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
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Calling All Ghostbusters
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?
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
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 rain has temporarily stopped and I am ending this rambling missive and going to the gym.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
The State of the Onion
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?
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?
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Speidi's and Snakes
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Steves Can't Dance
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.
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.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Ramblings From a Slow Monday
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?
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?
Monday, January 5, 2009
The Phantom of Rat Bohemia: From My Amazon Review of Dario Argento's "Phantom of the Opera"
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.
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.
Monday, December 29, 2008
From My Amazon Review of "Doubt"
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.
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.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Consumerism Runs Amok: Death at Wal-Mart
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.
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
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
When Sleeping Dogs Wake
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.
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
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Gratitude
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Election Day 2008
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.
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.
Monday, October 20, 2008
From My Amazon Review for "Bad Education"
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!
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!
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
September
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.
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.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Thoughts on "Cul-de-Sac" - A Screenplay in Progress
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.
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.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Points West, Part 4: Lonelyville
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.
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.
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