whirlwind, with non-stop TV appearances. He went from $7.50 a night in coffeehouses to $22,500 a week headlining in Vegas. A second "First Family" album was released. Sinatra asked him to join the Rat Pack. He refused. Vaughn's every performance centered on his JFK impersonation.
Stop me if you can see where this is heading.
Lenny stood on that stage, as an eternity passed. The images of Kennedy's funeral were still fresh in everybody's mind. He finally exhaled, and quietly said, "Psshew...poor Vaughn Meader". Nobody clocked how long it took for the first person to laugh, how long they all laughed once they started, or how many faces were tear-streaked by the time Bruce spoke his fourth word a minute or two later.
There are few things in this world more cathartically pure than laughter. It's why we need comedians and actors...when we laugh at them, we laugh at ourselves. Every mother-in-law jibe, every premature ejaculation jest, none of them would ever work unless they made us see ourselves. Comedians give us permission to laugh, even at things horrible.
In a world that had been turned upside down, Lenny stepped up and said that it's okay to laugh.
What a great story.
One that would be doubly great if it actually happened.
Oh, to be sure, something like it happened. But what exactly that was...well, it's not lost to history yet, because there are people alive who were there. But i don't know any of them, and opinions on what exactly happened couldn't be more diverse. I intended this article as a celebration of a great moment, but it became also a meditation on faulty memory, and the internet. In researching this article online, i was staggered to discover how many versions of the story exist. The date of the performance is variously given as the night of the assassination, three days later, one week later, and ten days later. The stories don't even agree on the most essential element, WHAT THE HELL HE SAID. Here are all the versions i found:
"Poor Vaughn Meader"
"Psshew...Vaughn Meader"
"Vaughn Meader is screwed"
"Two graves have been dug in Arlington National cemetary...one for John Kennedy and one for Vaughn Meader"
"Don't Shoot!"
Hunh?
To my ear, only one of these has the perfect poetry to be the greatest moment of standup ever.
Whether Vaughn's rise was the quickest in American history, is open to debate. What is less debateable, is that no white-hot celebrity ever disappeared as quickly and completely.
And Lenny? He died three short years later, and was one of the greatest Americans to ever live. A Mt. Rushmore of freedom might feature Lincoln, Stanton, King, and Bruce (and maybe, er um, Larry Flynt). In shaping this country, in determining what freedom of speech means, in forcing us to live up to our ideals, Lenny devoted and sacrificed his very life.
Don't take my word for it.
Monday, February 1, 2010
onion huzzah!
One of the best things about living in New York City is the satirical free newspaper The Onion. You can find them on street corners everywhere, in green boxes. All aspects of our wonky culture are lampooned. Every issue is worth at least a chuckle or two, and the good ones are worth a lot more than that. Sometimes the headlines are so perfect, that the fake article is superfluous. Here's a recent headline, one that had me chuckling off and on for hours.
"GAY TEEN WORRIED HE MAY BE CHRISTIAN"
I love New York.
"GAY TEEN WORRIED HE MAY BE CHRISTIAN"
I love New York.
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