I was more than excited to start my first level of improv in Chicago, but immediately had some reservations about our instructor, whom I’d seen perform several times prior. I appreciated his sharp wit, intelligence, and immense vocabulary, and quickly added his class into my shopping cart. But I didn’t anticipate the whirlwind to come.
Day 1 had me wondering if I was going to completely hate this guy and loathe the next 8 weeks. He was brash. He talked loudly in a low-ceilinged room which gave me a headache after 30 minutes, and he was, and I mean this in the most heterosexual way possible, fierce. He was quick to acknowledge his status in the classroom and would not tolerate “any f*&kin’ bull$#!t,” improv or otherwise. To hear this guy rant, however, was a spectacular thing of beauty.
Week 2 slowly began to turn me around, skeptically watching as the bandwagon rolled by. A couple people had hopped on and appeared to follow suit, though I did notice that 4 people didn’t come back after the first week. I haven’t seen them to this day. Have you ever seen the movie “Dragnet” with Dan Aykroyd and Tom Hanks? I don’t know why I just thought of the sacrificial goat cult scene.
Week 3 gave us a substitute which I did not care for at all, automatically making our instructor’s stock rise. I never like people asking for my opinion, and then telling me I am wrong. Well, not anyone who isn’t wearing overalls and telling me that I’m losing at poker, when I clearly know a full house beats a 9. Sometimes you have to be harshly judged by others to realize what you already have.
By week 4, I galloped after and hopped onto the side of the bandwagon. I commandeered the reins and whipped the horses from the driver’s seat, excitedly hanging on to my Indiana Jones hat as I bounced through the desert. It was his intense passion that initially shied me away from him. It was this same passion that forced me to appreciate him and all 326 F-words he’d masterfully use in a 3-hour class. Then my protective side came out. Like when you were little, and your friend would make fun of someone you loved. “Hey!” you’d bark. “That is my SISTER! Only I’M allowed to call her that!” And from then on, your friends knew they had it coming if they weren’t careful.
A large group of us from class went to see our teacher’s improv group perform. It was a later show, so more alcohol was gently misting the air. Our sensei (I’m running out of ways to not use him name), was the host that night. He asked the crowd for an “honest, real life, personal question that you would like answered,” for his group’s suggestion. Drunken frat bro shouted, “Where in the world is Carmen San Diego?!?!” and really thought he was funny. His whole section of bros laughed hysterically, and probably wondered why they themselves weren’t on stage. Before even the first high-five or fist bump landed, Master Chief barked, “I said PERSONAL question. Obviously, you didn’t f*&kin’ listen to a f*&kin’ word I just said. So, any f*&kin’ other person, not a stupid drunk mother f*&ker, raise your hand and tell me a personal question you’d like answered.”
It was precision. It was a Hanzo sword master gracefully carving a samurai warrior in slow-motion during the final showdown. A pan flute played the theme song to “The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly” as a tumbleweed of knotted Pabst cans bristled through the theatre. Everything went back to regular speed, and the crowd erupted.
Then I understood. Mr. Cotter (nope) wasn’t in some sort of instructor mode for class. He didn’t have modes. That was him. He was the most honest mother f*&ker I’d ever met. And I loved it. From then on, as we would wait in the lobby for our class to start, I would lounge back on the goofy purple bean-bag chair and silently brag. “See that guy? That’s my teacher,” I’d say to others in my head. “He’ll make you feel like f*&kin’ $#!t if you’re an @$$#073.”
We think he was either hung-over or sick during week 5.
I don’t want to talk about week 5.
During week 6, I think he smiled once. I could be mistaken. Maybe he was just showing his teeth as Alpha dogs do. In my heart, that was a smile.
He began laughing in week 7. I think it was most likely at the good improv in the class. He also stopped throwing his glasses in rage.
Week 8 came with compliments and praise for our class. He performed no human sacrifices.
People would ask, “Oh, who do you have for Level 1?” I would reply slyly, coyly turning my head to the side, yet in much anticipation of their reaction. Most often, I’d get a chuckle, a far-off gaze, then a quick, half headshake as if they were saying, “Welp, I don’t know what to tell ya.” More often than not, an, “Ahhh ha ha. That guy’s cool,” would follow, as if recollecting a fond memory. Only once did I see a slight quiver and a shudder, similar to the kind you’d get when you accidently chewed a piece of tin foil.
During a recent Cardinals game, a moth lost control and crash landed in Matt Holliday’s ear, getting stuck, and forcing him to leave in the 8th inning. They got the moth out after using a flashlight and a “medical instrument,” which I imagined as a pair of 9” tweezers. My eyes water just thinking about the cold steel slowly entering the ear canal, forcing the athletic trainer to call upon his best “Operation” skills. “I’m going for the white, cheap, plastic moth bone!” he must’ve thought.
I had flashbacks. Bad ones. The “you can’t call it ‘Nam unless you were there” kinda ones. Those Miller Moth seasons that we all dreaded and that lazy cats everywhere came alive for flashed before me. One of the worst moth seasons takes me back to when I was at Harvard. Ok, so I lived just a half a block off Harvard. Alright, Harvard Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. Doesn’t matter. My buddy Kevin and I had just moved into our brand new, 1878 farm house, complete with a root cellar to store, apparently, boxes upon boxes of homemade soap. Probably an amateur fight club, also.
It was the summer of ’02. It was hot. Sweltering. We were surrounded by Charlie, er, moths. Everywhere we turned, they just seemed to spring up at us, and drunkenly swoon around us, trying so desperately to inject fear into the minds of the innocent, as clumsily as possible. Avoiding conflict, we opened up the house and shoo’d them away, not wanting to spread carnage across our newly buffed and stained hardwood floors. Then we ventured bravely into the garage.
Hundreds of moths developing their own dusty, suburban outlet mall and PF Chang’s. In our garage. We retreated, severely out-manned and out-gunned by the enemy. We knew we had to launch an offensive attack in order to win back our future storage space. Two of us were going in. It was my intention that we both were coming back.
Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was that I wouldn’t allow this to happen in my literal backyard. Maybe I had enough and didn’t want to go through a “Deer Hunter” scenario, with a handful of these dirty, fluttering moths crouched around an overturned crate for a table, wearing jungle green cargo pants, smoking, and dealing a game of Russian Roulette. Maybe I just snapped. I had my weapon, and I snatched Kevin’s AR-15 fly swatter out of his hands. I told him to open the door, and in my memory, gave a fantastic final speech about pride and a made-up girlfriend that he would now have to watch over if I didn’t come back, as I gave him a crinkled-up black and white photo. I screamed a magnificent war cry, rushed in, and was engorged by the belly of the beast.
It was horrible. Keeping the door open to the dark garage so long drew the enemy closer to me as I entered. It was like running into a dirty carpet, hanging from the clothesline, ready for beating. I choked. I gagged. I persevered. I went in, guns blazing. At first, to conserve my ammo (energy), I only went for clean hits. They swarmed. My surprise attack initiated a frenzied stampede. My eyes were soon overwhelmed with dust, darkness, and having to adjust to the only light, coming through a half-covered, cracked, smudgy window. Sniping was no longer an option. They took away my vision. I only had my ears. If I could only stop screaming like a little girl trying to slap a spider web off of her back, I would be able to tell from where they were attacking. I started swinging. I was now going back to my “Operation” training, where if I couldn’t get the piece out, I’d just start yelling and jamming the electric forceps into the open wound until I won.
Ten minutes passed. I could hear the faint, distant voice of Kevin calling for me. My ears were ringing. I was temporarily deafened by the attack. He slowly opened the door. I reemerged, out of breath, dusty, and coughing a weak, Tiny Tim hack. “They got me,” I think I remember saying, as I collapsed in his arms. As I squinted, I saw fear in Kevin’s eyes. Not fear for himself, or of me, but for every other moth that would be so unfortunate as to cross the threshold of the garage. He hadn’t known what kind of a roommate he had decided to live with until now. I had wiped out an entire moth village. I think he felt safe. I know he did.
After we checked for blood and exit wounds, it was established that I came out uninjured. But I still had Kevin carry me over his shoulder, running back to the house, with the sound of helicopters rising over the jungle canopy. All of this happened in slow-motion. I think I tried to light the grill as he carried me past it, for some nice mood smoke.
We went inside and grabbed a nice chilled bottle from the vegetable crisper. It doesn’t matter what brand it was. It could’ve been Lemon/Lime Gatorade; it didn’t matter to us. It was Champagne. Cristal. Victory. Winning never tasted so sweet, or electrolyte-y.
Chapter 1 - The Secret
I've noticed that Chicago has a unique attitude towards the homeless. Maybe it's because the winters are ridiculous, and as people pass each other on the street, they share a glance similar to that of a group of people hesitantly walking into a haunted house. They know it's coming, and no matter how they prepare for it, it still scares the Ba-jesus out of them. To prepare for my first full tastes of the gentle Lake Michigan zephyr, Pat guaranteed that I have enough coats to both literally and figuratively cover my ass. I get giddy thinking about the first time I'll go down Clark St. to test out these coats and chuckle a muffled Kenny-from-South-Park chuckle at those trying to look fabulous and edgy in their windbreakers and knit gloves.
As I walk through The Loop, I see fewer people ignoring the homeless or walking past with their hands in the air, as if asked how to do advanced algebra, and instead tossing in change and even dollar bills. Maybe in Denver, with the programs for the homeless put forward by Hick, the attitude is that there is a place helping, "so maybe just go there." Maybe the economy just sucks so bad that people have a softened attitude, since we're all a few bad months away.
I remember one time when Kevin and I decided to have a Double Quarter Pounder eating competition. After we picked up a 10lb bag of the good stuff, we went back and made our stomachs hurt in about 3 minutes. We still had 7lbs of food, so we just gave it to the most excited looking guy I've ever seen on a street corner...ok, legally excited guy on a street corner. I would occasionally throw in change to various charity organizations collecting money, but maybe it was when I was little, I heard that all homeless people are drug addicts and alcoholics, and that's what they spend their money on. This made me not want to be an enabler. A few years ago, the last time I gave a what-looked-like-just-a-kid a quarter to "call his parole officer so he wouldn't get arrested," I saw him stagger out of an alley a few minutes later, collapsing in the gutter. I called 9-1-1, and later learned that he OD'd. I gave him that last quarter so he could get the good stuff, and that's hung around for a few years...not really as guilt, but more as a lesson learned. A parable or Aesop Fable:
The cunning fox thought he could outwit everyone. One day, a monkey was helping other monkeys move their belongings from one tree to another. The greedy fox in search of a quick fix and a syringe approached the monkeys, adjusting his fur with his paws, as if straightening a tie. "Why, hello there, young monkeys." The monkeys were first taken aback, as they were told to never talk to the foxes. "Hello, Mr. Fox." "Why, don't be startled. I've only come over to inquire if, by chance, you have a quarter, so that I may make my fox parents the happiest parents in the world, and stay out of the zoo. The ol' zookeeper has been coming around lately, and if I don't make an important call now, why, I'll be snatched up." One monkey obliged, and the trickster fox took the quarter in both paws, holding them together as if he were praying in a rather sinister manner, and pounced away into the forest. Later the fox was found in a trap, barely breathing. He didn't see where he was going, because he was looking at the quarter that he coveted. Moral: Don't buy drugs that only cost a quarter.
There are a couple homeless guys I've seen in the same spots, everyday, for the last 6 weeks. I'll see them 3-4 times a day, depending on what I'm doing. One had the unfortunately standard, cardboard veteran sign, the other just a plastic cup; both with that lost, thousand-yard stare. Maybe because it's that I'm in a city I've wanted to be in for a while, and I couldn't have gotten here on my own. Maybe it's that I do believe in a little bit of karma. Or maybe, just maybe, The Secret is legitimate and I'll get everything I put on my metaphorical wishing cork board. While I was walking to work last week, as I approached the vet, I thought, "Ok, if I have anything in my pocket, I'll give him something." I rarely carry any cash, not since my days as a server. I actually had a dollar, so I dropped it in his cup. His thousand-yard stare quickly vanished, and a very alert, articulate voice surfaced, thanking me and to have a nice day. I gave a "you, too" back at him, and I don't know how loud it actually was. I was listening to my iPod. If you're like me, you hate when people talk to you while listening to music, not necessarily because it's rude, but because they don't KNOW HOW LOUD THEY'RE TALKING TO YOU. I try to adjust for this, and I think I come off as a mumbler.
Yesterday for lunch, I went to a place down the block called Perry's, forcing me to pass the other regular with a clanky cup. He asked for some change, and I mumbled a, "Sorry I don't have any..." and sort of faded out, in fear of yelling at him by accident. When I got my sandwich, I noticed that it was the biggest freakin' thing between two slices of bread. I know what you're thinking. "But what about the New York Deli, or Zaidy's, Dave? Huh? How about those??" I hear you. But hear me now, and listen to me later. This was the mother of all deli treats. It was the Megatron to your little coffee maker Decepticon. The Nirvana to your Fray. The Dick Van Dyke to your "that one guy from MadTV." After eating a solid brick of it, I realized I had an entire half to go. "Come on...do it. Do. It. Doitdoitdoitdoit." "No!" I rebelled, and as I ran out, I grabbed a piece of saran, a bag, and shouted back at my invisible self, the one who would eat it, then grab ice cream afterward, "Never!"
As I caught my breath, I casually fixed my sunglasses and strolled down the street. As I was approaching the dude, let's call him Otis, just because, well, it suits him, I had it all planned out in my head. "Here ya go, my man, here ya go." And someone big on the street would see me, rush over, and ask if I wanted to make a movie with Robin Williams, because "Robin only works with actors who are gracious and helpful." Otis was in his routine and asked if I had any change. I replied no, but would he want a sandwich. "Ah, yes. God bless you, man." I handed over the 4lb white bag of deliciousness. After feeling the weight of it he said, "Ah, yeah, man. God bless. Really. God bless." I'm just glad he meant it the second time.
I don't know why, but part of me feels really awkward whenever someone tells me "God bless," and I feel awkward saying it, even after a sneeze. Maybe it's my religiously and spiritually diverse family and upbringing...maybe it's too powerful a phrase to tell God to bless somebody else. I don't know. But I not only heard, I listened to Otis today. As I passed him going back to the train station after work, he was sitting on his milk crate that I think the 7-11 he stands in front of lets him have. He was lounging back, and gone was his usual distant stare. Taking its place was a comatose glaze that could only have been brought on by 1/3 of a cow on rye. I slowed and looked in his direction as I passed, selfishly hoping he would remember me, of the 1,000s of faces he had seen that day. He didn't move. He wasn't dead. He just didn't move. I took this as me being a few steps closer to my cork board.
Chapter 1 - Work
First, the boring stuff. As you all know, the condition of education nationwide is horrible. There isn't any money, jobs, or happiness in dealing with it. But, that's ok. Well, not for the future of our kids or teachers, but for me. For the past 3 weeks, I've been working for a huge financial / investment / day trade firm right in the loop of Chicago (that's the downtown area of the city - watch the new Transformers movie to see where I work and the surrounding area get blown up by Decepticons). I'm an office administrative assistant, and it's pretty easy and stress-free. It provides me with an ideal schedule for improv, working Mon-Fri, 8-5. The pay is decent, and I hope to be made permanent soon so I can go to salary with benefits. The people here are all very nice, and I've even had several conversations with one of the VPs about improv. The only bad part is the ridiculous commute.
Chapter 2 - The Commute
Being in the suburbs with Yvette's parents is nice, since we're in a pretty big house living rent-free while we get settled. They're both very nice and generous to us, which is a plus. As for the commute: I drive 15 minutes to the train station. Not the "L" train, but the real train. The train you take to go somewhere far. I ride this train for an hour and 15 minutes to get to the loop. Then, from Union Station to my building, it's about a 15 minute walk. 2 hours. Each way. Everyday.
Chapter 3 - Killing Time on the Train
The Kindle is the greatest invention of all time. For any of you with an iPad, I don't want to hear it. It's the Kindle. So far, I've read "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer," "The Adventures of Huck Finn," and I'm currently reading additional adventures of Tom, Huck, and Jim. Right now, I'm reading one about how they got into a hot air balloon with a crazy scientist, who I'm convinced is the character Doc Brown from the "Back to the Future" trilogy is based. I'm also reading Upton Sinclair's "The Moneychangers." I don't share this information with my investment co-workers. I don't think they read Sinclair.
Chapter 4 - Yvette's Sitch
As you all know, radio is extremely competitive, and Yvette and her agent are searching, but so far, nothing much. She's also working with a couple temp agencies (who seem to specialize in working with actors and improvisers), and is on a week long temp assignment right now. The temp agency put her information in the hat for a few temp-to-perm assignments, all for admin jobs. We're hoping something comes through soon so we can move into a neighborhood downtown soon. When we go into the city for improv classes and such, we stay with friends for a night to make the most out of the commute (see Chapter 2).
Chapter 5 - Improv and Such
The reason why we're here. Right now, Yvette and I are half-way through Level 1 at iO (improvOlympic - http://chicago.ioimprov.com/about/alumni). We've quickly learned that iO has their own methods and style of doing things. I feel like I can relate well to this style, since Eric Farone, the owner of the Bovine, has based a lot of his coaching for SansScript and our 2-man group, Dave and Eric, on similar styles and approaches, preparing us well. We're seen a few amazing shows there, and feel like we made the right choice in moving here and joining iO. These classes are about a year long, then we'll have a grad show run for 6-7 weeks. Then we're able to audition for house teams. We've also taken a couple drop-in classes through Second City (http://www.secondcity/com/history/alumni/), and have auditions for their conservatory this Friday. The conservatory is their professional level of improv classes, as opposed to their general classes that anyone can sign up for. The conservatory is more advanced, and is directed for people who want to act, improvise, and write as a career. Their style is similar, but different, as they improvise for sketch comedy. This is why so many SNL alumni come from Second City. I'm still adapting to their methodologies. We took an audition prep call from Jay Sukow, who's been with Second City since '92. He had Steve Carell and Stephen Colbert as his first couple of teachers. Right now, we haven't performed in any shows, but there are a lot of small theatre and bats that have improv night. Because of the commute (Ch. 2), it'll be difficult for us to do any performing until we move to the city. Some of you may know my buddy Frank, who was in Bovine classes, The 32nd Coming, and Knit Wits with me in Denver. He's been out here for about 3 years, and he, Yvette, and I are starting a 3 person group, Nigel, and hope to perform soon. There are a couple other Denver connections out here, which is nice, and a couple others that will be joining us in the next year or so. Frank's been nice enough to offer up his couches when we stay, but we've been rotating friends, as to not bother his roommate.
Chapter 6 - Freakin' Weather
Yes, I knew about it going in...for winter. I also knew it got humid. With the rest of the country, we're in a heat wave. I've read it's the worst it's been in about 15 years, which is good since I know it can't really get any worse, but, c'mon. With the heat index, we're had a few days go about 110*. Fortunately, every business in Chicago has AC, even 7-11. Just starting out here, I heard someone say, "Oh gosh, it's going to be real hot tomorrow. It'll be 85!" Ha! I thought. 85. I'll see your 85. I've seen plenty of 100* Colorado days. But that 85 is about 10-15* less than what it really feels like with the humidity and heat index. I can not longer say, "At least it's a dry heat." And I still get angry when people ask, "Is it hot enough for ya?"
Chapter 7 - Ten Things I've Learned about Chicago
10. Though a fast-paced city, people are actually pretty nice and helpful. There's a nice, Mid-West courtesy out here.
9. With my interests in accents and voices, I'm learning to notice the differences between a North Side and South Side accent, as well as a Milwaukee and Michican accent.
8. The rival between the Sox and Cubs is alive and well, but also pretty friendly since they both suck.
7. Chicago loves their giardiniera, even forcing Subway to carry it.
6. Chicago loves their pulled pork sandwiches, even forcing Subway to carry it.
5. Chicagoans will wear beach attire everyday, even if they aren't going to the beach or should be wearing beach attire.
4. There's no modesty here.
3. There is a strong sense of pride and family in the Mid-West - probably from being forced to be together due to the weather.
2. The neighborhoods are so distinct and defined, that even looking at one side of the street and then the other, you can easily tell a difference.
1. The improv community is alive and well. I think there's an unwritten law that if you live here, you must improvise. Like LA...if you live there, you must be an actor, model, or anorexic.
Perez Hilton is a D-Lister who happened to get his status by being a celebrity blogger. He seems to get under celebs' skin, pushing the limits to get noticed, and to get his story. Apparently it works, as Hilton recently received a left-hook in a nightclub by the tour manager of The Black-Eyed Peas.
Perez's big claim to his red carpet fame was exclusively outing Lance Bass and NPH...yes, Neil Patrick Harris, AKA, Doogie.
Parts of this don't seem fair.
Part I - Lance Bass. C'mon. Really? He owns exclusive rights to that one?
Part II - OK, NPH. I didn't really see that one coming, and I will give credit when credit is due...or did he really pen this one? I mean, does he do research? And if so, what kind of research, that is mentionable on a PG-13 blog, did he do? Do you just need to throw a dart on a wall of celebrities, out them, and you're famous? If that's the case, why aren't more bloggers famous?
And the following celebrities are now gay - Clay Aiken, Ellen, Billie Jean King, Perez Hilton, Elton John, Chaz Bono, Andy Dick, half of the band 98*, and the guy in roller skates and tiny shorts on Reno 911.**
Part III - Does this mean he is nothing more than a glorified, e-trash man?
Is this all Perez does? He stakes his claims and collects his paycheck?
He either is the jerkiest jerk who ever did jerk, or an absolute genius. I'm still trying to figure this one out.
Why is society so obsessed with personal lives? I mean, why do Hilton, paparazzi, the readers of the trashy mags, and TMZ even care who somebody in the limelight loves? To me, that's all it simplifies and deconstructs down to. They care more about the heart, something people can't control, over the mouth, something people should control.
They don't seem to care about particular religions (although the Madonna/ Torah episode was just odd), they care about their political affiliation and beliefs only when given a microphone on the side of their Oscar when ratings are involved, and they have an odd and somewhat sick obsession with getting the first picture of the star's newborns.
They fall in love with them on screen, stage, or the field, and some develop into an even deeper, unhealthy, unrequited love. They begin following, writing and snapping about every little detail, then scrutinizing their every action or inaction.
We love our celebrities and appreciate them for what they do. I don't understand how people think that is a free ticket to harass, stalk, and possibly create another Princess Di scenario. We don't hound librarians, Apple store techs, or the Vietnamese guy down the street who makes the most beautiful and tasty pho. Though I'd like to, I've learned things: Sharing is Caring; Respect Other People's Privacy; Everybody Has Their Own Personal Bubble; and Don't Stalk.
I believe paparazzi and trash mags are nothing more than a middle school level of love and jealousy that have no form to vent.
Think back to your first crush. When you liked someone and made them a crappy Valentine only to find out they liked someone else, what did you do? Created sabotage. You spread a rumor, something that is really petty as you look back on it. Something along the lines of "that guy has an extra belly button". Then you'd wait in the wings to be the shoulder to cry on and be there to pick up the pieces. It's the whole "if I can't have you, nobody can" complex. It's not right, but fortunately most of us grow out of it during our Elementary School Continuation.
Those who don't grow up and work for TMZ.
Or change their names to sound like an exotic version of a millionaire heiress'.
**The aforementioned celebrities may or may not be actually gay. I hold no responsibility if they are not; however, if they are, you are witness to the exclusive outings of said famous people.**
Recent unexpected and tragic deaths have taken some of America's biggest personalities. A brief, light hearted tribute to those recently departed:
The title of Kill Bill was taken too literally. Kung Fu was fighting a sensei in an intense personal battle, and was tragically a victim of his own Mortal Kombat adage. David Carradine was honored in the film and martial art communities. That is correct, sir. Ed McMahon unfortunately delivered an over-sized check with balloons to Death's door. Fortunately, he will be returning as side kick to Johnny again, and will have St. Peter in stitches for eternity. Then the sickle presented us with Charlie's Fallen Angel and an epic battle, in which we saw an incredibly controversial death scene of a King. The World of Pop now has an empty throne. As we sought some relief, we were pitched another loss. Billy Mays won't have to pay for his own S&H as he goes to a place so white, Oxyclean couldn't hold a candle. When we thought this collection of tragedies was at curtain, another. Football Great Steve "Air" McNair is now grounded.
So what's going on? Film, TV, Music, Sports, and even infomercials are not safe. I thought celebrity deaths came in 3's. Unfortunately, I guess there were 2 Rounds. It's weird to log on and have to read about somebody else that we've heard of, now being gone. I know that celebrities live a life of sensationalism and over-saturation from the media, and we essentially live with them. It just comes as a shock to die by them as well.
I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free to use song lyrics in blogs, but I just can't stand up to some of our American Cultures and Traditions. Funerals for one, as Holden Caulfield would say, just kill me. We dress in black, grieve, cry, and eat all of our favorite, and often times catered, food. This bothers me.
I think it's the phrasing that loses its aesthetic for me.
We are grieving their death when we should be celebrating their life.
It's like when Interstate Highways had to change their wording from "Slower traffic keep right" to "Keep right except to pass". The phrasing of anything can have a psychological impact on our reactions. We go from not wanting to be the slow-ass driver to being respectful and courteous. Or in this case, crying our eyes out in ultimate sadness, to roasting them in the way only your family knows how.
I've seen movies, and have heard of others who follow the Irish Wake tradition and philosophy. I'd like to have one of these...without the keening, or wicked loud wailing that traditionally exists. But raising a glass, sharing a story and a joke, while celebrating the passed life and faith in life to come sounds like my kind of party. I just hope I'm not the guest of honor for many years to come.
I frequent the monthly dues of Netflix, realizing that this is one way the house can't win...or at least the house wins with less capital on top of their overhead. Paying $14 a month is about 1 1/2 tickets to a movie theatre, and I average about 4 delivered movies to my mailbox. With their feature of Watch Instantly, I easily pay only about a crunchy taco per movie...as long as I can keep up my cinematic habit.
The curious case of Netflix is actually quite sensitive. It wants to know you. It pays attention. It listens without all the inquisitive inquiry. It knows what you like, or at least thinks of you while at the video store, calls home with recommendations, and will pick it up for you if you want. And it knows you've been working out, so it will conveniently forget to bring home the Swedish Fish and Reese's Pieces. So thoughtful, one could call it love.
However, an interesting milestone just passed in our relationship. Netflix, with its recent recommendations, thinks I'm gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
I recently watched the theatrical brilliant play-turned-film Bent. Clive Owen gives a magnificent performance, and shows the silver screen such honesty, while Sir Ian McKellen forces truth, integrity, and forbids stereotype. Mick Jagger portrays a decent drag performer...not that I can compare him to many other performances that I've witnessed, but we'll get to that. It was a very powerful, touching, and depressing movie that I highly recommend, with a caveat: you will cry, you will leave the film (or your room) feeling unsettled, and you will be angry...but you have a small sense of victory against the Nazis.
I re-watched Higher Learning, which deals with college life and its effects on several diverse characters. It's about as good as I remember, attempting to hit the usual issues that teens deal with while away from home. As expected, it followed one girl and her struggle with her bi-sexuality. This is only one of the many storylines it spotlighted.
Watching these two movies back to back, apparently gave my Netflix the idea that I was gay. Forget about me renting Sarah Marshall, Wanted, Team America, Harold and Kumar and Transformers... It doesn't seem to care. Sure, there are many subcategories of movies that it will so kindly recommend, but for some reason, on the top, front and center, Netflix apparently thinks it is coaxing me out of the closet...not that there's anything wrong with that. I just think my girlfriend might start thinking about things a little.
So what did Netflix recommend for me to watch that makes me think I'm gay?
A Showtime documentary mini-series entitled Transgeneration. This documentary followed the lives of 4 young people on their journey to gender re-assignment. The opening episode introduced you to all of them and their stories, all of whom are also in college. It was hypnotizing. It was truly interesting to see how they had to deal with what they called a physical disability, rather than a mental problem. One female to male actually attended an all girls college and received a lot of flack from the institution itself. She saw herself as a male, but wanted to complete her degree at an all girl college.
Do I recommend this? Well, yes. I finished the 8 episode series in a couple afternoons. The only reservation to have, is that you're Netflix will send you tickets to a Kathy Griffin stand-up special.
I continue to watch and rent Shakespeareans and various independent films, and the belief of Netflix only grows stronger. And for every man film with explosions and guns, there will be a To Wong Foo snuck in there somewhere. I've come to think that this is one friend that just has horrible gay-dar.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
I recently gave in, finally watching the first Transformers movie in anticipation for the upcoming blockbuster sequel. I don't know why I was holding out for so long on something that I grew up on and loved as a child. Hasbro was a friend of mine from down the street. I often played with his toys, and now regret breaking and defacing so many of them. I wish I could go back and tell myself not to ruin my future 401(k) plan.
Maybe it's because Shia LaBeouf makes me feel uneasy. There is something about these troubled child stars that I root for to fail. Not only do I root for, but I paint my chest, tailgate, start the wave, and get a Fathead on my wall for them to not succeed. Maybe it's their rise to fame too quickly, the egos that amass, and their over-privileged lifestyle that is their instant parole or acquittal from any type of punishment. It just doesn't seem right that fame and fortune are nothing more than a key to every hot spot in Tinseltown, and a Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free Card. There's something to be said about actually putting blame and punishment on America's Next Top Teen Hollywood Idol. Kids need to see that you can't drink and drive and gladly trade the crime in for 14 minutes in the slammer. That's not even enough time to meet your new boyfriend to acclimate you to the prison lifestyle. I hear the orientations they put on are pretty informative. How come they gave Keifer so much time? I guess Teeny-Boppers don't really watch 24. It's not "hot". If LaBeouf and the rest of them continue to get away with everything, where-oh-where are the future Cory's of America? Haim and Feldman are getting lonely.
Or maybe my reticence came from Director Michael Bay. What a hot mess Pearl Harbor was. Starring hot Hollywood hunks Ben Affleck and Josh Hartnett, the movie centered around their respective love stories. Isn't the title of the movie supposed to resemble something of a tragic event from war on our beloved country? Why the hell do we worry about whether or not they're going to find Make Out Point? Was it named after a tragedy, because they knew that is what it would be on the film world? Did I just compare a horrible historical event to a piece of crap movie?
For some strange reason, I do seem to remember Tre from Boyz in the Hood shooting a big ass gun in his underwear at the attacking air strike. Don't know why that came up. Or even why I had to mention it here. Huh.
Back to Transformers.
My last gripe is that every time I hear Optimus Prime, I'm forced to fantasize about a 72 oz. Texas steak, which I will get for free, if I can eat it in under an hour, complete with a baked potato, pan of corn bread, and a pint of some kind of gravy on the side. Please feel free to insert as many lines from The Great Outdoors as you can. To this day, that is one movie I have not finished watching. I remember as a kid my mom renting it, being a fan of SNL alumni comedies. However, only a few minutes in, I was given the parental line: "If they say a bad word one more time...." Needless to say, she didn't even have to finish that adage before they blew my cover, and it was off to bed for me. I still remember lying in my bed listening to mom hysterically giggling, trying to be quiet as she finished the movie.
Optimus Prime... sounds so delicious for some reason. "Yes, I think I'll try your Optimus Prime, med-rare, side of asparagus, please." Is this just another marketing ploy from the American Beef Counsel? I remember Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix doing the same thing. "Uh, yeah...I think I'll take a half-pound of provolone and a pound of the phoenix please."
I'd continue to boycott Shia "Future Feldman" LaBeouf, but the first movie was just so damn cool. It was the first time I'd ever developed an emotional attachment to a machine....That Bumble Bee is just so dreamy. I guess I have to see Part II, but only for the wonderful "character development" that Megan Fox brings to the Silver Screen, Bumble Bee's warm heart, and because, it's what's for dinner.
This time around when I buy the toys, I will keep them, only taking them out of the box a couple times to get my childhood joy back. They will then be stored in a temperature controlled Swedish account - safety deposit box entitled "Retirement Fund". I'll place all of my old Ninja Turtles in there while I'm at it for future petty cash.
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