When I heard the explosion at 11 a.m. Monday morning, I had no idea I was listening to my colleagues being killed.
The blast sounded just like the two other blasts - booming, rumbling,
base sounds like claps of thunder – I’d heard before 9 a.m. From Richard Engel, NBC News.
I can't imagine. I'm glad my friends cover poker tournaments. The most I'm worried about is Pauly passing out in the fountain at the Bellagio and drowning (not an unreasonable fear). But what fascinates me is not the pain that these writers are feeling, but the responses to this blog. The comments range from supportive to retarded, from the praising God for these brave journalists to slamming reporters for not paying enough attention to the deaths of soldiers.
These guys lost a friend. Let them mourn. Don't take this as an opportunity to slam coverage of the death of troops, or to say "you shouldn't have been there in the first place." Let them honor their fallen comrades.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Fuck Karl Zinmeister and his lack of integrity
NEW YORK Karl Zinsmeister, the new chief
domestic adviser to President Bush, while embedded as a reporter with
the 82nd Airborne in Kuwait in 2003, declared that "many of the
journalists observable in this war theater are bursting with knee-jerk
suspicions and antagonisms for the warriors all around them. A
significant number are whiny and appallingly soft." From http://www.editorandpublisher.com/.
Fuck him and the high horse he rode in on. Two more journalists died in Iraq this week, bringing the total killed to 71. Soft? These people ride in Humvees with troops wearing the same body armor, but instead of guns, they carry cameras and micropohones, putting their asses on the line to bring the story home. It's true that they don't have to do that, but they can stop reporting as easily as I can give up writing or performing. It's who they are, it's what they do, and a lot of these guys are friends of mine. We've got a Pelican case in the shop with airline and customs stickers from all over the Middle East where a customer of ours went over to shoot, and he fortunately made it back safely.
But fuck Zinmeister and his "soft" journalists. These guys didn't have to go back and edit their own copy after it was published to cover their asses. They're real journalists, not professional kiss-asses.
domestic adviser to President Bush, while embedded as a reporter with
the 82nd Airborne in Kuwait in 2003, declared that "many of the
journalists observable in this war theater are bursting with knee-jerk
suspicions and antagonisms for the warriors all around them. A
significant number are whiny and appallingly soft." From http://www.editorandpublisher.com/.
Fuck him and the high horse he rode in on. Two more journalists died in Iraq this week, bringing the total killed to 71. Soft? These people ride in Humvees with troops wearing the same body armor, but instead of guns, they carry cameras and micropohones, putting their asses on the line to bring the story home. It's true that they don't have to do that, but they can stop reporting as easily as I can give up writing or performing. It's who they are, it's what they do, and a lot of these guys are friends of mine. We've got a Pelican case in the shop with airline and customs stickers from all over the Middle East where a customer of ours went over to shoot, and he fortunately made it back safely.
But fuck Zinmeister and his "soft" journalists. These guys didn't have to go back and edit their own copy after it was published to cover their asses. They're real journalists, not professional kiss-asses.
Monday, May 15, 2006
WTFF?
From CNN.com
The day after USA Today broke the story that the National Security
Agency (NSA) aimed to "create a database of every call ever made"
within the U.S., as one of the paper's sources put it, a Washington
Post-ABC News poll found that 63 percent of those who were asked said
they found the NSA program to be an acceptable way to fight terrorism,
and 44 percent said they strongly approved of it.
Still, the news
comes at an inopportune moment, given that Senate confirmation hearings
are expected to begin this week for General Michael Hayden, the former
NSA director whom Bush has nominated to be director of the Central
Intelligence Agency.
No, really, WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK?!?!? I don't really give a shit that the NSA may be watching me, I expect it after all with my left-leaning liberal hippy-ass blog-writing tendencies and the fact that I think GW Bush is a fucking draft-dodging war criminal without the cojones to fight in a war himself but plenty of stones to send a bunch of poor kids and weekend warriors to die in a desert, but why in God's name (or whoever else's) does the NSA need a record of "every call ever made?"
Orwell called this one, boys. This shit is really starting to get scary.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Mr. Burns Comes Out
Harry Shearer put out a new CD and DVD. He's Mr. Burns. That's Cool.
This is a performancing test. We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog reading.
This is a performancing test. We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog reading.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
State of the Sheehan
Let me lay a few things out there before I get into the meat of this.
1) I think G.W. Bush is an awful President, a puppet of a group of scary individuals that are taking this country down a road into a theocracy that I can't abide. I don't actually think that Dubya is an awful person, I think he's an idiot, but an idiot in the hands of truly dangerous people.
2) I think the war in Iraq is a mess we should never have gotten into, and will now find ourselves mired in for years to come. We cannot pull out immediately, no matter how much I would like to. But I hate the fact that we are there.
3) I think war is the ultimate failure of diplomacy. I don't remember who I stole that phrase from.
4) I think freedom of speech is one of the foundation blocks of our country and should be mostly inviolate.
All that said, Cindy Sheehan deserves to spend the night in jail. Or three. While she was in a publicly owned facility expressing her free opinion, she wasn't in public. She was at a private event for lawmakers and other invited persons, behaving in a manner that the people hosting the event felt was inappropriate, and she was escorted out. Period.
Worse, she has now made a public mockery out of everything she was accomplishing. She became famous not for badgering Dubya, but for sitting patiently, Gandhi-style, outside his ranch. She earned my admiration for sticking to a set of principles and for NOT going over the top with a big splashy stunt. Like last night. All she managed to accomplish was piss off the middle, the swing vote 20% that will decide the next election. With less than 50% voter turnout at the polls, we're looking at increasingly close elections until the person comes along that can really galvanize the country. PS - Hillary ain't it. So when the opposition (Dems, liberals, whatever) does anything to make the sitting party/group look like they are in the right, they lose.
Cindy Sheehan did no good for her son's memory last night. In my less than humble opinion, because, after all, this is a blog and everyone who writes a blog must be an arrogant genius, she betrayed the methods of her movement and destroyed her strength and credibility by her antics.
There, my political post. Don't hold your breath for the next one, cause I'm pulling for McCain/Obama in '08 on the Independent ticket.
1) I think G.W. Bush is an awful President, a puppet of a group of scary individuals that are taking this country down a road into a theocracy that I can't abide. I don't actually think that Dubya is an awful person, I think he's an idiot, but an idiot in the hands of truly dangerous people.
2) I think the war in Iraq is a mess we should never have gotten into, and will now find ourselves mired in for years to come. We cannot pull out immediately, no matter how much I would like to. But I hate the fact that we are there.
3) I think war is the ultimate failure of diplomacy. I don't remember who I stole that phrase from.
4) I think freedom of speech is one of the foundation blocks of our country and should be mostly inviolate.
All that said, Cindy Sheehan deserves to spend the night in jail. Or three. While she was in a publicly owned facility expressing her free opinion, she wasn't in public. She was at a private event for lawmakers and other invited persons, behaving in a manner that the people hosting the event felt was inappropriate, and she was escorted out. Period.
Worse, she has now made a public mockery out of everything she was accomplishing. She became famous not for badgering Dubya, but for sitting patiently, Gandhi-style, outside his ranch. She earned my admiration for sticking to a set of principles and for NOT going over the top with a big splashy stunt. Like last night. All she managed to accomplish was piss off the middle, the swing vote 20% that will decide the next election. With less than 50% voter turnout at the polls, we're looking at increasingly close elections until the person comes along that can really galvanize the country. PS - Hillary ain't it. So when the opposition (Dems, liberals, whatever) does anything to make the sitting party/group look like they are in the right, they lose.
Cindy Sheehan did no good for her son's memory last night. In my less than humble opinion, because, after all, this is a blog and everyone who writes a blog must be an arrogant genius, she betrayed the methods of her movement and destroyed her strength and credibility by her antics.
There, my political post. Don't hold your breath for the next one, cause I'm pulling for McCain/Obama in '08 on the Independent ticket.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Heh. They pay people for this crap?
So I was bouncing around the stupidest word in my vocabulary today, and came across Bill Rini's post that not a single poker blog got nominated for a Bloggie, despite our efforts at ballot-box stuffing for Pauly, Al, Iggy, the Up4Poker boys, etc. and flipped over to see who did get nominated.
They didn't nominate anyone I like, they don't get a link. Google 'em.
So I bounced around some of their nominees and found an interesting post from a NYC stripper who wants to be a writer and is doing some columns for the Village Voice (is "the" a part of the title? I can never remember), and she's doing a column for the Voice on several women who have gotten book deals based on their blogs, one of them for some ridiculous amount of money like $500K. So I bounced over to see what was worth a cool half-million in the blogging world. And no, I can't really remember the chick whose blog I was on, or what the links were, and didn't care enough to save the urls.
Wow. Just like movie stars, financial success of blogging is sometimes inversely proportional to writing ability. I had silly business cards printed up with my email, blog address and cell number on there (vistaprint.com, free for 250 color cards and a few dollars for shipping, you gotta ask whythefucknot?) and my title I listed as Director, Designer, Degenerate, Scribbler. These folks don't even rate scribbler. There are blogs out there that I read for funny stories (is it BoozeDay again, yet, Al?), blogs that I read for news of the poker world, blogs that I read (and usually have to read 2-3 times) for strategy on the game, and then there are blogs that I read for the sheer damn literary quality of it.
Tao of Poker
The Obituarium
Up for Poker (you also get a fair number of entertaining stories, but these guys can ALL throw down the writing gauntlet)
Anything Daddy is guest-posting on
Boy Genius
These guys are writers. First, foremost and last, these guys are writers, and damn fine ones. I'll measure the work of these guys against these new novelist/bloggers any day. But the common thread I saw in my admittedly incredibly limited viewing of these blogs?
Boobs and bitching.
The few of these new novelist-bloggers that I visited, and there may be some that don't fit this mold, all seem like they must own the Sex and the City box set. Between the relationship drivel and bra pictures, I found very little writing that impressed me on any level.
Actually some of the imagery on the stripper's blog was pretty good, I thought. I think it was Mimi in NYC or something? I found her images to be much stronger than the crap on the booblogs. Yes, I chased it down. The one I liked was the stripper blog. She's got some serious moments of good imagery there. But the others? If I want to read about a hot chick, I'll go read the Blonde. And I do read The Blonde. Because she's a no-BS blonde, she just lays the truth right out there for you, and screw ya if you can't handle it. I respect that.
So I'd much rather read Pauly's as yet untitled Las Vegas novel than anything by this Jessica Lacy Bra chick. Not that I don't love lacy bras, but I do find them itchy under a dress shirt. But it looks like blogging for dollars is going to be like becoming a movie star - the talent (Steve Buscemi) gets the bit parts and the talent free lummox (Bruce Willis) gets $20 mill per flick. Hopefully somebody somewhere will read the folks I mentioned above and see that the are of writing is alive and well in the stupidest word in my vocabulary. Good luck, guys. It ain't a half-million dollar book deal, but you inspire me to keep plugging away.
Peace.
They didn't nominate anyone I like, they don't get a link. Google 'em.
So I bounced around some of their nominees and found an interesting post from a NYC stripper who wants to be a writer and is doing some columns for the Village Voice (is "the" a part of the title? I can never remember), and she's doing a column for the Voice on several women who have gotten book deals based on their blogs, one of them for some ridiculous amount of money like $500K. So I bounced over to see what was worth a cool half-million in the blogging world. And no, I can't really remember the chick whose blog I was on, or what the links were, and didn't care enough to save the urls.
Wow. Just like movie stars, financial success of blogging is sometimes inversely proportional to writing ability. I had silly business cards printed up with my email, blog address and cell number on there (vistaprint.com, free for 250 color cards and a few dollars for shipping, you gotta ask whythefucknot?) and my title I listed as Director, Designer, Degenerate, Scribbler. These folks don't even rate scribbler. There are blogs out there that I read for funny stories (is it BoozeDay again, yet, Al?), blogs that I read for news of the poker world, blogs that I read (and usually have to read 2-3 times) for strategy on the game, and then there are blogs that I read for the sheer damn literary quality of it.
Tao of Poker
The Obituarium
Up for Poker (you also get a fair number of entertaining stories, but these guys can ALL throw down the writing gauntlet)
Anything Daddy is guest-posting on
Boy Genius
These guys are writers. First, foremost and last, these guys are writers, and damn fine ones. I'll measure the work of these guys against these new novelist/bloggers any day. But the common thread I saw in my admittedly incredibly limited viewing of these blogs?
Boobs and bitching.
The few of these new novelist-bloggers that I visited, and there may be some that don't fit this mold, all seem like they must own the Sex and the City box set. Between the relationship drivel and bra pictures, I found very little writing that impressed me on any level.
Actually some of the imagery on the stripper's blog was pretty good, I thought. I think it was Mimi in NYC or something? I found her images to be much stronger than the crap on the booblogs. Yes, I chased it down. The one I liked was the stripper blog. She's got some serious moments of good imagery there. But the others? If I want to read about a hot chick, I'll go read the Blonde. And I do read The Blonde. Because she's a no-BS blonde, she just lays the truth right out there for you, and screw ya if you can't handle it. I respect that.
So I'd much rather read Pauly's as yet untitled Las Vegas novel than anything by this Jessica Lacy Bra chick. Not that I don't love lacy bras, but I do find them itchy under a dress shirt. But it looks like blogging for dollars is going to be like becoming a movie star - the talent (Steve Buscemi) gets the bit parts and the talent free lummox (Bruce Willis) gets $20 mill per flick. Hopefully somebody somewhere will read the folks I mentioned above and see that the are of writing is alive and well in the stupidest word in my vocabulary. Good luck, guys. It ain't a half-million dollar book deal, but you inspire me to keep plugging away.
Peace.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Coach
I was never an athlete. Not even close. Cut from Little League twice in elementary school, my athletic career was effectively blown at age 7 with the first of many sets of Coke-bottle eyeglasses. So I never had a coach when I was a kid. Until my senior year of high school.
Will
“Huh? What would I do that for? (the grammar of a future English minor)”
“I need somebody to run with me.”
“I suck at sports.”
“Doesn’t matter. I suck, too. But if I go through the whole season again this year, I get a varsity letter, and I can’t get into the Academy if I don’t letter in a sport.”
“You think of this now? And why me?”
“Who else would I ask?”
“I’m an idiot, but okay. What do I have to do?”
“Meet me at the track Tuesday after school. Bring sweats.”
This does not begin the tale of a gloriously undiscovered athletic drive, love for competition, or Olympic fire. I did a favor for a friend, and ran the 4,000-meter race for a track season. Poorly. Well enough to make the Upper State Championship team for our school, but only because we only had 4 guys running that race, and we had to field 3 for
But somewhere in there, I got myself a coach. Now let’s not lump Durham Smith in with Bobby Knight, Bill Parcells, or even that Russian guy that carried Kerri Strug to the medal stand. Not to say that he wasn’t a great coach, but the competition wasn’t really the key to it with Coach Smith. Ricky the aforementioned Special Ed kid got every bit as much attention from Coach as the guys who actually placed in or won their events, because Coach Smith knew that we were all there for different things. Some guys were there to win races and get varsity letters. Some guys were there to hang out between seasons of football or basketball. Some guys were there for completely ridiculous reasons, like their best friend needed moral support to get into the Air Force Academy.
But Coach Smith encouraged us all to be our best, win or lose. It never mattered to him that I never ran the 5-minute mile that he believed I could. It only mattered to him that by the end of the season my 8-minute mile warmup pace was actually measurably different from my competition pace. I did manage
And you know what? I never felt like a loser. Not once in that spring did I feel like I couldn’t do it. Like I couldn’t succeed. That’s what a coach does, and it’s why I will run to the theatres and watch every lame-ass high school sports movie, or pick up every copy of Miracle of
I don’t run anymore. It’s been 15 years and 100 lbs. since I ran the mile in
Will got his letter, and he got into the Air Force Academy. I haven’t seen him since right after graduation, but I know he’s somewhere – flying high.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Poetical-type Shite
I started writing poetry in third grade. Like so many things in my life, including my degree, my choice of writing poetry was predicated by my Olympic-level laziness. My teacher told us that we could either write a page-long short story or a 20-line poem.
Duh!
I think it was about Garfield.
My literary imagery hasn't exactly progressed miles since then, but here's something I've hacked out. Read it out loud, it feels better.
Salt
I can still taste the salt on your lips –
Sun-kissed blonde and sweet, sweet seventeen
Graduation week daquiris, sand surf
summer lovin’
tell me more
tell me Mooorrrree
Wave-tossed kisses
Under the Boardwalk
As the water licks our toes
You giggle.
I can still taste the salt on your lips –
Tangled clothes bare back sticking to the car seat
Elbows, knees and nothing fitting right
Ooooh, ow, no, yes, right theeerrrreeee
Shit, car’s coming
Can’t see to drive
Laughing, sweating, panting
growing up fast together
on an empty dirt road
Shirt on inside out walking in the front door
and Mama waiting in the kitchen
I can still taste the salt on your lips –
Feel your hair on the back of my hand
As the wind blows off the lake
You cling to me
One
last
time
And a single
Sweet
Salty
Tear
Runs down your face
Or mine.
Duh!
I think it was about Garfield.
My literary imagery hasn't exactly progressed miles since then, but here's something I've hacked out. Read it out loud, it feels better.
Salt
I can still taste the salt on your lips –
Sun-kissed blonde and sweet, sweet seventeen
Graduation week daquiris, sand surf
summer lovin’
tell me more
tell me Mooorrrree
Wave-tossed kisses
Under the Boardwalk
As the water licks our toes
You giggle.
I can still taste the salt on your lips –
Tangled clothes bare back sticking to the car seat
Elbows, knees and nothing fitting right
Ooooh, ow, no, yes, right theeerrrreeee
Shit, car’s coming
Can’t see to drive
Laughing, sweating, panting
growing up fast together
on an empty dirt road
Shirt on inside out walking in the front door
and Mama waiting in the kitchen
I can still taste the salt on your lips –
Feel your hair on the back of my hand
As the wind blows off the lake
You cling to me
One
last
time
And a single
Sweet
Salty
Tear
Runs down your face
Or mine.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Blogging is like AA
In that it is therapuetic, but somewhat embarassing to admit to. When I was a junior in college, I went into AA because I felt that I had a drinking problem.
Now, any of you that have associated with me recently are thinking "He doesn't seem to have a problem with it, he gets loaded just fine." And I tend to agree with that. BUT I needed some sober time for self-evaluation to realize that my problem wasn't with all the booze that I was drinking, it was with the foul crazy-ass women I was chasing. But that's a whole nother series of posts.
But one thing I remember from my time going to AA meetings was somebody telling me "keep your recovery private. You'll want to shout from the rooftops that you're clean, but people are just going to look at you funny, and with pity, and differently. And you're not going to like that."
Well, yes, people do look at you funny when you say you keep a blog, but that doesn't bug me. I'm accustomed to people looking at me funny. I'm funny-looking, it happens.
What is interesting is when people tell me that they read my blog. Or people that I know in my day to day life leave comments. That's a little odd. I've been going through this verbal bulemia here with no thought that anybody actually reads this thing, more of an exercise in memories and working the writing muscles. It's kinda odd to think of someone actually reading it. And cool, too. Because for somebody to actually remember a conversation that we had and go look this thing up means they give a shit, which is cool.
So thanks for stopping by, I'm glad to meet you.
Now, any of you that have associated with me recently are thinking "He doesn't seem to have a problem with it, he gets loaded just fine." And I tend to agree with that. BUT I needed some sober time for self-evaluation to realize that my problem wasn't with all the booze that I was drinking, it was with the foul crazy-ass women I was chasing. But that's a whole nother series of posts.
But one thing I remember from my time going to AA meetings was somebody telling me "keep your recovery private. You'll want to shout from the rooftops that you're clean, but people are just going to look at you funny, and with pity, and differently. And you're not going to like that."
Well, yes, people do look at you funny when you say you keep a blog, but that doesn't bug me. I'm accustomed to people looking at me funny. I'm funny-looking, it happens.
What is interesting is when people tell me that they read my blog. Or people that I know in my day to day life leave comments. That's a little odd. I've been going through this verbal bulemia here with no thought that anybody actually reads this thing, more of an exercise in memories and working the writing muscles. It's kinda odd to think of someone actually reading it. And cool, too. Because for somebody to actually remember a conversation that we had and go look this thing up means they give a shit, which is cool.
So thanks for stopping by, I'm glad to meet you.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Thanksgiving
This is an odd holiday for my family. We have the requisite death by fooding, the snoring through football and all the family getting together that everyone else has, but at some point in the day, there's a pause. It's not something official, and it's not something together, but at some point throughout the day you can see it cross everybody's face. It's memory, and that seems to be where the focus of this blog is going, so let's cruise a little further on up the road, as the song says.
1994, Saturday. Two days after Thanksgiving. Suzy and I have been together for a couple of months now and I'm spending pretty much every weekend at her place now, so that's where I'm found. It's late-ish, maybe 11. Far enough into the evening that when my pager goes off, it's a little unusual. When the phone rings downstairs, we ignore it, because it's Saturday night and we're doing what young couples do on Saturday nights when their relationship is new. Think back, you'll remember.
When the cell phone rings and the pager goes off again, I'm perplexed enough to answer my cell. It's John Fore, one of my roommates from Rock Vegas.
"Yeah, what?" somewhat annoyed.
"Dude. Call your Dad. He's trying to find you."
"What's up?" becoming concerned, because my Dad never calls. Anyone.
"I dunno, he just told me to have you call home."
Hang up, scared now. I look at my pager, it's my parent's number. Seriously concerned now, I go downstairs to hear my dad leaving a message on the machine
"...call me as soon as you get this, it's important."
I pick up, dial him back.
"Hey. What's wrong?" In my parent's world, nobody ever calls anyone after 9PM unless something is terribly wrong.
There's a pause, and I know it's bad.
"Wayne was killed in a car wreck a little while ago."
"No."
Beat.
"What happened?"
"We don't know yet."
"Should I come home?"
"No. There's nothing you can do tonight. Come home tomorrow morning, we'll know more then."
Beat.
"I need to go, I still have to call Bobby."
"Alright. I'll see you tomorrow."
And as I curl up into a ball, naked under the bar in my condo's kitchen, cold linoleum slowly imprinting flower patterns onto my legs and side, I realize that my brother is gone. Just like that, with a phone call, shit has become seriously fucked up.
Wayne Alexander was my brother-in-law. He married my sister Bonnie when I was a year old. I am the youngest of four children, current ages 52, 49, 48 and 32. So there's a little bit of a disconnect there. Until I got out of college, my siblings had always been more like other sets of parents or aunts and uncles than brothers and sisters. And I was always closest to Bonnie and Wayne.
Bonnie wanted to have kids in the absolute worst way, and it was a long time in coming for her, so she took me in as my 2nd mom almost from the time I was out of Mama's arms. I spent as much of my waking time at her house as I did my own when I was small, and their friends Guinea, Herb, Cranford and Lana and Joe were my extended family too. When Jessica and Stephanie were born, I was old enough to have distanced myself a little from that, but Bonnie is still the sibling I am closest to, by far.
I had my first beer at their kitchen table. We won't discuss the fact that I was 11. I shot my first gun in their front yard. I looked at my first porn in their closet (glad for a moment that my sister is internet-illiterate, I don't think she knows that I swiped a pile of Wayne's Playboys when I was in Jr. High). These are major events for a southern boy. Bonnie gave me my first Clapton album, and has been subsequently responsible for many of my favorite musical experiences of my life.
So to have Wayne ripped away from us that quickly was absolutely fucking devastating. I have never experienced anything quite so suddenly shattering, not even when my fiance dumped me from across the Atlantic Ocean (another story for another time, but I'll get there, I promise).
My father is an incredibly softhearted man. You'd never know it to look at him, a slightly gnarled sunburnt stump of a man with woodcutter arms and a plodding half-stomp of a gait, but he taught me that it's okay for a man to cry. We watched MASH together and wept like little girls when Henry Blake's chopper got shot down. So it wasn't a huge surprise to see him weeping outside my sister's house when I walked onto her porch. But I had never seen my brother Bob cry before, not even when his son Jash died the day after he was born. But Bobby was crying too that day, and it broke my shit right up. I remember only snapshots from those next few days -
My sister sitting on the couch looking for all the world like someone in advanced Alzheimer's, just uncomprehending. The epitomy of the word "haunted eyes."
Walking down the hallway that Monday in the theatre building at school and finding Marc, the chair of our department to tell him that I wouldn't be in classes for a few days, could he make that all work out for me, and this 6' 3" bear of a guy just folding me into a hug that for a second at least, held my pain at bay and let me feel safe.
The amazing amount of food spread through every room of Bonnie's double-wide. Southerners understand that not only is the way to win a heart through the stomach, but often the way to heal one begins there as well. The people of that small community made sure that my whole family's physical comforts were taken care of for those days while we tried to begin to patch our hearts together.
Standing outside the funeral home waiting for the private visitation before the greeting line, and waiting for Bonnie to arrive. My niece Diane, Bobby and I were standing out back waiting for her when Bobby said "Well, we always said she'd be late for her own funeral. I guess this is as close as you can really get." My mother slapped his arm, and I laughed for the first time in three days.
I don't remember much of the funeral. Nothing of what was said. Those aren't the things that stand out at those moments. I remember Danny Wallace's ponytail. I remember the sadness in Robert Blair's eyes. I remember people hugging me that I hadn't seen in years. I remember Mike Wallace and I talking for the first time in 5 years.
So this is a holiday for giving thanks. Really. Take a minute and look around the table, and be fucking thankful, because it can all change too fast. I still remember the conversations we had that Thanksgiving, because we were all talking about how much Wayne's mullet looked like Toby Keith's mullet, and how that boy was never gonna have a hit if he didn't fix that hair.
I'm thankful for all that I have. I'm also thankful for the experiences of loss that I've had, because that makes me appreciate what I still have. I'm thankful for the three people who read this blog, and especially for the reconnection it has allowed me to make with old friends. And for the new friends I've made this year. Friends are important. It's like somebody said, "Friends are the family that we choose." Thanks for being part of my family.
1994, Saturday. Two days after Thanksgiving. Suzy and I have been together for a couple of months now and I'm spending pretty much every weekend at her place now, so that's where I'm found. It's late-ish, maybe 11. Far enough into the evening that when my pager goes off, it's a little unusual. When the phone rings downstairs, we ignore it, because it's Saturday night and we're doing what young couples do on Saturday nights when their relationship is new. Think back, you'll remember.
When the cell phone rings and the pager goes off again, I'm perplexed enough to answer my cell. It's John Fore, one of my roommates from Rock Vegas.
"Yeah, what?" somewhat annoyed.
"Dude. Call your Dad. He's trying to find you."
"What's up?" becoming concerned, because my Dad never calls. Anyone.
"I dunno, he just told me to have you call home."
Hang up, scared now. I look at my pager, it's my parent's number. Seriously concerned now, I go downstairs to hear my dad leaving a message on the machine
"...call me as soon as you get this, it's important."
I pick up, dial him back.
"Hey. What's wrong?" In my parent's world, nobody ever calls anyone after 9PM unless something is terribly wrong.
There's a pause, and I know it's bad.
"Wayne was killed in a car wreck a little while ago."
"No."
Beat.
"What happened?"
"We don't know yet."
"Should I come home?"
"No. There's nothing you can do tonight. Come home tomorrow morning, we'll know more then."
Beat.
"I need to go, I still have to call Bobby."
"Alright. I'll see you tomorrow."
And as I curl up into a ball, naked under the bar in my condo's kitchen, cold linoleum slowly imprinting flower patterns onto my legs and side, I realize that my brother is gone. Just like that, with a phone call, shit has become seriously fucked up.
Wayne Alexander was my brother-in-law. He married my sister Bonnie when I was a year old. I am the youngest of four children, current ages 52, 49, 48 and 32. So there's a little bit of a disconnect there. Until I got out of college, my siblings had always been more like other sets of parents or aunts and uncles than brothers and sisters. And I was always closest to Bonnie and Wayne.
Bonnie wanted to have kids in the absolute worst way, and it was a long time in coming for her, so she took me in as my 2nd mom almost from the time I was out of Mama's arms. I spent as much of my waking time at her house as I did my own when I was small, and their friends Guinea, Herb, Cranford and Lana and Joe were my extended family too. When Jessica and Stephanie were born, I was old enough to have distanced myself a little from that, but Bonnie is still the sibling I am closest to, by far.
I had my first beer at their kitchen table. We won't discuss the fact that I was 11. I shot my first gun in their front yard. I looked at my first porn in their closet (glad for a moment that my sister is internet-illiterate, I don't think she knows that I swiped a pile of Wayne's Playboys when I was in Jr. High). These are major events for a southern boy. Bonnie gave me my first Clapton album, and has been subsequently responsible for many of my favorite musical experiences of my life.
So to have Wayne ripped away from us that quickly was absolutely fucking devastating. I have never experienced anything quite so suddenly shattering, not even when my fiance dumped me from across the Atlantic Ocean (another story for another time, but I'll get there, I promise).
My father is an incredibly softhearted man. You'd never know it to look at him, a slightly gnarled sunburnt stump of a man with woodcutter arms and a plodding half-stomp of a gait, but he taught me that it's okay for a man to cry. We watched MASH together and wept like little girls when Henry Blake's chopper got shot down. So it wasn't a huge surprise to see him weeping outside my sister's house when I walked onto her porch. But I had never seen my brother Bob cry before, not even when his son Jash died the day after he was born. But Bobby was crying too that day, and it broke my shit right up. I remember only snapshots from those next few days -
My sister sitting on the couch looking for all the world like someone in advanced Alzheimer's, just uncomprehending. The epitomy of the word "haunted eyes."
Walking down the hallway that Monday in the theatre building at school and finding Marc, the chair of our department to tell him that I wouldn't be in classes for a few days, could he make that all work out for me, and this 6' 3" bear of a guy just folding me into a hug that for a second at least, held my pain at bay and let me feel safe.
The amazing amount of food spread through every room of Bonnie's double-wide. Southerners understand that not only is the way to win a heart through the stomach, but often the way to heal one begins there as well. The people of that small community made sure that my whole family's physical comforts were taken care of for those days while we tried to begin to patch our hearts together.
Standing outside the funeral home waiting for the private visitation before the greeting line, and waiting for Bonnie to arrive. My niece Diane, Bobby and I were standing out back waiting for her when Bobby said "Well, we always said she'd be late for her own funeral. I guess this is as close as you can really get." My mother slapped his arm, and I laughed for the first time in three days.
I don't remember much of the funeral. Nothing of what was said. Those aren't the things that stand out at those moments. I remember Danny Wallace's ponytail. I remember the sadness in Robert Blair's eyes. I remember people hugging me that I hadn't seen in years. I remember Mike Wallace and I talking for the first time in 5 years.
So this is a holiday for giving thanks. Really. Take a minute and look around the table, and be fucking thankful, because it can all change too fast. I still remember the conversations we had that Thanksgiving, because we were all talking about how much Wayne's mullet looked like Toby Keith's mullet, and how that boy was never gonna have a hit if he didn't fix that hair.
I'm thankful for all that I have. I'm also thankful for the experiences of loss that I've had, because that makes me appreciate what I still have. I'm thankful for the three people who read this blog, and especially for the reconnection it has allowed me to make with old friends. And for the new friends I've made this year. Friends are important. It's like somebody said, "Friends are the family that we choose." Thanks for being part of my family.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Desert Island Cash
The local paper ran a big story on the new Johnny Cash flick, which I'm way looking forward to. I think Joaquin Phoenix should be able to carry off most of it, even if he hasn't quite lived as hard as Johnny did. But to finish off their artice, the local movie critic listed his top ten Johnny Cash songs, all from the pre-Rick Rubin era, proving that his head is firmly buried in the sand.
So here's a musical interlude from Falstaff - my ten Desert Island Johnny Cash Songs.
1) Delia's Gone - American I
2) Folsom Prison Blues
3) Boy named Sue - from Live at Folsom Prison
4) Rusty Cage - American II
5) Redemption Song - with Joe Strummer - Unearthed
6) Wichita Lineman - Unearthed
7) Hurt - American IV
8) Ring of Fire
9) Singer of Songs - Unearthed
10) Jackson - with June Carter
And along the same vein - here are my top 10 Desert Island Discs
1-4) Johnny Cash Unearthed
5) Indigo Girls - eponymous debut CD
6) Tori Amos - Little Earthquakes
7) Sam Bush - Live recording from Van Hoys Campground 2001
8) John Hartford - Aero-Plane
9) Hayseed Dixie - Live recording from 2003
10) Great Big Sea - Rant & Roar
So what 10 albums would you load on your iPod for a trip to a deserted island? List in comments or your own blog. Oh, and let me know if you want copies of the Sammy or Hayseed shows, they kick mucho ass.
Peace,
J
So here's a musical interlude from Falstaff - my ten Desert Island Johnny Cash Songs.
1) Delia's Gone - American I
2) Folsom Prison Blues
3) Boy named Sue - from Live at Folsom Prison
4) Rusty Cage - American II
5) Redemption Song - with Joe Strummer - Unearthed
6) Wichita Lineman - Unearthed
7) Hurt - American IV
8) Ring of Fire
9) Singer of Songs - Unearthed
10) Jackson - with June Carter
And along the same vein - here are my top 10 Desert Island Discs
1-4) Johnny Cash Unearthed
5) Indigo Girls - eponymous debut CD
6) Tori Amos - Little Earthquakes
7) Sam Bush - Live recording from Van Hoys Campground 2001
8) John Hartford - Aero-Plane
9) Hayseed Dixie - Live recording from 2003
10) Great Big Sea - Rant & Roar
So what 10 albums would you load on your iPod for a trip to a deserted island? List in comments or your own blog. Oh, and let me know if you want copies of the Sammy or Hayseed shows, they kick mucho ass.
Peace,
J
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Travel bitching
So I've been gone a lot lately. A LOT. First weekend in November is the North Carolina Theatre Conference Fall Gathering, and I'm the VP of that organization this year, so I was in Greensboro for 4 days. I presented 2 workshops, sat on 2 panels and MC'd the awards ceremony, so I was a little fried when I got home. Just in time to do laundry and pack for my trip to Orlando. Yay.
Lighting Dimensions International is the biggest trade show our company attends each year, and it was in Orlando this year. I am less than fond of Orlando, and I get eh glory of returning in March for the Southeastern Theatre Conference. Joy. So I fly on Thursday after being home for 3 days, with having a whole 15 minutes of awake time with the wife, since she was busy costuming Sound of Music for the local community college and was working 20-hour days. I'm there from Thursday through Monday with plenty of gladhanding, manufacturer's meetings, and assorted other bullshit, dropping me back home midday Monday. Today is Thursday and I'm still fried. I need a weekend in the worst way.
Don't get me wrong, I usually enjoy both of these conferences very much, but back to back made it tough this year. And having Suzy working on the show didn't help, but our house is slowly coming back to some semblance of order.
On a way cool note - Steven from my last post emailed me! We haven't talked in better than 10 years, and now I know where he is and what he's up to. He's still a wee blonde fokker, and I've gotten all fat. Oh well, happens to the best of us. Glad he's doing well. Anybody else from the old days reading this drivel - email my happy arse!
Peace,
J
Lighting Dimensions International is the biggest trade show our company attends each year, and it was in Orlando this year. I am less than fond of Orlando, and I get eh glory of returning in March for the Southeastern Theatre Conference. Joy. So I fly on Thursday after being home for 3 days, with having a whole 15 minutes of awake time with the wife, since she was busy costuming Sound of Music for the local community college and was working 20-hour days. I'm there from Thursday through Monday with plenty of gladhanding, manufacturer's meetings, and assorted other bullshit, dropping me back home midday Monday. Today is Thursday and I'm still fried. I need a weekend in the worst way.
Don't get me wrong, I usually enjoy both of these conferences very much, but back to back made it tough this year. And having Suzy working on the show didn't help, but our house is slowly coming back to some semblance of order.
On a way cool note - Steven from my last post emailed me! We haven't talked in better than 10 years, and now I know where he is and what he's up to. He's still a wee blonde fokker, and I've gotten all fat. Oh well, happens to the best of us. Glad he's doing well. Anybody else from the old days reading this drivel - email my happy arse!
Peace,
J
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Memory - Verdi Cries
We all lived on the 8th floor. Even the girls were honorary residents. Buddy's statement about girls on the floor after hours was "as long as I don't see 'em, hear 'em or smell 'em, I don't care."
Jesse "Jay" Campbell - the earth mother. Jay was the first openly gay person I ever knew, and he was the momma to the entire floor. Jay had this wild mop of hair and a funky snaggle tooth right in front, and was always smiling. Every memory I have of Jay he is smiling. Jay once decided to go visit our friend Julie in the girl's dorm in full drag. Not only did he make it through the lobby without getting hassled, some guy in the lobby had a thing for heavy chicks and tried to pick him up!
Steven Fuller - Steve was short, blonde, slight, pale. Funny, a worrier, a helluvan artist, and always stressed to the gills over something. Steve was quick to laugh, quick to cry, quick to flip out, and ready to try anything. Steven introduced me to the Chickasaw Mud Puppies, which has to be the greatest band name ever.
Indy - I don't even remember Indy's real last name. It was John something, but we all just called him Indy. He wore the hat, the leather jacket, had the bullwhip, the whole nine yards. Indy faked multiple personality disorder not so much to get attention, but to escape it. It was his defense mechanism in the hick town he grew up in. If you're batshit fuckin' crazy, the jocks will leave a geek alone. And Indy took geek to a whole new level.
Susie Genobles - I swear she's a fucking siberain husky walking on two legs. Susie had this amazing long dark brown almost-black hair and these ice-blue, husky-blue eyes that would cut right into your soul. She was a solid chick, not some delicate little flower, but she was also terribly, terribly fragile inside. She was always afraid of letting people in because that meant that she would probably get hurt again. She was almost always right. Susie knew Jay from before college, so he brought her into our circle.
Rebecula - Rebecca Vignati - She went the other direction from Susie - slapping on an outer coating of bitch to keep people from seeing the really great person that she kept hidden inside. There was a lot more to Rebecca than she let on. It took me the better part of a decade to realize that. Rebeccas knew Susie from home.
Jay, Indy, Steven and I all got placed on the top floor of Richardson Hall at Winthrop, in Rock Hill. It says something about a town when the dorm is the tallest building in the city, and it was at the time. We were the core of the 8th floor freaks. We were artists, actors and writers. There were a few musicians thrown in for good measure, but the normal folk pretty much transferred off our floor pretty fuckin' fast. We'd drop acid, turn off all the lights on the floor and play hide n seek. We'd get shitty drunk and tripping on Robitussin and wander campus. I seem to very vaguely recall running down the hall one night with a nearly empty bottle of white zinfandel wearing nothing but my boxers and cowboy boots.
Don't visualize, it could cause scarring.
One of our favorite places to wander became the graveyard about a mile off campus. We'd roam out from campus after dark, hop the fence, and check out the lives of people we never knew. There was this phenomenal monument in the graveyard, no idea to what, but it was like a big gazebo, or small roman monument. Several marble steps, with columns and a domed roof. Maybe 12' in diameter. We'd wander round, shoot the shit, and the girls would sing. Neither Rebecca or Susie were really singers, but they knew all the words to Verdi Cries by 10,000 Maniacs, and Gypsy by Suzanne Vega, and their harmonies were as pure as their hearts. I can get back to those moments, ever so briefly, when I play those songs.
It's midnight in the late summer, I'm out with my best friends. We know where our place in the world is and what we're going to do about it. All is right with the world, with our relationships, and we could care less what the future holds. Death and old age are things other people think about, and arthritis and high blood pressure are an old man's worries. I'm still skinny, my hair is long and blonde, and I could care less what tomorrow brings, as long as Susie Genoble's head is in my lap while I play with her ths black hair.
Hold me like a baby that will not fall asleep,
curl me up inside you
and let me hear you through the heat.
Suzanne Vega - Gypsy
Jesse "Jay" Campbell - the earth mother. Jay was the first openly gay person I ever knew, and he was the momma to the entire floor. Jay had this wild mop of hair and a funky snaggle tooth right in front, and was always smiling. Every memory I have of Jay he is smiling. Jay once decided to go visit our friend Julie in the girl's dorm in full drag. Not only did he make it through the lobby without getting hassled, some guy in the lobby had a thing for heavy chicks and tried to pick him up!
Steven Fuller - Steve was short, blonde, slight, pale. Funny, a worrier, a helluvan artist, and always stressed to the gills over something. Steve was quick to laugh, quick to cry, quick to flip out, and ready to try anything. Steven introduced me to the Chickasaw Mud Puppies, which has to be the greatest band name ever.
Indy - I don't even remember Indy's real last name. It was John something, but we all just called him Indy. He wore the hat, the leather jacket, had the bullwhip, the whole nine yards. Indy faked multiple personality disorder not so much to get attention, but to escape it. It was his defense mechanism in the hick town he grew up in. If you're batshit fuckin' crazy, the jocks will leave a geek alone. And Indy took geek to a whole new level.
Susie Genobles - I swear she's a fucking siberain husky walking on two legs. Susie had this amazing long dark brown almost-black hair and these ice-blue, husky-blue eyes that would cut right into your soul. She was a solid chick, not some delicate little flower, but she was also terribly, terribly fragile inside. She was always afraid of letting people in because that meant that she would probably get hurt again. She was almost always right. Susie knew Jay from before college, so he brought her into our circle.
Rebecula - Rebecca Vignati - She went the other direction from Susie - slapping on an outer coating of bitch to keep people from seeing the really great person that she kept hidden inside. There was a lot more to Rebecca than she let on. It took me the better part of a decade to realize that. Rebeccas knew Susie from home.
Jay, Indy, Steven and I all got placed on the top floor of Richardson Hall at Winthrop, in Rock Hill. It says something about a town when the dorm is the tallest building in the city, and it was at the time. We were the core of the 8th floor freaks. We were artists, actors and writers. There were a few musicians thrown in for good measure, but the normal folk pretty much transferred off our floor pretty fuckin' fast. We'd drop acid, turn off all the lights on the floor and play hide n seek. We'd get shitty drunk and tripping on Robitussin and wander campus. I seem to very vaguely recall running down the hall one night with a nearly empty bottle of white zinfandel wearing nothing but my boxers and cowboy boots.
Don't visualize, it could cause scarring.
One of our favorite places to wander became the graveyard about a mile off campus. We'd roam out from campus after dark, hop the fence, and check out the lives of people we never knew. There was this phenomenal monument in the graveyard, no idea to what, but it was like a big gazebo, or small roman monument. Several marble steps, with columns and a domed roof. Maybe 12' in diameter. We'd wander round, shoot the shit, and the girls would sing. Neither Rebecca or Susie were really singers, but they knew all the words to Verdi Cries by 10,000 Maniacs, and Gypsy by Suzanne Vega, and their harmonies were as pure as their hearts. I can get back to those moments, ever so briefly, when I play those songs.
It's midnight in the late summer, I'm out with my best friends. We know where our place in the world is and what we're going to do about it. All is right with the world, with our relationships, and we could care less what the future holds. Death and old age are things other people think about, and arthritis and high blood pressure are an old man's worries. I'm still skinny, my hair is long and blonde, and I could care less what tomorrow brings, as long as Susie Genoble's head is in my lap while I play with her ths black hair.
Hold me like a baby that will not fall asleep,
curl me up inside you
and let me hear you through the heat.
Suzanne Vega - Gypsy
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Y2J 05
It's time for my end of year CD again - and I need to get cookin' on this if I plan to have any available for the WPBT gathering in Vegas in December.
Here are the current eligible song/discs
Jason Mraz - Mr. A-Z
Sam Bush - live concert from Bele Chere this July
The Duhks
Nickel Creek - Why Should the Fire Die?
Montgomery Gentry - Gone
Trace Adkins - Songs about Me & Honky Tonk Badonkadonk
Darryl Scott - Live in NC
The NY Dolls - Lonely Planet Boy
Sex Pistols - Anarchy in the UK (show specific)
Tori Amos - The Beekeeper
Looking for other hot stuff off albums released this year. Lemme know if you've got something hot.
J
Here are the current eligible song/discs
Jason Mraz - Mr. A-Z
Sam Bush - live concert from Bele Chere this July
The Duhks
Nickel Creek - Why Should the Fire Die?
Montgomery Gentry - Gone
Trace Adkins - Songs about Me & Honky Tonk Badonkadonk
Darryl Scott - Live in NC
The NY Dolls - Lonely Planet Boy
Sex Pistols - Anarchy in the UK (show specific)
Tori Amos - The Beekeeper
Looking for other hot stuff off albums released this year. Lemme know if you've got something hot.
J
The Reviews
I know I'm not supposed to care what the critics say, but they can positively or negatively impact the box office, so I do care.
Creative Loafing is the weekly free arts newspaper, Charlotte Obsverver is the daily paper.
Here you go. This is the Creative Loafing review, and since the Observer calling me an idiot in print was more than 7 days ago, I can't download it for free anymore. And I have no intention of paying $3 to download the opinion that I don't understand the play.
So you only get to read the good review. The play is good. It's not that good, but I don't think I've seen more than 5 plays in my life that were as good as this one is made out to be. But I'm still proud of it, and proud of my cast. And that's all that matters, right?
8-8 in America
Off-Tryon's harsh realities
By Perry Tannenbaum
Published October 12, 2005
Creative Loafing
Finesse and subtlety are nowhere to be found at SouthEnd Performing Arts Center, where Steven Dietz's relentless, obsessively researched docudrama, God's Country, is sounding a loud, harsh alarm. Off-Tryon Theatre Company's production, clocking in at two hours and five minutes plus intermission, doesn't soften (or shorten) the assault, which comes hurtling at us like a grenade laden with razor blades.
At the heart of the drama are two of the most disturbing protagonists I can recall encountering. We spend the most time with Denver Parmenter, a member of the inner circle in The Order, a white supremacist group responsible for the most successful crime spree in US history. Self-servingly, Parmenter has turned state's evidence against his cronies, who are on trial in Seattle - Dietz's home town -for the 1984 assassination of talkshow firebrand Alan Berg.Played superbly by Mykel Chambers, with a malevolent superior smirk nearly worthy of Hannibal Lecter, Parmenter indubitably still harbors the noxious prejudices he professes to renounce in his plea bargain. His credibility - and that of the government prosecutors bringing the people's case against The Order - reeks with corruption.Nor is Berg a comforting presence during his intermittent appearances. Tom Ollis renders the Denver radio personality as markedly rude and abrasive. If you're looking for a cuddly Jewish victim of abominable anti-Semitism, look elsewhere. Dietz portrays Berg as the lightning rod he was and, under John Hartness's fevered direction, Ollis doesn't flinch from it.
So the alarming message of God's Country is richly complex. Yes, we should take seriously the seditious threat of American Nazis. And no, hurling hatred or contempt at them is not the best way of dealing with the scourge.Yet we find ourselves inwardly cheering Berg's incendiary rants. Worse, we find ourselves tolerating the government's dubious prosecutorial tactics, willing to trust the word of one monster if it will serve to imprison others.
Naturally, there are chilling embodiments of the most repulsive racism egging us on, appallingly American in their flavor. Seventh-grader Anthony Zanghi has a memorable debut as a young sprout who gets indoctrinated with The Order's twisted creed. George Cole dons camo to give his skinhead portrayal a muscular, Marine mien. When he shouts out "8-8!" - a coded Nazi salute - you can almost imagine Hitler stirring from his grave.
Each letup in the stridency is a welcome oasis. Best are the poignant regrets of a Father (Phil Taylor) who realizes too late how his nonchalant racist slurs have helped shape his rabid son. There's also a humorous patch when two hayseeds (Brian Willard and George Weldon) spout their conspiratorial theories.
Off-Tryon's 11-person ensemble divvies up over 40 roles. Exposition is often delivered via narrative and reportage, further complicating the actors' tasks. Now that this hurly-burly is up on its feet, maybe all of the cast have their lines down cold.
AV projections for the show add some zip, hammering home reminders that we're confronting real people and threats, and Julia Strachan's costumes are invariably on-target.
So why doesn't the diabolical KKK wizard brandish a torch? And why are fearsome militia wielding weapons that look like they shoot water rather than bullets?
Make no mistake though: this remains gripping theatre. Dietz's carefully documented presentation stands in bold relief against the raving irrationality that flourishes in our midst. Let him quote Yeats. Because things really are falling apart.
Creative Loafing is the weekly free arts newspaper, Charlotte Obsverver is the daily paper.
Here you go. This is the Creative Loafing review, and since the Observer calling me an idiot in print was more than 7 days ago, I can't download it for free anymore. And I have no intention of paying $3 to download the opinion that I don't understand the play.
So you only get to read the good review. The play is good. It's not that good, but I don't think I've seen more than 5 plays in my life that were as good as this one is made out to be. But I'm still proud of it, and proud of my cast. And that's all that matters, right?
8-8 in America
Off-Tryon's harsh realities
By Perry Tannenbaum
Published October 12, 2005
Creative Loafing
Finesse and subtlety are nowhere to be found at SouthEnd Performing Arts Center, where Steven Dietz's relentless, obsessively researched docudrama, God's Country, is sounding a loud, harsh alarm. Off-Tryon Theatre Company's production, clocking in at two hours and five minutes plus intermission, doesn't soften (or shorten) the assault, which comes hurtling at us like a grenade laden with razor blades.
At the heart of the drama are two of the most disturbing protagonists I can recall encountering. We spend the most time with Denver Parmenter, a member of the inner circle in The Order, a white supremacist group responsible for the most successful crime spree in US history. Self-servingly, Parmenter has turned state's evidence against his cronies, who are on trial in Seattle - Dietz's home town -for the 1984 assassination of talkshow firebrand Alan Berg.Played superbly by Mykel Chambers, with a malevolent superior smirk nearly worthy of Hannibal Lecter, Parmenter indubitably still harbors the noxious prejudices he professes to renounce in his plea bargain. His credibility - and that of the government prosecutors bringing the people's case against The Order - reeks with corruption.Nor is Berg a comforting presence during his intermittent appearances. Tom Ollis renders the Denver radio personality as markedly rude and abrasive. If you're looking for a cuddly Jewish victim of abominable anti-Semitism, look elsewhere. Dietz portrays Berg as the lightning rod he was and, under John Hartness's fevered direction, Ollis doesn't flinch from it.
So the alarming message of God's Country is richly complex. Yes, we should take seriously the seditious threat of American Nazis. And no, hurling hatred or contempt at them is not the best way of dealing with the scourge.Yet we find ourselves inwardly cheering Berg's incendiary rants. Worse, we find ourselves tolerating the government's dubious prosecutorial tactics, willing to trust the word of one monster if it will serve to imprison others.
Naturally, there are chilling embodiments of the most repulsive racism egging us on, appallingly American in their flavor. Seventh-grader Anthony Zanghi has a memorable debut as a young sprout who gets indoctrinated with The Order's twisted creed. George Cole dons camo to give his skinhead portrayal a muscular, Marine mien. When he shouts out "8-8!" - a coded Nazi salute - you can almost imagine Hitler stirring from his grave.
Each letup in the stridency is a welcome oasis. Best are the poignant regrets of a Father (Phil Taylor) who realizes too late how his nonchalant racist slurs have helped shape his rabid son. There's also a humorous patch when two hayseeds (Brian Willard and George Weldon) spout their conspiratorial theories.
Off-Tryon's 11-person ensemble divvies up over 40 roles. Exposition is often delivered via narrative and reportage, further complicating the actors' tasks. Now that this hurly-burly is up on its feet, maybe all of the cast have their lines down cold.
AV projections for the show add some zip, hammering home reminders that we're confronting real people and threats, and Julia Strachan's costumes are invariably on-target.
So why doesn't the diabolical KKK wizard brandish a torch? And why are fearsome militia wielding weapons that look like they shoot water rather than bullets?
Make no mistake though: this remains gripping theatre. Dietz's carefully documented presentation stands in bold relief against the raving irrationality that flourishes in our midst. Let him quote Yeats. Because things really are falling apart.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Opening Night
Okay so last night was opening night for our show, God's Country. After six weeks of rehearsal, countless hours in the theatre this week for tech work, dropping $900 on a brand new projector for the video, we're ready to open, with both of Charlotte's finest critics in the house.
And the fucking wheels fell off. It wasn't an absolute disaster. It was an absolute FUCKING disaster. It only takes a couple of moments of lag in a show like God's Country, which is written like a documentary film/rock video, replete with jump cuts and spliced scenes, to make the whole thing shift from tight to incomprehensible.
First there were a couple of line bobbles. Act I started really strong, but there were a couple of jumps and a couple of hiccups. It happens. There are a lot of words, and people are playing a multitude of characters, so it gets confusing. Then act II started, and in the first scene, one of the three actors completely went up on lines and had to ask for help from the other character!!!! It went downhill from there.
Next, one of my actors missed an entrance. Not just late, completely missed the entrance and was called onto the stage by the other actor! This guy has never missed an entrance in his life, so I don't know WTF was going on. Then someone kicks over what sounded like a bucket of screws backstage. Twice. And proceeded to make as much noise trying to clean it up as they did knocking it over. Then another actress misses an entrance. Act II looked like something out of a fucking Keystone Kops movie, only without the comedy.
I couldn't talk to my cast after the show. I couldn't speak to them, I was so unbelievably angry and disgusted. I have never been so disappointed with an opening in my life. This show is so good when they are on, but these fucking mental lapses completely killed the show, with both critics and a pile of theatre folks in the audience, so our word of mouth is pretty much fucked now. It looked like a high school production.
Couple that with the news that our roommates are not signing a new lease on the theatre, and I'm not sure what to do. I was all gung-ho earlier this week to pull everything together to dedicate all my resources, financial and personal, to keeping the company going and taking over the entire lease on the building if we could, but last night really makes everything seem so futile. We worked for weeks on that show, and about half my cast is there with me working as hard as they absolutely can. But the other half isn't, and that just absolutely kills me. A few people who are willing to skate through with an acceptable performance drags down the whole thing, when just a little bit of real focus would elevate the entire show to something incredible. Or not.
I really, really understand why directors precast shows and work with all the same people all the time.
But that's not it. I'm pissed off about last night, and I'm pissed off that some of my cast are there for the work and some are there to be in a play. But the people that fucked up are not the people who aren't focused. Murphy happened. It's over, and now I have to find a way to get together with my cast tonight and give them the confidence to pull their shit together and put on the show I know they are capable of. Because they can. I've seen it. Wednesday night's invited dress was aboput 90% of the show that I believe it can be. Which is what an invited preview should be. But last night the wheels fell off. So tonight, we try and figure out how to pull it back together.
Wish me luck.
And the fucking wheels fell off. It wasn't an absolute disaster. It was an absolute FUCKING disaster. It only takes a couple of moments of lag in a show like God's Country, which is written like a documentary film/rock video, replete with jump cuts and spliced scenes, to make the whole thing shift from tight to incomprehensible.
First there were a couple of line bobbles. Act I started really strong, but there were a couple of jumps and a couple of hiccups. It happens. There are a lot of words, and people are playing a multitude of characters, so it gets confusing. Then act II started, and in the first scene, one of the three actors completely went up on lines and had to ask for help from the other character!!!! It went downhill from there.
Next, one of my actors missed an entrance. Not just late, completely missed the entrance and was called onto the stage by the other actor! This guy has never missed an entrance in his life, so I don't know WTF was going on. Then someone kicks over what sounded like a bucket of screws backstage. Twice. And proceeded to make as much noise trying to clean it up as they did knocking it over. Then another actress misses an entrance. Act II looked like something out of a fucking Keystone Kops movie, only without the comedy.
I couldn't talk to my cast after the show. I couldn't speak to them, I was so unbelievably angry and disgusted. I have never been so disappointed with an opening in my life. This show is so good when they are on, but these fucking mental lapses completely killed the show, with both critics and a pile of theatre folks in the audience, so our word of mouth is pretty much fucked now. It looked like a high school production.
Couple that with the news that our roommates are not signing a new lease on the theatre, and I'm not sure what to do. I was all gung-ho earlier this week to pull everything together to dedicate all my resources, financial and personal, to keeping the company going and taking over the entire lease on the building if we could, but last night really makes everything seem so futile. We worked for weeks on that show, and about half my cast is there with me working as hard as they absolutely can. But the other half isn't, and that just absolutely kills me. A few people who are willing to skate through with an acceptable performance drags down the whole thing, when just a little bit of real focus would elevate the entire show to something incredible. Or not.
I really, really understand why directors precast shows and work with all the same people all the time.
But that's not it. I'm pissed off about last night, and I'm pissed off that some of my cast are there for the work and some are there to be in a play. But the people that fucked up are not the people who aren't focused. Murphy happened. It's over, and now I have to find a way to get together with my cast tonight and give them the confidence to pull their shit together and put on the show I know they are capable of. Because they can. I've seen it. Wednesday night's invited dress was aboput 90% of the show that I believe it can be. Which is what an invited preview should be. But last night the wheels fell off. So tonight, we try and figure out how to pull it back together.
Wish me luck.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Suzy
I've been married to a wonderful woman for almost the past 10 years, and today is her birthday. She hits 36 today, and yesterday I bought her a pile of makeup from Christy, our best friend and Mary Kay pusher, ahem, consultant. She loved it, was very sweet, and very happy. I love her a lot. We fight, like most folks do, but we always come back together stronger afterwards. The best moments of my days lately have been lying in bed with her after I get home from rehearsal and watching an episode of Smallville as we drift off to sleep. I like being married.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Perspective
My grandmother died today.
I'm more upset than I thought I would be. Or at least the finality of seeing the words in silly Times New Roman Serif made me realize that I actually am a bit upset by this. Commence diarrhea of the keyboard.
I have a great family. My parents have been married for something like 55 years. I am the youngest (by far) of 4 kids, with 5 nieces and 1 nephew. And 1 grand-niece (or is it great? I can't remember). My upbringing was standard Southern. Every Sunday we went to church, and in the afternoon we went to Grandma and Granddaddy's house.
I think I was 14 or so before I ever knew my grandparents' given names. Vera Dover Wyatt and George Dargin Wyatt. Dargin is one of those peculiar Southern names that we tend to saddle our children with in hopes that it will somehow connect them with something in their heritage. To date, I think it has only every worked with wealthy closeted homosexual men in Charleston or Richmond. I know that I have never felt any kinship with my ancestry by being handcuffed to the middle name Givens all my life (apparently my maternal great-grandmother was Willie Givens Feemster, a truly unfortunate and non-euphonious collection of syllables). But I digress.
Ever Sunday we would go to Grandma and Grandaddy's house, where I would play in the toy room with odd assorted leftover toys and whatever I brought with me to amuse myself and any of my cousins that happened to be there. My mother is the oldest of 12 kids, so there was usually a cousin or two. Granddaddy scared me. He was a big, loud old man, who had a speech impediment, and didn't walk well due to a factory accident, so I never really understood anything he said, and he just always got louder. In retrospect, and he's been dead long enough I suppose I can be this irreverent, he sounded a lot like the fucked up guy from the movie Goonies. Grandaddy was also a drunk, but I didn't know that until much later.
Grandma however, was exactly what you think of when you think of a Southern Grandma. She was a slight woman, with white hair done up in curls tight to her head. She has a soft voice, and a slightly creaky drawl that always made my name polysyllabic (a feat which cannot be accomplished above the Mason-Dixon line). "Jo-uhn," she called me, or to distinguish between my father and me, "Jo-uhn Givins." I never minded my middle name from Grandma, it's just how it was. For a while she tried Little John, but that lasted until I was about 13. My dad is about 5'9" on a good day, and I'm significantly less than "little."
She always asked how I was doing in school, and as I went along in years and moved out of the house, I only saw her at reunions and Christmas. Even then, she would always ask about the last girlfriend, or, eventually, my wife. Then she'd ask when were going to have kids (a question reserved for old relatives, anybody else can bugger off!), and from her I never minded. You never minded anything from a woman so gentle. There was iron in her, though. There had to be to raise 12 kids through the Depression, with a husband who was a drunk, and sometimes mean. She did what she had to do to raise those kids, and they all turned out pretty good.
A few years ago, I realized that she had no idea who I was. Not in some great philosophical differences way, in an Alzheimer's kind of "now which grandchild are you?" kind of way. That was ugly. Three years ago was our last Christmas with the whole family. Grandma was put into a nursing home the week between Christmas and New Year's.
I never visited.
I wasn't strong enough. I couldn't look into those vacant eyes and know that she didn't know me. I thought that my memories of her would be left intact by that fact, but I was so absolutely fucking wrong and it tears my goddamn guts out. I went to see my grandfather to get closure, and watching him lay in the hospital bed out of his mind was so bad that I thought it would be better to just remember Grandma how she used to be. But I don't. All I remember is two days after Christmas, 2000, in the basement fellowship hall of my aunt's church, giving my grandmother a hug and a kiss, and her looking at me and saying "Now which one of Frances' boys are you?"
So it didn't work. I didn't put enough distance to insulate myself from my grief, and I didn't do the things I should have done to not feel guilty today. And I can't ever change that. I know I loved that sweet little old woman, and I know that she loved me. And in the long run, yes, that is what matters. But I could have gone to visit. I could have sucked it up, dealt with the fact that she didn't know which grandchild I was, and brightened a lonely old woman's day with just a little bit of fucking effort on my part. But I didn't. No, I didn't put myself through the pain of seeing her alone in a nursing home. But I will carry around the guilt of ignoring that sweet old woman for a long time, and that's just the penalty for my mistake.
So go hug your grandma. Or your kids. Or whoever.
"Help somebody if you can. And get right with The Man." - Van Zant
I'm more upset than I thought I would be. Or at least the finality of seeing the words in silly Times New Roman Serif made me realize that I actually am a bit upset by this. Commence diarrhea of the keyboard.
I have a great family. My parents have been married for something like 55 years. I am the youngest (by far) of 4 kids, with 5 nieces and 1 nephew. And 1 grand-niece (or is it great? I can't remember). My upbringing was standard Southern. Every Sunday we went to church, and in the afternoon we went to Grandma and Granddaddy's house.
I think I was 14 or so before I ever knew my grandparents' given names. Vera Dover Wyatt and George Dargin Wyatt. Dargin is one of those peculiar Southern names that we tend to saddle our children with in hopes that it will somehow connect them with something in their heritage. To date, I think it has only every worked with wealthy closeted homosexual men in Charleston or Richmond. I know that I have never felt any kinship with my ancestry by being handcuffed to the middle name Givens all my life (apparently my maternal great-grandmother was Willie Givens Feemster, a truly unfortunate and non-euphonious collection of syllables). But I digress.
Ever Sunday we would go to Grandma and Grandaddy's house, where I would play in the toy room with odd assorted leftover toys and whatever I brought with me to amuse myself and any of my cousins that happened to be there. My mother is the oldest of 12 kids, so there was usually a cousin or two. Granddaddy scared me. He was a big, loud old man, who had a speech impediment, and didn't walk well due to a factory accident, so I never really understood anything he said, and he just always got louder. In retrospect, and he's been dead long enough I suppose I can be this irreverent, he sounded a lot like the fucked up guy from the movie Goonies. Grandaddy was also a drunk, but I didn't know that until much later.
Grandma however, was exactly what you think of when you think of a Southern Grandma. She was a slight woman, with white hair done up in curls tight to her head. She has a soft voice, and a slightly creaky drawl that always made my name polysyllabic (a feat which cannot be accomplished above the Mason-Dixon line). "Jo-uhn," she called me, or to distinguish between my father and me, "Jo-uhn Givins." I never minded my middle name from Grandma, it's just how it was. For a while she tried Little John, but that lasted until I was about 13. My dad is about 5'9" on a good day, and I'm significantly less than "little."
She always asked how I was doing in school, and as I went along in years and moved out of the house, I only saw her at reunions and Christmas. Even then, she would always ask about the last girlfriend, or, eventually, my wife. Then she'd ask when were going to have kids (a question reserved for old relatives, anybody else can bugger off!), and from her I never minded. You never minded anything from a woman so gentle. There was iron in her, though. There had to be to raise 12 kids through the Depression, with a husband who was a drunk, and sometimes mean. She did what she had to do to raise those kids, and they all turned out pretty good.
A few years ago, I realized that she had no idea who I was. Not in some great philosophical differences way, in an Alzheimer's kind of "now which grandchild are you?" kind of way. That was ugly. Three years ago was our last Christmas with the whole family. Grandma was put into a nursing home the week between Christmas and New Year's.
I never visited.
I wasn't strong enough. I couldn't look into those vacant eyes and know that she didn't know me. I thought that my memories of her would be left intact by that fact, but I was so absolutely fucking wrong and it tears my goddamn guts out. I went to see my grandfather to get closure, and watching him lay in the hospital bed out of his mind was so bad that I thought it would be better to just remember Grandma how she used to be. But I don't. All I remember is two days after Christmas, 2000, in the basement fellowship hall of my aunt's church, giving my grandmother a hug and a kiss, and her looking at me and saying "Now which one of Frances' boys are you?"
So it didn't work. I didn't put enough distance to insulate myself from my grief, and I didn't do the things I should have done to not feel guilty today. And I can't ever change that. I know I loved that sweet little old woman, and I know that she loved me. And in the long run, yes, that is what matters. But I could have gone to visit. I could have sucked it up, dealt with the fact that she didn't know which grandchild I was, and brightened a lonely old woman's day with just a little bit of fucking effort on my part. But I didn't. No, I didn't put myself through the pain of seeing her alone in a nursing home. But I will carry around the guilt of ignoring that sweet old woman for a long time, and that's just the penalty for my mistake.
So go hug your grandma. Or your kids. Or whoever.
"Help somebody if you can. And get right with The Man." - Van Zant
Friday, September 09, 2005
Fragile
Do you remember how you felt four years ago? When you watched the first tower come down. When you saw the hole in the side of the Pentagon.
How you felt when you saw Donald Rumsfeld do something good for a change and run back into the building to get people out. When you heard about Michael Judge, the NYFD chaplain that was killed by falling debris. When you saw the flag raised in the rubble.
Do you remember how you felt last week? When Tippitina's was silent. When the Famous Door Club was empty. When Pat O's was boarded up. When the helicopters turned away from Charity hospital because of shooting. When you first saw Interdictor's livejournal. When you found out that your friends were okay. Maybe homeless, but okay.
I feel fragile in moments like this. I feel helpless, and that burns me to the core. I am not inclined to sit by. It galls me to be unable to physically help people, but I can't. I can't go to Biloxi and clear the streets. I can't string new power lines through Gulfport. I have given of my money and will give of my time in the ways that I can, but I can't help but feel frustrated that it's not enough.
But we all do what we can. And what I can do, coupled with the efforts of all the other people that are helping, will be enough. Eventually.
These are not pretty times. Our government has failed us in our time of need. I don't need to dick around the blame game. I don't care whose fault it is. The fact of the matter is, four years after the 9/11 attacks, we still cannot handle a major catastrophic event in our country. So it's up to us, the people, to band together and fix things. And we will.
We will.
New Orleans will rebuild. Hopefully stronger. Hopefully as diverse. But she will rebuild. And I will be back there, drinking Hurricanes and watching Al not be able to hang. Wanna come?
But she will be back. Because this IS my South. And we take care of our own. She's like that classy lady from church after a stroke. She's down for a little while, and we'll need to take her a casserole or two for a while, but next Homecoming, she'll be in the front pew and she'll bring the potato salad.
How you felt when you saw Donald Rumsfeld do something good for a change and run back into the building to get people out. When you heard about Michael Judge, the NYFD chaplain that was killed by falling debris. When you saw the flag raised in the rubble.
Do you remember how you felt last week? When Tippitina's was silent. When the Famous Door Club was empty. When Pat O's was boarded up. When the helicopters turned away from Charity hospital because of shooting. When you first saw Interdictor's livejournal. When you found out that your friends were okay. Maybe homeless, but okay.
I feel fragile in moments like this. I feel helpless, and that burns me to the core. I am not inclined to sit by. It galls me to be unable to physically help people, but I can't. I can't go to Biloxi and clear the streets. I can't string new power lines through Gulfport. I have given of my money and will give of my time in the ways that I can, but I can't help but feel frustrated that it's not enough.
But we all do what we can. And what I can do, coupled with the efforts of all the other people that are helping, will be enough. Eventually.
These are not pretty times. Our government has failed us in our time of need. I don't need to dick around the blame game. I don't care whose fault it is. The fact of the matter is, four years after the 9/11 attacks, we still cannot handle a major catastrophic event in our country. So it's up to us, the people, to band together and fix things. And we will.
We will.
New Orleans will rebuild. Hopefully stronger. Hopefully as diverse. But she will rebuild. And I will be back there, drinking Hurricanes and watching Al not be able to hang. Wanna come?
But she will be back. Because this IS my South. And we take care of our own. She's like that classy lady from church after a stroke. She's down for a little while, and we'll need to take her a casserole or two for a while, but next Homecoming, she'll be in the front pew and she'll bring the potato salad.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
There are some real assholes in this world
And of course, when things really suck that's when the assholes rear their ugly head.
House Speaker Whats-his-fuck from Where-the-fuck spouts some bullshit about whether or not New Orleans should be rebuilt because after all, it's below sea level. Show some compassion, you overpaid ratfuck political asswipe!
And now the director of FEMA says that the folks stuck in Nawlins deserve some of the blame because "after all, there was a mandatory evacuation order." AND the trains stopped running. AND the buses stopped running. AND the airport closed. AND a lot of the urban poor don't have three big fucking SUVs in their front yard plus a Prius Hybrid they drive to make themselves feel all green and Earthday-y, you rotten politically-appointed bad-toupee-wearing ratfuck!
Jesus, white people suck. Rich white people suck more.
That's not fair. Not all white people suck. Wil Wheaton is a god-damn genuine superhero. Go read Otis, G-Rob & CJ's blog to see how f'n cool Pokerstars is to help with Hurricane Relief, not too long after they shelled out $200 grand of their own cash matching tsunami donations. And check out G-Robs NOLA memories.
But just like the looters are evil, and Jesse Jackson once again proves himself a jackass, these political ratfucks burn my ass worse than a 3' high flame.
House Speaker Whats-his-fuck from Where-the-fuck spouts some bullshit about whether or not New Orleans should be rebuilt because after all, it's below sea level. Show some compassion, you overpaid ratfuck political asswipe!
And now the director of FEMA says that the folks stuck in Nawlins deserve some of the blame because "after all, there was a mandatory evacuation order." AND the trains stopped running. AND the buses stopped running. AND the airport closed. AND a lot of the urban poor don't have three big fucking SUVs in their front yard plus a Prius Hybrid they drive to make themselves feel all green and Earthday-y, you rotten politically-appointed bad-toupee-wearing ratfuck!
Jesus, white people suck. Rich white people suck more.
That's not fair. Not all white people suck. Wil Wheaton is a god-damn genuine superhero. Go read Otis, G-Rob & CJ's blog to see how f'n cool Pokerstars is to help with Hurricane Relief, not too long after they shelled out $200 grand of their own cash matching tsunami donations. And check out G-Robs NOLA memories.
But just like the looters are evil, and Jesse Jackson once again proves himself a jackass, these political ratfucks burn my ass worse than a 3' high flame.
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