While AMBER NASH SHOW's been in development (all 10 minutes of it), I've not been blogging about the progress, the difficulties, the hangups, the problems and the thrills of the process I've learned about trying to stage something and what I've learned about my own control-freak tendencies and inability to relax all these weeks. I didn't want to sound pessimistic, particularly when I knew that the process, though it's probably interesting to hear about, matters little in comparison to what the final product looks like.
For the record, I'm starting to get really, really excited about what we're doing for XPT this year. I'm very happy to be part of XPT, for it's through this blog that I suppose this accomplishment started. If I'd not attended that ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY puppet show ages ago and blogged about it with Brad Fairchild, then I wouldn't have met the wonderful Sydney Ellis and become familiar with XPT.
I've wanted to be part of XPT since I saw that show in 2005. I saw the show then, found it amazing and thoroughly entertaining and wanted more than anything to one day bring something to the stage. I hope that I bring a bit of fun to all the people who entertained me back then, some of whom I now know and expect to be in attendance.
More than anyone, I think I want to entertain the hell out of Sydney Ellis, who actually is involved in my production. She wrote the AMBER NASH SHOW theme song with her father, and she performed it. And that song - and the vote of confidence in my writing that Syd always has given me - may be the best thing that this blog has ever brought me. (Thank you, Syd. Love to you and Abby.)
I stopped blogging regularly a couple years ago. It faltered a bit when I signed up for writing classes at the Margaret Mitchell House so that I could focus my efforts there. Thanks to the people who helped me there. (Thank you, Sarah Shope, Frank Ciccone, Lynda Hawkins, Betsy Crosby, Monica Cox, Kat West and the absolutely wonderful Marianne Lacey.)
When I started taking improv comedy classes at Dad's Garage about 18 months after that, the blog slowed even more. But what I was learning about acting and about characters and about how to tell stories was spectacular. And, more than that, the people that I met through improv have been fantastic and supportive. (Thanks to people like Tom Rittenhouse, Eve Krueger, Josh Wilcox, Ed Morgan, Matthew Grove, Matt Myers, La Schaffer, Z Gillispie, Chris Rittelmeyer, Jenny Clark, Rueben Medina, Heather Starkel, Nick Tecosky, Casey Childers, Berny Clark, the Write Club, the wonderful Spencer Stephens, George Faughnan, Linnea Frye, Matt Stanton, Dan Triandiflou, Mary Kraft, Steve Platinum, Matt Horgan and Amber Nash, of course.)
And then, through my improv home at JaCKPie, what I've learned about myself - in addition to learning more about how I want to approach stories, make theater and the kind of improvisor that I want to be - has been life-changing. Though I'm still wary about God, I'd say JaCKPie is the closest thing to a godsend I've ever received in my life. (Heartfelt thanks to Jim Karwisch. Thank you, everyone at JaCKPie.)
Even the people in my new office have been incredibly encouraging through this wacky process. (Thank you to Brit Tennant, Lisa Federico, Armando Tirado, Brandon McCarty, Jay Alexander and Phil Koehler.)
Larry Corse, a long time ago, told me that I had the talent to be a very good writer, and he said he'd do whatever possible to nurture and encourage me. And he has. Over and over. (Thank you, Larry.)
Thanks to the artists who've helped my puppet show become what it is. (Again, thanks to Amber Nash. I hope that you like what we've done. Thanks to Mauree Culberson, one of my best friends. Thanks to Jillian Fratkin, Wes Parham and Emily Tsuboi. You all impress me with your dedication and commitment to the project. Thanks to Jeremiah Prescott. Thanks to Michael Haverty for the chance. Thanks to Amy Rush and Raymond Carr for the support.)
If this week progresses the way I expect it will, I think I'm going to be crying happpy tears a lot and laughing a lot.
I keep thinking of how I should thank everybody, but I honestly have no idea how to do that. I feel hokey, like I'm giving an Oscar speech in my head at all times. (Thank you, Liz Perry, Dena Waggoner Beck, Jessika Coon, Shalewa Sharpe, Vickye Zarbrook, Bonnie Davis, Steven Igarashi - yeah, I said it - and C.J. Spraggins. Thank you, Solenn Pigree. Thank you, Carrie Gibson. Thank you, Marley Angel. Thank you, Eric Black. Thank you, Jennifer Resendez. Thank you, Kate George. Thank you, T. Kyle King. Thank you, Doug Gillett. Thanks to the Phi Kappa Literary Society. Thank you, Paul McCurdy. Thank you, Kurt Summers. Thank you, Chris Brandon. Thank you, intentionally unnamed ex-boyfriends of note.)
Everyday, I think of new people who taught me aspects of all the stuff I needed to learn to get here.
If this were a book, I would write some kind of personal dedication. But, though I feel like thanking people for the puppet show, I really want to thank people for how blessed I feel right now, which is harder to do.
Luckily, I do know which dedication I would consider the most important.
Thank you, Jon Lupo, for supporting me and holding me more accountable than anyone ever has. Thank you for teaching me how to return your kindness through a friendship that is the most precious, reliable, rewarding thing I carry with me everyday. Thank you for believing in me. You've played a role in my happiness. It makes me proud to think that I've done even a fraction of the same thing for you. I'm very proud of your accomplishments. I believe in you. Thank you for letting me play witness to your life. I'm so excited about what good things the future will bring for both of us. I think we're both still learning how to cultivate the good in our lives. And, as good as I feel right now, the fact that I know there's more joy to be found strikes me as the most remarkable thing.
Hope is hard-won. But I do have hope. It is here.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
THE FOURTH SEASON PREMIERE OF 'THE AMBER NASH SHOW'
Please come see XPT: XPERIMENTAL PUPPETRY THEATER at the Center for Puppetry Arts.
I know that, in years past, I've promoted this show before as an excited audience member and fan of the Center. But, this year, I've got a more personal stake in the success of the show.
I wrote the script and have worked for months now on one of the pieces to be presented, THE FOURTH SEASON PREMIERE OF 'THE AMBER NASH SHOW,' and several of my very talented friends have worked and continue to devote their time to making it a rather entertaining piece of theater.
XPT is a great, great program, and I am beyond thrilled to be a part of it.
Please come out and support us. The show runs from May 15-18 in the Basement Theater of the Center for Puppetry Arts.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine.
I've been reading JANE EYRE. It's pretty good. At the end of Chapter IV, though, there's the sentence that I've chosen as the subject line of this post.
Reading that sentence during this week of life changes, as though it were highlighted by magic, made me smile.
I'm leaving McGraw-Hill on Friday. And I found out that a short script I wrote is going to be staged at the Center for Puppetry Arts as part of "XPT: Xperimental Puppetry Theatre" in May.
Reading that sentence during this week of life changes, as though it were highlighted by magic, made me smile.
I'm leaving McGraw-Hill on Friday. And I found out that a short script I wrote is going to be staged at the Center for Puppetry Arts as part of "XPT: Xperimental Puppetry Theatre" in May.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
These here things make me glad.
Trying to figure out how to play a happy character, I'm making a list of small things, props and memories that might help me change my mood and build a character. I'm keeping this list here so that I'll be able to add to it or refer back to it in the future. I got this idea because my mom used to have this collection of Peanuts cartoons in a book called HAPPINESS IS A WARM PUPPY.
THINGS THAT MAKE ME HAPPY
* The color blue.
* A bouquet of flowers.
* A new Moleskine notebook.
* The time I met Michael Chabon on his birthday and managed to impress him.
* Meryl Streep's disco number at the beginning of DEATH BECOMES HER.
* White chocolate banana creme pie from Buckhead Diner.
* The time I met Parker Posey at a Q&A, and she was drunk and crazy - and then she called me "hostile."
* Just the right music.
* The time I met my friend Emily, who came into the bookstore to buy the first copy of her very first novel on the day it was released.
* Henry Fonda falling down in THE LADY EVE.
* The day I spent fulfilling my duties as a "bridesmaid" for my friend Kate by driving her around and helping her try on wedding dresses. I took photo after photo of the dresses she tried because her mother wasn't able to be there. Later, at the wedding, I wore a periwinkle vest and stood on the bride's side during the wedding. It was the only wedding I've ever been in, and I was a male bridesmaid. (As an added bonus, my tux meant that the other bridesmaids could stuff tissues into my pocket so that, should anyone on the row start to cry, I could quickly supply relief.)
* "Dyslexic Heart" by Paul Westerberg.
* My sister-in-law Samantha is an elementary school teacher, and she puts these dots on the stems of every letter she prints longhand. Her voice is always chipper, too, and encouraging in that sweet, easy way I can't manage.
* The monologue that Parker Posey delivers in the deleted scenes on the DVD of WAITING FOR GUFFMAN.
* One time, I ran into a Kroger, grabbed a rose from a refrigerator case, ran to the Express Lane and bought it. A pregnant woman in line said that she wished someone would buy her a rose like that. So I ran back to the refrigerator case again, grabbed another rose, ran to the Express Lane, bought it and handed it to the pregnant woman.
* The performance of "Stonehenge" in THIS IS SPINAL TAP.
* My nephews DJ and Andrew, particularly moments when they were born or moments when I got to carry them around and talk just to them so that they wouldn't cry when they were babies.
* Bright colors.
* That fake swing-dancing move that I do sometimes, either in a scene or just standing around talking to a girl.
* One time, I tried swing-dancing with my friend Vic in the middle of Parisian at Gwinnett Place, but my footing was off. So I tripped her, and she fell into a display of shirts in Mens Wear.
* The essay reading I did in April 2006 at an academic conference, where friends from all different aspects of my life came together at the Marriott Marquis to see me read. My best friend Lupo was there.
* At the bookstore, I had to dress up as this giant puppy dog named Biscuit for children's storytime. It was hot in the suit, and I couldn't see anything. But I got mobbed by little kids hugging me.
* Listening to Sarah Vowell read her essay "Shooting Dad" on a CD of NPR's THIS AMERICAN LIFE.
* Playing Scrabble with my friend Daniel.
* The callouses on my friend Daniel's fingers, which he's gotten from meticulously repairing string instruments in a workshop for years.
* Playing Rum 500 with my Grandpa.
* Playing Trivial Pursuit with Lupo.
* The final 10 minutes of CHINATOWN are devastating, but it's also the best movie ending maybe ever.
* The time I visited Lupo and tripped over a stick within five minutes of arriving, and he flew into this panic, rushed me into his house, treated and bandaged my arm. Then, he made this joke about these WWI-era Maisie Dobbs mystery novels he reads. It was cute. You had to be there.
* The Jimmy Stewart-Katharine Hepburn drunk scene in THE PHILADELPHIA STORY.
* Beef stew.
* Sitting with my friend Carrie on the member balcony on the roof of the Tate Modern in London.
* WONDERFALLS.
* THE MUPPET SHOW.
* PRIDE AND PREJUDICE.
* Episodes of GILMORE GIRLS.
* Every August at the family reunion, my cousin Holly and I break away from our parents and everybody else, and we head out to whatever dive-bar we can find and talk about all the inappropriate things we can't say in front of other relatives. And we gossip. And, this last year, for some reason, we played mini-golf and rode on go-carts.
* Smiling.
* Laughing.
* Talking Heads' "Once in a Lifetime"
* Listening to my mom - who's now suffering from severe hearing loss - sing the way she used to when she was a church choir director.
* My mom told me this story once about singing at a fraternity formal when she was in college. They hired her to wear a pink cocktail dress, stand in a spotlight next to a grand piano and sing "I Will Wait for You" from THE UMBRELLAS OF CHERBOURG. She was maybe 19 years old. I wish I could've seen her do that. I bet she was pretty. I bet it was fun.
* Awkward phone calls with my brother Dan, when we're clearly both trying and trying and trying to connect.
* "Sit Down, You're Rockin' the Boat" from GUYS AND DOLLS.
* Singing in my car.
* Those moments with friends when you can discover the means to a great evening without making a single plan.
* Dancing in my apartment.
* When I walk around humming.
THINGS THAT MAKE ME HAPPY
* The color blue.
* A bouquet of flowers.
* A new Moleskine notebook.
* The time I met Michael Chabon on his birthday and managed to impress him.
* Meryl Streep's disco number at the beginning of DEATH BECOMES HER.
* White chocolate banana creme pie from Buckhead Diner.
* The time I met Parker Posey at a Q&A, and she was drunk and crazy - and then she called me "hostile."
* Just the right music.
* The time I met my friend Emily, who came into the bookstore to buy the first copy of her very first novel on the day it was released.
* Henry Fonda falling down in THE LADY EVE.
* The day I spent fulfilling my duties as a "bridesmaid" for my friend Kate by driving her around and helping her try on wedding dresses. I took photo after photo of the dresses she tried because her mother wasn't able to be there. Later, at the wedding, I wore a periwinkle vest and stood on the bride's side during the wedding. It was the only wedding I've ever been in, and I was a male bridesmaid. (As an added bonus, my tux meant that the other bridesmaids could stuff tissues into my pocket so that, should anyone on the row start to cry, I could quickly supply relief.)
* "Dyslexic Heart" by Paul Westerberg.
* My sister-in-law Samantha is an elementary school teacher, and she puts these dots on the stems of every letter she prints longhand. Her voice is always chipper, too, and encouraging in that sweet, easy way I can't manage.
* The monologue that Parker Posey delivers in the deleted scenes on the DVD of WAITING FOR GUFFMAN.
* One time, I ran into a Kroger, grabbed a rose from a refrigerator case, ran to the Express Lane and bought it. A pregnant woman in line said that she wished someone would buy her a rose like that. So I ran back to the refrigerator case again, grabbed another rose, ran to the Express Lane, bought it and handed it to the pregnant woman.
* The performance of "Stonehenge" in THIS IS SPINAL TAP.
* My nephews DJ and Andrew, particularly moments when they were born or moments when I got to carry them around and talk just to them so that they wouldn't cry when they were babies.
* Bright colors.
* That fake swing-dancing move that I do sometimes, either in a scene or just standing around talking to a girl.
* One time, I tried swing-dancing with my friend Vic in the middle of Parisian at Gwinnett Place, but my footing was off. So I tripped her, and she fell into a display of shirts in Mens Wear.
* The essay reading I did in April 2006 at an academic conference, where friends from all different aspects of my life came together at the Marriott Marquis to see me read. My best friend Lupo was there.
* At the bookstore, I had to dress up as this giant puppy dog named Biscuit for children's storytime. It was hot in the suit, and I couldn't see anything. But I got mobbed by little kids hugging me.
* Listening to Sarah Vowell read her essay "Shooting Dad" on a CD of NPR's THIS AMERICAN LIFE.
* Playing Scrabble with my friend Daniel.
* The callouses on my friend Daniel's fingers, which he's gotten from meticulously repairing string instruments in a workshop for years.
* Playing Rum 500 with my Grandpa.
* Playing Trivial Pursuit with Lupo.
* The final 10 minutes of CHINATOWN are devastating, but it's also the best movie ending maybe ever.
* The time I visited Lupo and tripped over a stick within five minutes of arriving, and he flew into this panic, rushed me into his house, treated and bandaged my arm. Then, he made this joke about these WWI-era Maisie Dobbs mystery novels he reads. It was cute. You had to be there.
* The Jimmy Stewart-Katharine Hepburn drunk scene in THE PHILADELPHIA STORY.
* Beef stew.
* Sitting with my friend Carrie on the member balcony on the roof of the Tate Modern in London.
* WONDERFALLS.
* THE MUPPET SHOW.
* PRIDE AND PREJUDICE.
* Episodes of GILMORE GIRLS.
* Every August at the family reunion, my cousin Holly and I break away from our parents and everybody else, and we head out to whatever dive-bar we can find and talk about all the inappropriate things we can't say in front of other relatives. And we gossip. And, this last year, for some reason, we played mini-golf and rode on go-carts.
* Smiling.
* Laughing.
* Talking Heads' "Once in a Lifetime"
* Listening to my mom - who's now suffering from severe hearing loss - sing the way she used to when she was a church choir director.
* My mom told me this story once about singing at a fraternity formal when she was in college. They hired her to wear a pink cocktail dress, stand in a spotlight next to a grand piano and sing "I Will Wait for You" from THE UMBRELLAS OF CHERBOURG. She was maybe 19 years old. I wish I could've seen her do that. I bet she was pretty. I bet it was fun.
* Awkward phone calls with my brother Dan, when we're clearly both trying and trying and trying to connect.
* "Sit Down, You're Rockin' the Boat" from GUYS AND DOLLS.
* Singing in my car.
* Those moments with friends when you can discover the means to a great evening without making a single plan.
* Dancing in my apartment.
* When I walk around humming.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Nostalgia isn't what it used to be.
I look at the blog now, and I'm reminded of how the blog used to be. Since it once was my primary outlet, it was updated constantly and featured all sorts of links and chatter about books and movies and such. But then I joined a writing class, and then I started taking improv classes. And then I learned that sometimes it's easier to live life if you're not constantly introspective about it. Life is so much nicer now that the blog is less current.
I suppose an unexamined life is sometimes - in spite of what the adage says - easier to live with.
I had an interview today, and I think it went all right. I was nervous, but I liked the people at the company.
I suppose an unexamined life is sometimes - in spite of what the adage says - easier to live with.
I had an interview today, and I think it went all right. I was nervous, but I liked the people at the company.
Monday, February 11, 2008
A door that keeps revolving in a half-forgotten dream.
When Amie and I went to a Chinese restaurant this weekend, my fortune cookie message was a dud.
You will be getting new clothes.
Meanwhile, Amie's promised her a life of success in the entertainment industry, so she said she would rather have my sucky fortune than her own. Maybe she realized that being a modern celebrity was a taxing, annoying prospect that she didn't want to bear. She maybe thought of photographers chasing her like Britney Spears, having to live up to the hype. She probably didn't want to shave her head in open defiance of her "image." She likely imagined the ROLLING STONE covers that would predict her downfall, saying things like "Amie: An American Tragedy."
She said she'd rather have my fortune because, faced with the alternative of having her face on US WEEKLY, it seemed infinitely less stressful to get a new pair of socks.
***********
I'm here at my desk, looking over some other fortune cookie messages that I've collected. I save the ones that I like or the ones I cannot understand.
_
You will make many changes before setting satisfactorily.
This one is taped up in my cube at work because it reminds me whenever I look at it that I'm not satisfactorily settled yet and that my future is ahead of me.
_
You will soon be crossing desert sands for a fun vacation.
If I think of this one as a metaphor, it makes me think of keeping hope in spite of challenges. If I think of this as literal, I'm bummed out. I can't stand the sand and cannot imagine that crossing a desert would make for a fun vacation for anyone. Chevy Chase certainly didn't make it look fun in that first NATIONAL LAMPOON'S VACATION.
_
The constructive use of riches is better than their possession.
This one is my current favorite. I got it around the time in November when I interviewed for a job that I didn't get, but my preparation for the interview showed me that I was capable - when properly motivated - to do some really extensive research and really good work. I was proud of how I prepared for the job interview, even though I didn't get the job, and that seemed like a decent enough accomplishment since I feel inert most days. The fortune reminds me to use the tools I have, that it's not merely enough to know you have talents. You have to use them.
_
I did not save my worst fortune cookie message ever, but I do remember it verbatim.
This biscuit pleases you.
No, it really didn't. And, if I was one of those people who put 'in bed' at the end of all my fortune cookie messages, the biscuit still wouldn't please me.
You will be getting new clothes.
Meanwhile, Amie's promised her a life of success in the entertainment industry, so she said she would rather have my sucky fortune than her own. Maybe she realized that being a modern celebrity was a taxing, annoying prospect that she didn't want to bear. She maybe thought of photographers chasing her like Britney Spears, having to live up to the hype. She probably didn't want to shave her head in open defiance of her "image." She likely imagined the ROLLING STONE covers that would predict her downfall, saying things like "Amie: An American Tragedy."
She said she'd rather have my fortune because, faced with the alternative of having her face on US WEEKLY, it seemed infinitely less stressful to get a new pair of socks.
***********
I'm here at my desk, looking over some other fortune cookie messages that I've collected. I save the ones that I like or the ones I cannot understand.
_
You will make many changes before setting satisfactorily.
This one is taped up in my cube at work because it reminds me whenever I look at it that I'm not satisfactorily settled yet and that my future is ahead of me.
_
You will soon be crossing desert sands for a fun vacation.
If I think of this one as a metaphor, it makes me think of keeping hope in spite of challenges. If I think of this as literal, I'm bummed out. I can't stand the sand and cannot imagine that crossing a desert would make for a fun vacation for anyone. Chevy Chase certainly didn't make it look fun in that first NATIONAL LAMPOON'S VACATION.
_
The constructive use of riches is better than their possession.
This one is my current favorite. I got it around the time in November when I interviewed for a job that I didn't get, but my preparation for the interview showed me that I was capable - when properly motivated - to do some really extensive research and really good work. I was proud of how I prepared for the job interview, even though I didn't get the job, and that seemed like a decent enough accomplishment since I feel inert most days. The fortune reminds me to use the tools I have, that it's not merely enough to know you have talents. You have to use them.
_
I did not save my worst fortune cookie message ever, but I do remember it verbatim.
This biscuit pleases you.
No, it really didn't. And, if I was one of those people who put 'in bed' at the end of all my fortune cookie messages, the biscuit still wouldn't please me.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
The lovers, the dreamers and me.
Written to the JaCKPie improv troupe:
The first thing I ever wanted to be was an actor. At the point where little boys were encouraged to embrace "fireman" as their dream career (maybe because of the wicked-cool hat), I decided that I wanted to be famous and on TV. I didn't really consider that there'd be work involved with acting. I just liked, when I was 4, the opportunity to get really, really emotional or really, really histrionic. I liked that you could try and do funny voices. I wanted to come running on THE PRICE IS RIGHT when Johnny Olson yelled "COME ON DOWN!," so I would yell "COME ON DOWN!" myself and run from room to room. (I'm old. When I first watched THE PRICE IS RIGHT, Bob Barker's hair had the tint of dark brown shoe polish.)
I liked the variety shows, where singers like Barbara Mandrell got to do scenes with her silly sisters and giant puppets or Donny Osmond would stop flirting with his sister long enough to sing me a song.
But, more than anything, I wanted to host THE MUPPET SHOW. I wanted to wear glasses like Scooter. (For some reason I didn't figure out until later, I really, really liked Scooter.) I wanted to meet Kermit the Frog and sing a song with him. I wanted Miss Piggy to come karate-chop me in a dressing room that had a star on the door. (I maybe convinced my mom, at the time, to put a star on my bedroom door. The memories are vague.)
Eventually, one day when we were riding in the car to my physical therapy, my mom probably thought it would be a good motivator to tell me that, to be an actor, I'd have to be able to walk as normally as possible, that there aren't regular roles for people who don't walk like regular people. The goal of telling me this was to encourage me to work harder at the therapy. But the advice had the adverse effect on me because I refused to accept that I was flawed.
One of my great flaws - in conjunction with my disability - is that I stubbornly resent that I have to work harder for things that come so naturally to other people. (When I was a kid, I didn't understand that everyone has to do this sometime.) I thought that the disability was neither my choice nor my doing, so I couldn't figure out why *I* had to be the one to deal with it. Even as an adult now, I occasionally exhibit this childish ego. My ego can't figure out why I'm just not given things straightaway from people because I'm clearly the most special person on Earth who deserves everyone's undivided attention. Work for things? Bah! (As I said, it's a huge flaw. Someone once asked me how I could have a huge ego and no self-esteem. This might explain it.)
Hearing from my mom that a disabled person couldn't be accepted as a regular actor led me to immediately reject my dream as impractical. (The only person on TV with cerebral palsy, at the time, was Blair's cousin Geri on THE FACTS OF LIFE, and I remember not understanding the way she spoke or how the two of us could have the same disability because her afflictions seemed so much worse than mine. I didn't want to be like her, but that's apparently all that people like me got to do.)
I hate my disability. I try to ignore it, even now. I don't like that I have to accept that there are some things I'll never be able to do without extreme amounts of work that would involve me having to accept - to know in my soul, rather than in my mind when faced with obstacles at different moments - that I'm damaged. In my soul, I still want to sing and dance with Kermit the Frog. (I even went to the Kermit display at the Center for Puppetry Arts a couple times this year and just stared at him, gleeful and daydreaming that I was finally getting to meet someone I'd wanted to meet my whole life.)
I was a child when I developed these opinions of myself, and they're deeply rooted. Much of my mind has changed. I even have something of a work ethic now, achieved begrudgingly. But some things are there forever.
I became interested in arts journalism as a kid through extensive study of my babysitter's TV GUIDE collection. Every Saturday when I had to visit my dad, I would read the Weekend insert of The Atlanta Journal and study the movie reviews. Seeds were planted in my head, combining old ambitions with new ones, that I could still be involved with a community of actors and artists, even if I wasn't one myself. I could stand on the sidelines, watch and make comments. I could ask questions and critique. It didn't matter if I was a cripple - as my father once called me while also trying to get me to take physical therapy seriously. (All it made me do was cry.) As an arts journalist or theater critic, I could fulfill different dreams that still looked a lot like the old ones.
So I went to college and did exactly that. I became a pretty good journalist and a good writer, and I spent time with the art and theater students as much as I could. Eventually, I started writing features for newspapers. Then, even later, I started to blog about entertainment stuff. But I perpetually wanted to belong more, not be on the sidelines. Even though I'm disabled, I want to perform. I wanted to contribute as an artist, and I still do.
I'm 31. And I'm finally getting to do things I've wanted to do since I was 4. I'm performing. I'm writing (and rewriting and rewriting) a script where an actress is surrounded by puppets. I'm finally using the tools and skills that I've acquired over a lifetime, and these achievements are so much more valuable to me now. And I'm getting these things because I'm working (and working and working) for them, not just expecting them to be handed to me.
And I'm accepting - as much as I begrudgingly have to accept it - that I have special needs. I need that step next to the JaCKPie stage, and I really, really appreciate that you guys put it there. Moreso, I appreciate the lessons that I'm learning about myself - ridiculous flaws and all - through this work that we're all doing together.
So, having achieved this, I want more. I want to act. I want to stage projects. I want to show off. And I still want to host THE MUPPET SHOW. And if someone could get me Scooter's phone number, I'd be eternally grateful.
The first thing I ever wanted to be was an actor. At the point where little boys were encouraged to embrace "fireman" as their dream career (maybe because of the wicked-cool hat), I decided that I wanted to be famous and on TV. I didn't really consider that there'd be work involved with acting. I just liked, when I was 4, the opportunity to get really, really emotional or really, really histrionic. I liked that you could try and do funny voices. I wanted to come running on THE PRICE IS RIGHT when Johnny Olson yelled "COME ON DOWN!," so I would yell "COME ON DOWN!" myself and run from room to room. (I'm old. When I first watched THE PRICE IS RIGHT, Bob Barker's hair had the tint of dark brown shoe polish.)
I liked the variety shows, where singers like Barbara Mandrell got to do scenes with her silly sisters and giant puppets or Donny Osmond would stop flirting with his sister long enough to sing me a song.
But, more than anything, I wanted to host THE MUPPET SHOW. I wanted to wear glasses like Scooter. (For some reason I didn't figure out until later, I really, really liked Scooter.) I wanted to meet Kermit the Frog and sing a song with him. I wanted Miss Piggy to come karate-chop me in a dressing room that had a star on the door. (I maybe convinced my mom, at the time, to put a star on my bedroom door. The memories are vague.)
Eventually, one day when we were riding in the car to my physical therapy, my mom probably thought it would be a good motivator to tell me that, to be an actor, I'd have to be able to walk as normally as possible, that there aren't regular roles for people who don't walk like regular people. The goal of telling me this was to encourage me to work harder at the therapy. But the advice had the adverse effect on me because I refused to accept that I was flawed.
One of my great flaws - in conjunction with my disability - is that I stubbornly resent that I have to work harder for things that come so naturally to other people. (When I was a kid, I didn't understand that everyone has to do this sometime.) I thought that the disability was neither my choice nor my doing, so I couldn't figure out why *I* had to be the one to deal with it. Even as an adult now, I occasionally exhibit this childish ego. My ego can't figure out why I'm just not given things straightaway from people because I'm clearly the most special person on Earth who deserves everyone's undivided attention. Work for things? Bah! (As I said, it's a huge flaw. Someone once asked me how I could have a huge ego and no self-esteem. This might explain it.)
Hearing from my mom that a disabled person couldn't be accepted as a regular actor led me to immediately reject my dream as impractical. (The only person on TV with cerebral palsy, at the time, was Blair's cousin Geri on THE FACTS OF LIFE, and I remember not understanding the way she spoke or how the two of us could have the same disability because her afflictions seemed so much worse than mine. I didn't want to be like her, but that's apparently all that people like me got to do.)
I hate my disability. I try to ignore it, even now. I don't like that I have to accept that there are some things I'll never be able to do without extreme amounts of work that would involve me having to accept - to know in my soul, rather than in my mind when faced with obstacles at different moments - that I'm damaged. In my soul, I still want to sing and dance with Kermit the Frog. (I even went to the Kermit display at the Center for Puppetry Arts a couple times this year and just stared at him, gleeful and daydreaming that I was finally getting to meet someone I'd wanted to meet my whole life.)
I was a child when I developed these opinions of myself, and they're deeply rooted. Much of my mind has changed. I even have something of a work ethic now, achieved begrudgingly. But some things are there forever.
I became interested in arts journalism as a kid through extensive study of my babysitter's TV GUIDE collection. Every Saturday when I had to visit my dad, I would read the Weekend insert of The Atlanta Journal and study the movie reviews. Seeds were planted in my head, combining old ambitions with new ones, that I could still be involved with a community of actors and artists, even if I wasn't one myself. I could stand on the sidelines, watch and make comments. I could ask questions and critique. It didn't matter if I was a cripple - as my father once called me while also trying to get me to take physical therapy seriously. (All it made me do was cry.) As an arts journalist or theater critic, I could fulfill different dreams that still looked a lot like the old ones.
So I went to college and did exactly that. I became a pretty good journalist and a good writer, and I spent time with the art and theater students as much as I could. Eventually, I started writing features for newspapers. Then, even later, I started to blog about entertainment stuff. But I perpetually wanted to belong more, not be on the sidelines. Even though I'm disabled, I want to perform. I wanted to contribute as an artist, and I still do.
I'm 31. And I'm finally getting to do things I've wanted to do since I was 4. I'm performing. I'm writing (and rewriting and rewriting) a script where an actress is surrounded by puppets. I'm finally using the tools and skills that I've acquired over a lifetime, and these achievements are so much more valuable to me now. And I'm getting these things because I'm working (and working and working) for them, not just expecting them to be handed to me.
And I'm accepting - as much as I begrudgingly have to accept it - that I have special needs. I need that step next to the JaCKPie stage, and I really, really appreciate that you guys put it there. Moreso, I appreciate the lessons that I'm learning about myself - ridiculous flaws and all - through this work that we're all doing together.
So, having achieved this, I want more. I want to act. I want to stage projects. I want to show off. And I still want to host THE MUPPET SHOW. And if someone could get me Scooter's phone number, I'd be eternally grateful.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
THE GODFATHER ... for girls.
My friend Jenipher shocked me several months ago with the confession that she'd never seen THE GODFATHER and that her husband hadn't seen it either.
I didn't take this well. I told her that I was sorry that, by neglecting the film, her family had failed to bring her up right and that her husband wasn't a true man.
Eventually, she told me that she'd probably watch THE GODFATHER if it were more her taste, i.e. if it was about shoe shopping, a school dance or falling in love.
So I wrote her this description of THE GODFATHER, leaving out the parts about the Mafia, and she's finally decided to watch it:
___________
All-American girl Kay Adams is in college and in love for the first time, and her GI boyfriend Michael - home from WWII - wants her to FINALLY meet his family. His sister Connie is getting married, and Michael's family is super-rich and powerful! Kay's excited that she's gonna have a well-dressed soldier on her arm, but then she realizes that Michael's brothers and extended family are all attractive, intelligent and maybe a little bit dangerous!
Michael's brother Sonny is married with kids, but Kay catches him flirting with all the bridesmaids! Michael's other brother Fredo seems like he'd be a charmer if he weren't so nervous. Meanwhile, Connie's groom sure seems to have a temper! And the Father of the Bride is running late to the wedding because he's in secret meetings all day ... including ones with the dreamy Johnny Fontaine, the singer and big-time movie star!!!
Will Kay catch Connie's bouquet? Will Johnny Fontaine perform a song at the wedding? Is Michael and Kay's special, special love meant to be? Or is Michael a little bit dangerous himself?
To find out, watch Diane Keaton fall in love in THE GODFATHER ... also starring Marlon Brando, James Caan, Al Pacino and Robert Duvall.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Top Ten Films of 2007.
10. LA VIE EN ROSE
9. LARS AND THE REAL GIRL
8. ONCE
7. ZODIAC
6. RATATOUILLE
5. THE DIVING BELL AND THE BUTTERFLY
4. MICHAEL CLAYTON
3. JUNO
2. THERE WILL BE BLOOD
1. NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN
9. LARS AND THE REAL GIRL
8. ONCE
7. ZODIAC
6. RATATOUILLE
5. THE DIVING BELL AND THE BUTTERFLY
4. MICHAEL CLAYTON
3. JUNO
2. THERE WILL BE BLOOD
1. NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Friday, December 07, 2007
So as not to see you see me react.
I wrote this to my improv teacher Jim, who is also my friend and whom I write everyday so that we can escape the tedium of our jobs.
________
Jim,
You and I are alike in some ways, not alike in others. I've been attracted to bad elements, done bad things, destructive things and made some mistakes with some really terrible people. I would like to think that I've remained constant and good throughout whatever situations I was dealing with, but occasional lapses and weakness have probably made me a worse person than I'd like to think I am. It's certainly made me darker, a little bit more bitter - which would be great if I were, like, a chocolate, but I'm not. It's probably also made me a better writer, capable of drawing on a larger trove of human experience, but sometimes I wish that I could be the person who doesn't make jokes about, for instance, putting a puppy in a catapult.
I am also an intellectual snob, which makes it either ironic or telling that my apartment looks as scary as the Unabomber's. I've developed this habit around the bookstore and in my office of not tolerating fakery - even though I'm capable of it. A couple nights ago at the bookstore, our new security guard panicked because someone rang the back doorbell. I had to calm her down and tell her what happened. She asked me, startled, "There's a back door?" I had to tell her where it was - that it was in a room we'd actually been in together before. It was not her first night. She's the security guard. For some reason, it didn't provide me with much comfort when *I* had to tell her where one of the doors to the building was. Since then, I've had this opinion that she's stupid, and I can't shake it.
This year, because I've been trying to improve how I interact socially with friends and improve how I relax and cope with things, I've had to say goodbye to Scott, my on-again/off-again lover who could never commit and, in fact, would usually run from a discussion about commitment with me into the arms of some random Internet hookup, into the crotch of some skeevy guy from a bar or into some long road trip across state lines to experiment with some sort of fetish that he hadn't really indulged in before. I thought, at first, that it was because I was just too needy or that conversations with me just really annoyed him. It didn't occur to me that he was spectacularly ill-equipped to deal with the safety I was providing him, that I was - for once - the stable one in a relationship, until our waitress at the Steak 'n' Shake one night told me that any person who would run away from me and what I was providing was retarded. She said it in front of him. He was dumbstruck. It was one of the funniest moments of my life. I went back to the Steak 'n' Shake a couple months afterward to thank that waitress, but by then she was back in jail for - according to that night's staff at the Steak 'n' Shake - jumping the fence of a Halfway House to try and score some crystal meth. I don't think that invalidates her good advice, but I don't know.
I stopped hanging out with my friend Brad after I realized he would only come over to my apartment if he happened to have another appointment for "intimacy" near where I live. In March, an amputee in my neighborhood - whom he met through a website - canceled on him, and he told me that a trip to see me alone "wasn't worth the gas." On the phone, he said it in this sort of passive way, as though he were asking me to pass the salt. He couldn't figure out why I was laughing. And he didn't seem to notice for months that I was even upset. By then, I told him that I didn't like our friendship because I didn't like being "the back-up plan to an amputee hook-up." I asked him why my crippled legs weren't good enough to spend time with.
I also said goodbye to my best friend Vickye, who I actually don't think likes me very much. Even though she claims to love me, I never see her, and she's spectacularly unreliable. One time during our 20s, she got married, and she didn't introduce me to her husband for four years. She said she didn't think we'd get along. I finally met him at a skating rink during her niece's birthday party. They were divorced within a year. Vic lost her job earlier this year, then changed her phone number so that I didn't get to talk to her from August until the end of October - when she called up and said that she wanted to get back to "feeling like herself." We made plans to do something just recently, and she stood me up. And, actually, that's exactly the way that Vickye is herself.
The patterns lesson reinforced for me that, maybe, getting away from these folks - and unreliable folks like this - was the right move. Thank you for it.
Anyway, this e-mail is too long.
Benj
________
Jim,
You and I are alike in some ways, not alike in others. I've been attracted to bad elements, done bad things, destructive things and made some mistakes with some really terrible people. I would like to think that I've remained constant and good throughout whatever situations I was dealing with, but occasional lapses and weakness have probably made me a worse person than I'd like to think I am. It's certainly made me darker, a little bit more bitter - which would be great if I were, like, a chocolate, but I'm not. It's probably also made me a better writer, capable of drawing on a larger trove of human experience, but sometimes I wish that I could be the person who doesn't make jokes about, for instance, putting a puppy in a catapult.
I am also an intellectual snob, which makes it either ironic or telling that my apartment looks as scary as the Unabomber's. I've developed this habit around the bookstore and in my office of not tolerating fakery - even though I'm capable of it. A couple nights ago at the bookstore, our new security guard panicked because someone rang the back doorbell. I had to calm her down and tell her what happened. She asked me, startled, "There's a back door?" I had to tell her where it was - that it was in a room we'd actually been in together before. It was not her first night. She's the security guard. For some reason, it didn't provide me with much comfort when *I* had to tell her where one of the doors to the building was. Since then, I've had this opinion that she's stupid, and I can't shake it.
This year, because I've been trying to improve how I interact socially with friends and improve how I relax and cope with things, I've had to say goodbye to Scott, my on-again/off-again lover who could never commit and, in fact, would usually run from a discussion about commitment with me into the arms of some random Internet hookup, into the crotch of some skeevy guy from a bar or into some long road trip across state lines to experiment with some sort of fetish that he hadn't really indulged in before. I thought, at first, that it was because I was just too needy or that conversations with me just really annoyed him. It didn't occur to me that he was spectacularly ill-equipped to deal with the safety I was providing him, that I was - for once - the stable one in a relationship, until our waitress at the Steak 'n' Shake one night told me that any person who would run away from me and what I was providing was retarded. She said it in front of him. He was dumbstruck. It was one of the funniest moments of my life. I went back to the Steak 'n' Shake a couple months afterward to thank that waitress, but by then she was back in jail for - according to that night's staff at the Steak 'n' Shake - jumping the fence of a Halfway House to try and score some crystal meth. I don't think that invalidates her good advice, but I don't know.
I stopped hanging out with my friend Brad after I realized he would only come over to my apartment if he happened to have another appointment for "intimacy" near where I live. In March, an amputee in my neighborhood - whom he met through a website - canceled on him, and he told me that a trip to see me alone "wasn't worth the gas." On the phone, he said it in this sort of passive way, as though he were asking me to pass the salt. He couldn't figure out why I was laughing. And he didn't seem to notice for months that I was even upset. By then, I told him that I didn't like our friendship because I didn't like being "the back-up plan to an amputee hook-up." I asked him why my crippled legs weren't good enough to spend time with.
I also said goodbye to my best friend Vickye, who I actually don't think likes me very much. Even though she claims to love me, I never see her, and she's spectacularly unreliable. One time during our 20s, she got married, and she didn't introduce me to her husband for four years. She said she didn't think we'd get along. I finally met him at a skating rink during her niece's birthday party. They were divorced within a year. Vic lost her job earlier this year, then changed her phone number so that I didn't get to talk to her from August until the end of October - when she called up and said that she wanted to get back to "feeling like herself." We made plans to do something just recently, and she stood me up. And, actually, that's exactly the way that Vickye is herself.
The patterns lesson reinforced for me that, maybe, getting away from these folks - and unreliable folks like this - was the right move. Thank you for it.
Anyway, this e-mail is too long.
Benj
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Holliday party.
Sometimes, I wish that my life was a TV show. Because, in my life, I met Jennifer Holliday and had a really good exchange with her. But, in the TV show version of my life, Jennifer Holliday and I would become friends, and she would accompany me to the Christmas party that I have to attend on Saturday. And, during the singalong, Jennifer Holliday would perform all sorts of songs. And everyone at the party would love me because I brought Jennifer Holliday to a room full of gay men that I usually feel awkward around. And then the magic of Christmas would rain down upon all of us like glitter, and I would smile and fall in love with someone under mistletoe. And then we'd have a big gay wedding for May sweeps, and Jennifer Holliday would show up again and sing another song.
Saturday, December 01, 2007
Get busy dying.
My friend James and I were having coffee and another argument last night at IHOP.
I was trying to help him cope with the fact that a girl he likes called off what was supposed to be their first date without much notice or explanation.
"It wasn't a date," he clarified at one point. "It was, like, a pre-date."
"What's the difference, actually?" I asked him. "I mean, if you ask someone to coffee to decide whether you want to ask them to dinner, it's still a date, right?"
"Not necessarily," James said.
"I disagree."
"Well, what constitutes a 'date' in Benjie-land?" he asked me.
I was basic. I said, "If you make plans to do something with someone and then go out together, that's a date."
James argued the definition.
He explained, "Well, you and I made plans and went somewhere together yesterday, and not just that ... we went to a movie. And, after that, what did we do?"
"We went to the drugstore, and you explained soft-bristled toothbrushes to me," I said.
"No, I'm talking about dinner," James said. "You and I went to dinner ... and a movie. But was that a date?"
"We only had ice cream yesterday," I said to him.
"Whatever, was it a date?" James asked.
"Yes," I said to my heterosexual co-worker friend.
"WHAT?" James asked incredulously.
"It was a date," I said. "By my definition, it was a date."
"Your definition describes an 'appointment,'" James said. "If that was a date, then you're a lousy date."
I was a little miffed. And I think someone eavesdropping at another table started to laugh at us.
"Excuse me?" I asked James.
"Well, I didn't get sex or anything," James said.
"Would you want that?"
"No, not from you," James said. "But I would want that on a date."
"Even a first date?"
"I think that's standard for people our age nowadays," he asked. "A good date usually ends in sex."
"Well, I'm sorry I'm not easy."
"You are so. Who are you kidding?"
* * *
James then went on to suggest that his issues with women would end if he just, of all things, became an indiscriminant womanizer.
"The womanizers I know don't have my issues with women," he said. "That'd be better."
"If you were a womanizer, then you'd just have different issues with women," I said. "Besides, I think you'd need a different, more damaged background to be a womanizer."
"I could totally be a womanizer," James said.
"Yeah, but what if you ever wanted something more serious?" I asked.
"I could stop being a womanizer if that happened."
"Yeah, but then you'd have that history and reputation," I said. "And I think smart women would avoid that. And you prefer smart women. We like smart women."
"We do?"
There was a pause, then I changed the subject again.
"Ooh, I forgot to ask you something," I said.
"What is it?" James asked.
"Will you be a speaker at my funeral?" I asked.
He looked concerned.
"You planning on dying?" he asked.
"I don't really have a choice about that. It's gonna happen whether I want it to or not."
"But you don't have any immediate plans for it, right?" he asked. "Is there something you're trying to tell me?"
"No, but you're not the first person to ask me that," I said. "At my office, I asked my friend Angela if she would sing at my funeral, and she said that was morbid and started to worry."
"Well, it's a natural reaction, frankly," James said.
"No, I'm not suicidal," I said in an attempt to calm his nerves. "I just know that my mom is a control freak, so, if I want the service I want, I'm going to have to start planning now."
"Will your mother even be at your funeral?" he asked.
"Probably not, but I'm planning just in case," I said. "I mean, I told her that I wanted to be cremated, and she freaked out, saying that she'd NEED to see my body. I was, like, 'Why?' She said, 'Because I'd need to see that you were gone.'"
* * *
I'm not suicidal. I have been suicidal before. One time in high school, I wanted to nosedive off the balcony of a mall. If saying that makes anyone sad, I apologize, but, even when being harsh to myself in my head or in writing, I try to create an honest image of myself in everyone's head. The funeral idea, thus, is not a new one. I plan my funeral because, like my mother, I'm a control freak and image-conscious. I think that if I visualize and plan my perfect funeral, I can manipulate - even from beyond the grave - what everyone's opinions of me will be. I realize this is ridiculous and that talking about it makes me look vulnerable. But I can't control that. All I can do is talk about it.
Besides, my mom keeps the sheet music she wants used at her funeral in a compartment in her briefcase. Once, during a reflective period when she was revising her will, she let me and my brother Dan know where to find it. Ironically, one of the songs was "When the Saints Go Marching In."
So this tendency runs in our family.
* * *
Sitting in the IHOP, I explained to James how the funeral would go.
"Angela was really freaked out that I was talking about my funeral until I told her what song I wanted her to sing," I said. "Then she got all excited."
James asked me, "Which song was it?"
"It's this choir version of 'Let It Be' that I heard in a movie," I said. "I think all of my ideas for the funeral are stolen from movies. Anyway, Angela apparently loves 'Let It Be,' so now she really wants to perform it."
"You should hurry up and die, then," James snarked.
"Funny," I said. "Anyway, so that books you and Angela and Lupo for the funeral, contingent on you knowing me and us being on good terms when I die."
"Yeah, that's a good stipulation to add in there," James said. "Although I'd probably still come and talk shit about you at your funeral if you and I were on the outs when you died."
"If it's a good anecdote, use it," I said. "I just want a lot of people telling good stories, not too many people feeling sad. I want people to laugh. That's what I really want. I just want people to remember me and laugh. And I want people from all the different branches of my life to come together so that they can see how all the pieces come together and made my life."
"That sounds cool," James said.
"Yeah, I wish I could see it when it happens," I said. "Maybe we could have a run-through or something? I wonder if anyone aside from Tom Sawyer ever got to attend their own funeral."
"I think that's the main reason why people fake their deaths," James said. "People want to see what goes down at their funeral."
"People don't really fake their own deaths, outside of soap operas," I said. "Right?"
"Maybe," he said. "It'd be cool."
* * *
I explained that I thought the Relapse Theater - a former church and homeless shelter where I take improv classes - would probably be a good venue for the service.
"I don't want religion mentioned at the funeral, but I figured that it'd do my religious friends some small comfort if it were held at a building that at least looks like a church," I said. "There's even a sanctuary."
James asked, "Does it have pews?"
"Not anymore, I don't think. The last time I saw something there, I think they used folding chairs."
"I don't think it qualifies as a sanctuary unless it has pews," he said. "Without pews, it just doesn't have that church feel."
"It has a baptismal," I conceded.
"How would they use a baptismal at your funeral?"
"Maybe they could put ice in it to keep the drinks cold," I said. "I don't know. I haven't gotten it all planned yet."
"Well, you have time," James said. "But, to make sure things go according to plan, you may want to write it all down."
I looked at him and smiled. And we finished our coffee.
I was trying to help him cope with the fact that a girl he likes called off what was supposed to be their first date without much notice or explanation.
"It wasn't a date," he clarified at one point. "It was, like, a pre-date."
"What's the difference, actually?" I asked him. "I mean, if you ask someone to coffee to decide whether you want to ask them to dinner, it's still a date, right?"
"Not necessarily," James said.
"I disagree."
"Well, what constitutes a 'date' in Benjie-land?" he asked me.
I was basic. I said, "If you make plans to do something with someone and then go out together, that's a date."
James argued the definition.
He explained, "Well, you and I made plans and went somewhere together yesterday, and not just that ... we went to a movie. And, after that, what did we do?"
"We went to the drugstore, and you explained soft-bristled toothbrushes to me," I said.
"No, I'm talking about dinner," James said. "You and I went to dinner ... and a movie. But was that a date?"
"We only had ice cream yesterday," I said to him.
"Whatever, was it a date?" James asked.
"Yes," I said to my heterosexual co-worker friend.
"WHAT?" James asked incredulously.
"It was a date," I said. "By my definition, it was a date."
"Your definition describes an 'appointment,'" James said. "If that was a date, then you're a lousy date."
I was a little miffed. And I think someone eavesdropping at another table started to laugh at us.
"Excuse me?" I asked James.
"Well, I didn't get sex or anything," James said.
"Would you want that?"
"No, not from you," James said. "But I would want that on a date."
"Even a first date?"
"I think that's standard for people our age nowadays," he asked. "A good date usually ends in sex."
"Well, I'm sorry I'm not easy."
"You are so. Who are you kidding?"
* * *
James then went on to suggest that his issues with women would end if he just, of all things, became an indiscriminant womanizer.
"The womanizers I know don't have my issues with women," he said. "That'd be better."
"If you were a womanizer, then you'd just have different issues with women," I said. "Besides, I think you'd need a different, more damaged background to be a womanizer."
"I could totally be a womanizer," James said.
"Yeah, but what if you ever wanted something more serious?" I asked.
"I could stop being a womanizer if that happened."
"Yeah, but then you'd have that history and reputation," I said. "And I think smart women would avoid that. And you prefer smart women. We like smart women."
"We do?"
There was a pause, then I changed the subject again.
"Ooh, I forgot to ask you something," I said.
"What is it?" James asked.
"Will you be a speaker at my funeral?" I asked.
He looked concerned.
"You planning on dying?" he asked.
"I don't really have a choice about that. It's gonna happen whether I want it to or not."
"But you don't have any immediate plans for it, right?" he asked. "Is there something you're trying to tell me?"
"No, but you're not the first person to ask me that," I said. "At my office, I asked my friend Angela if she would sing at my funeral, and she said that was morbid and started to worry."
"Well, it's a natural reaction, frankly," James said.
"No, I'm not suicidal," I said in an attempt to calm his nerves. "I just know that my mom is a control freak, so, if I want the service I want, I'm going to have to start planning now."
"Will your mother even be at your funeral?" he asked.
"Probably not, but I'm planning just in case," I said. "I mean, I told her that I wanted to be cremated, and she freaked out, saying that she'd NEED to see my body. I was, like, 'Why?' She said, 'Because I'd need to see that you were gone.'"
* * *
I'm not suicidal. I have been suicidal before. One time in high school, I wanted to nosedive off the balcony of a mall. If saying that makes anyone sad, I apologize, but, even when being harsh to myself in my head or in writing, I try to create an honest image of myself in everyone's head. The funeral idea, thus, is not a new one. I plan my funeral because, like my mother, I'm a control freak and image-conscious. I think that if I visualize and plan my perfect funeral, I can manipulate - even from beyond the grave - what everyone's opinions of me will be. I realize this is ridiculous and that talking about it makes me look vulnerable. But I can't control that. All I can do is talk about it.
Besides, my mom keeps the sheet music she wants used at her funeral in a compartment in her briefcase. Once, during a reflective period when she was revising her will, she let me and my brother Dan know where to find it. Ironically, one of the songs was "When the Saints Go Marching In."
So this tendency runs in our family.
* * *
Sitting in the IHOP, I explained to James how the funeral would go.
"Angela was really freaked out that I was talking about my funeral until I told her what song I wanted her to sing," I said. "Then she got all excited."
James asked me, "Which song was it?"
"It's this choir version of 'Let It Be' that I heard in a movie," I said. "I think all of my ideas for the funeral are stolen from movies. Anyway, Angela apparently loves 'Let It Be,' so now she really wants to perform it."
"You should hurry up and die, then," James snarked.
"Funny," I said. "Anyway, so that books you and Angela and Lupo for the funeral, contingent on you knowing me and us being on good terms when I die."
"Yeah, that's a good stipulation to add in there," James said. "Although I'd probably still come and talk shit about you at your funeral if you and I were on the outs when you died."
"If it's a good anecdote, use it," I said. "I just want a lot of people telling good stories, not too many people feeling sad. I want people to laugh. That's what I really want. I just want people to remember me and laugh. And I want people from all the different branches of my life to come together so that they can see how all the pieces come together and made my life."
"That sounds cool," James said.
"Yeah, I wish I could see it when it happens," I said. "Maybe we could have a run-through or something? I wonder if anyone aside from Tom Sawyer ever got to attend their own funeral."
"I think that's the main reason why people fake their deaths," James said. "People want to see what goes down at their funeral."
"People don't really fake their own deaths, outside of soap operas," I said. "Right?"
"Maybe," he said. "It'd be cool."
* * *
I explained that I thought the Relapse Theater - a former church and homeless shelter where I take improv classes - would probably be a good venue for the service.
"I don't want religion mentioned at the funeral, but I figured that it'd do my religious friends some small comfort if it were held at a building that at least looks like a church," I said. "There's even a sanctuary."
James asked, "Does it have pews?"
"Not anymore, I don't think. The last time I saw something there, I think they used folding chairs."
"I don't think it qualifies as a sanctuary unless it has pews," he said. "Without pews, it just doesn't have that church feel."
"It has a baptismal," I conceded.
"How would they use a baptismal at your funeral?"
"Maybe they could put ice in it to keep the drinks cold," I said. "I don't know. I haven't gotten it all planned yet."
"Well, you have time," James said. "But, to make sure things go according to plan, you may want to write it all down."
I looked at him and smiled. And we finished our coffee.
Friday, November 16, 2007
And I am telling you ... an epilogue.
I worked again at the bookstore tonight, and my manager told me that the movie that woman named Jennifer Holliday ordered had come in. So he'd called her that afternoon.
So, a couple hours into my shift, Jennifer Holliday walked back into the section, and I said hello and immediately grabbed her DVD order without making too much fuss over it. I rang her up at the registers, asked her how she was doing. I told her I was happy her order came in so quickly. It was all very formal.
And when I put the DVD in the bag, Jennifer Holliday passed me a CD of THE BEST OF JENNIFER HOLLIDAY. And I said thank you. And she left.
And, with that, she removed all doubt and gave my anecdote a really great ending.
Written across the front of the CD case in silver marker was:
TO BENJI:
THANKS FOR ALL THE SUPPORT!
LOVE AND BLESSINGS,
JENNIFER HOLLIDAY
2007
And, reading that, I did the thing where I jumped up and down, fell on the floor, kicked my legs like crazy, squealed and, yes, I even called my mom this time.
So, a couple hours into my shift, Jennifer Holliday walked back into the section, and I said hello and immediately grabbed her DVD order without making too much fuss over it. I rang her up at the registers, asked her how she was doing. I told her I was happy her order came in so quickly. It was all very formal.
And when I put the DVD in the bag, Jennifer Holliday passed me a CD of THE BEST OF JENNIFER HOLLIDAY. And I said thank you. And she left.
And, with that, she removed all doubt and gave my anecdote a really great ending.
Written across the front of the CD case in silver marker was:
TO BENJI:
THANKS FOR ALL THE SUPPORT!
LOVE AND BLESSINGS,
JENNIFER HOLLIDAY
2007
And, reading that, I did the thing where I jumped up and down, fell on the floor, kicked my legs like crazy, squealed and, yes, I even called my mom this time.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
And I am telling you I am not Jennifer Holliday.
I totally met - maybe - Jennifer Holliday tonight in my bookstore.
Um, the stupid part was that I didn't immediately recognize her because, you know, she didn't weigh so much and have tremendous amounts of theatrical makeup on. So when she told me her name was Jennifer Holliday with a 212 area code while she was ordering a CD, I asked if she got the "Oh, like the woman from DREAMGIRLS ..." thing a lot. Then, I told her my name was Benji and that people always mention the movie dog to me.
Then I asked her if she'd ever seen the real Jennifer Holliday perform. And she said yes.
So I started talking about the original DREAMGIRLS soundtrack and the Jennifer Holliday performance of AND I AM TELLING YOU I'M NOT GOING on the Tonys from 1982 that I'd watched on YouTube. And Jennifer Holliday asked me if I knew how long ago that was. So I named off the original cast of DREAMGIRLS and said the whole thing was introduced by Tony Randall while reading a storybook. And, even though she said she wasn't that Jennifer Holliday, she looked impressed.
Then she changed her story, saying she actually has worked with Jennifer Holliday for 30 years (meaning that Jennifer Holliday employs a different Jennifer Holliday), when I told her that I was a big geek about Jennifer Holliday and LOVED the ALLY MCBEAL episodes that Jennifer Holliday was on, particularly the one where she performed SHORT PEOPLE. And she asked why that would make me a geek. (Keep in mind, she was pretending not to be the REAL Jennifer Holliday, just someone named Jennifer Holliday who knew and worked with the real Jennifer Holliday.)
Then I asked her if the REAL Jennifer Holliday was nice, and she said yes (which is different from everything else I've heard about the real Jennifer Holliday, though the woman I met tonight was very nice). Then I asked her if, as someone who's worked with the star for 30 years, if she could sing herself. She said yes, even though she was still pretending not to be Jennifer Holliday. So I asked her if she was any good at it, and she said she certainly thought so.
It was very funny.
The whole thing ended with me telling Jennifer Holliday to pass a message on to the REAL Jennifer Holliday the next time she saw her. I told her that Jennifer Holliday's music makes me happy - even though I'm not a very happy person. I said that her music lifts me up. So the woman named Jennifer Holliday told me that she'd tell the REAL Jennifer Holliday that exact thing.
It was totally Jennifer Holliday.
It was all I could do not to squeal in delight and call my mom while it was happening. UPDATE: It continues here.
Um, the stupid part was that I didn't immediately recognize her because, you know, she didn't weigh so much and have tremendous amounts of theatrical makeup on. So when she told me her name was Jennifer Holliday with a 212 area code while she was ordering a CD, I asked if she got the "Oh, like the woman from DREAMGIRLS ..." thing a lot. Then, I told her my name was Benji and that people always mention the movie dog to me.
Then I asked her if she'd ever seen the real Jennifer Holliday perform. And she said yes.
So I started talking about the original DREAMGIRLS soundtrack and the Jennifer Holliday performance of AND I AM TELLING YOU I'M NOT GOING on the Tonys from 1982 that I'd watched on YouTube. And Jennifer Holliday asked me if I knew how long ago that was. So I named off the original cast of DREAMGIRLS and said the whole thing was introduced by Tony Randall while reading a storybook. And, even though she said she wasn't that Jennifer Holliday, she looked impressed.
Then she changed her story, saying she actually has worked with Jennifer Holliday for 30 years (meaning that Jennifer Holliday employs a different Jennifer Holliday), when I told her that I was a big geek about Jennifer Holliday and LOVED the ALLY MCBEAL episodes that Jennifer Holliday was on, particularly the one where she performed SHORT PEOPLE. And she asked why that would make me a geek. (Keep in mind, she was pretending not to be the REAL Jennifer Holliday, just someone named Jennifer Holliday who knew and worked with the real Jennifer Holliday.)
Then I asked her if the REAL Jennifer Holliday was nice, and she said yes (which is different from everything else I've heard about the real Jennifer Holliday, though the woman I met tonight was very nice). Then I asked her if, as someone who's worked with the star for 30 years, if she could sing herself. She said yes, even though she was still pretending not to be Jennifer Holliday. So I asked her if she was any good at it, and she said she certainly thought so.
It was very funny.
The whole thing ended with me telling Jennifer Holliday to pass a message on to the REAL Jennifer Holliday the next time she saw her. I told her that Jennifer Holliday's music makes me happy - even though I'm not a very happy person. I said that her music lifts me up. So the woman named Jennifer Holliday told me that she'd tell the REAL Jennifer Holliday that exact thing.
It was totally Jennifer Holliday.
It was all I could do not to squeal in delight and call my mom while it was happening. UPDATE: It continues here.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Post #1,001: Who I am.
Recently, I wrote a bio for another website, explaining who I am and what I'm about. I'm including it here for new readers or those who just want to reacquaint themselves with the blog.
My name is Benjamin Carr, and I'm from the "lovely," formerly redneck and formerly small town of Buford, Georgia - now home to the gigantic Mall of Georgia. Born to two Yankee transplants from Ohio in 1976, I spent the better part of my formative years trying to avoid developing a Southern accent. This was made more difficult when my Yankee parents divorced and eventually married two Southerners. When I'm drunk or feeling otherwise lithe, I can do pretty spot-on impressions of my stepfather.
Also, I was born with a condition called cerebral palsy - which affects how my brain communicates with my muscles. My condition is very mild, leaving me with a bit of a limp and a perpetually bent arm on my left side. It was thought, at one point, that I'd be severely retarded or suffer from low brain activity. I didn't end up that way. When I was a kid, though, I developed this way of talking a lot and showing off so that people would notice my personality before they noticed the disability. I still talk too much. I still try too hard to impress.
Others with cerebral palsy use wheelchairs and are barely able to move. It's weird, but I don't feel lucky around able-bodied people because I don't like my limp. Still, when I'm around someone with severe cerebral palsy or meet the parents of a severely disabled child (as it has happened with customers in my bookstore), I get sorta ashamed of myself for not realizing just how bad my situation could be.
When a child who's barely able to speak, who cannot walk and can't move his arms without shaking, looks at me as though I'm a miracle or an example or a hero or something just because I'm able to move, I can't help but think that I'm some kind of punk who wasted God-given blessings, doesn't do enough with his life and complains too much.
Everybody feels like that sometimes, probably.
I've been a TV and movie buff since I was an adolescent, enjoying the escapism a movie can provide, and I'm always trying to broaden my tastes and try new cinema. (This weekend, I watched Ingmar Bergman's CRIES AND WHISPERS. Which was a really beautiful, well-acted Swedish movie about dysfunction, pain and death. I recommend it.)
There are a lot of classics I've managed to not catch yet, but I'm a good man to have on a bar trivia team.
I also read regularly, for working part-time at a bookstore for seven years can cause you to develop an addiction to book-shopping. My apartment looks like a really messy small library with stacks of stuff everywhere.
I call myself a writer. Prior to taking improv classes, I attended a writer's workshop at the Margaret Mitchell House for over a year. In college, I was a journalism major, and I've done news and arts coverage for THE RED & BLACK (which should tell you where I went to college), ATHENS BANNER-HERALD and AUGUSTA CHRONICLE. I also worked briefly (very briefly) for CNN. I've worked for a construction trade publication through McGraw-Hill for over seven years.
I blogged fairly regularly for about four years, but that hobby fell by the wayside when I rediscovered that attending the theater all the time is more fun and actually allows for face-to-face interaction with real people, which I enjoy.
My name is Benjamin Carr, and I'm from the "lovely," formerly redneck and formerly small town of Buford, Georgia - now home to the gigantic Mall of Georgia. Born to two Yankee transplants from Ohio in 1976, I spent the better part of my formative years trying to avoid developing a Southern accent. This was made more difficult when my Yankee parents divorced and eventually married two Southerners. When I'm drunk or feeling otherwise lithe, I can do pretty spot-on impressions of my stepfather.
Also, I was born with a condition called cerebral palsy - which affects how my brain communicates with my muscles. My condition is very mild, leaving me with a bit of a limp and a perpetually bent arm on my left side. It was thought, at one point, that I'd be severely retarded or suffer from low brain activity. I didn't end up that way. When I was a kid, though, I developed this way of talking a lot and showing off so that people would notice my personality before they noticed the disability. I still talk too much. I still try too hard to impress.
Others with cerebral palsy use wheelchairs and are barely able to move. It's weird, but I don't feel lucky around able-bodied people because I don't like my limp. Still, when I'm around someone with severe cerebral palsy or meet the parents of a severely disabled child (as it has happened with customers in my bookstore), I get sorta ashamed of myself for not realizing just how bad my situation could be.
When a child who's barely able to speak, who cannot walk and can't move his arms without shaking, looks at me as though I'm a miracle or an example or a hero or something just because I'm able to move, I can't help but think that I'm some kind of punk who wasted God-given blessings, doesn't do enough with his life and complains too much.
Everybody feels like that sometimes, probably.
I've been a TV and movie buff since I was an adolescent, enjoying the escapism a movie can provide, and I'm always trying to broaden my tastes and try new cinema. (This weekend, I watched Ingmar Bergman's CRIES AND WHISPERS. Which was a really beautiful, well-acted Swedish movie about dysfunction, pain and death. I recommend it.)
There are a lot of classics I've managed to not catch yet, but I'm a good man to have on a bar trivia team.
I also read regularly, for working part-time at a bookstore for seven years can cause you to develop an addiction to book-shopping. My apartment looks like a really messy small library with stacks of stuff everywhere.
I call myself a writer. Prior to taking improv classes, I attended a writer's workshop at the Margaret Mitchell House for over a year. In college, I was a journalism major, and I've done news and arts coverage for THE RED & BLACK (which should tell you where I went to college), ATHENS BANNER-HERALD and AUGUSTA CHRONICLE. I also worked briefly (very briefly) for CNN. I've worked for a construction trade publication through McGraw-Hill for over seven years.
I blogged fairly regularly for about four years, but that hobby fell by the wayside when I rediscovered that attending the theater all the time is more fun and actually allows for face-to-face interaction with real people, which I enjoy.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
I am the bomb.
On my way to Wordsmiths in Decatur for their open mic night, my car ran out of gas on Clairmont. It was a sign. I wasn't supposed to attend that reading, for the essay I'd picked to read was not polished or terribly appealing for an audience. But I didn't know that at the time, even if I should've, so I persisted in my quest to get to the bookstore.
I left my Yaris hatchback (which I've named Bill, incidentally) in the turn lane where he stopped, hazard lights blinking. I dodged cars, got the gas can out of the back and walked a half-mile on the sidewalk. All in all, I was delayed about a half-hour.
But my car was only looking out for my best interests. When I got to Wordsmiths, the reading started out well enough but quickly fell flat. I eventually just paused, for I'd not practiced the piece (which was too episodic and didn't have enough dramatic tension to carry the listeners through it), then I quickly summarized the ending (which wasn't climactic enough). I rushed it. I got off the stage.
Lesson learned.
The reason I'd picked the wrong essay to read was because, well, I chickened out and didn't read the more polished, actually rehearsed essay which would've gone over much better with the audience. My justification for that was that, during the last open mic night, an 11-year-old girl was there singing songs she'd learned from the radio in front of her proud Christian parents, and I didn't want to follow that act with a story featuring inferences to, um, mishaps that can occur during hot, involved gay sex.
This time I didn't even have that essay with me. I should've, though. It would've gone over well with the crowd that had gathered, and li'l JonBenet wasn't even there.
As I said, lesson learned. It wasn't a complete disaster. I've been invited back, and I got some good laughs from the part of the essay that worked. But there's a right way to do this, and I know what it is.
I've got to hold my work and performances up to my own standards. Otherwise, I'm just Britney Spears at the VMAs.
Weird, this was apparently my 1,000th post.
I left my Yaris hatchback (which I've named Bill, incidentally) in the turn lane where he stopped, hazard lights blinking. I dodged cars, got the gas can out of the back and walked a half-mile on the sidewalk. All in all, I was delayed about a half-hour.
But my car was only looking out for my best interests. When I got to Wordsmiths, the reading started out well enough but quickly fell flat. I eventually just paused, for I'd not practiced the piece (which was too episodic and didn't have enough dramatic tension to carry the listeners through it), then I quickly summarized the ending (which wasn't climactic enough). I rushed it. I got off the stage.
Lesson learned.
The reason I'd picked the wrong essay to read was because, well, I chickened out and didn't read the more polished, actually rehearsed essay which would've gone over much better with the audience. My justification for that was that, during the last open mic night, an 11-year-old girl was there singing songs she'd learned from the radio in front of her proud Christian parents, and I didn't want to follow that act with a story featuring inferences to, um, mishaps that can occur during hot, involved gay sex.
This time I didn't even have that essay with me. I should've, though. It would've gone over well with the crowd that had gathered, and li'l JonBenet wasn't even there.
As I said, lesson learned. It wasn't a complete disaster. I've been invited back, and I got some good laughs from the part of the essay that worked. But there's a right way to do this, and I know what it is.
I've got to hold my work and performances up to my own standards. Otherwise, I'm just Britney Spears at the VMAs.
Weird, this was apparently my 1,000th post.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
What I did over the summer.
Earlier this month, I read the Waffle House story during open mic night at Wordsmiths Books, which is a store in Decatur owned by my friend/former co-worker Zach.
Also, I performed in BRAWL! at Dad's Garage this summer, appearing twice as disabled wrestler Walker Von Hart. In the final show, I had to appear as a zombie, and Steve Platinum managed to snap a couple shots of me backstage wearing zombie makeup.
(NOTE: In this photo, I'm also reading Y: THE LAST MAN, another activity that I did somewhat obsessively this summer.)
This is Trent, my improv classmate, applying my zombie makeup.
Last but not least, my sister-in-law gave birth to another boy in July, so I have a new nephew named Andrew.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
I heart Internet celebrities.
OMG, the coolest fucking thing just happened! I checked my brand-new YouTube account to see if Chris and/or Nick from the BOYFRIENDING NICK YouTube series had posted anything new. (Chris is my favorite. He's really funny and - OK, fine, I'll admit it - supercute, and he manages to make lip-synching videos that are clever, rather than annoying.)
Anyway, when I logged into my account, I had a completely unsolicited e-mail note from the self-same Chris (!!!!!!!!!!!!!). He was asking me for my profile information, for I'm apparently his 400th subscriber.
I wrote him a note back describing myself and telling him that I signed up for a YouTube account because I wanted to subscribe to his videos, which is true.
His story's great. Check him out.
I hope he doesn't mind me appropriating his photo.
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