eggshellsandbullshit

[eggshellsandbullshit]

Eleven days of heartache

by Chris Alonzo

I return my son to his mother, 119 miles away, 238 miles round trip, unlock the door, and find the apartment I left behind about six hours earlier. Sometimes we have dinner together, the three of us. Sometimes her boyfriend is on his way over and I hit the road early. 

When I walk in I get to work. I put away the beer I've bought (up until a couple of weeks ago this was a sixer bought at the Alabama state line, but Georgia has finally kicked her theocratic chains to let the heathens buy beer on Sundays.) 

I've been in my Atlanta apartment long enough that, to the outside eye, I should have more furniture than this. But, economics aside, this is intentional. The outside eye will perceive a large, sad, empty apartment. And, eleven days in a row it is.

But then, for two and a half days, it is a playground. It is a candy-colored funscape, with a giggling, charging toddler screaming and waving his arms, room to run, all uncontrollable laughs and puppet shows and Papa Bears demanding, "Give me those belly meats! I need those belly meats to live!" And Papa Bear knocks the toddler to the ground and digs in, while the toddler howls with unencumbered joy. 

I pick him back up to his feet, and he laughs and collapses into me, and he kisses me. I hug him tightly, inhale deeply, savor it, keep it, own it.

*****

I put the beer away so that it's cold when I need it. I start with the big items, the playhouse I picked up at the nice Goodwill near where I work in Sandy Springs. A few features of the house don't work; I was unaware until my mother came to visit and she unfavorable compared it to the one my brother and his wife have for their daughters. Still, for all we know, it is perfect.

I lug that first. Then I gather up the scooters: I still don't have very many friends here, so no need for a dinner table for extravagant dinner parties. More room for scooter races, I say. One is a tiny car, the other is a fire engine. The electrics don't work on either, but he doesn't know the difference. 

Then I grab the wicker basket and start gathering. We bought that basket together before he was born, as a baby laundry hamper. Now it houses his toys at my house, all the little hand-held doodads. The little guitar that plays Yankee Doodle when you press the purple button. The rainbow-colored ball with the bell inside. The bear puppet. The frog with his enormous eyes. 

Once that's clear I move on to blocks. I bought a full set at a flea market in Alabama, right after I moved. We had already outfitted a full nursery in Brooklyn, but now we needed two of everything. This place had some really nice deals. I'll need another set of blocks soon: we're down to about five or six, and now that he actually recognizes the shapes I want him to have a full set to play with. Maybe next time I have him. 

I move his little chair against the wall and put his tray in the sink. His clothes go in a stack next to the diaper genie, waiting for the next laundry day, and the remote controls come off the high shelf. The child-proof locks come off the cabinets. I begin scrubbing surfaces sticky from fingers covered in fruit and buttered corn. 

I finish things off with the dominoes. My family plays Bingo on Christmas; just a weird tradition we started as a way to kill time while we waited for Santa Claus, but as we grew up it turned into its own thing. It is some serious shit. We check cards. 

One Christmas, while I was in high school, I won a set of dominoes. It has followed me everywhere I've been for the past 17 years or so -- every shitty apartment, every house that was too good to be true. Screaming fights, sirens, laughter, ruckus: the box has been there. 

Now my son has claimed them. He loves them. They're a perfect little distracting toy for him: fit perfectly in his hand but too small to possibly swallow. If my son is in my house he probably has a domino in his hand. When he is gone I find them everywhere: in the DVD shelf, in the bathtub, the bathroom sink, behind the changing table, under my pillow. They are physical reminders of the logic of a child. 

I find as many of them as I can, and I put them back in the box.  I shove everything against the wall in his room, with its blue accent wall, with its array of glow-in-the-dark constellations mapped accurately against the Northern Sky.

I close the door to this room and I do not open it again.

I crack the beer that has been waiting for me. How quickly I drink it, and how many cigarettes I smoke, depend on how things have been left and how long I have until I see him again. Tonight is a bad night. Tonight, maybe spurred on by the long weekend, maybe spurred on by us having a particularly love-y time together, he didn't want to see me go. Usually I try to at least be there to put him to bed, or give him his last bottle. But tonight was an early night. Everybody going out to dinner, and I was invited, but "everybody" included my son's father for eleven out of fourteen days, so I demurred.

And my son followed me. And he cried. He outstretched his arms, wanting me to pick him up and hold him.

I did. When I picked him up, he relaxed on me, like he didn't want to ever move from my shoulder.

But I had to go. So I put him back down and I left. And the last thing I heard in Alabama outside of my car was the sound of my son crying and his mother sweetly imploring, "Say goodbye to Daddy!"

I am drinking quickly. 

This is the hardest part of the week, with eleven days to go, and this house will host no joy between now and then. No colors, no excitement, no laughter. I will come home from work, change my clothes, cook dinner, get on the computer, and sleep for the next day. I will do this, counting backwards, holding my breath. 

I will keep finding dominoes. And I will drink very rapidly indeed. 

[eggshellsandbullshit]

textual chemistry in the looney bin

by Chris Alonzo

(Spoilers, so many spoilers, god the spoilers beware shield yourself take cover stop crying you goddamned baby.)

The most useful thing I ever learned from my playwriting mentor (the illustrious Amparo Garcia-Crow) was to imagine the world you’re creating as one that you are privileged to witness. It’s a way of keeping in mind that the people you are creating live far beyond the confines of the scenes you choose to show. This is a whole, actualized world, and the audience only gets to see certain characters interact at certain moments. What we get to see doesn’t alter the story, just our perception of it.

I saw Young Adult last night, and in the twelve hours since I’ve had an hour-long conversation on it, exchanged a few texts with our beloved editor, and read every review and article I can get my hands on. And I’m still not satisfied that I totally know how I feel about it. This intrigues me, and it makes me really like the movie even though I think I hate it. And the thing I keep coming back to is this idea that it succeeds precisely because of what Amparo taught us: framing is everything.

Let me say at the outset that I despise Diablo Cody. Her writing fills me with a rage unrivaled by anyone else in Hollywood. It’s lazy, it’s formulaicly hip, it’s unmoored to any type of human emotion or interaction. Basically, a Diablo Cody universe is a convenient one where people say cool shit and disregard basic human logic and emotion so we can wrap this all up in two hours. It’s a total invention of her mind, which evaluates the world on a frustratingly adolescent level. The only thing saving her is the remarkable acting performances that have added humanity to her T-shirt Slogan-Generating Characterbots.

Young Adult is something else entirely, though, and there is so much about it I enjoy, and yet I can’t decide whether or not Diablo Cody deserves any credit. Frankly, based on past performance, I don’t know if she even did any of these great things on purpose. But let’s just assume, for the sake of argument, that she did (regardless of the fact that the script bears a number of annoying Cody traits, from the gimmicky title of the movie itself to writing of the young adult book narrating Mavis’s story.)

The crowning achievement is that the story we’re allowed to see is just a small window into the life of someone who is genuinely mentally ill. In other movies we get origins, we get resolutions. We get added humanity or, at best, comic deliverance from humanity (like, say, the pack of assholes in The Hangover.) Here we get none. We open on Charlize Theron’s Mavis in a somewhat familiar dark-comedy place: she’s hungover, again, and lives like an asshole. Then she goes on a road trip. OK, our brains go, we know this movie. Now she’s gonna get into all kinds of comic misadventures, act like an ass, then we get hilariously uncomfortable, then she gets her comeuppance, then she learns her lesson at the hand of the simple “Real American” folks who’ve really got this Life thing figured out, and she falls in love with Patton Oswalt, if only for a fleeting moment, just so we can see her renewed sense of humanity.

Except, that doesn’t happen. Almost none of that happens.

It’s an unusual sensation. Major Hollywood movies follow templates, follow rules. Even when they “subvert” the formula, it’s not by much (and usually involves some sort of head fake towards our expectations.) There is no big twist here, no build-up and let-down. It is a slow burn, and as you’re watching it slowly dawns on you that this isn’t going to let you off the hook easy, like with Bad Teacher and Bad Santa and School of Rock and countless other movies about “bad” and “unlikeable” lead characters who turn out to be lovable losers. Mavis is totally unlovable. There is no redemption. It’s like Diablo Cody watched Ann Hathaway’s selfish junkie model in Rachel Getting Married and said, “Fuck that. There’s NO WAY that bitch makes up with her sister. She goes back to rehab, and she doesn’t learn a fucking thing, and then she gets out and she’s still an asshole to everyone.” And, yeah. She’s not wrong.

This is where Amparo’s idea comes into play. There’s likely redemption (or, at the very least, resolution) somewhere in Mavis’s life, even if it’s on her death bed, but we aren’t allowed the privilege of seeing it. We don’t get to see her return to her fucked up life in Minneapolis and regret what she’s done. We don’t see her try again with some guy, or try to reform her life, or call Patton Oswalt a month later to try to get him to drive up for a bender. Hell, we don’t even get to see Patton Oswalt awake after the one-night stand that will, no doubt, completely destroy him emotionally. Which is not to say that it’s not there; we just don’t get to see it. We want to know that Patton’s OK, and that Mavis either gets help or comeuppance, but Diablo Cody denies us that. It’s cruel and, in its way, it’s pretty brilliant. It’s not, say, the final scene of Inception, watching the top spin and ha ha Gotcha! Not even close. Not even a hint. Just, here’s Mavis, she learned nothing, she’s still awful, it’ll probably kill her for all you know.

Probably, in fact, her next move is to try to break up her ex-husband’s marriage in a year or two. Something.

As I say (and as David Haglund correctly notes in Slate, the lone reviewer I could find who even realistically broaches the subject), Mavis isn’t just some cinematic misanthrope: she’s mentally ill. The most disturbing thing about her is her total lack of empathy: she doesn’t give a shit about other people’s lives or babies or crippling injuries. The word “sociopathic” gets thrown around enough to lose it’s actual meaning, but here it is in the form of Mavis: aggressive, impulsive and devoid of any capacity for guilt or sympathetic emotion. In the trailers it’s presented as a joke when Patton Oswalt’s Matt says “You need therapy.” We’re used to seeing that in movies, because our anti-heroes are so cuh-raaaazy ha ha look out here come a zinger. But, in the context of the movie, you can see: he genuinely means it and he’s right. She’s mentally ill, and doesn’t care, and needs help badly. The best part: once we realize this it’s no longer played for laughs.

This is the part where I don’t know if Diablo Cody and director Jason Reitman actually did this on purpose or stumbled upon it (the fact that Mavis is such an obvious stand-in for Cody herself seems to hint away from this being so intentional.) A lot of the writing suggests a kind of aloof “hip young adult” thing that I saw plenty of in New York, particularly upon the birth of my son. It’s a badge of honor, in certain social sub-sets, to denigrate parenthood and marriage and general happiness as the sort of thing boring, ugly fat people do in towns that don’t matter. And there are times where that attitude is mined for laughs in Young Adult (as it’s been mined for laughs in countless other related rom-coms like Sweet Home Alabama and My Best Friend’s Wedding.) But, accidental or not, these little toss-off lines eventually add up to a complex portrait of a lonely alcoholic suffering through Antisocial personality disorder, but suffering so mildly that it all gets written off or enabled by everybody around her. She’s not Daniel Plainview, killing for money and beating the town preacher in front of everyone. She’s just kind of cunty and selfish, and the only one who really suffers in the end is herself, and she doesn’t outwardly seem to care.

In fact, what makes this choice interesting is that they present her with an opportunity to learn but she squanders it. She has her big emotional outburst, revealing that she really DOES want kids and a family, but she “failed” at both (suffering a miscarriage and a divorce.) She’s horrified by her behavior, for a moment. Then, in the light of day, she says “Fuck it, I was right before” and drives off into the sunset.

Like I say, I don’t know how purposeful this creation was and who to credit (though I suspect pretty much all of it goes to Charlize Theron, who is excellent in every frame.) But I left the theater unsatisfied, denied my Hollywood resolution, and I couldn’t stop talking or thinking about it, and I drank everything I had in the house, and I woke up justintime to make it to work, and I was shocked to find that there wasn’t a giant thing of Diet Coke next to me, ready to be suckled like a bottle for the thousandth Groundhog Day in a row.

[eggshellsandbullshit]

Airplanes - Local Natives

[eggshellsandbullshit]

Diving Down. Sea Turtle in Kauai. (~Rebecca Davis)

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the omega man shops at kroger

by Chris Alonzo

I've lived in Atlanta for three months now, a stretch that has been the loneliest, most painful, most frustrating and ultimately most liberating time of my life. I am still in the thick of it, so this is not about triumph. This is about something else that happened, that is still happening, because I moved by myself to a city where I didn't know anybody and have spent almost all of my time with the person I hate most in all the world: myself. It has been awful. It has been quite good for me. 

I know that I'm not alone in this; I'm an artist surrounded by artists and most of the people who have populated my life are perpetually in varying stages of self-loathing. That's part of the charm: it's comforting to be around somebody who has the same defect. Some of my favorite memories are getting to that stage of the night where those confessions start, and assuring each other that it's going to be OK (and, of course, wishing to God that the people you love could see themselves the miraculous way they appear to you all of the time.) I've gone through my cycles, up-to-down, self-destructive to just-plain-bummed-out, and usually made up for it with manic swings to the other side. Party! Let's keep the party going! 

Then my wife left me and took my son with her, and my life dropped out from underneath me (note: I will not now, nor will I ever, be discussing my divorce on this site. Not that there's anything wrong with doing that.) I moved to Atlanta to be closer to them, advancing with a singular purpose, and didn't really give much thought to the particulars along the way. Just got my finances in order, rented a truck, and drove. 

I'd planned for all the logistical things (apartment, car, job, etc) but didn't give a second thought to much else. The only important thing was seeing my son again. I knew a couple of people in ATL; nobody I was ever all that close to, but two people I went to school with and one person I directed in a show last year. I'd hook up with them and go from there. "Besides," I said over and over again in my series of Goodbye Dinners in New York, "You know me. I make friends easily." It turns out, I don't make friends easily. Or, rather, I used to. I'll put this way: when I moved here in September I bought a Living Social deal for half-price bowling. "Surely," I thought, "I will have made tons of friends before this expires!" It expires on Saturday. I have no one to go with. I'm going tonight, by myself. 

I've made some casual friends, people whose names I know and not much else. Everyone at my local bar knows my name and I know theirs, and we can all laugh and have a good time. But I don't have anyone I would feel comfortable calling to help move a couch, or go to the movies. I hired movers for the couch. I go to movies by myself. 

Most days I don't say a single word. Not one. If you know me well you know what a massive sea change this is. I've spent decades surrounding myself with people, with parties, with good times, with music and theater rehearsals and shows, with triumphant celebrations at the bar, with shit-talking basketball and football games, with secret drinks in the park. I just started a new job, but before that I spent days upon days just sitting in my apartment totally silent, totally alone. Just watching TV or reading. Occasionally picking up a guitar but too depressed to play it. Drinking. Lots of crying. The only people I talked to had to talk to me because it was their job. I spent way too much time chit-chatting with these people, these poor cashiers and waitresses. 

Social media had me feeling connected to my close friends and family scattered across the country, but it's no substitute for face-to-face human interaction. And for a while that had me in a panic. It's why I would talk the ear off the guy at Home Depot: I was utterly terrified of that silence, of that feeling of loneliness and isolation. This panic followed me everywhere, made me desperate. I tried too hard when meeting people. I needed it too bad. When I was invited places I knew that it was out of charity.  This has begun to evolve, and it's one of the most significant changes I've ever gone through in my 33 years on this earth. I can't say for certain what happened: I had a great weekend with my son and good interactions with my soon-to-be ex-wife and her parents, which helped. I finally got my apartment spotlessly cleaned and organized after a series of mishaps (like my apartment flooding), and that felt great. My job is working out. Maybe it's all of these things in concert. Maybe it's just time, or my thoughts finally sorting themselves out properly. But, out of nowhere, I woke up this week and the panic was gone. I didn't care about being by myself. I didn't feel the panic of not being surrounded by a group of laughing, celebrating people at all times.  I just sat in my house and made dinner and worked out a little, and I felt good.  Of course, this could be rationalizing after the fact, trying to put the best face on this loneliness. But I don't think it is. I haven't, like, resigned myself to a life as a hermit, tucked away from all people forever. I still want to make new friends, good friends, close friends. But I'm suddenly in no hurry. I suddenly don't care. It'll happen. Sooner or later it will happen. And, until it does, I'll keep reading and making music and plays. Enjoying my own company. I've been calling myself a pathetic piece of shit over and over in my head for, oh, fifteen years now. I think that voice might be dying. I think that voice may be gone soon. Which is good because that voice is a cop-out, essentially giving myself permission to be an awful person. Why not? I'm already a pathetic piece of shit.

So I'll chill out. And I'll go to a party this weekend and volunteer at a theater. I'll make small talk. I'll finish the play I'm working on. I'll do whatever. No rush. Life is endless and we are all immortal. There is time for everything, even solo bowling. I'm in a league, which I created, and I'm the goddamned world champion.

[eggshellsandbullshit]

~Brandon Olterman

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Bina Chauhan (with Chris Alonzo) -

A Work In Progress

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Sixth Grade Camp - Bubbles Above Glass

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Dia De Los Muertos (Indian-style)

by Bina Kumari

Tonight I sat with my soon-to-be sister-in-law making wedding centerpieces as we continued the process of getting to know each other. We both seemed to have a lot to share. We talked about our families, among other topics like tamales and religion. At one point, I found myself in tears as I relayed the following story.

You see, my most recent trip to India was in March of 2010. On that trip, I saw my oldest brother, my Bhai Saab, as I called him. My father's eldest brother's son, Indian culture dictates that cousins are considered brothers and sisters. So is the way of traditional extended family in South Asia.

When I was born in a military hospital in New Orleans in 1977, my Bhai Saab, Abhey Singh, helped take great care of me in the world of chaos seemingly surrounding us. He struggled to adapt to American culture as a young man in his early 20s, often working as a welder. And he loved me with all his heart. This much I know.

Several years ago, he was deported back to India after a few too many brushes with the law and many tears were shed in his absence. When I traveled to India in March, I had no idea it would be the last time I would see him. I think maybe he did. But I chose not to believe that it was even possible.

We sat in his village home in Khol, surrounded by pictures of his family, his sons, his parents, his wife…everyone was there. Even the lizards on the walls. He showed me his motorcycle and the luggage he had been collecting in his bedroom over the years.

“I have this luggage ready for when I could go back to America,” he told me.

“Soon,” I told him. He laughed a little, touched my shoulder, and offered me some chai.

Later, when we were leaving, he pulled out an American 50-dollar bill from his wallet to give to me.

“No no,” I said. “I can’t take that.”

“I’ve been saving it all these years. I don’t know why but I want you to have it.”

I cried a little, hugged him goodbye, and said I’d see him soon.

A few months later, May 27 of 2010, he was gone. Alcohol and a corrupt medical system could not save him. Everyone was devastated. But his life was not in vain. We remember the good memories, the love along with the bursts of pain.

Now I regret spending that 50 dollar bill he gave me. I regret that I did not give it to his son when I had the chance. I guess I can’t undo the past. And neither could he. I can only say I’m so sorry.

I love you Bhai Saab. I hope and pray you are resting in peace and smiling. We will always remember you and the heart of a lion that you have always possessed. And I will strive to make you proud.

[eggshellsandbullshit]

You can quote me (actually I'll just quote someone else) on that.

by Destiny Chiles

"If you want to work on your art, work on your life." ~Anton Chekhov

I'm halfway through the Artist's Way, more than I've ever completed before.  I've always started it all gung ho, and then flaked about a third of the way through.  But I've been pretty damn dedicated thus far.  I do my morning pages, my artist dates, and most of the exercises, which have all brought up a plethora of feelings and experiences in one way or another.  It has been an awakening in a lot of ways.  I am allowing myself to try new things, some of them random and silly.  I found an origami kit  in the kids section of Barnes and Noble and went to town making spirit animals for my coworkers.  I've started taking random classes at the gym and making an ass out of myself (a whole separate blog post in and of itself).  Tonight, I took my first pottery class, which is something I've been dying to do for the longest time.  I'm allowing myself artist license, and it feels good. I felt married to acting for the longest time- it was what I had pursued for almost half of my life.  When it stopped bringing me joy (it's a shitty industry as anyone will attest to), I felt lost. Confused.  Depressed.  A walking Cymbalta ad.  But as I have begun to explore other areas of artistic fulfillment, I begin to feel a sense of relief.  I'm going back to the basics of making art.  Some of it's good, some of it ain't, but damnit at least I'm creating something.

The latest Los Angeles Magazine is all about "The LA Woman."  A contemplative and alienesque Maria Shriver dons the cover.  There are some very good articles.  There are some lame ones too.  A lot of them defend the LA woman, trying to dispel myths and stereotypes, while a cartoon entitled, "How to Put Your Face on at Four Stoplights" (gag me with a blush brush) stares at you from the margin.  But one of the things that really registered with me was the introduction by Anne Taylor Fleming, who met a woman that referred to herself as a "hypenate- a singer-surfer-editor-artist-cook..." she went on to say that "everyone is reimagining their lives, adding things, losing things, trying things... nobody judges you for an eagerness to experiment."  I loved this, mostly because I hate being asked by strangers, So what do you do?  I always want to make something ridiculous up: Oh, I get paid to swim with dolphins, I manage Ghostface Killah, I drive around eating hamburgers all day and then blog about it (a secret fantasy of both Chris and mine).  I hate being asked that question because I have no one thing that I do.  When I answer "actor" out of reflex, people want to know what I've done lately, and then I go into my sad spiel which is, Nothing lately per say... I kind of had a few bad experiences and took a break for a while and blah blah blah no one gives a shit.  I guess I always felt like I had to have a definitive answer, like I should have it figured out by now.  But the crazy thing is, almost everyone I know, seriously nearly everyone, doesn't know what the hell they are doing with their lives.  It's like we're all having this collective, "crap we're in our thirties and I'm not living the 21st century version of the American Dream" crisis. But why do we have to figure it out by a certain point?  When did it ever become wrong to continue exploration?  For your tastes to change?  To change your mind about the direction of your life and re-evaluate your situation?  To continually seek fulfillment?  I think that's the revelation and blessing (although it can be a curse, too) of this generation and surrounding generations- we have a greater freedom to change our minds. Previous generations didn't have that luxury.  You  worked the same job your whole life because that's what you did back then- that's what was expected.  You were dubbed weird or queer if you were an artist and to boot, your chances of making a living as one were slim to none.  Today, it is possible to be creative and successful.  But taking that leap is still risky.  There is something to be said for routine and guaranteed security, especially as we get older.  It's hard to step out into the abyss.  We've all seen the movie, and that is one deep chasm.

I made two bowls tonight at my pottery class.  The first one was pretty decent.  The second one, I'm pretty sure the bottom will fall out once it dries.  I almost poked my finger through the side of it- not a good sign.  But it felt good to get my hands dirty, to form something semi-functional (I hope) out of a block of clay.  It was meditative and relaxing, although I'm still grinding my teeth from the 5 Hour Energy I had right before class (God, that was dumb).  Not to worry- I'm currently taking the edge of with a sazerac.  Will I become a famous potter, who knows.  All I can tell you is that it feels good right now.  And to quote Jane Lynch from her article in LA Mag, "I always thought there was a plan, and I was waiting, literally, for someone to come over and say, 'Jane, your fabulous!  Come this way!' But what I was waiting for was me, and where I was was perfect, because it was where I was."  A little redundant yes, but you get the point.

One more quote for the evening, since this is apparently the blog post of quotes- what can I say, I am feeling inspired.  This one is in in ode to the late Steve Jobs (if you haven't watched his Stanford Commencement Speech yet, then seriously, what the hell are you waiting for?):

"You can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future... you have to trust in something: your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life."

Rest in peace Mr. Jobs, wherever you are.

[eggshellsandbullshit]

— Kurt Vonnegut

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  AN OPEN LETTER TO THE SOUTH FROM TOMMY SMITH (and my little ol' response, y'all)

by Bina Kumari

"We should let The South become its own country, depriving those states of all the finances that are generated by the sensible cities on the coasts, so that The South can no longer fuck up every single positive human movement of America, so that the world can now focus on the real problem of America, which is the embedded racism and sexism and intolerance of The South. These states do not stand for the ideals of America. These states behave like criminals to The Constitution. So let these states no longer be funded by the hard work of the Federal government, which is kept afloat only by the hard working citizens of the coasts. We have worked very hard to integrate you ever since we kicked your motherfucking asses in The Civil War. But you can't play along. You don't want to play along. We are not stronger but weaker with you on our backs. It's time to let you go, The South. You will be happier for a moment, until you realize your entitled point-of-view was based on the finances generated by people you would like to execute." ~Tommy Smith, in response to the death penalty still being in place

I wanted to take an opportunity to share the comment above from Facebook today. For those not in-the-East-Village-theater-know, Tommy Smith is a wonderful, compassionate, and accomplished playwright, screenwriter, and yes, my friend on Facebook and sometimes even in real life. We met through a mutual friend while living in New York City at an underground theater show that our friend was in, in which he had to emerge from underneath a makeshift curtain wearing some kind of Burger King crown while reciting poetry? Something like that. Anyway, it was weird and neat. I had met that friend performing another experimental piece at the Richard Foreman Ontological Hysteric Series. I loved every crazy second of it. Tommy originally hails from Seattle, and I thought him cute, All-American, and a little oblivious. He would later prove to be much more than meets the eye. He's actually pretty smart.

But I really wanted to share this because I am from The South. Specifically, Texas. Perhaps the most hated of the states in The South. People sometimes say it deserve its own category apart from the South; its ego is so big. I wanted to share this because a large number of us writing here are originally from the South. I wanted to share this because I realize that yes, those of us who are writing here, are "creative liberals" who migrated to different parts of the country in order to experience what we thought would be more creative freedom. And that we often romanticize those beautiful Texan ideals that we found lacking in other regions, including breakfast tacos and thank you's. I have defended Texas and the stereotypes that it embodies many a time here in LA, or Alaska, Hawaii, Japan, India, and New York. Hell, I was so excited to hit the ground running at some overpriced acting workshop when I arrived in NYC in November of 2000. Then, I stood up to introduce myself, and the word "Texas" hadn't left my lips before people literally booed and said "So it's your fault Bush is President!" I wanted to share this because even though we love the South so dearly, we also hate the South too. A little. Let's face it. We left, at least for a while. So, yes. We realize there are big problems with the South. And yes, we need to do something about it.

I went to middle school in a small rural town in Texas. Well, it was small at the time. There was only one Black family in the entire district from kindergarten to 12th grade and a handful of Asian and Latino kids, I know that much. I remember one day, a 7th grade teacher asked the class "How many of you would say you are Republicans?" Everyone in the class raised their hands except for, I'm pretty sure, 3 girls, including myself. She asked, "Why do you consider yourself Republicans?" As I recall, the class's response was fairly unanimous: our parents are Republicans.

I don't even know where I got the idea at first that I was more liberal than most. I just knew I was. I was some mixed Asian kid, raised by struggling immigrant parents, pretending to be white, who once wore purple wranglers, cowboy boots, and a bolo tie to a George Strait concert. I was just trying to fit in, though I do love George. I did occasionally have the urge to "speak out" I guess. There was the Diwali (Indian new year) where I decided it would be super cool to wear a Punjabi suit to school. There was definitely some positive support, but also some snickers and whispers. I did an Indian dance with my cousin for the high school student body for International Week and it was met with a lot of appreciation by people who had never seen such a thing. Once, for some kind of history or social studies project, I did a Japanese Buddhist prayer. LOL, guys, LOL. Maybe a bit risky for a sophomore in high school in the Bible belt. Then again, everything in high school seems traumatizing at the time, especially when you date the son of a preacher man. I don't know what I was thinking. Neither did his Dad. They moved.

But now, with a little perspective, I realize, overall, everybody was just fine with it. There are people who don't understand things, and it scares them. And sometimes, they lash out. But sometimes, you can get through to people. Sometimes, people just have to learn more to understand. Why was I so insecure? I mean, I was little miss "prom queen," after all. The alternative choice I assure you. Of course, I figured it was some Carrie prank. What insecure artsy dumb/smart kid at a high school with a 4-H club wouldn't?! Anyway, it doesn't really matter. I was just me. I tried to share myself and my voice, which had a Southern twang, when I wasn't being painfully shy. And I think it did a little bit of good. I hope so, anyway.

I don't claim to know any more about politics or be any smarter than most average Americans. I'm probably pretty ignorant. I know what's right and wrong though when I hear and understand it. I know that much. And I know that I want to know more and do more. I know that in 7th grade, I still thought I believed in the death penalty. An eye for an eye. Cut and dry. I don't necessarily believe that anymore. But I believed that killing and war kept my Dad employed at General Dynamics-Lockheed. That much I knew.

I also don't really drawl much anymore. Well, maybe occasionally after a couple of whiskeys or in a fit of entitled rage. 

Matthew McConaughey may be the voice of Texas as a University, but we can help be the voice of Texas as a state. The voice of reason with a smile. The voice that has no interest in seceding. The voice that wants to cooperate. It's still our country, after all. Howdy. 

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I'm an idealist.  (~Christine Ouellette)

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-Kurt Vonnegut (via ~Laura)

Etsy poster print here.

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Travelin' Thru - Dolly Parton

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Abandon Your Corsets: Words of Wisdom from Victorian Women

(~Ena Q)

“One does not love a place the less for having suffered in it, unless it has been all suffering, nothing but suffering.”

– Jane Austen, Persuasion

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Ten Years and A Week

by Laura

Ten years ago Sarah Bunting wrote For Thou Art With Us about her experiences during 9/11 and in the years following she searched for Don, the "disaster buddy" she met that day.  She wished to thank him, to buy him a beer, and to wish him Happy Birthday.  I still find that to be one of the more striking accounts of the day and the days that followed.

I generally don't write about 9/11.  I'm too unskilled a writer to capture the experience in its entirety, too unskilled to even capture my experience, and the pieces I could cover have been well written elsewhere.

For two weeks I have been meaning to write about other things.  For two weeks those things have remained unwritten.

Please forgive me for clogging up things with yet another 9/11 entry.  It has taken ten years for me to say something very important. 

I have been thinking of those of you who became my disaster buddies, some of whom are writing here now. 

I am so glad to know you and so grateful we had each other that day and in the days following.  So grateful to share our stories when we needed or to remain silent, knowing we felt the same, knowing there was no need to attempt to explain or describe.

If I could I would spend the day with you in the city I still believe to be the finest on Earth.  I would buy you a beer and give you a hug.

I love you guys.   Not just because of that horrible day, but for everything, for every day.  I'm sorry I don't say that more often.

To you, and to the town that was once ours and in some way always will be:  Thank you.