Speakeasy

The Oklahoma Taliban

2009-07-01T13:52:00.000-07:00

I've been ranting about Oklahoma politics forever, but here's a chance for whoever is interested to get someone else's viewpoint on the idiocy of lawmakers there. Enjoy.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/06/30/oklahoma-republicans-read_n_223074.html

Calling All Ghostbusters

2009-06-30T10:11:00.000-07:00

There are things that go bump in the night at our house. The front bathroom sink has a chip in the porcelain where something appears to have fallen or been dropped. We were in bed and heard the crash on the night that it happened and got up to find no one skulking around in the dark, and no object lying in or near the sink to account for the damage. The doors were all still locked, the alarm still turned on. That was a few months ago. Since then, the night sounds have become such a common occurrence that we barely notice them. My partner snores like a banshee and I sleep with ear plugs, although I sometimes still hear the other noises that sound like someone is either throwing a party in the living room or trying to dismantle the place.

But now there's a little added extra something that seems to have been thrown in for our displeasure. Now things are disappearing. I don't mean the couch or a coffee table or the television set (god forbid!). Not yet. First it was an old pair of sandals that I rarely wore anyway, so it wasn't a big deal. I figured they must have made their way to the dumpster at some point, probably courtesy of my partner. Then, there was a book that I was reading. When my partner lost the first pair of glasses, I thought that he must have inadvertantly carried them to work, or to the car, even though he only wears these particular glasses to watch television and they never leave the house. So, we looked and looked and didn't find the glasses, and I still figured he'd somehow managed to lose them. A little later, I bought a journal to keep my thoughts (such as they are) in. I'd only written a few entries when that disappeared off the table next to my bed. By this time, I was beginning to get a little irritated. I knew where I'd placed the journal but searched the house again anyway. By the time my partner's second pair of television-watching glasses disappeared, I was fed up. I saw him take off the glasses and set them on the dresser when he went to bed, so I know exactly where they were. This time, he accused me of absent-mindedly picking up his glasses and putting them somewhere. So, a fight ensued and I told him to give the place a thorough going-over and when he was finished, I'd do the same thing. So we looked. And we looked and we looked. Underneath beds, beneath stacks of folded tee-shirts, underwear, and socks on shelves and in various drawers. The dirty clothes hamper, the microwave, the refrigerator, the washer, the dryer. In every closet, behind every couch and dresser, inside toilet tanks. The glasses were nowhere to be found. This is not a simple case of absent mindedness. We have searched the house up one side and down the other. All these things--two pairs of glasses, a journal, a pair of sandals, a book--are gone. As if they never existed! So, what I'm wondering is this: what the hell is going on around here? Who are these noisy party people who keep taking our stuff? How do they get in and what do they want? Most importantly, how do I get rid of them? Because, really, they've worn out their welcome and I'm ready for them to catch the first train back to Boo-ville or wherever it is they come from.

Where's a good Ghostbuster when you need one?

Michael Jackson Died Last Week

2009-06-30T06:03:00.000-07:00

Michael Jackson died last week. Before that, Farrah Fawcett and Ed McMahon passed. And afterwards, Billy Mayes, the television pitchman for thousands of products, went to sleep and never woke up. Meanwhile, the government in Iran issued harsh repurcussions against protesters who took to the streets following the "re-election" of the much-reviled Ahmadinejad. Bernie Madoff got 150 years for relieving investors of hundreds of millions of dollars in a Ponzi scheme that spanned decades. And the Supreme Court ruled in favor of white, New Haven firefighters who claimed that they were victims of reverse discrimination after being denied promotions based on a test that they passed and African Americans failed. Uh, what? You pass a promotions exam and aren't promoted because you passed the test and somebody else doesn't? Good for the Supreme Court for showing some balls. There is still racism in this country but it works both ways. Things are still far from equal but cheating people out of well-deserved promotions to satisfy appearances or a sense of political correctness only intensifies misunderstandings and anger, while widening the racial gap. The new nominee to the Supreme Court, Sonia Sotameyer, was one of the original judges ruling against the firefighters in the lower courts. I think that, if elected to the Supreme Court, she'll interpret the law based on her personal experiences, and while she'll undoubtedly try and be impartial, I just don't believe she's the right person for the job. But, I hope that a suitable replacement is found soon, and that he or she is more open-minded than some of the justices currently serving (ummm, like maybe Scalia), regardless of race or gender.

The rain has temporarily stopped and I am ending this rambling missive and going to the gym.

The State of the Onion

2009-06-18T14:19:00.000-07:00

1) As trumpeted in last night's ABC evening news, PETA is up in arms because President Obama killed a fly during a televised interview yesterday.

2) The media is working overtime because Kate Gosselin (of Jon & Kate) was seen spanking one of her kids in public.

3) The Sarah Palin/David Letterman smackdown is getting as much press coverage as the demonstrations in Iran.

And you think I'm crazy?

Speidi's and Snakes

2009-06-17T09:32:00.001-07:00

Yes, I know, I suck. I swore that I'd be better at posting to this blog and that was back in March. Haven't been back here since then. So, to get everyone up to speed, the cat died, my dog died, I had a camera capsule stuck in my ass (okay, somewhere in my small intestine) for eight weeks until it mysteriously vanished on the day a brand new procedure was about to be performed in an effort to remove it, the theater is having summer down-time so I'm currently unemployed, I have an elusive bleed somewhere in my body that medical science has so far been unable to identify, co-payments on medical bills are flooding in and I'm going to need a federal bail-out just to cover the expenses, and oh yes, things between the partner and myself have gotten mighty dicey (read: unbearable) lately. So, excuse me if I've been a little preoccupied. I realize that I'm lucky that I have food on the table and a roof over my head and that I haven't yet slipped into some sort of health-crisis death-mode oblivion, but cut me some slack okay? I'm not feelin' the love so I'm a little bit edgy. Deal with it.

In other news, I do have a new web page on an online site: http://www.examiner.com/x-13657-West-Palm-Beach-Indie-Film-Examiner. I'm pretty excited about this since it seems to generate a little more traffic than this blog does.

Lately I've found myself watching stuff on TV that I never dreamed I'd be watching. Like "Make Me a Supermodel", for instance. But even that seems like "Masterpiece Theater" compared to "John and Kate + Eight" and "I'm a Celebrity, Get Me the Fuck Out of Here!". Alright, I only saw a couple of minutes of "Celebrity" but those two minutes with Spencer Pratt and Heidi Montag could have been spent more productively if I'd, oh I don't know, poked out my eyes with a butter knife. Jesus, what a pair of talentless, thankless non-entities. They are not celebrities. Jon and Kate, on the other hand, seem like Brad and Angelina by comparison. Okay, that's a stretch, I know that. How about we substitute the Pitt's with the Flintstones. That any better? Jon does bear a passing resemblence to Fred, especially now that he's gotten his hair plugs. Poor clueless Kate. I wonder if Jon's really screwing around on her? I wonder why I even care? Then there's "Expedition: Africa" on the History Channel, which I either really love or really hate, I haven't quite made up my mind yet. The lone woman on the expedition was tooling around out in the bush taking a piss one morning and a cobra sidled over near her, reared up, and spat at the camera, leaving a shmear of viscous, oozing snake poison on the lens. Urrrggghhhhh!

What's really bugging me this week is the recent election in Iran, which was undoubtedly fixed. I mean, I was sure that it would be. Now those poor Iranians have to put up with that imbecilic lunatic Ahmadinejad for four more years, or however the hell long his term is going to last. Is he a little bit like the Peter Sellers character in "Being There", where certain people mistake his idiocyncracies for genius? And oh boy, North Korea. They're threatening to go nuclear in a big way if we keep pissing them off. Do they really think that cutting their nose off to spite their face is going to improve the situation? Maybe we could just send over Spencer and Heidi (Speidi) in exchange for Laura Ling and Euna Lee. There'd be no more threats of a nuclear holocaust because Speidi would bore them all to death.

That's probably going to be it for today. I'm uncommonly bitchy and am going to set off to the kitchen in search of food. Perhaps I'll return tomorrow, or later this week, or I might just run away to Dublin and learn to twirl the fire baton. See you in church.

Steves Can't Dance

2009-03-25T04:42:00.001-07:00

The two Steves lived to shlepp another day on last night's "Dancing With the Stars" while former Bond girl, Denise Richards, was sent packing, in another dubious, viewer-induced outcome that further sank the show to the level of "America's Funniest Home Videos", host Tom Bergeron's other cringe-worthy turd-blossom of a project. To be fair, both Steves sustained dancing injuries in recent weeks, but their antics, while amusing at first, have quickly become yawn inducing, unfunny, and unwatchable. Denise Richards and last weeks castoff, Belinda Carlisle, can dance circles around these guys; the Steves even make last season's beloved Cloris Leachman look like Cyd Charisse on the dance floor. To be honest, I don't know why I'm complaining. I don't even like this show, but somehow I've gotten suckered into watching it, season after season. And who are the "voters" anyway, the ones who keep bringing back the likes of Steve Wosniak and Steve-O? One senses that they're the same people who made Seth Rogen a star, and worship at the shrine of frat boy smirkiness and mediocrity. So far, that naked shower guy from the "Sex and the City" movie is holding up in the number one position, and I hope he wins. He's hot, he's graceful, and he can actually dance.

Last night was also the final night of the "Jeopardy" championship and it was a nail-biter, as smarmy, know-it-all Larissa seemed poised to polish the floor with deadpan Dan and personable Aaron. As they headed into Final Jeopardy, Alex Trebek pursed his lips and asked which British king was the last of the same name NOT to be born on foreign soil--or something like that, it just flew over my head. Aaron correctly guessed that George was the answer, confirmed by Alex as "George II". Then, Dan prepared to show us his answer, and in my mind I was chainsmoking because that look on his face was not promising, and yet "George" popped up on his little screen, so I breathed a sigh of relief. "And how much did you wager, Dan?" Alex asked, as Dan revealed that he had wagered only $7,000, when he should have bet it all (something like $16,000) to come close to beating Larissa, who undoubtedly had the answer and wouldn't balk at betting everything (over $20,000). But somehow, Larissa didn't know the answer, and she hadn't bet everything (good thing for her), and Dan wound up winning the Jeopardy trophy and $250,000. Which all should have made me very happy, except that Larissa looked so downcast and like she was about to cry at any moment, so that any joy I would have savored was lost in an inexplicable wave of sympathy for a contestant that I had come to despise. Go figure.

And, of course, I saw bits and pieces of President Obama's press conference, and you know, I realize that reporters have to ask tough questions, and I realize that we are in desperate times, what with the robber barons and their sinking of our economy, the conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan, not to mention the brewing, festering, nasty cauldron of ill will certain Republicans are generating as they attempt to derail this young administration at every turn. And what about the atrocities happening right next door in Mexico, threatening at any moment to spill over into our own living rooms here in the USA? But, for god's sake, the President has been in office for 64 fucking days, do you hear that CNN, Wall Street Journal, Fox News Network, Republican pundits and senators? That's sixty-four fucking days. Say it aloud. Give him time. Stop being so pessimistic and overzealous and goddamned partisan. If you're truly concerned about the future of the country and not just posing and playing to a dwindling audience, give the President and his people time, cooperation, and a little bit of fucking respect. It's been said a million times, but face it, it did take Bush and his "team" slightly longer than 64 days to fuck things up royally, and he was actually given quite a lot of leeway in the first few years of his reign, thanks to 9/11.

I just read the comment from my friend, John, in Oklahoma City, that linked to a blog revealing that gay-baiting hatemonger Anita Bryant and her husband have set up offices in OKC's Bricktown district. Well, unfortunately that doesn't surprise me. As I've said before, Oklahoma provides the perfect environment for the cheerleaders of hate to thrive, and Bryant, being far too long out of the public eye (and having failed in her career), appears to have come home to rejuvenate her campaign against the gay community. I'm just not sure how much longer Bryant and her ilk will be successful. I sense a change coming in Oklahoma, even though it is late, and even though it is coming on the heels of greater change elsewhere. Anita Bryant gives a very public face to the foe that has demonized and attempted to destroy gays throughout recent history, and like the battle Bryant waged in Florida in the 1970's, it will almost surely play out again in Oklahoma in the 2000's. I hope that the gay community in Oklahoma is cohesive enough and strong enough to defeat Bryant and her many allies (a formidable presence represented by the numerous politico-religious groups ingrained in Oklahoma lawmaking). Oh, and just for the record, to anyone not familiar with J.C. Watts, former OU football star, Repub House flunkie, and aspiring Oklahoma governor: yes, he's African-American, but, make no mistake, he has more in common with GW Bush than he does with Barack Obama, and I include IQ in that assessment. Think about it.

Ramblings From a Slow Monday

2009-03-02T08:42:00.001-08:00

As I've often told friends through the years, I am the world's worst correspondent, which should explain why I have so recklessly neglected my blog for the past couple of months. It's not (a) that I don't have anything to say, or (b) that I'm flat out lazy these days when it comes to writing. Okay, (a) maybe I don't, and (b) maybe I am, but I am pledging, right here, right now, to do better. Honest. No more excuses.

So, what I have been doing for the last couple of months, in addition to not writing on my blog, is not working on my screenplays. The studly, sex-filled epic has stalled out after the fourth draft, so I've had to set that aside for the time being, until I can think of a way to rework it to my satisfaction. The other, about a young mother in peril during the Dust Bowl days in the Oklahoma/Texas Panhandle is in better shape, although completion of the third draft has not been forthcoming.

In essence, life has been happening and I have not deigned to spend time focusing on the things that I should be focusing on. Recently, my sister casually mentioned that she has ADD, a term that I immediately latched onto as the source of my own lack of focus. Of course, it isn't that, not in my case, anyway. It's never that simple, is it? There seems to be a lack of interest lately in the things that I've always loved doing, a general dissatisfaction encompassing everything, a feeling that I'm not where I thought I'd be when I reached this stage of my life. And in all honesty, that's probably the crux of it, the root of the problem, the knowledge that a large part of my life has passed by and I've lived it, even embraced some of it, without really ever understanding it or trying to make it count for something. And now that I'm here, at this certain place in my life, there's this underlying, paralyzing terror, this little voice screaming: What the fuck am I going to do now? Because, you know, it's a little late for me to be pondering what the fuck I'm going to do when I grow up. I'm there, at least in the sense that I'm no longer a kid; but I seem to have grown older without having really grown up. Which really sucks. The only thing I can think of to do is to move forward--I'm going to continue growing older anyway unless, of course, I die, so I'd really like to shake off this creative paralysis and get on with my professional life, and eventually achieve the American Dream. Okay, maybe not achieve the American Dream in terms of having a big house with a white picket fence, and 2.5 kids (how the fuck do they do that, anyway?), but that may not be the standard for American Dreamers anymore. At any rate, I've got to escape this inertia and just get on with it.

The above rambling aside, we went to see the film "Taken" over the weekend. Luc Besson was one of the writers so I expected there to be a lot of action, and I wasn't disappointed. "Taken" is immensely entertaining and instantly forgettable hogwash that, due to the talent involved, is classier and more involving than many films of its ilk. Liam Neeson is cast as the stalwart hero, a former CIA agent whose teenaged daughter (Maggie Grace) is kidnapped by Albanian thugs while on vacation in Paris. Once Neeson is on the bad guys' trail, he becomes a single-minded, deadly nemesis who will stop at nothing to secure the release of his daughter. It's all shaky camerawork filmed in hypervision (ala "The Bourne Ultimatum") an indication that the cameramen need to be in better physical shape than the actors. Neeson's a good performer, but "Taken" does little to stretch his acting chops, or enhance his resume; on the other hand, it's a perfectly respectable, by-the-numbers thriller that he needn't cringe at when the film pops up on TNT--which it inevitably will.

There's a play at the Caldwell Theatre (where I'm working part-time) called "Dangerous". It's a complete reworking of "Dangerous Liasons", with many (but not all) of the female roles rewritten as males, and set in Weimar Germany, as the Nazis are gaining a foothold. Michael McKeever, a local playwright, wrote the play and has done a fascinating job. "Dangerous" is funny, scary, suspenseful, heart-wrenching, and thought-provoking. There's also full frontal nudity (both male and female) and simulated sex, which always works for me (except in real life, where I'd prefer sex to be unsimulated if possible). Wynn Harmon, a great guy who recently played David Frost in the theater's recent production of "Frost/Nixon" is back on hand as one of the few genuinely nice characters in "Dangerous". A New York actor named David Rudd plays a cad named Alec, the sexual centerpiece of the show, and he's all that and then some! There's a sort of dominant sexuality that he projects that seems to leave his co-stars (and many audience members) woozy with desire. He's a fine actor, too! Actually, there's not a bad performance from any of the cast, and it's well worth the drive up to Boca to see it.

I flew out to visit my family a couple of weeks ago, and spent ten days in the Oklahoma Panhandle area. During that brief time, I was able to experience the gamut of all the unseemly weather that Oklahoma has to offer: tornadoes, hailstorms, dust storms, heat, and frigid cold. Weatherwise, Oklahoma is never boring. And I'll say this: if it weren't for an excruciatingly backasswards political climate there that fosters religious nutwings and high ranking government officials who espouse such "family values" as hate, intolerance, and plain, old ignorance for the masses, I wouldn't mind moving back. I adore being around my family, and miss them terribly, and I also miss the high plains desert surrounding their little town, the spectacular sunsets, and even the alarming weather changes. Alas, until the State of Oklahoma drums out the hatemongers, understands the wisdom of separating church from state, and hauls its ungainly self into the 21st Century--or at least the 20th--I'll have to settle for all-too-infrequent visits.

And, on a final note, speaking of hatemongers, I have two words: Rush Limbaugh. Somebody please take his fat, ugly ass out behind the barn and beat the shit out of him, will you? Please. Somebody? Anybody?

The Phantom of Rat Bohemia: From My Amazon Review of Dario Argento's "Phantom of the Opera"

2009-01-05T15:18:00.000-08:00

Good gawd almighty! That was my first reaction once I'd finished watching Italian horror maestro, Dario Argento's version of the oft-filmed "Phantom of the Opera". I think it's safe to say that there's never been another "Phantom" quite like it. It starts out as a sort of twisted variation on the Tarzan legend, with an abandoned baby in a foreign environment being rescued and raised by the resident wildlife. As most people know, with Tarzan it was apes who did the child-rearing. But it may come as something of a surprise to learn that with the Opera Phantom, it was, er, um, rats who did the parenting. At least according to Argento. Which begs any number of questions, none the least of which are: how did the rats nourish and feed the baby, change his diapers, bathe him, teach him to speak English, and play the piano, for crying out loud? Of course, the rats are telepathic, as is the Phantom, so I guess that could explain it. However, that's only the beginning of a film that goes so far over-the-top that I suspect it's still in orbit.

The gore and violence, a staple of most Argento films, are present, but not in the abundance that might be expected; there's a decapitation and a tongue being ripped out, in a grotesque parody of a French kiss, and a few more nasty deaths but, all things considered, it could have been worse. What's not a staple of Argento films is the graphic sex and nudity, (which I'm normally fine with) that includes a bordello scene in which the Phantom's nemesis, Raoul, lies on a chaise lounge, wrapped only in a towel, sucking on a hookah, while surrounded by a phalanx of nightmarish, Fellini-esque characters, all naked and looking like they stopped by the baths enroute to a "Night of the Living Dead" shoot. When a frisky prostitute takes a nose dive beneath Raoul's towel, he's not pleased--he's saving himself for heroine, Christine--and he shoves her away, with no little show of force. There are two vile, yet somehow Disneyesque ratcatchers, who tool around the sewers beneath the opera house in what looks like a modified dune buggy that snatches up rats and...oh, don't ask. At about the time that the Phantom unbuttoned his shirt and let some of the more amorous rats run across his chest and nipples, I started getting bug-eyed. When he got excited and began undoing his pants to allow them access to his manly business, my hair was standing on end. At that moment, I knew that this movie had gone so far over the mark that it wasn't ever coming back. And yet, I found myself hoping that these sex partner-rats weren't the Phantom's mum and dad, because that would be just...eeeeuuuuwwwww. And then, of course, a little voice rose within me and said they're rats, idiot!

Aside from the rats, there are some pretty good performances, believe it or not. Julian Sands is appropriately weird as the murderous, yet romantic, Phantom of the Opera. I was disturbed that he didn't wear a mask (disfigured or not) but his long, stringy, greasy hair was fairly eerie in itself. As demonstrated in earlier efforts such as "Warlock", Sands is adept at playing haughty, mysterious creeps who are vaguely aristocratic and mostly evil. I think if he had portrayed Lestat in "Interview With the Vampire" (reportedly Anne Rice's original intention), it would have been an entirely different movie; there's a certain sexual ambiguity that Sands projects onscreen that would have been entirely suited to that character (and which Tom Cruise didn't have). Plus, he looks good naked. He'd have made a perfect "Dorian Grey", as well. Argento's daughter, Asia, assays the role of Christine, the sopranic understudy who becomes the object of the titular character's affections. Asia Argento doesn't seem to be sleepwalking so much here as she has in other of her father's films. She's a lively and passionate heroine who is confused by the two men vying for her charms. That she beds down with the Phantom on more than one occasion, further muddles the poor girl. These scenes could have had a genuine erotic power (Argento looks good naked, too) and they are well filmed, but I just kept thinking of what the randy Phantom had been up to with the rats in his pants and...oh brother, I just hope he showered before joining Ms. Argento in bed. As rival, Raoul, Andrea di Stefano looks a little like Prince in "Purple Rain" (only with long, stringy hair--what is it with these guys?)--he's brave, but seemingly addled (perhaps by too much toking on the hookah); by the time, he attempts to save the day, he's moving at a snail's pace through the tunnels beneath the Paris Opera House, looking debauched and disheveled and almost as crazed as the Phantom.

Basically a remake (or re-imagining) of Argento's much better "Opera", "Phantom" is a freaky, beautifully filmed head trip that, in spite of its many difficulties and ludicrous plot developments, has a certain queasy charm that will definitely not appeal to all. Dario Argento is an imaginative creative genius who seems incapable of being reigned in, but what would he be otherwise? I sort of like him like this.

From My Amazon Review of "Doubt"

2008-12-29T08:13:00.000-08:00

A Hard Habit to Break

In "The Devil Wears Prada", Meryl Streep armored herself in an icily glamorous veneer and struck terror into the hearts of subordinates with a deadly combination of haughty contempt and soft-spoken venom. Her turn as an Anna Wintour-ish magazine editor was funny, yet subtle, never succumbing to over-the-top theatrics that would have propelled the performance into caricature. As the formidable Sister Aloysius in John Patrick Shanley's new film version of his Broadway hit, "Doubt", Streep again assays the role of an unlikable character, this time with a terrifying earnestness that eschews subtlety for the ferocious passion of a woman for her beliefs.

Set in an urban Catholic school circa 1964, "Doubt" unfolds in a rapidly changing America that many aren't yet ready to embrace. The Kennedy assassination is still fresh in everyone's minds, and the civil rights movement has resulted in the enrollment of the first black student in the Italian-Irish parish school. The parish priest, a forward-thinking and open-minded (relative) newcomer, is destined to clash with the school's principal, an old-school, fire-breathing dragon of a nun. When a question of priestly impropriety with the black student arises, all hell breaks loose, as Sister Aloysius jumps at the opportunity to rid her world of a man whom she clearly considers unworthy of wearing the robes of the priesthood. Whether her certainty of the priest's guilt is a manifestation of her dislike for the man, or a show of genuine concern for the welfare of the young student, becomes a point of contention between Sister Aloysius and the younger, sweet-natured Sister James who, naively, started the ball rolling in the first place. As Sister Aloysius relentlessly presses on with her unofficial (and unsanctioned) witch hunt, the filmmakers play on the audience's doubts, not only about the nun's motivations, but whether or not the priest actually engaged in an improper relationship with the boy.

As already noted, Meryl Streep's Sister Aloysius is a force to be reckoned with. A black clad harpy who eats nails for breakfast and has acid for blood, she's a likely descendant of Vincent Price's witchfinder general in "The Conqueror Worm". Utterly humorless, Sister Aloysius inhabits an archaic world in which everything can be viewed as either black or white, right or wrong. There are no grey areas and, thus, no room for doubt. That the times are changing is not lost on Sister Aloysius and, with her stern, strident face and quick, huffy mannerisms, the frustration is evident, even as she tries to enforce her sense of normalcy and values---her draconian Catholicism--on an institution that she fears will soon find her obsolete. It is not just the boy's welfare that is at stake, nor that of the priest, nor even the Catholic Church---it is the future of Sister Aloysius, herself, that hinges on evicting the interloper and his near-blasphemous (in her mind) ideas of progress and forward movement (thus calling into question the Sister's own authority). But just when think you've had enough and are secretly hoping that the priest, Father Flynn, will throw this merciless, headstrong woman out of a window, the actress gives us something--a gesture, a look, a tone--to remind us that Sister Aloysius is not invulnerable, that she is a real person who, behind the corporeal severity, is afraid and all-too-human.

Meryl Streep has long been regarded as one of the world's premier film actresses. There's a reason for that, and it's on display right here in this film. She has always had the ability to totally inhabit the characters that she's portraying, but in "Doubt", she goes a step further, causing me to momentarily forget that I was watching Meryl Streep giving a performance. For the duration of the film, she actually was Sister Aloysius. She's such a good actress that it's almost impossible to imagine her leaving the set to drive one of her kids to soccer practice. Or going home to prepare dinner. She's uncannily, impossibly, almost inhumanly good, and her performance in this film reminded me, once again, of what a spectacular talent she is.

For all of five minutes, Streep is nearly matched in the acting department by Viola Davis, a little-heralded actress who excels (all-too briefly) as the mother of the alleged victim. The scene where she and Streep walk along a sidewalk, discussing the implications of what the Sister is suggesting, and the subsequent reaction of the child's mother, is shattering. It is completely moving, without ever seeming maudlin or manipulative, the way plays-to-movies sometimes are.

As Father Flynn, Philip Seymour Hoffman does a fine job of bringing to life a conflicted, ambitious priest who wishes only to connect with the larger community and make the Church more inclusive, less intimidating. Being parish priest, Father Flynn occupies a loftier position than Sister Aloysius (demonstrated when he casually takes over her desk during meetings), but to her, he clearly occupies a lower moral plain: he smokes, he laughs and jokes with the students, he uses sugar in his tea---it's not a great leap from there to child molesting in Sister Aloysius' mind. On the surface, Hoffman's Father Flynn is a sincere, genial character, but as with other Hoffman roles, there's something edgier (and possibly a little perverse) going on underneath; in "Doubt", the question of guilt is never proven, and yet the ambiguity of Hoffman's performance causes doubts to remain long after the movie is over.

As Sister James, the true moral center of the story, Amy Adams is (as usual) luminous, even without makeup, and brings a convincing emotional depth to her character. Initially suspecting some sort of impropriety between Father Flynn and his pupil, Sister James almost immediately comes to regret her decision to confide in Sister Aloysius. An immensely watchable actress, Adams seems to be branching out and testing her mettle in more serious pieces of work, after a string of frothy, feel-good films of varying quality.

In shifting his Broadway success from stage to screen, director Shanley does an admirable job of making a smooth transition; I never got the impression that I was watching a filmed play, and the (roughly) 105 minute running time flew by so quickly that I'm not sure I ever blinked. Sitting in an audience composed largely of senior citizens, I noticed that not one of them got up to go to the bathroom during the movie, so that alone, speaks volumes.

Consumerism Runs Amok: Death at Wal-Mart

2008-12-01T11:23:00.000-08:00

While the news was awash, last week, with reports of the terrorist attacks in Mumbai, an equally disturbing atrocity was being perpetrated much closer to home: in the suburban, decidedly non-exotic, seemingly safe confines of a Long Island Wal-Mart store, to be precise. On the day following Thanksgiving, aka Black Friday among bargain-hunting shoppers and merchants alike, a herd of animalistic, frenzied, sorry excuses for human beings descended upon temporary Wal-Mart employee, Jdimytai Damour, who was trying to maintain some sense of order and calm in the early morning rush. These miscreants proceeded to stomp and trample the man to death within a matter of minutes, injuring even those who attempted to come to the aid of the dying employee. They then went on to shop, as if nothing was amiss, as if running over and trampling another human being was just another obstacle to overcome in the bloodthirsty quest for, of all things, Christmas bargains. Keep in mind that the people responsible for this are not terrorists, either of the homegrown or of the foreign variety. They are suburban dads, soccer moms, congregants of various churches and synagogues, members of local benevolent organizations that collect money for the poor and needy. They are parents who probably have a son or a daughter in school with your own kids, someone you have sat next to at a football game, gossiped in line with at the supermarket, had coffee with at a nearby diner, or attempted to outbid at a weekend garage sale. They wear the friendly faces of the people next door, but behind the masks, lie savage, thoughtless monsters, more devious and diabolical than anything out of a fifties sci-fi flick. Whoa, what the fuck are you talking about? My neighbors are pod people? Can that assessment possibly be right?

Because we know these people, how do we reconcile what we know with their inexcusable and horrifying actions? How do we make it make sense? Maybe if it were the actions of two or three, then we might, somehow, fathom the events that transpired in that Long Island Wal-Mart on that blackest of Black Friday mornings. But this was not a handful of people responsible for an inhumanly bleak tragedy; this was a crowd estimated to number somewhere around two thousand, and the herd mentality that day was a monstrous thing, indeed. Was there no one in that crowd capable of displaying the most basic acts of decency and human dignity, and helping that man? When did mankinds most basic instinct become bargain shopping?

This is a disgusting, seriously sick incident that I don't think bodes well for our future. It reflects the irrationality, the barely contained hysteria and rage lurking just below the surface whenever a feeling, thinking individual, in essence, gives up his soul, however temporarily, to become part of some larger entity, something sub-human that expands the most mundane and fragmented of annoyances into an intolerable thing that must be removed or destroyed. It reflects badly on all of us, as human beings, because it's something that could as easily have happened in Florida, or a dozen other places throughout the United States alone. And just because there are other cities or states in this country where I don't believe that an incident like this could have happened, the citizens of those places have proven to be just as capable, with their violent pasts and herd mentality, of acting with equal heartlessness and self-serving savagery that have resulted in lynch mobs, soccer-game riots, legalized discrimination, and the denials of equal rights to those deemed to be, somehow, different. There's actually a name for this in science fiction: it's called the Hive Mentality, except in sci-fi, the members of the group are specifically committed to performing in every way to benefit the Hive. In real life, it's not quite like that, is it? I mean, the group behaves as one raging, out-of-control, perfectly insane entity, but its members, for the most part, aren't acting out of anything but self-interest. But, no matter what the extent of the damage is, there will always be excuses and explanations exonerating the group itself. Fingers will be pointed at a few disturbed, overly excited, highly agitated, deeply remorseful--take your pick--individuals; charges may be brought against them--or not. There could be community service, there's even the extremely remote chance of a jail sentence, which will, undoubtedly, be overturned through the efforts of overpaid, overzealous defense attorneys arguing (correctly) that one or two people can't be singled out for punishment when there was clearly an entire group responsible for the death at Wal-Mart. This is a case that I don't believe can ever be fully prosecuted. To be sure, everyone who stepped on that man in Wal-Mart should be tried for second-degree murder, but we know that that's not going to happen.

Which leaves me to wonder. What happened when the group ceased to function as one, when the shoppers retired to their respective and respectable suburban homes, their suburban lives, when they picked up their collective children from their tidy, suburban schools? Was there any guilt or remorse? Did any of them, even for an instant, ponder turning themselves in to the Nassau County Police Department? When these people were separated from their unfeeling, uncaring group, did their sense of humanity return? When their children unwrap their gifts this holiday season, I wonder if these parents will reflect on the true price of this year's happiness. As they watch their shiny-eyed offspring joyously admiring their new acquisitions, will it even occur to them that Josh's X-Box or Amanda's I-Phone cost Jdimytai Damour his life? Is this symptomatic of the moral code that we are passing on to our children, or is it something more complex, something indefineable that happens when something takes on a life of its own, governed by the overriding two words that define its very existence and propel every action performed by all its members: I WANT! Seemingly benign two words that have given rise to every evil, calculated and not, throughout history: I WANT!

Make no mistake about it, Jdimytai Damour was sacrificed on the altar of the reigning gods of American culture: greed and selfishness. Almost certainly, it was not a pre-determined act of violence and yet it seems almost comparable to the blood sacrifices early heathens used to make to their god, Baal, and early Christians made to satiate their own bloodthirsty god. This season makes it all the more ironic, but I usually like to reserve irony for humorous references, and this is anything but that. I have many questions, but very few answers as to how and why this happened. I only know that this man's death diminishes us, both as Americans, and as human beings, and that each and everyone responsible should come forward and confess their actions to the authorities. Maybe by acknowledging their wrongdoing, they can publicly atone for their actions by displaying that they do, indeed, have some remorse, and, thus, some shred of humanity that, by all accounts, separates us from the animals. That would certainly offer some hope to all of us, especially during a time of terrorism and widespread narcissism, and during a season that, for many, seems increasingly hopeless.

My Amazon DVD Review: "Flesh for Frankenstein", November 26, 2008

2008-12-01T07:09:00.000-08:00

Little Joe and the Frankenstein Saga

Moving at a sometimes glacial pace, Paul Morrisey's 1973 trash-art classic, "Flesh for Frankenstein" is, nevertheless, a beautifully filmed and elegantly turned out psychodrama that is in equal parts, horror film and satire. In this restored version (originally for inclusion in the esteemed Criterion Collection), the movie is so gorgeous to look at that even the excessive gore has an artistic sheen; it's as if a Renaissance painter tackled the Frankenstein legend via a charnel house.

Warhol protege' Paul Morrisey made his first (sort of) big-budget feature directing this film, and, truth be told, he manages to outshine his mentor, at least in terms of moviemaking. Filmed on locations in Europe, "Flesh for Frankenstein" evokes other Italian films of the period, while, none-too-faithfully, referencing Mary Shelley's source novel. As stated, the movie is extremely gory (some might say "exquisitely", because of the aesthetic quality of the scenes), although it is never sufficiently frightening to qualify as genuinely scary.

Dependable Euro-standby, Udo Kier (who is still going strong in movies almost forty years later), delivers a campy, over-the-top performance as Baron Frankenstein, a creepy, castle-dwelling mad doctor who lives with his sexually frustrated wife/sister (Monique van Vooren) and their two strange, pre-teen offspring. While Kier is busy stitching together body parts with henchman Arno Juering, and plotting to rule the world, the wife/sister is shacking up with Warhol superstar, Joe Dallesandro, cast as the local handyman/stud whose inexplicable New York accent is jarringly out of tune with the European accents of the other actors. This is, somehow, not terribly detrimental to the film as it adds yet another endearingly loony level of camp to this already insane sideshow. Following some gruesome starts and stops, the mad doctor comes up with a female creature (played by the ravishing Dalila di Lazzaro), whom he immediately proceeds to sexually fetishize in scenes that must be viewed to be believed. Meanwhile, studly Joe and his chaste (and probably gay) sidekick (played by the equally ravishing Srdjan Zelenovic) visit a local brothel where the horrified younger man opts to wait outside while Joe does the deed with a pair of bosomy damsels. Unfortunately, the young man runs afoul of the Baron and his assistant, losing his head, before Joe finally hitches up his studly breeches and realizes that a murderer is afoot. It's not long before the young friend is transformed into the male monster, but the mad doctor's plans go awry when he realizes that his male creation isn't the least bit interested in climbing aboard his female counterpart, and thus thwarting Frankenstein's plans to create a superior race from the two.

In addition to the graphic gore, there's a lot of nudity (mostly female) and simulated sex, and the ending is truly a spectacular grand guignol with internal organs and body parts aplenty strewn across the screen. Not for the squeamish or faint-hearted, the movie has a fair amount of humor, which makes up for the lack of suspense and the occasionally stumbling narrative.

When Sleeping Dogs Wake

2008-11-11T12:44:00.001-08:00

When I arrived at my doctor's office this morning, I walked into a waiting room so jam-packed with gay men that, for a brief moment, I thought I'd stumbled into a time warp and found myself returned to Sunday Tea Dance at the Sea Monster. But then again, the whole day has had that sort of "Twilight Zone"-ish feel to it. I awoke in a foggy shmear this morning, stumbled out of bed and into the shower, where I tried, without much success, to wash the weariness away. At least I smelled good when I climbed into the van and headed for my tri-monthly bloodletting at the medical lab (conveniently located inside my doctor's office). After fighting my way through an interminable brigade of heavy traffic, I made the eight mile drive to the doctor's office in 35 minutes. Luckily, as soon as I entered, a man was called back to see the doctor, and I was able to grab his seat before anyone else could react. Apparently, my reflexes were working better than I'd imagined. After determining that I hadn't been previously acquainted with any of the waiters in the waiting room, I thumbed through a copy of the Advocate. Suddenly, the door opened and a vaguely familiar figure entered the office and walked to the reception desk. He spoke his name in a loud, clear voice and I stopped reading. Surely, that name was ringing big time bells, but what...when...where? And, soon enough, it came to me, and the comparison to the Sea Monster seemed like a premonition that I should have heeded. He had put on a few pounds, in muscular bulk, not fat, had grown a neatly trimmed beard, he had a few more wrinkles, and had his hair colored the same unlikely shade of dark brown that I remembered from before, but--it was, indeed, the man with whom I had a history that was not something I looked upon with much fondness. I'd often wondered what had become of him. It had been six long years since we'd last seen one another, or by mutual consent, even spoken. And here he was. Still mortified by several unfortunate incidents that cut brief what had looked to be a promising series of one-night stands, I buried my face behind the Advocate and prayed that my name would soon be called to come back to the lab. And, indeed, a name was called, but it wasn't mine, so I peeked surreptitiously over the Advocate and watched the man approach the seat that had just been vacated, right next to mine! Holy Mary, Mother of God, I thought, get me out of this mess! You see, our history, and the memories thereof, do not serve me well to this day, and I thought I'd die if he said anything at all to me. He could have said hello, and I'd have fallen flat on the floor from horror and shame.

To make a long story short, and to eliminate some of the messier details, we had a monumentally fantastic first encounter one night when he picked me up at the Ft. Lauderdale Eagle, which, thanks to the homophobic, piece-of-shit mayor of Ft. Lauderdale, has moved on to provide a more incognito-like, private membership service in an inconspicuous location in Pompano Beach. At any rate, we had a really good time, but then, it was a given that we were both taking a walk on the wild side and not inclined to attach any romantic expectations on the situation. A few days later, we arranged for another rendezvous at his apartment. Suffice it to say that the action was a lot of steamy fun until it got rather out of hand and his uber-expensive comforter became a repository of all manner of accoutrements and bodily fluids that I managed to upend. He was clearly not pleased but tried to put on a game face. However, the fun was finished. We went ahead and had lunch at a local eatery, after which I expected never to see him again. BUT...he apparently had some silly notion of chivalry. I'd arranged for him and several of his friends to have front row seats to a performance of "Mamma Mia" (on its first of many subsequent go-rounds in Ft. Lauderdale) and he insisted that I accompany them. So, to break the ice, we got really stoned, had dinner at a Thai restaurant in Wilton Manors, and attended the show--which was, of course, a lot of fun--especially for two stoned queens. Expecting to be taken home, I was, instead, taken back to his apartment, where it soon became evident that his chivalry was not going to extend as far as he'd hoped. If we'd had a crane, he wouldn't have been able to get that big boy to rise. Feeling a bit chivalrous myself (and stoned again, to boot), I offered to top him to see if that might make things better. He quickly ix-nayed my offer, saying he was simply too fucked up to get it up. However, I was pretty sure that the horrific memories of our last encounter was still lurking not far below his way-too-pretty surface. So I slunk home, thinking that was that, and glad that things didn't end too badly. I mean, we hardly knew each other, really, but still, I hate it when you wind up being on bad terms with someone you barely even know. We had a lot in common, after all, and there could have been a decent friendship come out of it. Could have been. If I hadn't been hanging on to a deep sense of humiliation and content never to see the man again. However, the Fates, as is so often the case, were not kind.

I was at the Sea Monster one night, tagging along with my then-roommate, who was only marginally less drunk than I. At some point, a man walked up to me, got right in my face, and accused me of fucking his boyfriend. I was appalled and declared that I didn't know what he was talking about. When he mentioned the name of the man from the above paragraph, my face must have immediately registered, oh yeah, hiiiimmmmmm. And then, thwack! He slapped me right across the face, the same way that Faye Dunaway/Joan Crawford slapped Diana Scarwid/Christina Crawford in "Mommy Dearest". At that moment, my eyes flew open with such fury that the doors of the club simply must have slammed shut as the fire hoses unwound themselves and prepared to hose down the unrepentant mischief-makers a la "Carrie". I flung myself onto the unfortunate drunkard and down we went, with me pummeling him in the sodden heap we'd become. Immediately, two burly arms wrapped around me, dragging me off the man, lifting me off the floor, and carrying me out the door, where I was deposited rather gingerly, all things considered, on the stoop by the bouncer, who told me to go home. I won't delve further into the events that followed. Let's just say that the police were involved, profanities were exchanged, guns were drawn, and it was only due to the intervention of my now-sober roommate that I wasn't carted off to the hoosegow.

I don't know exactly when my "friend" was informed of my fisticuffs with his "boyfriend" (not), but it didn't take long for the gossip to make the rounds. He called me to explain that the guy was crazy and that they weren't lovers. Oh yes, and to ask if I could meet him at the softball tournaments on the following Sunday. Well, being the ass that I sometimes am, I figured that he just wanted to have a friendly chat and, perhaps, buy me a hot dog or something (which was probably the case), so I didn't think much about it when I went out the Saturday night prior and engaged in some unsavory (but very satisfactory) activities that left me profoundly relieved and with a neck covered in hickies! I managed to drag myself home at 11:00 a.m. on that Sunday, showered, and was at the softball field by 12:00. I still didn't think that this was going to be much of anything, so I didn't make any efforts to hide the hickies. It wouldn't have done much good, anyhow, since it looked like all the Brides of Dracula had feasted long and hard on my neck. Yet, when he finally walked over, his smile quickly evaporated in... shock? ...horror? disgust? I'll never know. He said a few curt, pseudo-friendly words and was off with his friends. And, at that moment, I felt, once again, totally humiliated in his presence. And I vowed, then and there, that that would be the last time. And it was. That was the last time I saw him. Until today.

As I sat in my chair in the waiting room of the doctor's office, trying to somehow fold the magazine over my face, I could feel his eyes on me. In fact, I gave a rapid eye dart in his direction, and caught him looking, but he quickly returned to the magazine that he was pretending to read. I haven't changed much physically, so I'm sure he was trying to place me. Who is that guy? I could almost hear the words going through his mind. I'm not sure if he'd figured it out or not, but when the receptionist did, indeed, finally call my name, I glanced over to see him peek, wide-eyed over his magazine. Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I thought, he remembers! I fled from the waiting room in such haste that I'm surprised I didn't leave char-broiled footprints behind in the carpet. Luckily, I was escorted to another smaller waiting room in the back, to wait with the other candidates for blood withdrawal, so it took even more time before I was called up. Afterwards, I took my time getting back to the waiting room, sashaying past various examination areas with the desultory insousiance of Prissy singing "Just a few more days for to tote the weary load...". Dear God, don't let him still be sitting out there! When I ascertained that he was nowhere in sight, I hurried through the door and raced down the hallway to the elevator. Of course, the elevator that I first summoned was out of order, according to the woman waiting for another, so I stood with her, glaring grimly at the UP/DOWN button and hoping that the man I was hoping to avoid wouldn't arrive before I was able to depart. The elevator doors swung open and I leapt in with the grace and speed of a gazelle, shortly being deposited on the ground floor, where I made my way to the van with a mixture of high adrenaline, relief, and a certain puzzlement at my behavior. For God's sake, it's been six years! If he's still upset about that stuff--admittedly not my best moments--then it's his problem, not mine. And yet, it was my problem--it is my problem. Otherwise I wouldn't have reacted like a moose in Sarah Palin's rifle scope when confronted with this man's presence in the doctor's office. I have to say that I was definitely shaken (not stirred). Humiliation can be profoundly humbling, but it can also be silly and needless, and I wish now that I'd reacted in a more civil way to someone who once tried to make the best of an (increasingly) bad, albeit (mercifully) brief situation. Maybe I'll see him again sometime in my doctor's office and maybe I'll try to be gracious and not act like the lunatic that he almost certainly thinks that I am. Of course, acts such as that always seem to backfire in these type of situations. For me anyway. By trying to put my best foot forward, it will undoubtedly wind up in my mouth. Maybe it's best to let sleeping dogs lie.

From My Amazon Review of "Zack & Miri Make a Porno", Nov. 3, 2008

2008-11-11T12:35:00.000-08:00

Kevin & Co. Make a Turkey Dinner

The operative question for "Zack & Miri Make a Porno" seems to be how many times Kevin Smith can utilize the word "FUCK" (and all variations thereof, plus every conceivable term for the male and female sex organs)and still keep his material fresh and funny. The answer: zero. The script and dialogue seem like stale leftovers that have been reheated one too many times.

The titular Zack and Miri are a pair of male/female roommates barely scratching out a living in the Pittsburgh area. Having known one another since early childhood, the pair have long sublimated any physical or romantic attraction they may have, and are, seemingly, content to be roomies and best friends. That is, until the runaway expenses of their unpaid utility bills prompt Zack to click on the improbable idea of the two of them producing and starring in a porno movie. Gathering a stereotypical (and largely unappetizing)cast and crew, Zack and Miri realize their porno dream with unconvincing determination, thereby causing a rift in their, heretofore, unbreakable bond.

As Zack, Seth Rogen assays, essentially, the same character he did in "Pineapple Express", "Knocked Up", and pracically every other thing else I've seen him in. At his best, Rogen has a hangdog quality that can be amusing and touching, if he's reigned in. Otherwise, he's the acting equivalent of a bull in a china shop; in "Zack and Miri", his antics quickly become tiresome and not remotely amusing. Elizabeth Banks, on the other hand, is cast, not only against type, but against believability, as the hard-livin', hard-lovin' good-time girl, Miri. I didn't buy that bit for a second, nor did I buy the romantic developments that occur later on in the film.

The supporting cast, which includes Smith regular, Jason Mewes, Traci Lords, and Jennifer Schwalbach, do their best but their characters aren't believable or funny, either.

Everything about this film, right down to the camera work, is repetitive and ugly. According to IMDB, Kevin Smith is approaching forty, but "Zack & Miri" seems as if it was made by a 14 year old boy. It certainly seems designed for that particular audience, even though they aren't old enough to see it. It's a shame that Smith doesn't use his evident skill and intelligence to broaden the scope of his talent, and to mature as a filmmaker.

Gratitude

2008-11-05T10:59:00.000-08:00

It is the day after what was, arguably, the most important election in American history. And though I argued against causing myself further stress by watching the proceedings, I relented at 8:30 p.m. (EDT), plotzed down in a rocking chair in front of the television set, and remained there long after President-Elect Barack Obama gave his victory speech before a crowd numbering in the hundreds of thousands in Chicago's Grant Park. I watched history being made, an historical event that ranks right up there with the first moon landing; it's importance cannot be underplayed. For the first time in American history, an African-American man will become our president. It is an unprecedented event in this country that many thought unlikely ever to happen, at least in the forseeable future. The racism upon which our country was built, and which has remained steadfast, however subtely, in many quarters is, at long last, being run asunder by a new, vital voting majority that has chosen to eschew the fear-mongering and hate, arrogance and belligerance that has characterized the interminable Bush years. We have a changing populace that has been very open to Barack Obama's message, and to his massive efforts to reach out to them: a growing Hispanic population, the re-emergence of a once-disenfranchised Black community, a whole slew of young people who are voting for the first time, a sizable and supportive gay community, and those middle-class, white voters, both blue- and white-collar alike, who, because of the current economic disaster, have found themselves in reduced circumstances they'd never foreseen. And there were those who were, finally, just sick and tired of the neverending, self-serving, All-White Good Ol' Boy's Club that has dominated the American political scene from the beginning. Those days are gone, at long last, gone, hallelujah, praise the Lord, AMEN! Let us learn from the shameful, painful past so that we never, EVER, revisit it!

I received an e-mail from a good friend this morning, and in it, was a link to an article in which the author declared that his overwhelming post-election feeling was one of immense gratitude. And that summed up so perfectly exactly what I felt the moment that Barack Obama was declared the winner. Like that author, I also felt relief that the election--this long, draining journey--was having a happy ending. But mainly, it was gratitude, enormous and complete, that filled me up and caused my eyes to brim over with tears. Gratitude to the majority of Americans who, for whatever reason, chose to forge their alliances and stake their futures with a young Black man, largely untested, who, nevertheless, is our best hope for a better America, and a break from a past that has destroyed our credibility and reputation in the world. Gratitude to a higher power that I fervently prayed to last night, even though I gave up believing a long time ago. Gratitude for being alive in this country, in this time of change, when there is a renewed belief that anything is possible if you believe in it strongly enough.

Florida's anti-gay Amendment 2 managed to pass, as did California's Proposition 8. These are victories for the right-wing extremist hate- and fear-mongers, but these victories are temporary because, if last night's presidential election results show us anything, it is that, in the end, what is right and what is just will triumph. And we gay Americans will come back from this. We got shoved to the back of the bus, but our time will come, just as sure as Barack Obama's time has come. He gives me such hope for the future that I can't feel bitterness or disappointment over a temporary setback. For that, I owe my gratitude to Barack Obama, the man himself.

Election Day 2008

2008-11-04T12:50:00.000-08:00

I have refrained from delving into the ongoing political campaigns that have consumed most media outlets for the past two years, simply because I don't feel that I possess the political astuteness required to speak (or to write) forcefully about the subject. However, today is the day that the long process at last draws to a close, and so I am choosing this special day to make a few comments about what this election means to me.

To anyone with the slightest attachment to reality, the past eight years with George W. Bush & Co. have been an unmitigated and appalling disaster. Their engagement in an unholy war, with the resultant loss of thousands of lives and billions of dollars notwithstanding, the Bush Administration has also led America down a very dark path of government duplicity, lies and coverups, flagrant disregard of the law (both domestic and international), and helped foster an atmosphere of arrogrance and greed that now has us in the grips of an economic meltdown that has left tens of thousands of Americans unemployed, broke, and homeless. And yet, according to an article in today's issue of Newsweek, President Bush is viewing his bad rep with equanimity and "characteristic good cheer", believing that history will absolve him of his dalliances with the darker side of power and human nature. It's easy to see that Mr. Bush is a man with no true moral compass, a man who, long ago, sold his soul to the power brokers who control him. It's even easier to paint Bush as a functional moron, boosted and manipulated by an ambitious family and a political party chock-full of calculating sycophants. Maybe it's a little of both, although I tend to doubt the "moron" label. Many years ago, right after Bush 41 left office, I was sitting in a private booth in the Astrodome at a playoff game between the Texas Rangers and Houston Astros. Since it was a playoff game, the stadium was mostly empty, and as my friend and I watched, here came GHW Bush, surrounded by a phalanx of secret service men, and trailed by his two sons, George W. and Jeb. The elder Bush proceeded to climb up from the field into the box with an athleticism that belied his age; the two sons were not quite so agile, but the entire group made their way up the steps into our box. GHW Bush smiled warmly, shook our hands, and began talking to us like we were nephews he hadn't seen in a long time. In fact, he sat down right next to me and chatted amiably throughout the game. The two sons sat directly behind us and since the box was virtually empty except for my friend and I, and the presidential party, conversations were easily heard. At this point, I can't recall the conversation that took place behind us, but I do remember leaving with the distinct impression that both of these Bush sons were arrogant and cold, with Jeb being the more intelligent of the two. However, I did not leave with the impression that George W. was especially stupid. Less educated or "willfully ignorant", maybe, but not stupid. Hence my reasoning that, whatever his flaws, W is more apt to be in league with the forces of political darkness than being a brick short of a full load. But whatever the case, he's definitely NOT in touch with the reality of his sorry administration and the legacy that they are leaving behind. Historians may lie and attempt to burnish the reality of this era, but as long as there are those still around who lived through these trying times, the truth, as Fox Mulder stated, is out there.

Despite attempts to negate the connection, the road from George W. Bush leads directly to John McCain. As McCain himself once proudly announced, he voted with Bush "over 90% of the time". He can back away from that statement all he wants, but he can't back away from the truth. During this campaign, he has looked more and more like a desperate man latching onto anything that would keep his candidacy afloat. That includes everything from calling Barack Obama a "socialist" to accusing him of "consorting with terrorists" to bashing his "elitism". This coming from a man who owns so many homes that he's lost track of them, and who is as far removed from the "Joe the Plumber" blue-collar Americans as can possibly be imagined. And his negative diatribes have largely been mouthed by his sidekick, Sarah Palin, a venegful harpy masquerading as a cheerful hockey mom, and the current governor of Alaska. McCain's very choice of this woman as his running mate was a direct reflection of his desperation and cynicism. True, she's been embraced by the religious rightwing ultra-conservatives of the Republican Party, since she's anti-abortion, allegedly believes that God created the universe 6,000 years ago, shoots moose for sport (from helicopters, no less), and frowns upon same-sex relationships. But when was it ever in doubt that McCain would win the vote of that particular segment of his party? Many other Republicans are looking askance at his choice of this woman who may actually be as stupid as Bush merely acts. This woman who, under the right (or wrong) circumstances could wind up being President of the United States. McCain is an angry, war-mongering fossil whose arm gestures during his stump speeches remind me of old newsreels of Hitler or Kruschev hyperventilating during their spooky rants. He is also clueless about how to turn this economy around (witness his grandstanding behavior when he suspended his campaign to fly back to Washington to assist in the bailout negotiations, all to no avail). Still, the thought of a Palin presidency is, well...unthinkable, and I don't want to even go there unless, of course, I wake up tomorrow morning to find that something beyond my wildest fears has happened, and the McCain/Palin team has somehow co-oped the Oval Office. In that case, it would NOT be unthinkable for me to consider Europe or Canada as home, at least for the next four years.

There are a thousand reasons why I voted for Barack Obama and Joe Biden in this election, and most of them are readily apparent in the statements made on Obama's website and in his televised infomercial last week, so I'm not going to recount them all here. Suffice it to say that I believe wholeheartedly in Obama's cool and calm ability to take the helm of this very troubled country and set us in a new direction that will help us recover from all the ills generated by this last bunch of hoolilgans. It will take time. Our downfall didn't happen overnight, so I don't expect a rapid recovery. But, if given the chance, I believe that, if anyone can change America's course, it is Barack Obama. He's already changed history, despite doubts that a black man could ever come this far in American politics. Yet, he hasn't given up, and he gives me hope for all of us. His motto should be something we remind ourselves of every morning when we get out of bed and hear newscasters belting out more tunes of bad news while we fret over our inability to crawl out of our own personal quagmires. Instead of flinging open the window with the angry, old white man chant of "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take this anymore", we take a look directly into the mirror and say "Yes we can!", and assume responsibility for the choices we make, and for our own destinies. This is a historic day that will never be forgotten, and, now we have to see if the majority of Americans choose to look to the future or remain mired in the past.

From My Amazon Review for "Bad Education"

2008-10-20T06:20:00.000-07:00

Smokin' in the Boy's Room, September 28, 2008

Frequently compared to American director, Douglas Sirk, Spain's Pedro Almodovar switches into Hitchcock mode with his twisty, sexually provocative thriller, "Bad Education". Maintaining the bright, primary colors that dominate and help define his films, Almodovar ditches his usual comic archness, and amps up the melodrama in a tale piling layer upon layer of desire, deception, betrayal, and lies, with inevitably murderous results.

Star Gael Garcia Bernal shines in the multiple roles of drag queen, Zahara, bad boy Juan, and the ambitious actor, Angel. A lush-lipped, sensuous film actor, Bernal provides "Bad Education" with a throbbing energy that sets the complicated plot(s) in motion. In 1980's Spain, the boyishly seductive Ignacio arrives at the office of his old, childhood friend, a film director named Enrique. Ignacio has a script based on their alleged boyhood experiences in a Catholic boarding school, most disturbing of which is Ignacio's continued molestation at the hands of pedophile priest, Manolo. In the script, Ignacio grows up to become exotic performer, Zahara, who finally returns to the church to confront Manolo, and the demons of the past. The more Enrique reads of the script, the further the lines between fantasy and reality are blurred. As Enrique is driven to determine the circumstances surrounding an unexplained death, deceptions are revealed; while some characters are not who they seem to be, others resurface in completely different guises. The mysteries deepen, with dark, enigmatic Bernal holding the answers, if not all the cards.

The cinematography is up to Almodovar's usual luxe standards, the writing clever and intense, the plot as engrossing as it is unbelievable. In addition to Bernal's fine acting, Fele Martinez is also excellent in the role of Enrique. He gives a genuinely moving performance as a man who believes (wrongly) that his long-lost love has returned. As Father Manolo, Daniel Gimenez Cacho is effectively slick and creepy as a pedophile taking no chances that his crimes will be uncovered, while Lluis Homar (who looks a little like Kelsey Grammer) is convincing as a horny, blackmailed businessman, whose lust propels him into an ill-advised murder plot.

There's a lot going on here. Because of its myriad plotlines and twists, "Bad Education" is a film that demands attention; otherwise, it's easy to become hopelessly lost in, both, the film-within-a-film and the numerous lies that serve as "backstories" for the characters. There's also a "Vertigo"-like quality to this film, with pedophilia replacing necrophilia as the squirm-inducer.

"Bad Education" is also a very gay film, probably Almodovar's gayest since "Law of Desire" (albeit minus Carmen Maura or that film's over-the-top humor). Almodovar more often works with a company of women actors, allowing their stories to unfold from a distinctly feminine perspective. And while I love "All About My Mother", "Volver", and their sister films, it's interesting to see Almodovar's occasional foray into the testosterone-fueled territory of homoerotica.

While "Bad Education" was released with an NC-17 rating, it isn't especially explicit, so I find that rating puzzling. There is no frontal nudity (except that which is encased in underwear) and the sexual situations are tastefully handled; even the priest/boy interludes are suggestive, rather than in-your-face, no worse than what's been shown on cable television. And aside from the men kissing and some bare behinds, there's not much here that you couldn't see in a PG-13 film, or maybe an R-rated film, at most. "Basic Instinct", for example, is much more explicit than this movie! The movie "Towelhead", in theaters now, reportedly shows more interaction between an adult (male) and minor (female) than "Bad Education", so I have to wonder if there's still not a hint of homophobia present in the current rating system.

While not a delicious wallow like "Law of Desire", "Bad Education" offers a darker, more somber look at the complexity of human behavior and the vaguaries of sexuality. One of Almodovar's best!

September

2008-10-15T10:38:00.001-07:00

Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
wake me up when september ends

like my fathers come to pass
seven years has gone so fast
wake me up when september ends

here comes the rain again
falling from the stars
drenched in my pain again
becoming who we are

as my memory rests
but never forgets what I lost
wake me up when september ends

From "Wake Me When September Ends" by Green Day (2004)

I don't know how it happens, but I got up this morning and realized that it's now the middle of October. What I don't understand is, what happened to September? Like a will o'the wisp, it was here and, then, gone. September is my birthday month so, of course, that is something that didn't slip by unnoticed. A fairly large number of my friends also have birthdays in September, so it's a popular month, as far as that goes. I finished the first draft of my screenplay in September of this year, and my preferred presidential candidate, Barack Obama, continued to blast his way past the dreadful McPalin combo in the national polls.

However, for all that I stated above, there's also a certain melancholy feeling that I associate with September. Maybe it's residual, left over from the days when I still lived in a place where the seasons actually changed. There, September signals the end of summer, with leaves gently falling from trees to the damp earth below, and chillier nights giving way to cold mornings, long-sleeved shirts, sweaters, and then the full-fledged fabricized armor of coats and gloves. With September comes the death of summer, at least in most areas of this country. I always anticipated the gloomy, grey skies with a certain sadness that, conceivably, had more to do with certain situations existing during the school year that were, mercifully, absent during my summers away. Now, in southeast Florida, it's practically summer all the time, and September signals the end of nothing, only more of the same. A lot of people must love that; god knows, there are plenty of them down here. I, myself, am actually here by default, the unlikely remnant of an old relationship that went south when my then-partner went north (and west). With nothing better to do, I opted to remain in Florida, for better or for worse, and I'm still here, 10 years after leaving Dallas for this morass of swampland and overcrowding, traffic and inflated prices, high crime and bad attitudes. I don't give a shit about the fucking year-round sunshine or the palm trees or the much-vaunted casual lifestyle that compels people to attend the theater dressed like they were going to their Uncle Morty's outdoor barbecue. But, what I do care about, and what will keep me here until I find a better option, is the relative ease with which gay people such as myself are assimilated into the population. We have our own neighborhoods, our own businesses, our own physicians. In the cities of Miami, Ft. Lauderdale, and West Palm Beach, people mostly don't care who you're living with, who you're dating, or who you're sleeping with. There are areas where you have to take it a little easy on any same-sex pda's but, for the most part, being gay is a pretty easy row to hoe here, especially compared to many other areas of the country. This, in spite of a sorry, piece-of-shit homophobe named Jim Naugle who, after 8 (I think it's 8) long years as Mayor of Ft. Lauderdale is finally leaving City Hall to, oh I don't know, go harass gays in some other corner of the U.S., probably Washington D.C.

But, I digress. The title of this blog entry is "September", not "Fear and Loathing in Ft. Lauderdale". September is also the month of 9/11, not that you need me to point out the obvious to you. It seems like forever ago, but it hasn't even been a decade since it happened. I still have the newsreel tucked away in my mind. I'm standing in front of the television set watching Matt and Katie as I dress for work; one plane has already hit the World Trade Center and they're speculating that it's a private plane gone tragically off course, when a second plane hits, right while I'm watching, and suddenly two words immediately burn into the minds of everyone witnessing this: TERRORIST ATTACK. I think it was in that moment that everything changed forever; King George and his ruthless minions took charge and the long cavalcade of lies and subterfuge began in earnest. By the time the last of the two World Trade Center buildings crumbled down into dust and debris, the wheels were already turning, hurtling our country into an abyss of unfounded rumors posited as facts, military attacks on foreign soil, needless suffering, more death, billions of dollars thrown away, and the loss of America's dignity and reputation in a world grown increasingly wary of our judgement, and of our dedication to pursuing any interests other than our own.

It was in September--this September, last month, in fact--that I got an e-mail from an old friend (herself the mother of another old friend) that her son had committed suicide in North Carolina. It saddens me to say that I was shocked but not surprised. Jay (not his real name) was a beautiful, sensitive boy; pushing forty, and with large, liquid brown eyes, a mop of brown hair, full, red cheeks, and a sweet, childlike face, Jay exuded a youthfulness that hid a very troubled soul plagued by bipolar disorder, and addiction issues that I had assumed (mistakenly?) were in the past. We'd first met when he was 18 and I was in my late twenties, and he went to work for me in the box office of the Oklahoma City Philharmonic Orchestra. Jay's mother was the office manager, and she and I were already good friends, so I was more than happy that her son was coming to work for me. A friendly, funny, organized, and highly intelligent guy, Jay was easy to like. I quickly came to realize that he also had a certain volatility that seemed to be at odds with his usual easygoing self. We confided in one another and I came to understand a lot of his problems, although the drug and alcohol thing hadn't yet started. I also sensed that he was gay, but let him get around to coming out to me in his own good time. There was never any sexual or romantic feelings between us, but I did feel that, on some level, he understood me as no one else ever had (or has, to this day). I'd say that it was like having a soulmate for a brief while, but then so much can be read into that and be completely misunderstood that I won't even classify it as such. Despite his eternal boyishness, he also had something inside him that was very old, and the instinct to understand things, without assigning judgements. At least, that's how I found him to be. The last time I saw him was in March of 2007. We had gone to North Carolina with the idea of possibly purchasing property for our retirement years, or as a second home, or as just an investment. There was no set plan. We were in the Chapel Hill area and Jay made the three hour drive from his home in Wilmington, and we enjoyed a great time catching up on the years that had passed since we'd last seen one another. He'd put on a little weight (which he needed) and looked good--and happy. Or at least, he looked happy on the outside. Turned out that he was far from happy, having recently separated from someone he genuinely loved. At the end of the day when he left to drive back to Wilmington, he hugged me tightly and smiled cheerfully, promising to be better at keeping in touch. And standing there in the chilly spring evening, I knew that I would not see Jay again. There were a couple of e-mails between us, and he tried to make another go at it with his boyfriend, but it didn't take. Totally true to character, in the end he remained completely organized, getting all his affairs in order before breathing the fatal dose of pure helium that killed him. The police officials told Jay's parents that he just went to sleep and felt no pain, but how can they know that for sure? Besides, he must have felt that all the pain that led up to this must have been worse than any that would be endured in dying.

I know that when some people die like that--commit suicide--the ones who knew them, the ones who are left behind, say that they don't understand how he could do something like that. But, I do understand it, all too well.

In September, I realized that I didn't have the wherewithal--a catchall word that I truly love--the desire, the focus, or the dedication, if you will, to edit my screenplay and do what rewriting needed to be done. No matter how long I sat in front of the computer screen, I just sat. Nothing happened. I stared at the screenplay in front of me until I was almost cross-eyed, before bringing up I-Tunes and shopping for songs that were totally unneeded, then switching to Amazon to shop for DVD's that were completely unnecessary, and, lastly, engaging in heavy social networking on internet sites for people who, with few exceptions, will probably never even meet each other.

And so I am here, in a state that I often despise, writing about a month that has gone down in infamy, and trying to make sense of my own misdirection and lack of focus. Is this a middle-aged thing, seeing friends go, and then reviewing one's own life, one's own mistakes, one's own mortality? Maybe it is appropriate that I write about September, because that's where I am now, at least in terms of me being in the autumn of my life. A time for discarding what is no longer needed, like a tree shedding its leaves. What to do next? That's a good question.

Thoughts on "Cul-de-Sac" - A Screenplay in Progress

2008-09-19T14:46:00.000-07:00

It was with such elation that I completed the first draft of my new screenplay for "Cul-de-Sac" two days ago, that I momentarily forgot that it was my birthday. With the passage of each year, I find myself looking forward to birthdays with less and less enthusiasm. While, obviously, having a birthday does beat the alternative, it has become something of an occasion more to be tolerated than celebrated. Although, I must confess that I still do enjoy receiving the gifts and cards, and being taken to dinner at expensive restaurants.

My gift to myself this year was the completion of my screenplay. The script had been roiling around in my brain for several weeks before I began writing it, but, once started, it quickly grew into a sprawling, labyrinthine mess that I can only compare to a prolific garden overrun with crabgrass. It's going to require a great deal of trimming and cutting before it's ready to harvest but, even then, it may be unfilmmable. The problem is the sex--graphic, shocking, hardcore sex. And while there's not a whole lot of it, suffice it to say, there's enough to give even the most liberal producer pause.

True, there's also a good deal of violence, although film producers, studios, and audiences, alike, seem to have fewer qualms about depicting, say, a woman being strangled to death with her own intestines than with showing two men engaging in anal sex. And while you won't see that extreme level of violence in my script, should it ever be filmed, you will most definitely see men participating (more than once) in the aforementioned sexual pasttime, along with a few others. Like last year's sex comedy "Shortbus", "Cul-de-Sac", has hardcore sex scenes, but isn't technically pornography. And while I'm quite certain that both "Hostel" films, as well as all the entries in the "Saw" franchise have played throughout my old home state of Oklahoma, I imagine that "Shortbus", two years after its initial release, has yet to make its debut there. That's because of the draconian mindset of Oklahoma's backward-thinking, hypocritical state legislators. I mean, think about it. Would you really rather have scenes of unspeakable violence regularly displayed at your local metroplex and DVD rental outlets, readily available to anyone with the cash to make the purchase? Rather than strictly enforced age-restricted, sexually explicit films screened for the discerning adult audiences for which they are intended? Come on! Understand, that I'm not in favor of censorship in any form, but I'm just saying that that kind of selective reasoning enacted by state and city governments (in Oklahoma and other states) is just plain idiotic. Let's show little Bobby the movie where the guy has his brains pulled out through his nose, but two guys buttfucking, uh-uh, no way. Keep that shit out of my movie theater, bro! Yeah, Bubba Baptist, no prob.

Okay, back to my script. While it isn't porn, "Cul-de-Sac" is also far from a comedy. It's a modern film noir about a rich gay American who is kidnapped and held for ransom while on a business trip to London. Of course, things end up going spectacularly awry for both the kidnappers and their victim, with double-crosses aplenty, shootouts, slashings, kinky sex, diabolical mommies, and fatales, both femme and hommes. I do have a dream cast (which is helpful when writing the characters, but, otherwise, totally unrealistic). Still, I couldn't help envisioning the roles being brought to life by Helen Mirren, Sting (or maybe Anderson Cooper), Saffron Burrows, Hugh Dancy, Stephen Rea, Aiden Shaw (an actor/gay porn star/namesake for "Sex & the City" character), and Francois Sagat (another gay porn star/Frenchman with a tattooed head and enough sexual charisma to melt sheet metal).

By and large, my screenplay is about 40 pages too long. At 167 pages, it is overstuffed with bric-a-brac and red herrings, unnecessary exposition and unneeded characters; it is a-jumble with a riotous clutter that could only find a home if I were writing a miniseries. All this has to be pruned and what remains, shaped into something concise, tight, and solid. While my work often cries out for a judicious editor, I admit that I'm something of a control freak when it comes to conceding to actual changes.

The day after tomorrow, I start editing and working on an initial re-write. And next week, the comments from my friends/readers should start coming in, so I can adjust scenes accordingly. Or not. While compromise is probably inevitable, if nothing else but for my own good and the good of the project, the one thing I am not doing is cutting the sex scenes. I already know they're going to be an issue, but this is one area where I'm standing firm. It's a film for adults and, with the current, rather drab state of the film industry, I'm hoping that it generates a little controversy and shakes things up a little. And, who knows, maybe it won't see the light of day, but "Cul-de-Sac" is my demon-child, an insistent presence with a life of its own. With that in mind, anything can happen.

Points West, Part 4: Lonelyville

2008-08-14T09:03:00.000-07:00

Barrelling through the Land of Enchantment, we finally make a late-morning stop at the much ballyhooed Clines Corners. A sort of truck stop/elephant's graveyard of tchotchkes combo that heralds its impending arrival on scores of billboards scattered for seemingly hundreds of miles in any direction, Clines Corners has been a Route 66/I-40 landmark for more than seventy years. With rows upon rows of useless, dusty whatnots, clay pots, dreamcatchers--and just about anything else you can think of--it's been a watering hole and re-fueling stop for my family for at least three generations. In fact, on this sunny, bright morning as we traipse through the narrow aisles, it doesn't seem to have changed much since I was last there in 1992. True, the plastic shark jaws are no longer in evidence, but there are jars of Prickly Pear Jelly and boxes of chocolate covered cherries that don't seem to have seen a dust cloth since the end of the last millenium. And there are still stacks and stacks of tee-shirts, plastic sunglasses, shot glasses, leather geegaws, and really, when I think about it, just too damn much stuff to continue going on about. Suffice it to say, the sheer abundance of junk is mind-boggling. Clines Corners, alone, must be supplementing the income of at least half the families in Beijing.

What we're really after, though, is food. There's a mini-Subway located there, but the horde of flies buzzing around the sandwich-making board discourages any further consideration of that option. There's also a little diner with it's own separate kitchen, but you'd better like fried eggs, bacon, and the usual artery-clogging trimmings, because that's about all that's on the menu. Declining the offer to satiate my hunger with a piece of dry toast, I set off across the parking lot while my partner orders the breakfast special of Heart Attack on a Plate. Inside the gas station, I find the usual assortment of candy bars, beef jerky, pork rinds(!), and chips. Finally, partially hidden by the cash register, a small basket reveals a cache of energy bars. Sifting through the dusty pile, I realize that even a lot of these (allegedly) healthy treats are loaded with saturated fat. Spying a Cliff Bar, I wipe off the dust and determine that it is the Carrot Cake flavor that I normally disdain. However, today I'm desperate, so I go for it, opting to wash it down with a full-strength Pepsi (yes, I know how much sugar I just consumed, but, didn't I just say that I'm desperate, dammit, and I'm on vacation, so give me a break!). Back in the Clines Corners diner, my partner is mopping up the last of his breakfast with toast slathered in butter. He eyes my dubious prize and pays for his meal.

* * * * * *

As we cross the border into Texas, the landscape gradually flattens out into the vast sprawl of the Great Plains. The towns here, like most others we've passed, are few and far between. There is a sameness to them that seems to grow more pronounced the farther we travel. The ubiquitous grain elevators, the squat, retro gas stations, the unelegant, roadside cafes with their cratered, dirt parking lots filled with pickup trucks--after awhile, you think, "Didn't we already come through here?" But, of course, these places, these lonely, dusty towns, they are all different, and each has its own distinct personality. I know because I grew up out here in towns just like these, and none of them are the same. As forlorn and desolate as they may appear to a stranger traveling through, these towns are all home to somebody; lives unfolded here and dreams were dreamed just as sure as they were in New York, or San Francisco, London or Singapore, or anywhere else where people come together and make a community.

* * * * * *

West of Amarillo, I spy the Cadillac Ranch a few hundred feet south off I-40. Of course, it's not really a ranch, just a bunch of classic Cadillacs buried nose-down to their back doors in the hard prairie dirt of a field. An eccentric millionaire named Stanley Marsh 3 had it installed as an art exhibit and, over the years, it's developed a certain reputation as a must-see roadside attraction. People are encouraged to spray-paint the cars with graffiti, and at certain times, the cars are completely repainted to reflect special occasions or holidays; for example, they've all been painted green for St. Paddy's Day. When I ask my partner if he wants to stop and see the cars, he declines, so we keep driving until we reach the city limits of Amarillo. As my mind is clicking off the number of relatives I have currently living in Amarillo, I am suddenly startled by the amount of road construction that's going on; the entire city, as far as I can see, looks like it's being re-paved and widened! We stop for gas and then drive to a Schlotzky's Sandwich Shop, which I haven't seen since leaving Texas back in 1999. It's good, although my partner doesn't completely understand my enthusiasm for the sandwiches. I guess you just have to grow up eating Schlotzky's to really appreciate them--sort of like Sonic Drive-In's or A & W Root Beer Stands or Charcoal Ovens, which we don't have in southeast Florida, either.

With the labyrinth of road construction, we, of course, miss the turn we're supposed to take that will lead us northeast of town, through Spearman, Perryton, Booker, and beyond. No, we remain on I-40 for the next hour and a half, searching futiley for a highway that heads north, in the direction of the town where my parents live. Finally, we find the coveted turnoff, which leads us to Pampa, Texas, a town that has changed drastically since my youth. And by changed, I'm talking about the appearance of a number of fast-food chains and hotel/motels. Driving north past Pampa, we find ourselves in the midst of some unsuspectedly awesome scenery. The pancake flatness gives way to steep, treeless mesas and deep canyons, and dried-out riverbeds which serve as highways for meandering herds of lazy cattle. As much as the description sounds the same as what we've already seen in New Mexico and the Oklahoma Panhandle, it isn't; its spooky and unearthly beauty is all its own. Many years ago, friends and I traveled down this highway from Perryton (the next sizable town to the north of Pampa), but I'd forgotten that this little stretch was so astonishingly gorgeous (to me, anyway).

A little further up the road, flatness returned and predominated for the remainder of our trip. Perryton, Texas, the town where I was born, has, roughly, 10,000 people. As we pull onto Main Street, I notice more chain stores--the usuals--that have sprouted up and overtaken the businesses I remember from my boyhood. The old hospital where I was born is long gone, but the movie theater that's been around since at least the 1940's--maybe longer--is still there, and still showing first-run movies. Unfortunately, the Ranger Drive-In, the scene of many happy childhood memories, has gone the way of most of the other drive-in movie theaters out here. Too bad. During any given week, you might see a recent John Wayne western, a Hitchcock film from the fifties, or a brand new British import. Whoever ran the drive-in in those days had eclectic tastes, and I think that probably had a huge influence on my own tastes in films.

Leaving Perryton, we mull over the option of turning east and going through the town of Booker (15 miles away, pop. 1200), the home of a large majority of my mother's family, or continuing to drive north and then cutting back east and, in essence, covering a distance of a little over 100 miles, with virtually no towns to impede our progress. Aware of my inclination to stop in Booker for a prolonged visit with relatives, we decide to continue heading north, eventually reaching my parent's house at around 5 in the afternoon.

* * * * * *

The next day, my partner backs the rental car out of the driveway and heads for Wichita. He's leaving a couple of days before me in order to get home to Florida and get a little grounded before starting his new job the following Monday. My parents and I drive to Darrouzett, Texas, (pop. 320 or thereabouts, and pronounced Dair-zett). We have arranged to meet my cousin, Toad, and his wife for lunch in a tiny restaurant on the western edge of town. Toad has lost weight and looks really good, and seems pleased to receive this news. We're in the heart of "deep-fried" country, so there's not much on the menu for me, although I finally choose the ever-safe, ever-boring, ever-dried out slab of grilled chicken breast which fails to thrill me. Visiting with Toad, however, proves to be interesting, if not thrilling. If his wife and my parents weren't around, he could probably deliver some really good dish. However, good taste and discretion must be observed, so none of the gossip is particularly titillating.

After lunch, we bid adieu to Toad and the wife, and we drive the 10 miles to Booker, Texas. Booker began life as an Oklahoma border town named LaKemp. Many of my relatives who originally settled this part of the country lived in LaKemp and its environs. Around 1918, the railroad was laid about 15 miles southwest of LaKemp, just across the Texas state line. Seeing the wisdom of having their town situated along the railroad, the town's fathers packed up everything, lock, stock, and barrell--buildings, houses, sidewalks, people--and relocated the whole town to Texas. And that is how LaKemp, Oklahoma, became Booker, Texas, in 1919.

Booker doesn't look the same as it did when I was growing up, and even then, it didn't look the same as when my mom was a girl. There were originally trees planted down the center of Main Street, giving the town a shaded, elegant air. Apparently, drivers in those days couldn't avoid hitting the trees because they were summarily yanked out, and the main street widened. The old movie theater was still around when I was little, but I can only remember seeing a couple of films there. Chiefly, what I remember about the movie theater was getting locked in the bathroom and screaming to high heaven for someone to come and get me out. The original drug store is still next door, although without the soda fountain and tin ceiling that were removed even before I got out of grade school. Charlie Hargreaves' wooden barber shop with its colorful pole out front is long gone.

The post office, where my great-grandmother labored as postmistress for more than thirty years, is also gone. I can still remember the sound of her weight creaking on the old wooden floors of that building as I watched her sort mail on hot, summer mornings. She had seven children and many of them still resided, along with their children and grandchildren, in Booker, so her house was always filled with the sounds of plates being passed around a large dining table, of voices raised in animated conversations and clearly defined opinions, of boisterous activity, and of laughter, tears, and love.

Across the street, the bank has enveloped nearly the entire block. There used to a pool hall (which served as my grandfather's second home), and Lehman's Grocery Store--both razed to make way for progress. At the north end of Main Street, my Great Aunt Agatha's husband, Uncle Louie, had the Conoco station for many years; it now sits empty and crumbling.

Nearer the south end of Main, the historic Cochran Hotel once loomed over the better part of a block. Storied and majestic, jammed with many rooms, enormous lobby, a popular coffee shop, barber shop, and beauty salon, the hotel provided a fitting stopover for cowboys and oilmen, alike. Later, during my lifetime, the habitues became a little less monied, as the development of interstate highways found Booker increasinly isolated from the larger, developing centers of commerce. Toad's parents owned and operated the hotel, although it was built in the 1920's by someone else. When I was a kid, I used to tag along with Toad and explore the building. A polished wooden railing on the staircase led to a second floor of long, dark hallways, and high-ceiling rooms with wrought-iron beds, and residents who invariably smoked and appeared to be up to something unsavory, as the faint scent of whiskey trailed in their wake. I had a great, great aunt named Muriel who had come out west during the oil boom of the early 1900's. She was a tough cookie who worked as a prostitute for awhile in the boomtown of Borger (although our family really doesn't talk about that to this day). By the time I knew her, she had long since settled into married respectability, motherhood, and widowhood, and seemed ancient to me, and probably was. I remember her sitting in the coffee shop at the Cochran Hotel, with her colorful skirts and jaunty hats, her wrinkled face powdered and rouged, her mouth made up with bright red lipstick, as she smoked endless cigarettes and held court for her fascinated (and often scandalized) townsfolk. I can also remember my grandfather posting me as a lookout, keeping an eagle eye out for my grandmother or any of her relatives, while he conducted flirtatious tete-a-tetes with various waitresses at the coffee shop. It was only much later, after I got to be 13 or 14, that I realized what he was up to, but by then, I was hitting on the waitresses myself. At the end of the seventies, Booker lost a piece of its history when, one night, the Cochran Hotel exploded, engulfing the entire building in flames and completely destroying it. Miraculously, no one was injured.

* * * * * *

When we arrive in Booker, our first stop is the nursing home, where the last of my maternal grandmother's siblings now resides. My Great-Aunt Thelma, looking exceedingly thin and wan, is, nevertheless, enthusiastic in greeting us. There is some sort of monopoly-money auction going on in the main room and a nurse is surrounded by white-haired people in wheelchairs. Some of these people, my mother tells me, I should know from my childhood, but they no longer look familiar to me, nor I to them, so I don't know who's who and decide against going around the room and introducing myself. I'm having a nice, little visit with Aunt Thelma and really appreciating how lucid she is when she suddenly declares that those people bidding on items in the auction are just "plain foolish". She then proceeds to tell me that these people are paying $100 for a candy bar ("Can you imagine?" she hyperventilates). When my mom reminds her that it's monopoly money and that she should get into the spirit of the game and make some bids, herself, Aunt Thelma looks at her as if she's lost her mind. "I'm not spending $100 on a candy bar or a piece of gum! Do I look like I'm crazy to you?" She says this to me, and I just smile and feel like I've wandered onto the set of a David Lynch film. Aunt Thelma and her husband never had kids of her own, so she always liked me, especially when I was a little kid. I can't think why, because she didn't like many people, especially after you passed the "cute" phase, which, for her, ended when you were 8 or 9. Still, after getting past being seriously pissed off at me for reaching adolescence, she returned to being the funny, fun, generous woman that very few people were ever allowed to see. She's the aunt who turned me on to Agatha Christie, blueberry pancakes, ping-pong, Cocker Spaniels, and to singing verses of "Que Sera Sera" after watching "The Man Who Knew Too Much at--where else--the Ranger Drive-In. Now, I don't know what time zone she's inhabiting, but, even in her befuddled state, I don't want to piss her off. So I smile, and I think how sad it is that certain things have to change, that great-aunts get old when they should forever be singing and flipping blueberry pancakes in the kitchen, and that little boys grow up and go away and no longer have the time to drop in on people who once loomed so largely in their lives. I always think that maybe next time, the next time I come home, I'll make a little extra time to spend down there with Aunt Thelma. But, time always runs out. Always. You don't get it back.

* * * * * *

My grandfather was a huge, if unlikely, movie fan throughout his life, so I (along with my sister and cousins) grew up going to the movies, just as our own parents had done when they were growing up. A sturdy, fun-loving cowboy/rancher who favored boots, big hats, and bigger cars, my grandfather was the ultimate John Wayne fan although, to be honest, he could be happy watching almost any movie. He was also a colorful, charming cad with many girlfriends, and a wife at home who was not much amused by his behavior. They were a perfect example of two people who should never have married. Both came from fairly well-to-do families, and both were spoiled by their parents: my grandmother because she'd been a sickly child and required a lot of attention, and my grandfather because he was the only son, and the inheritor of the family name, as well as the family fortune (his father didn't believe in banks so wasn't much affected when the Great Depression hit). They had three children in rapid succession, and I don't think ever said another civil word to each other during the remainder of their 45 years together. Their rows were legendary, with my mother (at age 5) once climbing in between them to try and tear them apart. Living through the 1930's and early '40's, my grandmother spent much of her time in a lonely farmhouse north of town, raising her children while her freewheeling husband gambled and chased around with other men's wives. He worked, certainly, as it required intensive labor to maintain a ranch that was besieged by dust storms; however, he had a steady supply of hired men that he kept busy while he slipped off to play.

There was never any question of divorce. My grandmother's family was awash in tradition and deep Southern roots. Divorce was an insurmountable scandal (as my grandmother's sister, Virgie, discovered when she rid herself of one Mr. Booth). So she watched their children grow, throwing herself into their lives and into her church, getting more bitter with each passing year. They moved to town when my mother was in high school, and this way, my grandmother (who never drove) could walk to the homes of her sisters and cousins. One by one, their children left home, they married, they presented them with grandchildren, life went on, my grandparents became more estranged. By the time their youngest son was killed at age 27 in a car crash, they pretty much lived separate lives, even though they still resided in the same house (I never knew them to sleep in the same room, much less the same bed). Of course, since there was no emotional connection between them, they could be of no comfort to one another, relying instead on their (then) considerable number of "kin" to get them through, and of course, my grandmother's unshakable faith in her vain and jealous god.

Being completely self-absorbed, it was never in doubt that my grandfather would recover from the shattering loss of his son; my grandmother was a different story. She lived for another 14 years but never got over it. I lived with them, on and off, all throughout my teens, during holiday periods and long summers, when I worked on my grandfather's ranch. I was their oldest grandchild; my mother and I had spent the first two years of my life with them after the army decided to station my dad in Germany, so their house was always my other home. I remember the bitter quarrels that still raged between my grandparents, and I remember her crying, later, and calling me by my dead uncle's name--many, many times. It finally came to me that she wasn't confusing our names--she was still a relatively young woman, and our names were quite different--but she was pretending that I was him, pretending that her dead son was still alive, back home and living under her roof once again. His marriage, the birth of his child, his death, they hadn't happened. He was a youthful teen again, the apple of his mother's eye, the last buffer in a despised marriage. I was aware of this but I couldn't tell her to stop calling me by his name. I let her pretend, thinking it couldn't hurt. When the time came for me to leave, as it does for all kids, I simply left. Although I wasn't going far, I wasn't coming back, not for any long periods of time like before. The implications were clear. She couldn't pretend any more. While the grandson would return for brief visits, the son had gone forever. The game was over.

My grandmother was strikingly good-looking, with cornflower blue eyes that looked liked Elizabeth Taylor's. She was a demonstrative, passionate, immensely loving woman with a quick wit and hilarious sense of humor. But there was always something overwhelmingly sad about her; there was the loss of her son, true, although I believe that, when I was around, she could forget for awhile that he was truly gone, even if I could never, really, take his place. I think, though, it extended beyond just that. I think the sham of her marriage--that really big lie--bled her of happiness first, draining her over the period of years that she and my grandfather busied themselves putting on a face for the community. Not that anyone was fooled. While my grandfather's antics were well-known and much-discussed in the coffee shops and farm stores in town, my grandmother dressed to the nines and held her head high as she walked across town in an endless march to the homes of the people who loved her, the family she trusted. Forever stuck in a time warp, she clung to the beliefs and ideals of a generation of southerners who once dwelled in a land that had fallen long before she was born.

When she was 64, she died of ovarian cancer. It was my first year out of college and I had just moved to Oklahoma City. She'd had cancer for a little over a year but had, I thought, successfully fought it. I'd just been to see her in the hospital and, while she didn't look well, I didn't suspect that she was dying. I don't know if it's because no one told me, or if it's because I didn't want to know. But, I really didn't get it, not even after receiving the news from my dad, who called me when I returned from a long night of drinking strawberry daiquiris (which I never touched again). In a state of denial, I made the 200 mile drive in two and a half hours. Pulling up in front of the house that had served as my second home for so many years, I saw the many other cars jamming the driveway and street. It was early May, but a very light snow had, incongruously, started to fall as I walked to the front door. It was only when I saw the wreath, stately and funereal, hanging on the door that the realization of my enormous loss washed over me. I understand now how there are some things that you never get over. You get passed it, you move on, but you never stop missing those you love most. Like every other tragedy and pitfall in life, you deal with it, but this was something that took me many, many years to come to terms with.

My grandfather, to me, seemed unsure of how to respond. The woman with whom he had spent the past 40+ years fighting and ignoring was gone. Coincidentally, this was the same woman who had spent the past 40+ years cooking his meals, washing and ironing his clothes, changing his sheets, and cleaning his house. What was going to happen to him now? I don't know if he was temporarily grief-stricken or simply afraid for his own future, but my grandfather managed to shed some tears throughout the ordeal, as he put his good times on hold. It wasn't long before the chase started up again, however. He took up with the widow of his first-cousin and begged her to marry him, although she had the good sense to decline the proposal. Shortly after that, he moved a different woman into his house, and I don't know if they actually went through the ceremony or not, but in short order, he moved her right back out.

And then, one day, he met the Golddigger from California, a much-married, good-looking, high-maintenance dame, with the looks of a former showgirl and a bank account that reflected her marital endeavors. With dollar signs in her eyes (and lust in his) they stood before a justice of the peace and pledged to love each other in sickness and in health, til death did them part. What she didn't know--in fact, he'd told her quite the opposite--was that my grandfather had managed to run through a good part of his inheritance, and the money generated by his ranching enterprises.

By the time they married, the Golddigger had more money than he did, and when she found out, the shit hit the fan. He had a modest sum in the bank, to be sure, so she wasn't letting him off the hook that easily. Resolving to stay with him until they went through his every last cent, she put on her smiling face as she went about Booker, making friends and endearing herself to one and all. They traveled together, he bought her jewelry, they raced greyhounds. Once she had satisfied herself there wasn't another cent to be had, the Golddigger showed her true colors and moved out of the new house that my grandfather had bought for himself and the new bride to share during their golden years. Obviously, this didn't set well with him, and there was a lot of back and forth going on between them before he got bitten by the snake and, later, had a stroke. At this point, having had more than enough of both my grandfather and of the suddenly stand-offish citizens of Booker, the Golddigger retreated to California.

Unable to care for himself, and undergoing physical therapy, my grandfather entered the nursing home (the same one that Aunt Thelma now resides in), but tried every way he could think of to get out. When my mom's brother (who lives a couple of blocks away) took him for rides, my grandfather would refuse to get out of the car. There was a time, when he still had access to his own car, that he would leave the nursing home, park his car in my uncle's driveway, and sleep there. It was a sad turn of events that some of my grandmother's less charitable relatives ascribed to karma. Or, as they put it, what goes around, comes around.

As his health continued to deteriorate, my grandfather was moved to a hospital in Amarillo, from which he rapidly made his way to a hospice, where the doctors told my mother that "it could be any time". He held on long enough for the Golddigger to get wind of the fact that he was dying and that he may have had a hidden stash of money that he hadn't told her about, and out she came. My mother, all of 5'2" and 92 lbs., stood in the hospice door and told the Golddigger that she'd taken quite enough from our family and that if she wanted to get in that room, she have to get past my mother first. The golddigger retreated, my grandfather died peacefully, and the resultant funeral dinner was awkward, with my grandfather's children, grandchildren, and other relatives crowding a cluster of long tables, while the Golddigger and her brother sat alone. What was funny is that she honestly couldn't figure it out. "I was his wife," she said, shaking her head in amazement that she wasn't accorded any more respect than what was being shown at the funeral. When it was over, she drove off into the sunset with her brother. She was, she said, done with the lot of us.

* * * * * *

At the home of my mother's brother, an uncle who is, physically, very much like his father, we see that his pickup truck is parked in the driveway. In the bed of the pickup truck is the long, very fat corpse of a headless rattlesnake. My uncle informs us that he stopped and killed it in the road earlier that morning. You don't just run over big snakes like that. Not only might they not die, but they can wrap around the axle of your vehicle, and they can get awfully, awfully pissed off when you try and remove them. At least, that's what I always heard. It doesn't take much to get them pissed off, anyway. Back in the early '90's, my grandfather climbed out of his pickup truck in a field and stepped right down on top of a rattler. The snake bit clear through his boot, indirectly resulting in the long, slow decline that eventually led to his death. We spend some time with my uncle and his wife, still pretty but very frail, having spent the past two years battling stage four lung cancer. Every few weeks, she and my uncle climb into the car with their only daughter, and they make the long, ten-hour drive to Houston, where she undergoes her chemo treatments. And, so far, it's all been worth it; she's survived much longer, and done much better, than anyone expected; even the doctors think that it's nothing much short of miraculous. I'm not much one for religion, but obviously something's working, and I'm thankful for that. I also get to visit with their oldest son, my cousin, Mark. He's a couple of years younger than me and just became a first-time grandfather! Normally, I wouldn't be telling it, but my sister--four years younger than me--has a three year old granddaughter, so I've had time to accustom myself to the fact that I'm getting to be of a grandfatherly age, although if you ask me, I will lie to your face and subtract ten years from my actual age. It's always fun visiting with my uncle and his family, but we still need to make one more stop before we leave Booker.

* * * * * *

The Heart Cemetery, just south of town, occupies a smallish, flat, arid piece of land that was once being encroached upon by an ever-expanding prairie dog town. I don't know whether or not the owner of the neighboring land exterminated the prairie dogs (I suspect he did) but it seems that the danger of the little creatures joining departed loved ones has passed. My mother still feels a family duty to visit the cemetery every time she comes to Booker. Well, it's full of our family members; most all of the people who used to join us at my great-grandmother's dinner table when I was a kid now reside there. There are dozens of them, maybe hundreds, all relatives of either my grandfather or my grandmother. You'd think that the henhouse hum of giddy conversations would still be echoing through the cemetery, but it is quiet, and the only movement is that of the wind jostling the American and Texas state flags at the top of the flagpole. I know why my mom comes here, although I can't really explain it. A few years ago, I had driven over by myself to see some relatives. Before leaving town, I decided to drive out and visit the graves of my grandparents. Standing out there alone in the cemetery, with only the wind and the sound of a distant tractor for company, I thought of what a lonely, lovely, peaceful place it was; next to the prairie dog town and the infinite flatness beyond, it was a sweet, dead village filled with beautiful memories and the enduring love of the ages. Jolted back to reality by my mom pointing out the ostentatious and rambling monument to bad taste that a cousin has erected for her recently-departed husband, I steer the car onto the highway and speed away, towards home.

* * * * * *

Back in the little house behind my parent's place, I catch the Andy Warhol flick and drift off to sleep watching "Basic Instinct 2", for which I have developed an unaccountable fondness. The next morning, my dad drives me to Wichita to catch my flight back to Ft. Lauderdale. Neither of my parents looks like they feel particularly well, so I am not feeling good about leaving. After my dad drops me at the airport, I sit and wait for my flight to board. Of course, it seems like I'm sitting there for an eternity, although, in actuality, it's probably less than an hour. On the plane, I make the acquaintence of my seatmates, a friendly, chatty farm couple from western Kansas. They're on their way to Atlanta to visit a daughter, who, it turns out, was once a flight attendant for our airline, Air Tran. As we cruise into Atlanta, we start hitting some turbulence. We circle Atlanta Airport as the clouds grow darker and the plane gets jumpier. The pilot announces that we're diverting to refuel because, what with the gas crisis and all, the planes aren't being flown with full tanks and, well, we're about out of fuel. What? The farm wife next to me widens her eyes and asks me if the pilot just said what she thinks he said. I assure that he did as her fingers dig into the arms of her seat. The flight to Macon takes another thirty minutes, although we spend an additional forty-five minutes circling that airport. We finally land and spend yet another forty-five minutes on the tarmac as our plane is re-fueled.

When we take off to head back to Atlanta, the ominous, black clouds are swirling. We plow into the storm, and the plane jumps like a kangaroo sprinting across the outback. My stomach lurches and I wonder if I'm going to have to retrieve the barf bag from the seat pocket in front of me. After what seems like an eternity, the pilot steers us out of the turbulence and, soon, we're once again circling (a much calmer) Atlanta airport. We circle. And we circle. And we circle some more.

When we land, hours after our original ETA, we are told to hurry up and sprint to a gate that is roughly the same distance as it is from Macon to Atlanta. After hefting my considerably heavy bag through the airport and arriving at the assigned gate, the Air Tran lady informs me that my flight will be arriving at another gate and that I should hurry on over there. "On over there" turns out to be another considerable jog, but I am starting to get irritated and I damn sure don't want to miss my flight and have to stay in the Atlanta Airport. I arrive at the new gate, where I stand around waiting with another group of increasingly agitated passengers. We are then directed to yet another gate, where a different flight will be picking us up at 11:00 p.m. So, we all shlepp over to this gate, a motley crew, indeed, all of us hungry, tired, and bitching at Air Tran's incompetence, and promising to write letters and send e-mails to "whoever is in charge of this fiasco". We are advised to stay in line, as our flight will be arriving any moment. An hour later, we are told that the flight has been delayed by all the stormy weather on the east coast. Thirty minutes after that, when we're informed that we now have to wait on a flight attendant, who is stuck on another flight, there is mutiny in our eyes, murder in our hearts.

I stomp out of line and head for the News Exchange, where I make a futile attempt to buy a vintage sandwich and Coke from the African-American attendant. Shaking her head, she says sorry, she's closing. Disheartened, I walk across the corridor to the Phillips Crab dispensary. As I'm perusing the very limited supply of food, a young African-American man joins me. Suddenly, another woman walks up and tells him to go to the News Exchange Stand because the woman working there thinks that he's cute and wants to sell him a sandwich. Furious, I stand outside the news stand and watch the woman whom I now perceive to be a racist bitch sell the young man a sandwich and a soft drink. Inwardly, I seethe and promise to report this to her superior just as soon as I get back to Ft. Lauderdale. I finally manage to persuade one young woman working at an about-to-close booth to sell me something to eat. By this time, I don't even know what I'm eating; I'm so hungry that it doesn't matter. It's edible and that's all I care about.

Another hour passes, and the mutineers are dangerously close to stringing up the unfortunate Air Tran counter workers, who have called in for support. The extra Air Tran people are now giving us conflicting stories, none of which gel with what their co-workers are telling us, so it suddenly occurs to me that none of them know what the actual cause of the delay is, that they're all lying through their teeth, and that they've been instructed to do so by their supervisors. At some point, the allegedly unaccountably-delayed flight attendant arrives and is greeted by the collective glare of two hundred eyes. We are herded onto the plane well after midnight, and my list of complaints has grown so long that I may need a pen and paper to write them down. I don't want to forget one thing when I call Air Tran and the News Exchange headquarters!

* * * * * *

When the plane lands in Ft. Lauderdale at 2:15 a.m., I am still fuming. Storming off the plane, I harrumph my way past the stewardess as she wishes me a good stay in Ft. Lauderdale. We'll see about that, sister, I think to myself. I am petulant and pissy and unbearable, even to myself. My partner picks me up and, since I have forgotten not only what I ate in Atlanta but the act of eating, itself, I am famished. And there is nothing--nothing--open for the miles and miles we drive along I-95 as we get ever closer to home, and the empty refrigerator inside. When we see an open 7-11, I shriek for my partner to stop. Inside, the least offensive thing I can find is something akin to an Italian hoagie. When I attempt to pay the woman at the counter, I get a lot of attitude. What the fuck is this all about, I wonder? All of a sudden, I feel like Rodney Dangerfield. I have never been racist, have never approved of anything that smacks of racism, and I'm on the receiving end of a whole lot of needless bullshit. I decide to add 7-11 to my list as we drive home and I eat the tasteless sandwich. At 3:30 a.m., I finally climb into bed, my mind racing, demanding apologies for all the wrongs, both real and imagined, that I've experienced over the course of that long, endless journey. I want something for all my trouble, goddammit!

The next morning, I am rewarded with a migraine.

Points West, Part 3: Land of Enchantment

2008-08-13T10:22:00.000-07:00

The next morning is Sunday and they are planning to have a brief service at Black Mesa. My partner and I, having already said our goodbyes the night before, are driving directly to Albuquerque. Originally, I had planned for us to drive further west of Boise City into New Mexico, on a road that would take us past an extinct volcano, Mt. Capulin, that we could drive up and then hike down into the crater. Then, I reasoned, we would drive on to the town of Cimarron, with it's haunted hotel and cowboy past (my great uncle Garnet once bought a horse here, which he named Cimarron, or Cim); then further into the Sangre de Cristo Mountains to the Enchanted Circle, some parts of which are evocative of the Swiss Alps, particularly the charming village of Red River. We would pass the skiing resorts of Angel Fire and Eagle's Nest, move on to mystical, literary Taos, and then cut down to Santa Fe and, ultimately Albuquerque. However, since time was limited, I had to 86 the whole Enchanted Circle thing, much to my enormous chagrin. Intending to depart Boise City at 7 a.m., we fill up the gas tank at the nearby Love's at 8:30, and drive down the black hole road to Dalhart. I have to say that Dalhart is a very interesting place that still boasts many old buildings, brick streets, and a colorful past that can compete with the best old cowtowns. Passing through Dalhart, my partner is impressed with the sprawling feed lots that spread across acre after acre, as far as the eye can see. Maybe we caught a good wind because the smell isn't as almighty terrible as it could be. We change to Mountain Standard Time when we cross over into New Mexico, and stop for an early lunch at a truck stop in Tucumcari. My partner opts for McDonald's next door, but I get a semi-healthy sandwich at the truck stop's Subway, served with sass and a flirty smile by a cute, friendly waiter who's from the same Texas town as one of my cousins. Later in the afternoon, it seems like we're approaching Albuquerque forever. I haven't been on this stretch of I-40 since the nineties, and I'm surprised how far the urban sprawl has moved east. We're not even close to the mountains and already there are housing developments and chain motels. When at last we cross the mountain and descend into Albuquerque, we are greeted with massive road construction. Continuing on, the traffic gets heavier, but we finally come to our turnoff on Rio Grande Drive.

* * * * * *

My partner's cousin, although born in Cuba, left early and spent most of his adolescence in New Jersey. He was a teacher in a private school and married a gorgeous New York Italian girl, raised two kids, and seemingly had a good life in an upscale, picturesque Connecticut community. Not so good, apparently, as he divorced the wife once both kids were gone, and wound up, at age 50, marrying a twentysomething year old fellow teacher, and moving to Albuquerque. By the time he was 55, the cousin had two children, ages 3 1/2 and 1 1/2. They also have two chihuahuas, one older than dirt, and the other with the personality of a piranha. The cousin's house is a very nice, very large, modern faux-adobe structure, a southwestern style construction with an enclosed courtyard and a fountain that wasn't working when we were there. Behind the main house, accessible from both the house and a little side yard, is a casita, which is where my partner and I stayed, and is as large as our condo in Florida. After settling in, we discover that the children, both daughters, are direct descendants of Damien, the demon-child from "The Omen". Especially the oldest daughter who, in one particularly dramatic display, repeatedly threw her screaming self against the glass patio doors in a fit worthy of a Hollywood remake. These children are not merely bad; they are truly and simply the worst behaved children that I have ever had the misfortune of meeting. I don't condone corporal punishment for children; I have always felt that, by using violence, no matter how benign, to punish a child, you reinforce violence as a viable method of dealing with people whom you believe to be a transgressor of some sort. Having said that, I think that the cousin and his wife need a good spanking, just a good, old-fashioned butt-whupping for delivering these evil spawn into the world, and then letting the spawn run rampant while they, the parents, politely pass the wine and the Caesar salad, and ask me if I could please speak up since the kids are, well, a little out of control. A little? My ass! Wanting to put some distance between ourselves and the brats, my partner and I decide to go to Old Town (a three minute drive) where we see an old church and some other old buildings, and spend way too much time perusing useless objets d'art in overpriced junk shops. Honestly, Old Town is a very charming and interesting area of Albuquerque and well worth visiting, but I was already traumatized when I got there, and not able to focus on much. Founded in the early 1700's, Albuquerque was a government outpost for the conquesting Spanish, and some of the buildings in the area date back from those early times. There's also a nifty natural history museum nearby, although we didn't make it there on this visit.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, dinner is being served. We are sitting in the back yard and, at this hour of the evening, with the sun still high in the sky, the temperature has dropped to seventy degrees. It is pleasant, briefly, until the children finish eating, and all hell breaks loose. I notice that their mother, our hostess, is constantly on the verge of tears, as a streak of hysteria seems to bubble dangerously near her weary, disheveled surface. It strikes me as profoundly strange that these two people, the cousin and his wife, so genuinely nice, so obviously brilliant, so warm and open, can be in any way related to the two monsters wrought from their loins. With the furies upon us, my partner and I excuse ourselves and head for bed.

We depart early the following morning. We're going to take the scenic route to Santa Fe by driving along the Turquoise Trail. After negotiating the early morning traffic, we cross back over the mountain and turn north. Clinging to the hillsides above are neighborhoods of beautiful adobe-style homes, artfully situated among pinon trees and boulders the size of taxicabs. The view from the roadway becomes even more impressive as we pass from the Albuquerque city limits. On both sides of the highway, cars are parked while the occupants stand painting at easels. There is less sprawl out here, as the suburban congestion gives way to breathtaking vistas of high desert and dazzling sunlight. We finally come to a stop in the village of Madrid (pronounced MAD-rid) and not (Muh-DRID), as in the Spanish capital. Madrid is an old coal mining community that once boasted hotels, saloons, and its own minor league baseball team. When the demand for coal lessened, Madrid became a veritable ghost town, idling into a slow, but scenic demise that was halted in the 1970's when it was rediscovered by artists and counterculture types. Although occupying only a mere few blocks along the highway, Madrid is now home to dozens of art galleries, a couple of bed and breakfasts, a tea house, cafes, and a saloon frequented by Harley-driving bikers. Still untamed and pretty much unyuppified, Madrid has an edgier, funkier feel than what is found in the more upscale, sophisticated Santa Fe to the north. When we stop for a quick bite of breakfast, we notice that most of the shops and galleries haven't yet opened, even though it's past ten, and the signs on the doors say that they open at ten. My partner offers that, from the looks of things, maybe they were up all night smoking reefers and hadn't yet managed to get their mornings started. It's that kind of place, and I really liked that quality, where people are independent enough to be on their own time schedule, and not slaves to conformity. My partner ate a muffin and I got a scone from the tiny tea room at a cool, rambling bed and breakfast. Enroute to the car, we stop to chat with a local shopowner who is just unlocking his doors. Speaking with a vaguely European accent he's very helpful when we ask for a cheap place to buy gas. A few miles outside of town, we pull into a gas station masquerading as a western set. The illusion is somewhat shattered when I walk inside and am greeted by a middle-eastern gentleman wearing a turban. Hoping to use the store's bathroom, I finally reach the conclusion that the current occupant, who has barricaded himself inside, is not coming out anytime soon. Either he has some serious issues going on, or he is, quite simply, lying dead across the toilet. I give the attendant with the turban one last look as he shrugs helplessly and I pee-pee dance to the car. With no convenient turnoffs in which to take care of the business at hand, I grimace, and cross my legs tightly, as we continue towards Santa Fe.

The New Mexico State Prison lies just on the outskirts of Santa Fe, on a high stretch of land overlooking a lot of desert. The prison itself looks massive and foreboding, and I remember the unimagineable ultra-violence of the riot that occurred there in the not too distant past: the taking of hostages, and reports of one man having his head taken off by a blow torch, while others were tortured, dismembered, and decapitated. In all, 33 people lost their lives, and another 100 sustained serious injuries. Allegedly, this 1980 riot could have been prevented as the authorities had been previous alerted that something was about to break loose. The fact that they did nothing until the death toll had already started to mount has been the subject of many arguments and much debate.

Beyond the haunting walls of the prison, we cruise into the Santa Fe city limits. We pass blocks and blocks of chain stores--Starbucks, Borders, Pier One, Burger King, Holiday Inn Express, all the usual suspects--before I spot familiar landmarks. It's been fifteen years since I've been to Santa Fe, and in the interim, it has experienced its own urban sprawl. By the time we reach the downtown area, I remind my partner that my kidneys are on overload and that we need to be stopping soon. We park in the city parking lot behind one of Santa Fe's many old churches. I duck into a nearby business and use the bathroom as the burden of the morning's Coca-Cola is relieved from my bladder.

Back out in the sunshine, I gaze at the old plaza, the Palace of the Governors, and the impressive St. Francis Cathedral. Santa Fe is one of the oldest cities in the United States. Although there were organized communities in the area as far back as 1000 A.D., Santa Fe was officially founded in 1610 by Don Pedro de Peralta, the third governor of Nuevo Mexico. Santa Fe served as the capital of Nuevo Mexico, as well as the provincial seat of New Spain. There are several impressive buildings in the area that date back to colonial times, and at least one from the Pre-Columbian settlement (it's now a pizza restaurant!).

Our first stop is St. Francis Cathedral, a circa 1880 church built, not from the usual adobe, but from stone that was loaded in from a quarry near Lamy. A quietly imposing building, the cathedral occupies a block facing the square. Inside, renovations are underway, so our movements (as well as our time there) are limited. Outside the cathedral, there is a long, narrow park where a group of children picnic with a teacher.

Across the street, at the low, rambling, centuries-old Palace of the Governors, dozens of local Native Americans display their wares to tourists in the shaded comfort of the long porch. Propped up on colorful blankets are the ubiquitous turquoise jewelry, beaded earrings and necklaces, silver items, belts, paintings, sketches, pottery--it's a cornucopia of tchotchkes, kitsch, and genuine artistry. I find nothing that I can't live without, although I am momentarily tempted by the kinky looking, black leather wrist snaps setting incongruously amongst the other merchandise.

Further from the plaza, we pass through a few more shops and galleries, and then stop in at the famous La Fonda Hotel. Already old when Fred Harvey, of "Harvey Girls" fame (check out the Judy Garland movie if you don't know what I'm talking about) added a second floor to the property, the La Fonda has, through the years, played host to presidents, foreign dignitaries, and movie stars. Once "the place to stay" in Santa Fe, it now faces stiff competition from other newer, upscale properties, like the Inn of the Anasazi, the Inn at Loretto, and, a little farther afield, the colorful Bishop's Lodge. However, we're not checking into the La Fonda today. My partner's cousin has recommended two restaurants for lunch, and I ask the gift shop manager if he can give me directions. A kindred spirit--Santa Fe is full of my kind--the manager tells me how to reach the Coyote Cafe, a short block and a half away. Once there, we opt for lunching on the rooftop, enjoying the sunshine and startling blue sky. It's also a perfect place to survey the street scene below and check out any points of interest that we may have missed. The cafe is crowded and bustling, but the service is good, as is the food, which appears with surprising swiftness. I put down an enormous soft taco of fish and white sauce, and my partner devours a generous looking pork dish. Everything comes with huge amounts of rice and black beans, and chips with three kinds of salsa. During the feast, my partner's cell phone keeps ringing. We have work being done in the master bathroom back home, and they are calling with hourly updates and bad news.

After lunch, we venture over to Canyon Road, a gently sloping street that once led to the city's water supply. Now, Canyon Road is home to scores of expensive galleries, with a few restaurants and tea rooms sandwiched in between. This is where the serious art collectors come to purchase paintings and scultures. I know this because I find an absolutely magnificent (and very large) painting that I think will look just fine in our living room; with a ceiling that gradually slopes to a height of close to 15 feet, I feel that the painting is an obvious fit, and am willing to shell out a couple of hundred bucks should the need arise. Well, that just goes to show you how much I know about art. The price is actually on the painting, albeit on a tiny tag, easily missed, located at the very bottom, right-hand corner. The gallery's proprietor--another kindred spirit--is nearly called into action to help lift me off the floor after I read the that the price is$85,000.00! That's eighty-five thousand dollars! With as much dignity as I can summon, I inform him that I will check back later, and then hasten from the premises. This is one of the first galleries we stop in, and I cop a serious clue as to what to expect from the others. It goes without saying that we will not be purchasing a lot of art on this leg of the journey.

A little further up the road, we duck into a charming little cottage for herbal tea and homemade cookies. While here, my partner is seized with a sudden case of intestinal distress, prompting his immediate search for the restroom; in the meantime, I am pursued by a wasp that chases me outside into the courtyard. Afterwards, we proceed to a garden full of rock fountains, where we discuss sculpting with an exquisitely pale, fiftyish goth girl who exudes an otherworldly Bride of Dracula vibe. When, finally, we are galleried out, we hike back to the Journey and drive out towards I-25, the expressway that will carry us back to Albuquerque, and to the lair of the hellspawn. On the way out of town, it comes to our attention that we still need to pick up some souvenirs for a few lucky recipients so we pull into the parking lot of a mammoth trinket warehouse that sort of resembles a southwest-style Big Lots. There are rows and rows of every sort of knicknack imaginable, most of which can be had for under $10! This is more like it! Finally, satisfied with the Land of Enchantment coffee mugs and the allegedly size small tee shirt that would comfortably ensconce a Mini Cooper, we head down the road for our last night in New Mexico.

In the casita, I pack everything except what I'll need to get ready for our early departure the following morning. I'd like to get on the highway by 7 a.m. so we can be back at my parent's house by 2. Of course, my partner and I both know that we have a better chance of scaling Mt. Everest on roller skates, but I am ever-hopeful. The shrieking has been underway in the main house ever since we returned from Santa Fe, and, putting on our best faces, we enter into a scene of utter chaos. The cousin's wife, red-faced and bleary-eyed, is clutching the 1 1/2 year old to her bosom and chasing the other hellion, threatening to send her to her room so that she can't interface with us on our last night in town. Oh, please let it be! The cousin, himself, smiles Stepford-like, and looks beyond the unfolding drama, burying himself in the newspaper that he's probably read five times since its arrival that morning. He suggests that we go to dinner at a nearby restaurant, and that his wife remain home with the girls, since they're all "a little cranky". Sounds good to me. However, the wife has other ideas, and she's not about to be left behind in the seventh circle of hell. She orders the eldest child to go put on something appropriate, and the child dons an outfit that might have looked fetching on Madonna circa 1983. When her mother tells her that the ensemble is not going to work, the kid doubles over and begins to scream like a banshee. Inexplicably, the mother apologizes and asks her to please put on something pretty. The daughter reappears in a unit that is even less attractive than the previous one. The parents praise her for her taste and style, and we load into the cars and head for the restaurant.

The Flying Star Cafe is a few short blocks from the house, and is located in a cool, little strip mall that has a nice size book store. A slave to good book stores, I am forcefully dragged past its entrance as we proceed to the restaurant. Once inside, both children make an immediate beeline for the kitchen, disappearing amidst a clatter of pots, and the collective gasps of cooks and servers. Their father races into the kitchen, steering both girls back into the serving area. Once seated on the outside patio, we all enjoy a brief period of relative calm. The Flying Star has a varied and enormous menu so it takes us awhile to make up our minds. I wind up with a sandwich made from marinated and grilled crimini mushrooms, avocado, tomatoes, and caramelized onions on a sourdough roll. I know this because I still have the menu. It is delicious and much too filling to permit my indulging in one of the great looking desserts that are being served at a nearby table. The hellion, on the other hand, demands dessert, so her mother obediently orders some concoction of chocolate and cake and ice cream and whipped cream, and I don't know what else, and I salivate as the evil slurps it down. Once we are enroute to the car, the riotous carrying-on begins in earnest, as each child vehemently protests her insertion into a car seat. My partner and I climb into the Journey and ponder which parent will be the long-term survivor of the ongoing melee. At first glance, one would assume that the father, an athletic 55 (who doesn't look a day over 45) would still be the first to buy the farm, simply by virtue of his age. However, the poor mother--shut away with those daughters, day in and day out, sleepless, haggard, ever on the verge of sobbing hysteria--doesn't appear to be a good candidate for longevity, at least not outside of a mental health facility. When we arrive back at the house, we slip through the little side yard and lock outselves securely in the casita.

I am awakened the following morning by more than the usual din of disorderliness coming from the main house. The cousin's wife screams the name of the eldest child, and then apologizes for screaming. Doors slam, and soon there is a knock on our door. Dressing quickly, I open the door to reveal the red, tear-streaked face of a woman in full mental collapse. Clasping the 1 1/2 year old to her breasts, she clutches the other daughter in a headlock. "The dogs are gone!" she moans.

"What?"

"I let them out in the little side yard this morning, like I always do, and apparently the gate wasn't shut last night, and they got out!" She gives me an accusatory look as the words bubble from her lips.

Uh-oh. I don't remember checking whether or not the gate latched securely when we came in last night and I was the last one through. Shit.

The hysterical woman informs me that her husband is already scouring the neighborhood on his bicycle in an effort to find the dogs, and that she and the girls are taking the car to look. "If we're not back before you go, it was nice seeing you," she snarls, clearly inferring that we will be eternally cursed by the fates if we even think of departing before those dogs are found.

With the search branching out across the neighborhood, my partner and I set out on foot, hoping that we might see something that the others have missed. Of utmost concern to me is the fact that our host's house is located right next to a very busy street--Rio Grande--which merits its own exit off nearby I-40. I squint to see if there are squashed remnants of chihuahua splattered in the road. Seeing nothing, I heave a sigh of relief, and we turn a corner and stroll past a construction sight. Suddenly, I see movement as two chihuahua sized creatures scurry along a fence row parallel to us. My excitement turns to disgust when I determine that they are huge rats, fully capable, I fear, of devouring the hapless dogs. Well, this is a fine kettle of fish. I tell my partner that we'll never get out of Albuquerque now, that we'll be planning (and paying for) a funeral (possibly our own) if those dogs aren't found alive and well. We run across the cousin, who is still frantically roaming the sidestreets on his bicycle. My partner makes it clear that he wasn't the last one to pass through the gate last night (and is thus, blameless), and they both look at me as I apologize profusely. The cousin smiles the Stepford smile and tells me that it wasn't done on purpose, but his words are of little comfort, especially when the wife whirls by in her car, and I catch a glimpse of her broken down face. We go our separate ways again, and I start to sweat, realizing that this is not looking like it's going to turn out well for anyone. Finally, as my partner and I start back towards the casita, the cousin rides up on his bicycle, the dogs tucked securely in his arms. I nearly faint from relief, as does the wife who shows up and loads the dogs into the car with the monsters. When we get back to the house, there is much laughter as our hosts tell me that you have to slam the gate to make sure that the latch catches, a minor fact that they failed to mention upon our arrival. They then relate other times when the dogs ran away, the ensuing hysteria, the relief and feeling of giddy silliness when the dogs were found, and on and on. I absolutely want nothing more out of life than to get the fuck away from there as quickly as possible.

At 9:30 a.m., the cousin stands with his wife and children in their driveway to see us off. Clutching one child to her bosom while headlocking the other, the wife issues a pained smile and tells us it was lovely having us and to come back soon. As we pull out onto Rio Grande Boulevard, I glance back and see a perfect family tableaux--handsome, professorial husband, athletic, young wife, and two beautiful, little daughters standing before a well-appointed, well-maintained home--and I feel an urgency to escape, as if the hounds of hell are about to be loosed upon me. We drive east on I-40 and navigate morning traffic until we cross the mountains once again, and the sprawl of Albuquerque gradually disappears behind us.

Points West, Part 2: No Man's Land

2008-08-08T12:38:00.000-07:00

There was no way that we were all going to the family reunion in one vehicle. The Dodge Journey, foisted on us by Budget Rent-A-Car, wasn't quite big enough, and my parent's van could hold all of us, but not all of our luggage, too. Besides, I asked my partner, weren't we leaving the reunion and driving out to New Mexico for a few days? I was relatively certain that my sister, her husband, and the youngest of her four children, wouldn't want to tag along, and my parents coming was out of the question. It practically takes an act of Congress to get my mother out of her house these days, and while she was okay with attending the reunion, there was no way on God's green earth that she would venture any further from her front door than what she'd already promised my dad. So, on the morning of our departure, my partner and I climbed into the Journey, my parents into their van, my sister, her husband, and their seventeen year old son into yet another car, and off we went, a caravan heading west on a highway that had once carried me home from college.

* * * * * *

As you drive farther into the Oklahoma Panhandle, the elevation begins to increase, subtley at first, and then with noticeable abruptness as you get closer to the mountains of northern New Mexico. Towns are sparse, their presence announced by majestic, white grain elevators that serve as their skyscrapers, their monuments to commerce and survival in a place that was, not too long ago, dubbed "the great American desert". Traffic is largely limited to varieties of trucks: a few cattle trucks here, the occasional (and ubiquitous) pickup truck there, more trucks hauling machinery to and from the oil rigs that rise incongrously from the prairie floor, like mini-Eiffel Towers. There is road kill on the two-lane highway, lots of it. Vultures and hawks swoop down, grasping pieces of carrion with savage swipes of razor sharp claws before departing back into the hot morning sun. For the most part, people are nice out here. The Panhandles of Texas and Oklahoma are areas where right-wing, Bible-Belt fundamentalism exists side-by-side with a certain lawlessness, if not of deed, then of spirit. Folks there won't ask you to pick a side, they don't have to. You'll know quickly which alliances to form; people are polite but blunt, and rarely misrepresent themselves. Having said that, I can hardly think of a better place in the United States in which to lose oneself, if one truly wants to get, and stay, lost.

* * * * * *

At about 9 a.m. that Saturday morning, we pulled into Guymon, Oklahoma. Just ten miles east of my college stomping grounds, Guymon used to be the place to go for fast-food fixes, movie theaters, department store shopping, and rough trade; it was also rumored to be a major pit stop on the Mexican drug highway. First and foremost a cowtown, Guymon is now equally well-known for its hog farms. As we passed through town that day, I saw flashes of my college past: the truck stop where, as a student, I sometimes ate midnight meals of chicken fried steaks and fries, while shooting the shit with an ancient waitress named Marcella; the vacant building that used to be a movie theater where I first saw "The Exorcist", "The Towering Inferno", "What's Up Doc?", and "Young Frankenstein"; and the adjacent lot that housed the drive-in picture show, where I witnessed less savory fare like "Messiah of Evil", "Six-Pack Annie", and the original "Texas Chainsaw Massacre", a film whose impact was not slightly diminished by the copious amounts of beer and weed that were being passed around the car.

While my family drove north of Guymon, my partner and I decided to drive on west, so I could see my old college, the scene of several important "firsts" and where one could say that I, arguably, spent the best years of my life. I came to Panhandle State University as one person, and left, four years later, as someone else. Although it would take several years before the person I became would be allowed to have free reign over my life.

* * * * * *

Goodwell, Oklahoma, from a distance, does not look like the type of town that is home to a university that has drawn students from both coasts, as well as a few foreign countries. Situated on a flat, dry, desolate stretch of prairie, the town is comprised of a few hundred hearty souls, many of whom are employed, in some capacity, by the university. With around 2,000 students, Panhandle State is the largest educational facility in an area encompassing the Oklahoma Panhandle, parts of the Texas Panhandle, southwestern Kansas, southeastern Colorado, and northeastern New Mexico. The town's main street hasn't changed much since my salad days there. It really hasn't changed much since my dad's salad days, nor probably since its founding in the early part of the 20th Century. There were a few buildings missing, the most prominent being the one that had housed the Jungle, the town's main bar, which we students, technically, shouldn't have been allowed to enter (and frequently weren't). Behind this building was a very large, two story house that was rented by some pseudo-intellectuals who, nonetheless, threw some very good parties; that house was the first place I saw a bong, or tasted a Harvey Wallbanger (my beverage of choice until then had been Annie Green Springs).

At the end of Main Street, we turned left and, in less than a minute, were idling outside Field Hall, my old dorm, and the home-away-from-home where I spent all four years of my college career. Hesitantly, I made my way up the familiar walkway and peered into the glass doors. Surprised to find one of the doors open, I walked up the stairs into the empty lobby, and passed on down a hallway that led me straight to my old room (one of my MANY old rooms, actually). I stood on the threshold and looked in on my past, as the years peeled away.

* * * * * *

Most people attending college out here lived in the dorms throughout their college years. There wasn't much off-campus housing available then, plus there was a communal, familial feel to the dorm; by living on campus, you felt like you were part of a bigger sphere, one that transcended the isolation of the setting. And it's true, I made friends with people from all over the place. Living on campus was also conducive to having experiences that might not otherwise have been available. And yes, I'm talking about male bonding, both in the "Happy Days" sense of outrageous, mostly innocent pranks, as well as in the "Brokeback Mountain" sense of mano a mano, forbidden fruit frolicking. Dorm life provided ample opportunities for untethered glimpses of tempting male flesh. Although the Gay Liberation Movement, with a few exceptions, had not progressed much further inland than the U.S. coastal areas, there was an unacknowledged homoeroticism lurking just below the surface of our dorm's academic studiousness and manchild rowdiness. Naked cowboys regularly prowled the hallways, smoking cigarettes with insoucient cool, as the giddy shrieks of rambunctious jocks echoed from the showers, followed by the electric POP of a towel snapping against wet, bare skin. And, always, there was laughter, deep and resonant and carefree. Did any of us ever laugh like that again?

At the beginning of my junior year, I noticed a change in the weather, a certain Republican uptightness accompanying the new crop of freshmen. That year ushered in a new, subdued attitude that was reflected in the sudden prudery present among many of the new students. Out went the nudity and the wild free-spiritedness that had characterized my first two years at the university, and in came our college's equivalent of the Eisenhower Era.

Some of the best friendships of my life were formed during my residence in the dorm, but I was a social creature, and many of my activities were geared towards cultivating friendships. Most newcomers were rechristened, some unknowingly, when they entered into residence at Field Hall. There was Toad, Jingle Bells, Lurch, and The Mad Bomber, among many others. Toad, much to his chagrin, maintains his nickname to this day, and he's a school superintendent!

Standing in my old dormitory room, the following images marched through my mind like a parade of Polaroid snapshots: running lines with fellow actors preparing for performances at the brooding college theater; learning to sing folk songs, and rock and roll, with a long-haired, straight guitarist, who taught me all about moisturizing, flossing, blow-drying, and cowboy/hippie chic; playing all-night card games in smoky rooms; arguing campus politics (and temperance) with my neighbor, the Vice President of the Student Body; being dangled from a second floor window by my ankles by another friend whom I had pushed too far by taunting his pet owl; talking serious trash with a cousin, who became the one friend in whom I confided everything. And, of course, there was always, always the camaraderie of the showers, in which an observant boy might gain more insights than might have been imagined.

Oddly enough, our dorm mother, the sweet, steely magnolia known as Kate Marshall, was rarely phased by either the nudity or the often racy activities of her "boys". She was probably already well past seventy when I moved into the dorm, but she was a tough one who wore her toughness inside a velvet glove. She was motherly (or grandmotherly) without the guilt and without the penalties--unless you were a slob like me and your room didn't pass weekly inspection. That first year, I got more write-ups on yellow sticky notes than I could keep track of. Finally, she stopped inspecting my room altogether, maybe because she just got sick of writing me up, or maybe because, by the end of that first year, we had established a very friendly bond and she decided to let me slide. No doubt about it, she could have been a hardass and, rightfully so, as she was in charge of keeping order in a house of 200+ rowdy, randy young men, many still teenagers just leaving home for the first time. But Kate wasn't a hardass, that wasn't her nature. One night, I came in from a fierce night of drinking and was, literally, crawling up the stairs to my room. Suddenly, a pair of fuzzy, pink houseshoes appeared on the step in front of me. After establishing that I was simply intoxicated and not, otherwise, endangered or in need of medical care, Kate advised me to take care on the steps and bade me goodnight. On another occasion, she asked me to come into her apartment, where she informed me, in hushed tones, of her suspicions that two boys in the dorm were luring other boys to their room in the basement, plying them with drugs, and......USING THEM, these last two words being accompanied by a dramatic sweep of her hands across her bosom. The reprobates in question were ROTC cowboys, gorgeous and blonde, and they had nicknamed their lair "The War Room". I very much wanted to volunteer my services to determine the guilt of these culprits, but Kate was obviously distraught, and genuinely concerned that I shouldn't fall prey to these beastly appetites, so I simply promised her that I'd make sure not to venture into the basement alone. Despite the rumors, it was never proven that either of these guys were gay, much less engaged in such unsavory activities as forced b & d or male rape (one would think that, had this been true, there would have been something of a commotion coming from the unwilling participants). At any rate, Kate Marshall was the anchor for many college boy storms that passed across the, outwardly, unfluttered surface of Field Hall.

I fell in love in that dorm, for the first time in my life, and with a man, to boot. Having overcome my shock and consternation at actually having sex with a man, I soon acknowledged my true feelings, albeit only to myself, and never to him. Two months later, I was a groomsman at his wedding; I smiled broadly, conveying a joy I did not feel, as he walked his pregnant bride out the door. Following his bachelor party, we briefly (and drunkenly) discussed taking off for his parent's winter house in Mazatlan, ready to fuck off our responsibilities, along with our futures, so that we could spend the next, what--two months?--fucking each other. Even at that age, having reached an intoxicated stage of the evening when anything is possible, we knew better. Somehow, I could comprehend that lust was not really love, and that's what I kept telling myself over and over in the ensuing weeks, as my heart tried to tell me something different. Having found something that I never thought I'd find--something I never really knew existed--and having confronted my feelings, my desires, the possibility that maybe I wasn't who I thought I was--it was gone, and I felt like I'd lost something more than a furtive lover (because he wasn't that, was he, not a lover, just a fuck, a furtive fuck, and I didn't really love him, because men don't love like that, do they?). There would be others, of course, but it was at least a year before I would dive back into that particular pool. In the interim, I decided to devote more attention to my studies (never high on my list of priorities), my girlfriend, the Homecoming Queen, (with whom I had the most chaste relationship of my life) and my other girlfriend, the secret girlfriend, the hyperintelligent, hypersexual actress with whom I enjoyed exotic, ecstatic encounters that later became the fodder for campus gossip. When I eventually took up with the hunky, blonde cowboy, my hetero relationships, along with the gossip, proved to be useful covers, even though I never planned them as such. In fact, there were times when I considered having a future with each girl. And while it could never have worked with the Homecoming Queen--I really did love her, but like a sister--I thought there might have been a ghost of a chance with the actress, because, in so many ways, we were alike, and I did enjoy our sex life. But, of course, in the end, we were too much alike; I liked men just as much as she did, and was smart enough to butt out of her life before I ruined it. Both girls (wisely) married others and moved on.

And speaking of moving on, it was time for the journey down memory lane to end. I took one last look and noted the fresh paint in the rooms, the new desks, different linoleum, the recent addition of ceiling fans. Down the hall, except for brand new paper towel dispensers, the bathrooms remained remarkably, refreshingly unchanged; after thirty-plus years, they still echoed with the drips of leaky faucets, and I could almost hear the hoarse screams of my dorm-mates galloping down the halls, attempting to evade the sizzling snap of the dreaded towel.

Before departing my old campus, we passed the revamped Hughes-Strong Auditorium, where I spent my brief college acting career being shot, pummeled, and poured into Shakespearean pantaloons, and where, on the spooky, secluded third floor, I spent three years of late nights spinning records on college radio station, KPSU. We drove past Hamilton Hall, a main classroom building, where I, along with several dozen other students, had once taken up the ROTC department on their offer to rappel from the rooftop. There was the football field, where we spent many chilly Friday nights in the fall watching the (mostly hulking) Aggies pummel their opponents. We passed the gym, where I'd once attended numerous basketball games, arranged to meet cheerleaders for late night drinking parties, and finally graduated from college during a blistering heatwave that rendered the air conditioning useless. On the other side of the football field, there are now college apartments, three stories of badly needed space that looks, somehow, forlorn in a former parking lot. The library (to which I rarely ventured) is still there, as is the girls dorm and the other classrooms. Then, I saw the student union, which also held the school cafeteria, a dance/party hall, the student governing rooms, and school bookstore. Needless to say, this building was the scene of much socializing. I remembered manning a booth with Jingle Bells as we attempted to sign people up to give blood. A buxom, blonde co-ed, well-known for her voracious sexual appetite, walked up, had a seat on his knee and, much to Jingle's horror, proceeded to bounce herself to orgasm (this was amply demonstrated not just by her vocal ministrations, but by the considerable wet spot that she deposited on his trousers). Jingle Bells was such a proper, dignified innocent that I'm not sure he ever recovered from the experience. He certainly never forgot it, nor did anyone who witnessed that performance. In that building, I learned to do the Hustle and the Texas two-step, listened to Deep Purple sing "Smoke on the Water", smoked Newports and Lemon Twists, voted to enact campus rules that I quickly broke, ditched classes, and plotted a future far different than the one I'm living.

As we came to the end of town and turned west onto the highway, I took one last look at my old alma mater. A middle-aged man moving through time, I waved goodbye to the trappings of my misspent youth, knowing that the youth still exists somewhere within; jealously guarded and forever young, he is the keeper of secrets and retainer of dreams.

My partner clicked on the car's radio and I heard a weather forecaster predicting heat and more heat, followed by the vocal stylings of Fifty Cent.

The spell was broken. Time to fly.

* * * * * *

The first thing you have to know about Boise City, Oklahoma, other than that it is where my dad was born and raised, is the correct pronunciation of the town. It's called "Boy's City", which is exactly how I thought it was spelled when I was a child, and possibly an indicator of my, as yet, undeveloped predilections. Do not ever go there and call it "Boy-zee City", as people will either look at you like you've lost your mind, or shake their heads in disgust before walking away. Either way, "Boy-zee City" will immediately identify you as a stranger, not just to the town, but to that portion of a four state area. So, remember, Boise City is "Boy's City". Period. There are no variations.

The second thing to know about Boise City is that it is the dropping off place at the end of the world, the final outpost at the edge of nowhere. Going south of Boise City towards Texas, one encounters a veritable black hole of remote and seemingly uninhabited flatness that stretches on and on into an infinity of tumbleweed, antelope, and barb wire, and later, as one once again approaches civilization, acres and acres of cornfields. The number of cornfields out here are a relatively new addition to the panhandle. For years, this whole area was part of the "Great American Desert" and was hit particularly hard during the dust storms of the "Dirty Thirties". Entire farms, acres of crops, cars, and even people were completely buried by blowing dirt; dust pneumonia was a common ailment in infants of the era. This was a land that was never meant to be farmed, and wouldn't have been, had it not been for the innovative techniques in irrigation developed during the 20th Century. In some areas, President Roosevelt orders rows of Cedar trees planted to act as windbreaks on the, otherwise, treeless expanse of prairie. In these same areas, the Cedar trees have now taken over, spreading out and greedily overtaking everything in their path. The land south of Boise City, however, is not one of those areas. Trees of any kind are few and far between, and there is no hint of humankind until the cornfields surrounding Dalhart come into sight.

Boise City was founded in the early part of the twentieth century. Two scam artists advertised an "oasis" in the desert, with tree-lined boulevards and fountains and beautiful homes with green lawns. They offered a good deal on this heavenly property, and collected the money in advance. When the prospective homeowners arrived in their new town, they were confronted by a very different reality than what had been presented to them. The scammers didn't get away with it, of course; instead of fleeing the country like many of the West's shady cons before them, they hung around and got caught, spending time in prison atoning for their dirty misdeeds. Despite the obvious mischaracterization of the place, many people chose to remain in Boise City, and a town sprang up, spoking out in four directions from a central axis comprised of a square and courthouse. Soon, there was a hotel, cafes, a movie theater, and a school. There were churches and saloons, a post office and a bank, the usual business that accompany the development of a community. When the double whammy of the Dust Bowl and the Great Depression hit, the town and surrounding area was devastated. Married when my grandmother was 16, my dad's parents had ten children and they all lived in a small house in Boise City when the world came tumbling down. In 1935, as farms were being swallowed by dust, and banks were foreclosing on homes, my dad's father died, leaving his mother to raise ten kids alone. The oldest child was 16, the youngest 1. They all worked just as soon as they were old enough. Dad's mother worked at two jobs, beginning at six in the morning and ending at ten at night. With not much education, she waitressed and washed dishes in two cafes in town. The things my dad and his siblings seem to remember most was how hard their mother worked, and how tired she always seemed to be. Even so, she enjoyed going dancing, eventually meeting and marrying a widower with three kids of his own.

During World War II, Boise City became the only town in the United States to be bombed. Apparently, during air force maneuvers, the pilots became disoriented, mistaking Boise City for their target. Luckily, no one was injured, although there was a certain amount of property damage.

Many of my dad's brothers and sisters still live in the area, and it still looks much as I remember it during rare forays out during the sixties. My mom hated coming here, and she's the one who adjudged it to be the "dropping off place". Despite all that, I was always fond of some of my many first cousins, with whom I infrequently played during my childhood. Many of us are scattered all over the United States, so the family reunion offers a good opportunity to reconnect. My dad's mother died in 1969, at the age of 69, but I remember thinking that she must be at least 100. She had tuberculosis and didn't know it until many years later; that fact, plus her otherwise hard life, took an extreme toll on her. She wasn't warm, and I remember being vaguely intimidated by this tiny, 90 pound woman, as she was such a contrast to my mom's mother, a gregarious, hugging, kissing, loudly demonstrative grandmother who, perhaps unwisely, centered her entire life around her grandchildren. The natures of both women were determined by very different upbringings and very different environments and, ultimately, neither survived to see their seventieth year.

* * * * * *

The Townsman Motel lies on the eastern edge of Boise City. It was purchased a few years ago by some people from India, and one immediately wonders how on earth they managed to find their way to this remote part of the world. The Townsman, if nothing else, is immaculately clean and serviceable. Highway workers, oil field roughnecks, and tourists wandering off the beaten path, all find their way here, for stays of varying lengths. When our caravan at last met up and descended upon the Townsman, our party, alone, numbered twelve, and we were dispersed over four rooms. I noted that there was no Dish TV, although by the time I collapsed into bed later that night, I couldn't have cared less.

By heading through Boise City and turning west at the courthouse, you'll see a sign that says Black Mesa is twenty-some miles ahead. Driving along the road, we pass the tiny home of my grandmother, the one she shared with her second husband during the last years of her life, the one I remember visiting when I was a kid. I always liked her husband and thought of him as "Grandpa". A former sailor, he was ruddy and had dark, stiff whiskers that he rubbed against our soft skin, laughing maniacally as we squealed with delight. He was short and stocky and smelled of beer and Old Spice, and he worshipped my grandmother. He kept us kids entertained with picture puzzles, as she sat wearily in her chair holding her tiny chihuahua and watching "The Jackie Gleason Show". That's how I remember them. I loved being around him, but when my grandmother died, we didn't have contact with him again. I don't know what happened, but I was a child and didn't think to ask.

Driving out of town, it truly does look like we are heading into oblivion. It was not yet noon and there weren't even the slightest vestiges of human habitation: no fences or fenceposts, no errant crops, no farms hovering in the misty distance like shimmering mirages. There was roadkill--there is always roadkill. And the rusting pieces of machinery rotting in tracts of prairie that may once, in another century, have been fields. Far off in the distance, it is possible to make out geographical forms jutting upwards, as if trying to leap from this parched patch of earth. I know, for instance, from my childhood that, over to the left, near Felt, where my Aunt Betty lives, is the rocky promontory known as Rabbit Ears. It's distinguishable by the protuberances for which it is named. There's another, as well, but I don't remember what it's called, or if it's ever been named. Further west, one begins to see the mesas and buttes that characterize this area of Oklahoma: the beginning of an Old West that has been canonized in the films of Hollywood stalwarts from Raoul Walsh and John Ford to Sam Peckinpah. In truth, this rugged, unforgiving country of hard beauty and even harder living, has been home to any number of notorious outlaws and desperadoes. One of my mother's great-grandfathers (or great-great grandfathers) allegedly rode with Billy the Kid and was in on some of his more nefarious escapades. Presumably my ancestor survived this association since he later sired a more immediate forefather, and is rumored to have settled into respectability. If, like me, you have family who have lived in this area for several generations, you will, more than likely, be able to find that your family tree has a few less-than-savory roots. A good friend from college was related to the notorious Black Jack Ketchum, an outlaw who was finally captured and hanged in Clayton, New Mexico. During the execution, he dropped from the gallows with such force that his head is said to have popped off. A cousin of mine is related to John Wesley Hardin, the cold-blooded cowpoke who grew so annoyed by the snoring of one of his posse that he shot the man dead. And so it goes.

There are still traces of the old west here, but it is a far older west than that presented by images of outlaws and wagon trains. Next to the site of our family reunion, there are petroglyphs carved into the cliffs by a prehistoric hunter-gathering society that once populated the area. Nearby, there are also dinosaur footprints preserved in the dried mud of an ancient riverbed, graffiti etched by members of Coronado's ill-fated expedition for the Seven Cities of Gold, and the infamous mummy's cave. More a shallow indentation in the rocks than an actual cave, the mummy's cave once yielded the preserved remains of a small boy who had been dead for around 4,000 years. The body eventually made its way to the PSU Museum, where I once saw it on display in a glass case. Lying in a fetal position, he still had a head full of dark hair, teeth, and finger nails, and a face like a mud pie. Once was enough for me to see the poor, little mummy, who exuded a creepiness that sped my exit from the museum. I don't know why people still want to hike up the grueling incline to get to the mummy's cave. There's not much there anymore, and it's filled with bat guano, and it smells.

* * * * * *

The Black Mesa campgrounds are actually about a 10 minute drive from Black Mesa, itself. We arrive around noon, just in time for lunch. Normally, due to the large size of my dad's family, I expect to see more than one hundred people at these reunions. This year, there are a little over half that many. All the surviving brothers and sisters are there--eight, in all, plus quite a few of their kids. I greet my cousin, Ladonna, with a warm hug. I haven't seen her since 1989, and we were once very close. She's living in Denver with a great husband; her daughter didn't make it down, but she's an aspiring actress who's had small roles in "Nip/Tuck" and several other television shows and movies. Ladonna's sisters make their way over to me and we also hug. And then my cousin, Jan, from San Antonio, comes over, looks at my feet, and raises her eyebrows, nodding for me to look down. I do, and am shocked to see a scorpion on my boot (I had the foresight to pack hiking boots rather than sneakers, a lesson I've learned from previous trips). I kick the critter away but he's already dead; he must have somehow been crushed in all the hugging. My cousin, Jan, picks him up and ponders whose food tray to put him in. I like it that Jan hasn't changed much since we were kids. I spot Jan's brother, Paul, who, like their father, seems to harbor a genuine dislike for most of humanity, and rarely ventures past the county line. I ask him if he's ever been out of the area, and he says that he once went to L.A. and had never seen so many people, and hoped never to see that many again. He says that cured him of wanting ever to go anywhere. My dad's brothers and sisters are doing well, for the most part. Betty and Nellie are in different stages of Alzheimer's, a family disease that has already claimed the life of one sister. My Aunt Phyllis, the world traveler, is funny and still sparkles with intelligence. She tools across the U.S. and Mexico in an RV, with only the companionship of her dog. Ladonna's father, Don, looks good but I immediately establish that he can't hear a word that I'm saying. Don was the ornery uncle, the one I most enjoyed when I was a child, because one could get away with just about anything and he wouldn't tattle. As we prepare for lunch, everyone joins hands as my cousin, Clay, the minister, says grace. I can't look at Clay without remembering that he once thought he was Underdog and tried to fly from his top bunk. Better the top bunk than the rooftop, since Clay went crashing to the floor, sustaining surprisinly minor injuries. I look around for my cousin, Leslie Gail, who was gorgeous the last time I saw her in 1989. Leslie Gail is an artist, something of a bohemian, and somewhat anti-social. At every family reunion, she pitches a tent away from the rest of the family, comes in for meals, visits briefly, then returns to her tent. Someone tells me that she is here, but, for the life of me, I can't find her. She allegedly shows up a couple of more times throughout the day but, as in past reunions that I have attended, I am not afforded so much as a glimpse. For me, she remains as elusive as Sasquatch.

After lunch, my sister, her oldest daughter, my partner, and I decide to drive over and climb up Black Mesa. The road from the campsight is picturesque, other-worldly. Mesas surround the small village of Kenton, Oklahoma, which still has its original general store, though not much else. We pull into the mesa's parking area and my sister immediately heads for the steep face. It is obvious that she is planning to scale the face of the mesa, rather than taking the meandering trail that twists around for approximately four hours before leading a patient hiker to the top. Oh no, her daughter exclaims, we're NOT going up that way! So we meander around the trail for awhile, passing lounging cattle who eye us disinterestedly as they chew whatever it is that they are chewing. Finally we hear voices and spot my youngest nephew, and the minister's son high atop the mesa. Just below them, not quite at the top, are my sister's husband, my niece's husband, my oldest nephew, and my niece's 3 year old daughter. My niece freaks and wonders aloud just what the hell they're thinking taking her child up there! She immediately forgets her discomfort and concerns for her own personal safety, and begins walking up the face of the mesa, my sister trailing her, both of them clacking noisily in their flip-flops. My partner and I follow as I eye each rock and bush carefully for rattlesnakes and scorpions. Once in shouting distance, my niece informs her husband not to take another step towards the top, to bring her daughter down NOW! He obliges and everyone starts back towards the bottom. But, I figure since I'm halfway to the top, I may as well continue. However, with everyone else out of sight, I stop at the three-quarters point, realizing that if I should get bitten by a snake, or fall and break a leg, I'd be stuck way up there by myself, and it would be awhile before I'm found. I promptly make by way back to the base of Black Mesa, where we load up the Journey and head back to the reunion.

My cousin, Karen, from New Jersey, is sitting with her husband at a picnic table watching some of the older boys play horseshoes. A few years back, when I was in New York at a theater conference, Karen and her husband rode the train over and took me to the Metropolitan Museum of Art (since they are members, admission was free), and through Central Park, and we had a great day together. I had missed them last year when I was in New York, so it's good seeing them again. My other cousin, Mary Sue, who is a force of nature, and lives in Iowa, makes it late to the reunion. Mary Sue is funny and super-smart and very, very outspoken; she's also organized and always willing to take charge of any situation, no matter how dire. I have long known that Mary Sue is a very good person to have on your side. She reminds me a lot of my sister. Indomitable is the word that immediately springs to mind.

It seems like I am doing a lot of smiling and talking, which normally would be exhausting, but I realize I'm having fun. I really like my cousins, most of them anyway, and the day seems to slip away quickly. Suddenly, it's after 9 p.m., and time for our party to head back to town and the Townsman Motel. So off we go, three carloads full of dirty, tired people, and when we finally pull into the motel parking lot, we realize that we have forgotten Dad. It seems that everyone thought that he was riding with someone else. Luckily, he has his own van still at the reunion. The question is, can he see well enough at night to find his way through that perilous country back to town. In the back of my mind is another question, of equal concern. Dad has been diagnosed as being in the very early stages of alzheimer's, although the only symptom I've noticed is that he sometimes asks the same questions two or three times. We decide to give him a few minutes. I'm going to shower and if he isn't back, my oldest nephew and I will drive back out and find him. By the time I climb out of the shower, my dad is back and already in bed in the motel room next to mine. Whew! Since he was raised in that country, he could probably find his way with his eyes closed. But still....

Points West, Part 1: Rolling Into Red Carpet Country

2008-08-06T15:50:00.000-07:00

It was two weeks ago today that I hit the road running at the ungodly pre-dawn hour of 5:00. With bags already packed, showers taken, and duties designated to a handful of friends and neighbors, all my partner and I needed to do was roll out of bed, jump in our clothes, load our things into a car, and take a leisurely 25 minute drive to Ft. Lauderdale Airport for a 6:40 a.m. flight to the hinterlands. Yes, it sounded easy, even for two notorious latecomers such as ourselves, and with the prep work completed in advance, there was no reason why we shouldn't arrive at the airport with plenty of time to spare. And yet--even though everything seemed to be going according to plan, even though the car taking us to the airport was mechanically sound and making perfectly good time, even though there was a mere smattering of traffic on I-95 at that hour--it all seemed to be happening in slow motion. The rest of the world moved with its usual cadence and rhythms while we slogged through Karo syrup. I can't explain it but, when we arrived at the airport, the guy at the counter told us that we may have missed the window of opportunity allowing us to board the flight; in other words, despite our best efforts, we were late. The counter guy was able to check us in--by the skin of our combined teeth, no less, and because we weren't checking any luggage--and we went hurtling through the airport towards the Air Tran flight already boarding for Wichita. More about Air Tran later. Much more, I promise.

We were flying out west for a week-plus tour of duty with my parents, combining this with my dad's bi-yearly family reunion on the New Mexico border, my partner's visit with his cousin in Albuquerque, and a stopover for me in Texas with my mom's side of the family. My parents live at the very beginning of the Oklahoma Panhandle, a short drive from Texas, and within spitting distance of Kansas. That being said, they are also approximately three and a half hours from the nearest major airports--Oklahoma City, Amarillo, and Wichita--placing them in the exact middle of nowhere. To be precise, they are in what is known as "Red Carpet Country", I guess either because of the friendliness of the natives or the red dirt prevalent in that area of Oklahoma. At any rate, reaching them is a bit of a haul.

As there apparently are no direct flights from Ft. Lauderdale to Wichita, Amarillo, or Oklahoma City, we laid over in the Atlanta Airport, a place for which I have no love. Although I've heard many good things about Atlanta, the city, Atlanta, the airport, is a vast, hostile labyrinth full of treacherous obstacles and the least accommodating service workers this side of South Florida. Luckily, our time there passed quickly, and soon we were loaded aboard yet another Air Tran flight, this time bound for the city of Wichita.

The largest city in Kansas, with a metropolitan population of just over half a million people, Wichita was recently voted, in one poll or another, as one of the top ten places to live in the United States. Because of the number of aircraft manufacturing facilities, and the presence of McConnell Air Force Base, it is known as the "Air Capital of the World". Even so, I have always found the city's lack of skyscrapers puzzling, and a little bit disconcerting.

As expected, the economy car that we had reserved at Budget's online site turned out to be a Dodge Journey, which is about the size of a tank. The chipper Budget woman at the counter explained that the economy cars were all taken, but we were getting an upgrade at no extra charge. After no small amount of discourse, in which my partner futiley attempted to explain that, with gas hovering at $4 a gallon, a free upgrade to a gas-swilling tank was not an acceptable trade, we loaded our bags into the Journey and set off for Points West, towards the High Plains, and home.
* * * * * *

The thing about Kansas is this: it has maybe the cleanest highways of any of the fifty states, which is a good thing, considering the huge distances between its towns and cities. During the 180+ mile drive from Wichita to my parents' house, we may have passed through four towns. So, a passenger in a vehicle traversing these roads will spend a good deal of time looking out the car windows at these clean roadways, and the many farms beyond. Kansas towns are also extremely neat and well-kept. Largely developed during the cattle drives of the 1800's, these town's are proud of their heritage, and a traveler is apt to see many old dwellings that are in remarkably pristine condition. There are trees in these towns, green lawns, and lots of American flags waving in a breeze that never seems to stop.

When we went through the town of Greensburg, Kansas, we got a reality check. The site of a particularly vicious tornado last year, Greensburg was practically wiped off the map. I had been through the town a couple of months after the tornado, and it, literally, looked as if an atomic bomb had been detonated. Century old buildings had toppled, homes were flattened, trees uprooted and torn apart--and yet, mercifully, with the modern early warning systems that are now in place, few people had lost their lives. There had been an eerie stillness in Greensburg when I went through the year before. Now, it appeared to be coming back. There was new construction going on, a sense of purpose among a surprising number of people we saw going about their business. To be sure, the evidence of destruction was still rampant, but there was also hope, and there was obvious progress being made in the town's reconstruction.

Following Greensburg, we turned south and proceeded through a long stretch of nothing as the High Plains country surrounded us, affording us unlimited vistas of prairie and purple, treeless hills. In the far distance, we could see a stark reminder that we were entering a new, energy-efficient age. Spreading across the hills like a line of determined soldiers, were dozens of eight-story tall wind turbines, reportedly used for generating electricity to places as far away as New York. With a little luck, my mom later informed me, she would have some of these on her land within the next couple of years. Apparently, they produce a lucrative income to the landowners.

Arriving at my parents' house at the approximate time I'd given them--a miracle that I still haven't quite figured out--we dumped our bags in the "little house" out back and busied ourselves catching up on family gossip. The little house is a two room guest house that has a working bathroom and a non-working kitchen. The bedroom/living area is cooled by a free-standing air conditioner that has a hose attached to the outside window. It sucks the moisture out of the air outside and does a nice job of cooling the inside of the house, except when the water bucket fills up and the cooling mechanism shuts off. Consequently, the water bucket requires frequent emptying during the hotter times of the day.

We went over to the home of my sister and her family and did a quick look-see of the garden, which was surprisingly bountiful, given the lack of rainfall they've been experiencing. The only problems seemed to be a preponderance of squash, which was out of control, and the taste that the local deer had developed for the okra.

This town, where my family moved a year after I graduated high school, is not particularly beautiful, clean, or well tended, but then, Oklahoma towns aren't like Kansas towns. This town is old, and on some famous trail--maybe the Chisholm Trail--and is still used by many truckers hauling cattle to Dodge City, and the sprawling feedlots of the southwest. Main Street is a couple of blocks long and there aren't many businesses left open. This part of the country was hit hard by the oil bust of the early eighties, and gradually, people drifted away to start new lives in other places. There's one old building on Main Street that's been vacant for almost as long as I've had family there. It's a three story building that takes up the better part of a block. Once there was a bank in it, as well as a dentist's office, domino parlor, and a dress shop, all long gone to the ravages of time and change. A few years ago, my sister bought this building with the intention of restoring it and turning it into a bed and breakfast inn. Along with a historical structure and the crumbling woodwork and the broken skylights, my sister also got a ghost in the deal. She was in the building alone and cleaning out the area that had been the dentist's office one hot, summer day when she felt something cold on the back of her neck. She turned around to see this older gentleman wearing a white smock standing behind her. He then proceeded to vanish before her eyes. It gave her something of a turn but my sister is an indomitable spirit and not one easily cowed. She co-habitated peacefully with the ghost until she finally realized that the cost of restoring the building would be far more exhorbitant than what she'd originally planned, and sold it. However, on some occasions, the ghost was seen in the upper window--the dentist's office--by passersby on the street below. Before she sold the building, my sister and one of her daughters were digging through a pile of old newspapers and came across his picture. He had once been the town's dentist and his office had been in the building.

On the morning after our arrival, we drove to the small ranching community of Freedom, Oklahoma, which is notable for having a (tiny) Main Street in which all the businesses have log cabin-type facades. Just outside of Freedom is Alabaster Caverns, which snakes into the earth for three quarters of a mile, and is the largest natural gypsum cave in the world that is open to the public. Of course, there's alabaster there, too, in different colors, including the rare, black alabaster. As the temperature was 104 degrees outside, the interior of the cavern was enticing, maintaining a constant temperature of fifty-eight degrees. There are also several different species of bats in the caverns, and I'd briefly hoped to see their nightly exodus as they emerged en masse to feed on the many insects in the area. After exiting into the inferno outside the caverns, I only wanted to sit in front of air conditioning turned up on high.

Back in the little house, where the portable air conditioner's water bucket had filled up, the temperature hovered at around 100 degrees. Upon our return, this required my immediate attention, preempting anything else I thought I may have needed to do. Once the little house had cooled off--some five hours and another bucket emptying later, we settled down for bed with the nifty invention known as Dish TV. I'm not a big television watcher, so watching Dish TV was an unusual and unique experience for me. With several hundred channels, you can choose to watch anything your little heart desires, or you can drive yourself crazy trying to select something from the sheer abundance of programming. I almost succeeded in doing the latter before settling down with, of all things, "Basic Instinct 2", which I think was a selection made out of sheer exhaustion. Trashy as it was, it managed to catch my interest before I inexplicably fell asleep. The following week in the little house, I managed to see Andy Warhol's "Flesh for Frankenstein" (actually directed by Paul Morrissey) before decamping back to Florida. I have to say that I was shocked at the level of realistic blood and gore present in a movie produced in the early seventies. It was well ahead of its time and rated X when it was released. Udo Kier, who will apparently appear in almost any movie offering a paycheck, played Dr. Frankenstein, and Monique Van Vooren, a Euro starlet who parlayed her notoriety into some serious social standing, played his wife. Despite the bloodletting and copious nudity, the movie was somewhat boring. Joe Dallesandro, as a randy servant, looked really good, although his New York accent was a jarring contrast to the Transylvanian setting, and the accents of the European cast. Whatever happened to him, anyhow?

The next morning, we rose early to set upon our journey to my dad's family reunion on the Oklahoma/New Mexico border. That would involve navigating most of the Oklahoma Panhandle, and entering into a world that is also known as No Man's Land. As it turns out, there's a reason for calling it No Man's Land.

Migraine

2008-08-04T11:43:00.000-07:00

Like a malevolent vine, the migraine spreads through my head, its thorny tendrils shooting blossoms of excruciating pain; an aura of light explodes, rendering images into half-completed jigsaw puzzles as the thorn digs deeper into my right eye, leaving only an awareness of an agony that seems as unendurable as it is incomprehensible. I reach for the over-the-counter pain reliever, knowing full well that it won't beat back the monster raging inside my head, that only time time and sleep can do that. I reach for the PM pain reliever, intent on taking far more than the recommended dosage but figuring, what the hell, anything has to be better than this pain, anything, including dying. I take the risk. I pop the pills. With a little luck, the pain-induced nausea won't bring them back up. I lie there, waiting for sleep, for death, for release. I wait.
* * * * * *

It is hard to explain the impact of a full-fledged migraine to one who hasn't experienced it. When the first prism of light begins to blot out the lower half of your vision--the television screen that you're watching, the face of your friend on the other side of the table, the road ahead of the car that you are driving--there is a panicky sense of onrushing horror. Migraine sufferers are aware of what they're in for, and it is a fearsome realization, knowing the extent to which this locomotive of pain has the ability to incapacitate them.

There are medications now, where before, when in the grips of a migraine, a person might have to be rushed to the nearest emergency room to receive a shot of some strong narcotic that would obliterate all consciousness. Today's medicines seem to work for some people, not so well for others. The key, of course, is catching the headache at its inception, and having the medicine on hand to take immediately. That can be tricky. I know people who have one or more migraine headaches a week (I can't imagine living with that!), so they would probably be the most logical candidates for keeping handy doses of the medicine. However, I now tend to have groups of 2-3 migraines every couple of years (a vast improvement from their regularity during my childhood, but still...) so I don't run around with migraine relief tablets in my medicine cabinet or in the glove compartment of my car. I tried that but they get old after about a year, and their potency markedly deteriorates. When I finally did need the stuff, the pills were, basically, ineffectual and I threw them out, along with most of the breakfast I'd eaten that morning.

According to myth and legend (and no small speculation), migraine sufferers tend to be highly creative and intense individuals. Maybe that's true, but I've known a few folks who suffered throughout their lives, and if there was a creative or intense bone in their bodies, they were brilliant at hiding it. But maybe that's where the creativity and/or intensity came in. Maybe they just kept it bottled up (a surefire recipe, according to my mother, for any number of health disasters). In recent years, there have been no shortage of other suspects posited as the culprit responsible for migraines, ranging from food allergies to eye problems, and it's likely that there's a number of interacting factors rather than just one, single agent of despair and dysfunction. I've had them during the culmination of a great deal of stress, following periods of sleeplessness, after periods of too much sleep, and when consuming certain types of pasta sauce. I've also had them when working at my computer terminal. So, myself, I could give a shit what causes them, I only want NOT to have them anymore.
* * * * * *

I was, roughly, 7 or 8, when I had my first migraine, and they continued to occur several times a year throughout my childhood and adolescence. In those days, the migraines were terrifying ordeals, not just for myself but for my poor parents, who were forced to deal with a stealthy, violent enemy who crept up, as unexpected and unwelcome as a home invader, taking possession of their only son and turning him into a crying, moaning, sometimes screaming invalid who was temporarily stripped of even the ability to communicate intelligibly. Sometimes they would last for a night, sometimes for two or three days. A treat for no one, the migraine is a trial for everyone concerned.

By the time I graduated from high school, both the frequency and the duration of the headaches seemed to be on the wane. After a couple of years in college, they suddenly stopped altogether, a cause for rejoicing, albeit with one eye looking over my shoulder.

Sure enough, about ten years later, like an evil genie, the migraine returned. It came on a day when an unusual winter storm found me shoveling snow from the driveway of a house in Oklahoma City that I was sharing with a good friend. It might have been the glint of the sun as it echoed off the surface of the white brilliance of snowfall. Maybe my eye caught it just right as I scooped shovelfulls of the frosty mess from the driveway. Whatever the case, the migraine was back, and although his visits are much less frequent than before, he still comes around every couple of years, usually with a succession of three quick visits before departing for other climes, biding his time before some unknown factor bids his return. Maybe he's mellowing somewhat; he certainly doesn't seem as fierce or as frightening as he once did. I can live with him now, during his little stopovers, and I haven't had to be injected with narcotic pain relievers since I was in my teens, so that's something. Still, if the migraine never came back, I wouldn't mind. I wouldn't miss him. He's about gone now, this headache that I've had for the past couple of days, the one that followed me through a long night at the Atlanta Airport, and reached fruition on the morning after my return to Ft. Lauderdale. This was my first migraine since July of 2006, when he accompanied me to the Pride Festival on the streets in Wilton Manors. I don't let him cripple me anymore, and if I'm screaming these days, I'm more likely yelling obscenities at my unwanted guest, rather than crying out in fear and pain. For some perverse reason, it makes me feel better to express anger at this nasty interloper.

If my personal history is any indication, this is the first of three visits I'll receive from the migraine. There should be two more within the next month or so. I'm expecting it now, so I'll be ready. If it, for whatever reason, fails to arrive, I won't be disappointed. But, just in case, I've got one eye looking over my shoulder.

Justice: The Long, Terrible Journey of Sadie Mae Glutz

2008-07-17T05:37:00.000-07:00

Once, in a different place and lifetime, she met a man whom some described as holy. He, in fact, had the look and intensity of a biblical prophet; eventually, he came to live in the desert where, with the aid of his followers, he planned to effect a monumental social change that would reverberate throughout the world for years to come. Some people likened him to Jesus Christ, others to Hitler. When he welcomed her into his fold, he promised her unconditional love and a new beginning. He re-christened her Sadie Mae Glutz and, for a brief while, she seemed to have found the love that had eluded her for most of her life. She would do anything for this man who seemed to be a miracle in the flesh. Later, when asked to do the unthinkable, she complied without hesitation. When she was finally tracked down, along with her leader and her fellow disciples, she sang and giggled and bragged about the prominent role she played in what was, arguably, the crime of the century. By this time, the world knew her by her real name, the name of the person she'd once struggled to put behind her. By this time, the whole world knew her as Susan Denise Atkins, and she would forever be linked with evil and madness and the calculated butchery instigated by her mentor. His name was Charles Manson, and he taught his followers that this butchery would be the foundation for an apocalypse that would be known as Helter Skelter.
* * * * * *

From a hospital on the grounds of a California women's prison, Susan Denise Atkins recently petitioned the courts for compassionate release, revealing that she is dying of a brain tumor and not expected to live beyond the next six months. She is asking that she be released in order to spend her last days in the care of the people who love her. Ironically, it was similar claims of love, from a very different sort of family, that helped land Susan Atkins where she is today.
* * * * * *

By now, thirty-nine years later, most people are familiar with the facts of the case; they have been preserved in the indelible amber of infamy. According to testimony at the ensuing trials, on the night of Friday, August 9, 1969, Charles Manson, savage messiah of a group of youthful misfits and runaways, dispatched Susan "Sadie" Atkins, Charles "Tex" Watson, Patricia "Katie" Krenwinkel, and Linda Kasabian to an address high in the Hollywood Hills. Once there, they were to use the knives and gun that had been provided, and kill everyone in the house in as gruesome a manner as possible. Before the quartet of young killers left on their mission, Manson instructed the girls to "leave something witchy" behind after the slaughter was complete.
* * * * * *

Sharon Tate was a beautiful, 26 year old movie actress, whose star was on the rise. Married to noted Polish film director, Roman Polanski, Sharon had recently achieved a measure of fame with a starring role in the film version of Jacqueline Susann's bestseller, "Valley of the Dolls". Eight months pregnant with her first child, the actress was happily anticipating the birth, as she and her husband set about creating a home in a rambling rental house overlooking L.A.'s Benedict Canyon.

In August of 1969, while Roman was in Europe, Sharon remained at home, foregoing travel at that late stage of her pregnancy. Staying with her in the Cielo Drive house were houseguests Wojiech Frykowski, Roman's friend from Poland, and his girlfriend, the coffee heiress, Abigail Folger. On the night of August 9, the noted Hollywood hairstylist, Jay Sebring, stopped by. Once Sharon's suitor, Sebring had remained on friendly terms with her, and on this night he joined Sharon, Frykowski, and Folger for dinner at a popular restaurant. Another arrival that night was Steven Parent, a local boy who had driven in from the eastern suburbs to visit the property's caretaker, who resided in a detached cottage several hundred feet away from the main house. Parent had hoped to sell a clock radio to the young man.

There's not much point in recounting the ghastly details of what followed. The events of that night have been reported on ad nauseum via bestsellers, newspapers, magazines, television, movies, and the web. Suffice it to say, that Atkins, Watkins, Krenwinkel, and Kasabian entered the property at sometime around midnight, with Watkins shooting a departing Steven Parent as he sat in his car, pleading for his life. While Kasabian served outside as lookout, the other three entered the residence and proceeded to bludgeon, stab, and shoot the occupants in an orgy of violence that must have seemed endless to the terrified victims. Wojiech Frykowski, alone, had somewhere in the neighborhood of 50 stab wounds, in addition to being shot and beaten. Sharon, the last to die, lay on her living room floor, tied by a long rope to a bloodied, lifeless Jay Sebring. As she cried and begged to be allowed to live and have her baby, Susan Atkins stood over her, knife poised in hand, saying, "Look bitch, I don't have any mercy for you. You're going to die and you'd better be ready." When the killers were leaving, it was Atkins who dipped her hand in Sharon's blood and wrote the word "PIG" on the front door, leaving the "witchy" something that Manson had requested.

The Tate house was neither the first nor the last murder scene at which Susan Atkins found herself in attendance. The following night, the same crew of assassins, along with Leslie Van Houten and Steve Grogan, dropped in on grocer, Leno LaBianca, and his wife, Rosemary, in their home near Griffith Park. Their bodies were found the next night, in much the same condition as the Tate victims. The words "Political Piggy" and "Healter Skelter" were scribbled in blood inside the house.

Soon enough, the connection was made to a murder that had happened a few weeks earlier, towards the end of July. Atkins freely admitted that she and Manson follower, Bobby Beausoleil, went to the home of a music teacher named Gary Hinman. Manson briefly joined them to aid in the torture of Hinman, who was terrorized for more than a day before Beausoleil finally killed him.

Upon her arrest, Atkins, commenting on the murder of Sharon Tate, said, "You have to have a lot of love in your heart to do this for somebody."
* * * * * *

Before her second coming as Sadie Mae Glutz, she was born Susan Denise Atkins in Los Angeles County, only a year after the Paris Peace Treaties officially ended the second world war. By all accounts, Susan Atkins was a shy and withdrawn child, raised by alcoholic parents who moved the family to San Jose when Susan was still young. As she got older, Susan, in spite of her introverted nature, joined her school's glee club; when her mother was in the last stages of terminal cancer, Susan arranged for the club to sing Christmas Carols outside her window. It is useless to speculate what went on at home during Susan's formative years but, following her mother's death, the alcoholism of Susan's father seemed to grow steadily worse; drifting from job to job, he found it increasingly difficult to stay employed. At age 18, Susan left home, dropping out of high school and heading for San Francisco, where she supported herself with gigs as a topless dancer.

At some point, Susan was introduced to Anton LaVey, founder of the American branch of the Church of Satan. The depth of their involvement is speculative, but, through him, she somehow managed to cross paths with Charles Manson. Manson and his "family" were about to embark on a road trip to southern California, and Susan gladly got on the bus--literally, it seems, as the group owned a school bus that they had painted black.

It was during her involvement with the family that she became pregnant and gave birth to a son, whom Manson named Zezozose Zadfrack Glutz. Susan was apparently uncertain of the baby's paternity, since it was commonplace for "family" members to engage in group sex. She was also rumored to have chewed off the umbilical cord following her baby's birth. According to various "family" members, including Susan, herself, sex and drugs constituted a large part of the group's nomadic existence. With a coterie of friends that included at least one member of the Hell's Angels motorcycle gang, as well as one of the original Beach Boys, Manson came to exert no small amount of influence among a growing and diverse contingency. He had dreams of becoming a rock star, and was making the contacts to help him put these dreams into place. However, his expanding ego was soon put in check, as the music career that he was hoping to launch fell flat when show business honchos were unimpressed with his efforts. By now, Manson was already preaching about the coming race war, and of how he and the "family" would be instrumental in its inception by killing rich, white "piggies" and making it look like crimes committed by blacks. Manson and his followers would hide out in the desert until the race war was over, at which time Manson would emerge as the new leader of the survivors. No matter what it may sound like now, Manson apparently believed it would work, and if his followers had doubts, they didn't dare voice them in his presence.

The rejection by the music industry executives only exacerbated Manson's anger and paranoia, which had reached dangerous levels by the summer of 1969. Add to this the fact that some of his closest associates were doing time in jail, including Bobby Beausoleil, who had recently been arrested for the murder of Gary Hinman. It was time to ignite Helter Skelter.
* * * * * *

The press dubbed them "The Manson Girls", and Sadie, Katie, and Leslie were only too happy to preen and pose and indulge in outrageous antics for the media, as they were taken from their jail cells to the L.A. County Courthouse. When the girls weren't giggling, crying, chanting or otherwise misbehaving for the spectators, they shaved their heads and carved X's into their brows. They declared their mutual love for Charlie, and demanded that he be set free. At the time, Sadie seemed to be especially agressive in her attempts to shock and dismay, and displayed an almost naive lack of concern for her own plight.

The lead prosecutor on what became known as the Tate/LaBianca Murders was a young, ambitious attorney named Vincent Bugliosi. Very early on, Bugliosi expressed regret that Sadie was going to be their star witness and would, thus, receive special treatment--immunity from the death penalty if convicted--in exchange for her testimony. Sadie obviously relished her role in the bizarre murders, and spared no detail when describing the gruesome events; she was all over the news, along with Manson and her co-defendents, and for the first time in her life, Susan Atkins a.k.a. Sadie Mae Glutz felt like she was somebody. She had arrived. As Bugliosi prepared to take the cases to trial, he was struck by Sadie's callous, insipid behavior. In his bestseller, "Helter Skelter", he referred to Sadie as "ever the animal".

Much to Bugliosi's relief, Sadie repudiated her testimony, and Linda Kasabian, the young woman who'd acted as lookout during the Tate killings--the only person who didn't actually commit a murder--agreed to testify, thus allowing Sadie Mae Glutz to be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Kasabian's testimony was damning to the defendants.
* * * * * *

When it was all said and done, the trial of the Manson Gang (excluding Tex Watson, who was tried separately) lasted nine months and wound up with all the defendants being convicted. During the sentencing phase, they remained unrepentant, even attempting to blame Linda Kasabian for masterminding the murders, to no avail. Sadie, Katie, Leslie, and Charles Manson were sentenced to death. Except for a certain period in which defense attorney's would file appeals, the entire sorry spectacle appeared to be pretty much over.

As it happened, that was only the beginning of a slow, sad freefall for just about everyone involved.

In 1972, the California Supreme Court ruled that the death penalty constituted cruel and unusual punishment, and thus invalidated all death sentences imposed prior to that time in the State of California.

Like many others, the Manson Gang's sentences were commuted to life in prison. Meaning that they could eventually be eligible for parole. Meaning that, every few years, each of them would be presented to the parole board in a special hearing which would determine if they were still a threat to society, if the debt for their unspeakable crimes had, indeed, been paid. Meaning that the families of the victims would periodically make the journey to testify before the parole board and give reasons why the murderers of their loved ones should remain in prison. This process, of course, keeps the past churning, dredging up nightmares and ensuring that old wounds remain open, never healing; it demands a level of pain that must be endured by the diligent participants, still waiting for an ending that will never satisfy everyone.
* * * * * *

During her many years as a prisoner of the State of California, Susan Atkins has found the wherewithal to cope with life behind bars, possibly because of the enormous changes she has, allegedly, undergone. For starters, she found Jesus. But, they all say that, don't they? The perpetrators of the most heinous crimes seem to find religion in the unlikeliest places, during times when it may seem like a miracle is all that will save them. In the case of Susan Atkins, there's no harm in giving her the benefit of a doubt. Maybe she did find Jesus in a prison cell, and maybe He did wash the blood from her hands with his own. Who's to argue? She once thought that Charlie Manson was Jesus, so at least she got past that delusion. She's also reported to have saved the lives of a couple of fellow inmates during her incarceration. While the details of these deeds weren't readily available for this blog post, it says something that the woman learned to appreciate the value of human life. After her earlier performances, it actually says a lot. Like maybe Susan Atkins finally grew up and realized the magnitude of her actions; maybe she believed that she could somehow absolve herself through acts of kindness and contrition. Reading about the exemplary life she's led in prison--over a period of more than 35 years--does give one pause. Did she, the giggling assassin who once claimed to have tasted the blood of Sharon Tate, really change? And, if she did, was it because her conscience could no longer deal with the scope and nature of her crimes? Or was it because she knew that the joke was over and that she was no longer laughing? Did she think that by keeping up a well-rehearsed performance, she would eventually be released from her long-standing bondage? Was she truly, finally repentant? Does it even matter at this point?

Susan Atkins is dying. She has an inoperable brain tumor that, according to her doctors, will kill her before the year is out. They say that she's unable to speak more than a few sentences a day and can't care for herself. She had one leg amputated a few years ago, for reasons that aren't entirely clear, and now her other leg is paralyzed, as is one entire side of her body. In other words, she probably isn't going to flee the country. She's almost certainly not a menace to society anymore.

But, the question is, menace or not, has Susan Atkins paid her debt to society? Has justice been served? It would seem, given the state of her health, that justice has been long, slow, and painful. Some might say that she is getting exactly what she deserves. Some might call it karma, or the retribution of a vengeful God in whom Atkins claimed to find comfort. It's probably just the luck of the draw we mortals face when we come into this world; some of us will develop diseases that will take our lives, some won't. But if this is justice, it's much more cruel and unusual than the gas chamber in use by the state back in 1972.

Just last week, on July 15, the California Board of Parole Hearings denied Susan Atkins' request for compassionate release. They have, reportedly, the final word on the matter. Barring unforeseen circumstances, Susan Denise Atkins will now die as a prisoner of the State of California.
* * * * * *

Some time back, she was interviewed on one of the evening news programs--"60 Minutes" or "Nightline", or something similar--and it was astonishing to see how different Atkins' appearance was from the persona who dominated news footage during her days as one of the Manson Girls. She hadn't been seen much since her trial, and in the present, all prim and attractive and well-groomed, she looked like a woman who could have been equally at home as a Sunday School teacher, or whispering over margaritas with a lover, on a remote beach in Mexico. Sadie Mae Glutz had vanished into the annals of criminal textbooks; Susan Atkins, the shy, quiet glee club singer smiled sadly and apologized for unforgivable crimes. Of course, she still had all her limbs then, and wasn't sick with the cancer. Not yet.

It was sad, really, to look at her--her appearance and manner suggested someone you might meet in any supermarket, someone you wouldn't mind having as a friend. If you didn't know the truth about her past, you'd never guess what she'd been up to during that terrible summer of 1969. But, the fact is, we do know. And now that her life's long journey is finally winding down, she has the audacity to ask for mercy, for compassionate release. And the State of California--i.e., society--has denied it. It seems that we can't allow her the final comfort she requests, because we can't be sure, can we, whether justice is still being served, whether showing mercy and compassion will give the appearance of some sort of impropriety? If appearances are an issue, wouldn't it look better if we were to show mercy to one who--in another lifetime, as Sadie Mae Glutz--chose to show none? At this point, the gesture of keeping her in prison seems purely symbolic, anyway. Who gains from her continued confinement? The truth of the matter is that there are no winners here, there never have been. The co-defendants--Watson, Krenwinkel, van Houten, and Manson--are all still imprisoned; the cycle of parole hearings and denials will continue long after Susan Atkins is gone. While her life's actions have had an enormous effect on any number of other lives, her death will change nothing. Loved ones of both the victims and the condemned will continue their trips to the prisons, recounting their anguish, repeating arguments, until finally, they are all dead and buried, the guilty and the innocent, alike. In the quest for justice, there is mercy for no one.

What In the World Happened to Matt Lauer?

2008-07-16T12:37:00.000-07:00

Can anyone remember a time when shows like "The Today Show" and "Good Morning America" were actually worth watching? I was a religious "Today Show" watcher for many years and it was part of my routine to watch it as I prepared for the daily grind. Matt and Katie were my primary sources for what was happening in the world. They were my generation's version of Walter Cronkite or Huntley & Brinkley. They were respectable, intelligent, approachable--like revered members of the family with whom you spent a small portion of each morning just to get things started off right. Even when the news was bad, you could count on Matt and Katie to be there for you; there was a calming reassurance to their presence, even in the face of disasters such as 9/11. Then, at some point, something happened and "The Today Show" became an entertainment show, with news filler thrown in (instead of the other way around). Unable to stomach the sight of Matt arguing the merits of psychiatry with an omniscient Tom Cruise, or Katie's eyes glazing over as Brittney's latest exploits were analyzed by a trio of cackling show biz vultures, I decided that I'd had enough. I jumped ship and switched over to Diane Sawyer and "Good Morning America". Much to my chagrin, I found that the exact same situation existed over on ABC; Diane & Co. were in much the same boat as my good friends, Matt and Katie. Their long-running news show was reduced to fauning, self-congratulatory, mind-numbing, celebrity non-news. By the time I found my way back to NBC and "The Today Show", Katie had also jumped ship, landing with an unfortunately resounding thud at another network's evening news desk. She may have lost a good portion of her audience but at least she doesn't have to embarass herself with the kind of slackjawed, ass-kissing "reporting" that has come to characterize the news show she left.

Part of me believes that "The Today Show" stopped being a news program shortly after 9/11, when the people at the top of the network food chain decided to divert attention away from the real news--and believe me, there is still real news happening all the time--in order to play upon the American fascination with celebrity, to spoon-feed us meaningless slop while the world went to hell in a handbasket. How else do you explain two terms with George W. Bush? Most Americans were asleep at the wheel, their minds reeling from the asinine antics of LindseyBrittneyParis; their collective misadventures, arrests, and incarcerations garnered more media coverage than the Kennedy assassination! And to what effect? Were we just too numbed out and dumbed down from the endless barrage of LindseyBrittneyParis photo-ops to give a damn anymore? So what if the administration has been involved in more lowdown shenanigans than any other in recent memory? We're already exhausted from all this Hollywood business! It's dispiriting to see Matt Lauer stooping daily to the level of middle school wiseguy, jousting with, then cozying up to various showbiz entities. It's unworthy of him, and unworthy of his fellow castmates. And I'm not sure what's up with Meredith Viera; she took Katie's place, yet her seat is vacant on more and more weekdays when I tune in. Maybe she's had enough already.

I think that "The Today Show" should get back to reporting the news, and talking about real issues, and interviewing people who really matter, people who really make a difference in our lives and make our lives better. I know that, in many cases (especially mine!), IQ's could probably be raised a point or two just from having been exposed to the real events that are going on in our world right now. I'm not against interviewing celebrities, but for God's sake, interview celebrities who show some sense, who have contributed something, and who aren't out to get their mug plastered on the front page for stupid, reckless behavior. It's distracting, and in this day and age, we need to be paying attention to the people that have been (rightly or wrongly) placed in charge of leading our country.

Book Review: "The Monster of Florence" by Robert Preston and Mario Spezi (originally posted on Amazon on 7/14/08)

2008-07-15T15:50:00.001-07:00

I'm not sure what I found more shocking in "The Monster of Florence", the sensational, new book by Douglas Preston and Mario Spezi: the brutal murders of a serial killer prowling the Tuscan hills, or a local judiciary that appears to be rife with incompetence and corruption. In fact, it's sometimes hard to separate the fine line between the overreaching ambition of certain judges and police officials (apparently willing to do anything for power), and the dogged, seemingly idiotic, determination with which they pursued any number of disparate lies and half-truths, bogging down an already labyrinthine investigation and resulting in still more deaths, and the ruination of many more lives. You find yourself questioning whether or not these people, in charge of protecting the populace, are actually so heartless and conniving, or are they possibly that stupid? I suspect it's a little of both, given the number of law enforcement agencies involved, but whatever the case, the most egregious "official" offenders need to be held accountable for their actions. Because of the outrageous behavior of these authority figures, the atrocities of the Monster of Florence, and the unbelievable chain of events following the crimes, "The Monster of Florence" may sound more like a fictional crime thriller than the terrifying true story that it actually is. Spanning several decades, the book recounts the deaths of a number of young couples viciously murdered in various lovers lane areas in the hills surrounding Florence, the often conflicting efforts of police and journalists trying to apprehend the killer, and the various aftermaths of their actions. Working for the Italian newspaper, Nazione, reporter Mario Spezi was involved in the case from its beginnings on a boring Sunday morning back in the early seventies. When his co-worker on the crime desk asked him to cover his shift, Spezi hurried to the sight of a double murder and suddenly found himself drawn into an increasingly complex web as more murders and intrigue followed. Aware that the police investigation was seriously flawed, especially as more jurisdictions became involved, Spezi became determined to eventually unmask the killer, despite the efforts of public officials to mislead residents, and deter any theories not aligning with their own. What Spezi obviously didn't count on was the absolute authority with which certain individuals pursued personal goals, which ultimately, did not bode well for the writer.

As luck would have it, bestselling author, Douglas Preston ("Tyrannosaur Canyon", "The Relic", "Dance of Death", "Brimstone") moved his family to Italy and was working on a new novel. During his research on the novel, Preston found himself meeting with Spezi and the whole story of the Monster of Florence unfolded. Intrigued, Preston became involved in Spezi's quest to find the monster, and a whole new chapter opened up, eventually paving the way for this book to be written and published (but not before Spezi was arrested and imprisoned, and Preston interrogated and virtually thrown out of Italy). "The Monster of Florence" is both exciting and inciting; it's unputdownable and it makes one yearn for true justice to be done in this case.

Writing

2008-07-15T06:25:00.000-07:00

Not long ago, I found myself naked and on my back in the cardiac catheterization lab of a large hospital. What's wrong with the previous sentence are the words "in the cardiac catheterization lab of a large hospital", as I was assuming a familiar position in order to undergo a somewhat less familiar (and much less desirable) procedure. It had been four years since the last stents were placed within the plaque-blocked arteries of my heart but, due to the progression of an inherited heart disease called artherosclerosis, I was back for another round. It's really not that bad of an ordeal. First, you are stripped and your pubic hair is shaved off. This is not an entirely new concept for me, although in the hospital, they tend to only shave one half of your pubic area (the area where they'll be working) so I've found it helpful to ask them to just do the whole thing so it appears uniform, and thus, more pleasing to the eye. They then wheel you into the cath lab and insert some IV's, one of which renders you, more or less, unconscious (but still able to answer questions). The doctor then makes an incision in the groin area, basically where the right leg connects to the torso, so that he can feed a very thin wiry device into the femoral artery. Once the device is in the artery, the bloodstream carries it up into the heart where the doctor maneuvers it through various other arteries to see where there could be a problem. I've been lucky because the problems have, so far, been treatable with the insertion of stents and haven't required open-heart surgery. Once an area of blockage is discovered, the doctor inflates a balloon on the wiry device, and your artery is popped open. The stent--an often drug-coated, metallic mesh "box"--is then fed through the femoral artery and stationed in the problem area, where it will presumably prevent further blocking in that area of the artery. Once the procedure is completed, a collagen plug is inserted into the cut in the femoral artery so that you don't bleed to death. The plug eventually is absorbed into the body and that's that. The last time I'd had it done, they weren't yet using collagen plugs, and a nurse was required to use both hands and push with all her might on my groin until the blood flow ceased and said groin looked as if it had gone ten rounds with (insert name of boxer of choice here, as I don't keep up with that stuff). The worst part, to me, is ripping off the sterile mega-tape that holds the gauze in place over your groin incision. This usually occurs a day or so later, and generally feels as though the skin is being ripped from your bones.

There is a point to this rambling narrative but, to get to it, I need to go back a bit, rewind, as it were, to the part where I'm lying naked on that table in the cath lab, woozy but not yet in a completely altered state. There was a woman standing next to me and her name was Jerri. Jerri was fiftyish and I'm not sure exactly what her title is but maybe she was a nurse. Whatever the case, Jerri's job was to monitor my blood pressure and elicit answers from me during the time that my speech was still intelligible. I happened to mention to Jerri that I was working on a screenplay--I guess I felt that someone should know this in the event of my expiration during the procedure--and she told me to keep at it, because she knew a little bit about the business since her nephew was--is--a producer in Hollywood. Groggily, I seemed to perk up for a moment, and informed her that it was still the first draft and she suggested that maybe when I was satisfied with the screenplay I could
Yes, that's what I thought, too. The next thing I knew, the procedure was finished, and I was in a recovery area listening to a goddamned sports channel (Why? Why? Why?) on the television affixed to the wall. Since I was the cath lab's final patient of the day, the crew, including Jerri, had gone for the day. And once the mega-tape was peeled from my wound, I was released from the hospital, never to see Jerri or know exactly how she finished her provocative sentence. I assumed--and still do--that she meant for me to get the screenplay into shape so that I could give it to her to look over, before sending it on to her nephew, the movie producer in Hollywood. Perhaps this is wishful thinking on my part; perhaps I was deeply under the influence of whatever drug had been induced into the IV and hearing what I wanted to hear. Perhaps I even misunderstood her name. Was Jerri what I'd heard her say? I wouldn't bet the farm on it. Perhaps she was actually a Bambi (although she certainly didn't look it). Or a Constance? She'd had a New Englandish accent, from what I remembered, and Constance is certainly a New Englandish sounding name. You know, Constance McKenzie, Peyton Place, and all that. At any rate, contacting Jerri/Bambi/Constance was not in the cards, at least not until I whipped my screenplay into shape.

So, full of enthusiasm, and Jerri/Bambi/Constance's encouraging words, I returned to my computer, prepared to work out a screenplay that would make me proud (and, hopefully, rich). I sat at the desk typing, watching the words turn into sentences, and then into dialogue, dancing bountifully, joyously across the computer screen as idea after idea leapt from my fired mind onto the virtual pages presented before me. On page 25, I decided to take a break and read what I'd written thus far. And I came to the realization that it was trite, it was contrived, it was downright silly. How could I write that? Was my mind still reeling from the after-effects of the IV's? I hated the script! The next day, I sat down at my desk, having worked an entirely new scenario out in my mind during the night. Once again I began to type, the words dancing joyously, bountifully, etc., etc., and when I reached page 25, or thereabouts, I, once again, decided to have a look at what I had accomplished. Dear God, had I lost my mind? What was I thinking? How could I write that kind of crap? In two days, I had segued from writing a psychological thriller about the symbiotic relationship between a troubled gay psychologist and his disturbed and closeted patient, to a sci-fi extravaganza about a drug produced from interdimensional creatures and the resulting havoc of having this drug (and the creatures) smuggled into our world. At the time, they'd both seemed like good ideas. I resolved to stay away from the keyboard for a few days until I could rearrange my untidy thoughts into some semblence of a producable screenplay. The days turned into weeks, and then into a month. I sat back down at the computer and then proceeded to start an entirely new screenplay, with entirely new characters, this time about an unemployed, would-be artist, an elderly neighbor, and her missing cat. At page 25, the usual roadblock occurred. The next day, the screenplay was a film noir concerning an amnesiac, a seedy motel, and a crime ring in Hollywood, Florida. Page 25 arrived and it was DOA. I am trying to write, to create a professional product, something that can be produced or published, something that I can look at and say, "See, I'm a professional writer." Not because of an overwhelming desire to be rich, and certainly not to be famous. But because this is what I have always done, writing (not professionally), that is, and this (writing professionally) is what I have always wanted to do. Eventually, I will snap out of this creative limbo, the curse of Page 25, and I will get my script completed, though God knows what it will be about. There's a screenplay that I wrote 3 years ago, still waiting patiently in a drawer to be edited (once it was finished, I couldn't go back to it right away) while I stew and procrastinate. The thing I have to do right now, what anyone who really wants to write must do, is sit down and, well, write. It may not be a workable screenplay, it may not be a feasible novel, it may not be anything more than a bunch of words, which is basically what I'm putting into this blog, but at least it's something, at least it's writing, and someday, the inspiration will come, the block will lift, and the words will transform themselves into something that a professional writer can be proud of.