Hero Worship: The Tale of my Fry encounter
Current mood: ecstatic
Category: Movies, TV, Celebrities

In these past few months, I have felt the lowest of lows.  Monday night, I felt higher than I'd ever been.  I met my hero.

Setup:  It was a long day at work.  I didn't get off until nearly nine o'clock.  I called my room mate as soon as I got out, thinking I would go to the gym for a quick workout, and then meet up with her and some of her friends for a drink in celebration of her upcoming birthday.  Simple enough plans for a Monday evening.  For some reason, something compelled me to take my phone onto the gym floor with me, instead of leaving it in the locker as I usually do.  Thank God I did.

After five minutes on the bike, I picked up my phone to check my email.  Low and behold, it seems that my friend Ben had called, leaving a somewhat frantic voicemail, saying that I needed to drop whatever I was doing and get down to Second City on the double.  As I listened to the voicemail, he sent a text, asking what I was doing.  What the hell could be so important?  I wondered.  I started to text him back and he called again.

"Hello?"

"Thank God you picked up your phone!  Listen, where are you right now?"

"At the gym.  Why?  What's going on?"

"Oh man.  You have about an hour to go home and splash some water on your face and get your ass down to Second City.  Stephen Fry is performing in the improv set tonight!"

Stephen Fry.  Stephen Fucking Fry.  For those of you who have not had the pleasure of hearing me extol the virtues of the one and only Mr. Stephen Fry, here is a quick introduction: he is a novelist, screenwriter, comedian, actor, documentary film maker, director, poet, columnist, game show host, awards show host, philanthropist, manic depression activist, world renowned wit, best friend and comedy partner of Hugh Laurie, college classmate of Emma Thompson, and so so much more.  He wrote my favorite book.  He stars in my favorite movie.  His career is everything I want.  He is the only human being I know of who, without making some sort of significant scientific discovery, has become famous for simply being intelligent.

"You're shitting me.  Stephen Fry?  The Stephen Fry?"

"Yes!  He's here filming something for the BBC.  You need to-"

"I've only been on the bike for five minutes and I don't smell.  I'm on my way."

Fifteen minutes later, I am sitting on a Brown Line train, willing it to go faster, knowing I only had a very small window in which to get to Second City.  I made it just in time, met Ben, grabbed a seat, and literally was able to take one great big breath before the lights went down.  RedCo, one of Second City's touring companies, was on the Mainstage that night, and as they all filed on stage, I realized that Ben and I were sitting directly behind a camera man and a boom mike operator. 

"Tonight, we have a very special guest who is going to perform some improv with us," said the MC, "He is the winner of a Lifetime Achievement Award from the British Comedy Awards.  Please welcome Stephen Fry!"

The top of a head, sporting somewhat long, floppy, slightly graying hair emerged from one of the doorways and ducked down to allow the large frame it was attached to to enter the stage.  It was him.  It was really Stephen Fry.  I could not believe my luck!  I mean really, what are the odds that Stephen Fry would be performing on the very night when one of my friends, who just happened to know that I adored the man to the point of obsession, happened to be working at the box office, where someone happened to tell him Stephen Fry was in the audience?  And further still, what are the odds that I would have just happened to get off work late, causing me to be set back an hour in my workout at the gym, so I just happened to not be covered in sweat when I answered the phone, that I just happened to bring into the gym with me?  This was meant to happen.  There is no other explanation.

Stephen's stint with the improvers was most interesting.  Although he is a brilliant writer, Stephen's skills at the fine art of spontaneous character development are not quite as sharp as some of his other talents.  His cleverness at weaving language into a beautifully confusing and educational tapestry, however, is astonishing.  He was so endearingly nervous, to the point of turning away to giggle at the other performer's antics like a Japanese school girl.  For a good portion of the night, the other players had to coax him into scenes, but once he was in, an amazing array of syllables would begin to tumble from his lips.  To everyone's surprise, he was the first one to drop the F-bomb.  Stephen has never been shy about profanity, which you might know if you've ever read one of his books. 

After the set ended, I kept my eyes peeled, thinking they might break my heart and sneak him out the back way.  But no.  There he was, right at the side of the stage, chatting with what I assume was one of his production crew.  Ben thrust a pen and a menu into my hands and shoved me in the right direction.  I got up close to Stephen, made brief eye contact and smiled.  He smiled back, then turned and joined the masses who were flooding out the door.  I couldn't believe that no one was chasing him down…like I was.  I followed him out to the bar, where he ordered a vodka and tonic, then stood peacefully by, awaiting his libation.  I jumped on the moment.

"Hi," I said, extending my hand to him.  He graciously shook it, strangely shielding his right arm (I later learned this was because he had severely broken it while filming in Brazil a few months ago).  His hands, though massive, were soft, and his grip was delicate.  "I am such a big fan of yours," I began to babble, an insufferably sycophantic grin spreading all the way across my face and ending at the back of my head, "I have read all of your books.  I've seen all of your movies.  I was even watching episodes of QI this morning on YouTube."

"Oh, thank you.  How kind of you.  I'm so sorry that that is the only way for you to see them," he said in that gorgeously dulcet baritone of his.  One of Stephen's many claims to fame is having been the narrator of the Harry Potter books in his native England, and as he spoke, I flashed back to a certain summer when I had downloaded some of those narrations.  If you get a chance, give them a listen.  His character voices are simply amazing.

"My friend called me earlier-we're both interns here-and told me you were going to be here and I just had to come and see you."

"How very kind.  You intern here, you say?  What do you do?"

Oh my God, Stephen Fry is actually carrying on a conversation with me!  He's interested in me!  It was at this moment that I realized how odd this conversation was, in that I knew far more about him than he would ever know about me.  I'd read his autobiography; I knew things like how he lost his virginity, why he had spent time in jail, and that he had tried to kill himself two times.  I wanted to hold his hand in mine and explain to him how much he'd meant to me, how much he'd inspired and touched me, and how much I wanted to be like him.  But I knew from reading the aforementioned autobiography that he hated these kinds of encounters, so I held back.

"Oh, I work in the administrative offices," I said, "I'll be in here tomorrow morning, so I might as well just sleep here tonight I suppose!" Oh God, did I just make such a lame ass joke to Stephen Fucking Fry?

"Wonderful.  Have you gotten a chance to be on stage here yet?"

"Yes, actually!  I just finished a show over the weekend.  The interns have their own troupe.  We perform in the SkyBox on the fourth floor.  I'd give you a post card, but I just took them all out of my purse this morning."  Oh God, did you just plug InternCo to Stephen Fucking Fry?..:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

"How wonderful."

At this point, another patron of the comedy arts jumped in on my shinning moment to ask Mr. Fry if he had heard of some troupe in Toronto that Colin Mochrie had been a part of it.  She then encouraged Stephen to Google said troupe.  Weird.  So, before the moment had a chance to slip away from me again, I addressed Stephen once more.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Fry, but would you mind taking a picture with me?"

"Oh no!  Of course not!"  He immediately wrapped his good arm around my shoulder, while I propelled my camera phone into Ben's surprised hands.  Being far too enthusiastic about the fact that my interaction with Mr. Fry had gone so well thus far, I had not readied the phone to take a picture, leaving poor Ben to fumble about nervously under the pressure of Stephen's ever so kind and patient gaze.  When I told Ben that is might expedite the matter if he took his finger from off of the camera lens, Stephen leaned into me and said, "You know men and technology."  Oh God, Stephen Fucking Fry just ripped on Ben!  How awesome is that!

Eventually, Ben was able to get a snap off and I left Stephen's side somewhat reluctantly as another group of fans approached to have their picture taken.  I was giddy the entire way home.

Since then, I have gotten a chance to hear several people's stories about their encounters with Mr. Fry, from my fellow Second City office workers, to a couple of the guys from RedCo, who were lucky enough to get to perform with him in the improv set.  Every single person has remarked at what a genuinely lovely, kind, and smart person Mr. Fry is.  It is gratifying that everyone seems to have had the same experience with him.

This is one of the greatest things that has ever happened to me.  I can only hope that one day, while we are discussing a film project over tea, I'll be able to tell Stephen Fry the story of how I randomly met him one blisteringly cold night at the Second City in Chicago, and how it was a defining moment of my life.

P.S.  Thanks to Ben, without whom this story would not be being told.

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Cause for Review Part 5: The Story of -M-
Current mood: depressed

The way I get into things is usually very organic.  I will be reading/watching/listening to something, when something about that something peaks my interest, and I begin a process of research and discovery (honestly, I can trace pretty much all of my passions/obsession back to that initial discovery of The Who.  Its cliché, but they honestly changed my life).  Let me relate to you the story of one of my latest obsessions; the French musician –M-

I have long had a soft spot for the children of rock stars who try to make names for themselves as musicians, in particular, the Lennon boys, Julian and Sean.  Julian gets a lot of flack for (what is perceived to be) trying to capitalize on his father's fame.  Yes, Julian looks and sounds like his dad, but that's not his fault.  Yes, his first album, Valotte, was very poppy without a lot of substance, but that is to be expected from a debut venture.  But as Julian's career has progressed, it has become clear just how good of a musician he really is.  In my opinion, his last album, 1998's Photograph Smile, is a brilliant piece of work with some absolutely beautiful songs on it.  Being a big supporter of Julian's, I was exited back in '98 to hear that his half brother Sean would be releasing an album as well, called Into the Sun.  I bought it…listened to it once or twice…it just didn't speak to me in the same way that Julian's stuff did.  Oh well, Sean, nice try.  Maybe music's not your thing (Wait a minute! I hear you say, You just liked Julian better because he's the British one!  Sean grew up in New York, that's why you didn't like his album!  Keep reading…)

Cut to early 2007.  For a while, I had been meaning to pick up Sean Lennon's second album Friendly Fire, which had been released the previous October, and when some birthday money came in, I finally had the chance to.  Not expecting much from it, but wanting to support Sean, I took the album home and stuck it in my CD player.  It was utter fucking genius.  If you have not yet heard this album, please contact me and I will make you a copy.  It is such a well crafted, musically and lyrically challenging work, worthy of the blood that is flowing through its creator's veins.  Not only was the music brilliant, the accompanying DVD was extraordinary, with Sean proving he had more acting chops then might have been apparent from his screen debut in Michael Jackson's Moonwalker.

Being thoroughly infatuated with Sean at this point, I sought out his MySpace music page in order to keep abreast of all his current projects.  One day, a video appeared on the sight, simply stating that it was a behind the scenes shoot with Sean and -M-.  Funnily enough, I knew who –M- was already…kind of. 

Flash back to the previous summer, where a friend and I were deciding what movie we should watch for the evening.  Upon learning that he possessed a copy of The Triplettes of Belleville, I requested that we view this film, as it was one I had been wanting to see.  While I enjoyed the film itself, it was really the Academy Award nominated theme song that caught my attention.  The singer of this song, you ask?  A French rock musician by the name of Matthieu Chedid, better known by his stage name of –M-.  Something about his trembling falsetto intrigued me, so much so that I downloaded the tune soon after viewing the movie.  For six months, it sat on my iPod, occasionally making me smile whenever it popped up on my Shuffle with its wackiness and almost indecipherable lyrics .

Now back to the present (actually, about four months ago).  I see this video on Sean Lennon's MySpace page, and I think "Oh cool!  That's that French guy who sings 'Belleville Rendezvous.'  I guess him and Sean are buddies."  I watched the video, and from what I could make out (the video was entirely in French, and I remember very little from French class in high school.  What do I remember from French class in high school, you ask?  J'adore actors anglais.  Guess what that means...) it seemed that Sean and Matthieu were recording a re-mixed, French language version of my favorite song from Sean's album, "Parachute."  Very cool.  Once again, there was just something that seemed so captivating about –M-, so I did what I always do when I'm intrigued…you guessed it.  Research.  Only now, the library has been replaced by Wikipedia, IMDB, and YouTube.  After wading through many a French website, I discovered some of –M-'s music videos, thus giving me a way to discover his more popular tunes at the same time as witnessing his peculiar visual sensibilities.  Not only is the man a total showman (he wears his hair in the shape of his favorite letter, which gives him the appearance of a sort of grown up Eddie Munster) but he is a fantastic musician.  His voice is haunting, his melodies complex and catchy, and his lyrics (once translated into a form I could understand) were surreal and enchanting.

So yes…I happen to like French rock music.  Do I like it because it is obscure?  No (it's not obscure in France, anyway).  Do I like it because it's easy to sing along to?  Obviously not.  Do I like it because I think its good music?  Hell yes!

As an added bonus, I'll bring everything full circle: just after discovering –M-, I found a recording of him singing a Jacques Brel song called "Au Suivant" or, in English, "Next," on a tribute CD.  Jacques Brel was a French singer/songwriter from the 1960's who was a very big influence on a young David Bowie.  Bowie himself covered a handful of Brel tunes, specifically "Port of Amsterdam," which was an unreleased track from the Pin-Ups album, an entire album of cover tunes.  Among those covers were two songs by a certain hard rock British 60's band… Yep, you guessed it.  The Who.  Bowie also repeated this tribute about twenty five years later when he contributed his version of "Picture of Lily" to a Who tribute album entitled Substitute: The Songs of the Who.  Want me to keep going?  Because I can…and will!  In 1989 The Who contributed to an Elton John tribute album called Two Rooms, in which they sang a cover of "Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting," a sort of shout out to Elton, who had previously covered their song "Pinball Wizard" back in '75 for the movie version of Tommy.  Elton did another cover around the same time, a version of the Beatle's song "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds," which was inspired by John Lennon's son, Julian, who had drawn a childishly surrealistic picture of a school friend.  Now let's see, who else do we know with the last name of Lennon…possibly the guy who started the whole story off…Sean himself!  So, you see? >Sean Lennon and –M- were intrinsically linked through some of my favorite artists long before they met each other, and long before I liked either one of them (and if you're wanting me to make that last link something more than a simple blood relationship, both Sean and Julian have covered dear old dad's songs on several occasions)!

Currently listening : Friendly Fire (CD+DVD) By Sean Lennon Release date: 03 October, 2006

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Cause for Review Part 4: Obscure vs. Mainstream
Current mood: content
Category: Blogging

From The Who, all else followed.  I researched their predecessors and learned to love The Rolling Stones and The Beatles in a way I hadn't previously done (probably because my mother liked them, and we all know that anything our parents liked was sooo not cool).  There came a second revelation in the form of David Bowie, whose surreal androgyny, theatrical tendencies, and equally un-lovey songs attracted me for obvious reasons.  And then came the outpouring of music; Elton John, Eric Clapton, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors, the Byrds, the Greatful Dead, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, REM, The Talking Heads, Bob Dylan, Phil Collins, Sting…pretty much anyone who had played at either Woodstock or Monterey Pop and/or was British ( I had accepted my tendency towards Brit worship long before all of this started when I suddenly realized at the age of 11 that everything that appealed to me had been created by a person of the UK persuasion).  I was officially an Anglophiliac hippy (I know, hippies aren't angry people, but that just goes to show you about the duality of human nature)

This is where a defining piece of my personality and the biggest misconception about me converge.  Almost everyone I have ever known has accused me of (or at least thought it true of me) enjoying anything underground, weird, counter-culture, or generally against the mainstream for the pure fact that it is obscure.  Now, explain to me, if you will, how exactly a band like The Who is considered obscure?  Or David Bowie?  Or The Beatles, even?  I grant you, these are unusual pursuits for a person of my gender, age, and national origin.  But they are in no way obscure, and I will fight anyone to the death who continues to think that they are.

So this is the predicament I find myself in; I have never fit in with my contemporaries because I am too alternative for the mainstreamers, and too conventional for the media snobs.  I don't listen to pop Billboard 1 hits, but I also don't listen to local bands with only one or two CD's under their belts.  I listen to classic rock.  I don't read New York Time's best sellers just because everyone else has, but I also don't read esoteric Turkish novels from the 1650's just because no one else has.  I read Oscar Wilde.  I like movies like Dodgeball and Very Annie Mary because they entertain me, but I did not enjoy Dude, Where's My Car? or Blue Velvet because I found both to be boring and pointless.  I will watch shows like Lost and Life on Mars because they interest me, but I don't watch 24 or Star Trek because nothing about them ever caught my attention.  I don't just pick and choose what I like for the sake of impressing someone with my knowledge or because I want to fit in.  I just like what I like. 

Surprisingly, this seems to be a foreign concept to a lot of people, or at least it was when I was growing up.  I remember a girl in high school once telling me that she "admired how brave" I was in dressing the way I did (if you never saw how I dressed in high school, count yourself lucky.  Imagine a 60's flower child, a 70's punk, an 80's goth, and a 90's club kid having an orgy on the streets of London and you'll have a rough idea of what my daily costumes resembled).  It had never occurred to me before that moment that other people (specifically girls) dressed for anyone other than themselves.  All I knew was that I liked bright colors, glitter, Doc Martins, graphic t-shirts, and blue jeans.  If I saw something in a store that appealed to me, I bought it.  It didn't matter what that store was, or what the label on the inside of the garment said, or what the price was.  The Salvation Army was as good as The Gap, in my opinion (technically, I didn't frequent either one of those places, but you get the point).  I wasn't a non-conformist for the sake of being a non-conformist, either.  There was nothing political in my choice to wear blue lipstick to school.  I just happened to like the color blue against my skin tone.  This matter was once brought to a head by a substitute teacher who insisted I identify what my style of dress was called.  When I told her I didn't know what she meant, that I simply wore what I liked, she said "No!  It has a name!  That look is called something!"  Bewildered, I made up the term "gypsy chic" on the spot, and have used it to describe my "style" ever since.

Just so, I get the same kind of guff for liking British things strictly because they are British.  If this was true, you would think I'd be listening to Amy Winehouse or Lily Allen, or even Mika right now.  And while I don't mind any of those people, I don't particularly care for them either.  If you must know, I'm listening to Billy Joel right now, and rather enjoying him, as it happens.  Ah, I hear you say, but we've already established that you like classic rock.  So you probably like anything that is British and old.  To that, I would counter with the fact that I really do not care for Led Zepplin in the least little bit.  Ah, you start again, but any die-hard Who fan would say that.  Well, that may be true…

However, these kinds of argument fall apart when I point out that although I love actors like Jude Law and Ewan McGregor, I cannot stand either Colin Farrell or Hugh Grant.  I adore Christian Bale, but I can do without Orlando Bloom.  Alan Rickman is a God to me, but I honestly cannot think of a time when I have ever paid to see an Anthony Hopkins movie in the theater.  Not that I particularly hate Sir Tony, understand, but I feel the same way about him that I do about Robert DeNiro; wonderful actor, but his presence alone is not going to cause me to see a movie.  I don't like things just because they are British, but I absolutely do have a British sensibility.  Why is this so?  I have no idea.

Case in point; in the summer of 2004 I heard a song called "Take Your Mama" randomly played on VH1 one day.  I thought to myself This is a catchy song.  I like it.  I wonder who the group is.  I soon discovered that it was a band by the name of Scissor Sisters, a retro-techno-piano-rock-glam band who came out of New York City.  "You see!" I shouted from the roof tops after buying their debut album, "I love this band, and they're American!  Not a single Limey in the pack!"  Sadly, this wonderful group never did really catch on here on their home turf, but guess where they did find an audience…that's right.  England.  They are HUGE there.  Did I know this at the time I began listening to them?  Absolutely not.  I caught on to them at the same time that the Brits did.  There is no other explanation for this, in my opinion, other than that I simply have a British aesthetic.

Currently reading : The Road to Mars (A Post-modem Novel) By Eric Idle Release date: 08 September, 2000

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Cause for Review Part 3: Rock and Roll
Current mood: guilty
Category: Blogging

It was also around this time that I was introduced to the world of rock and roll.  This, as it has been for teenagers around the world for the last fifty years or so, was a mind blowing experience for me.  It all started in the theater.  In 1993 The Who's Tommy hit the Broadway stage, causing a stir amongst the older kids at my community theater.  Interested, but clearly not living close enough to New York to see the show for myself, I had to make do with my mother's faulty copy of the original 1969 LP (she was missing the second record, so as far as I knew, a young boy named Tommy became deaf, dumb and blind for some reason, and then was suddenly older, healed, and a messiah-like figure), which truthfully, scarred the crap out of me.  That is until the 1975 Ken Russell movie version appeared on TV one evening.  Not knowing any better, I assumed the movie would be the same as the Broadway show, as was the case with most movies-cum-musicals.  If you are at all familiar with any of the three versions of Tommy (original album, movie, and musical), you'll know that, while they share a somewhat common story line and more or less the same music, they are vastly different creatures

To an impressionable, curious, pre-teen girl, the surrealistic and often obscene imagery that Ken Russell is so well known for intrigued me to the point of distraction.  And whenever I encountered something I did not understand, it was off to the Bat Cave (aka the Glendale Public Library).  I learned all about the history of Tommy, as well as the history of its creators, The Who.  I remember so clearly the sting of disappointment I felt upon first reading of Keith Moon's early demise.  For some reason, it pained me to think that I would never be able to experience The Who in their full glory. 

But reading can only take you so far in a subject like this; it was time to actually hear what this group of men sounded like.  I replaced disc one of Tommy in the record player with the only other Who album my mother owned, a greatest hits compilation called Meaty, Beaty, Big, and Bouncy (no, I did not understand the innuendo at the time).  Some of the numbers were slightly familiar, particularly "My Generation," which I recognized from an episode of Full House, where Danny Tanner dressed up in a leather outfit and sang the song with Uncle Jesse's band in a bid to prove that he was hip enough to perform at DJ's school dance.  Unfortunately, because Meaty had been released long before the band's career was through, it did not offer a true sampling of all the work they had to offer.  But luckily, one of the greatest box sets in history was just being released: The Who-Maximum R&B.  After some careful, unsubtle hinting, mom plunked down sixty bucks, and it was mine.  For the next sixth months, maybe more, nothing but those four discs were allowed anywhere near my CD player.  Newspaper clippings with quotes from Pete Townshend and Roger Daltrey began to paper my walls and Before I Get Old: The Story of The Who by Dave Marsh became my bible (side note: the only reason I bothered to read the actual Bible in the first place was because I wanted to understand what Jesus Christ Superstar was about.  Rock and roll served the same role for me that religion did for normal people). 

I was a girl obsessed, but not with some teen idol like Jonathan Taylor Thomas or Leonardo DiCaprio, like most of the other girls I knew.  The first man I ever found attractive was Roger Daltrey; that golden-locked, bare-chested, fringed-jacket wearing rock God was my sexual awakening.  The day that I found out that Daltrey had a son who was my age was the day my destiny was decided; I would some day marry Jamie Daltrey, that was all there was too it.  While other lucky girls could simply buy hundreds of posters and plaster their boy of choice all over their rooms, I was eternally, unashamedly in love with a man I had never even seen.

At the same time, in a sort of Electra Complex kind of way, Pete Townshend became my first father figure.  He taught me about spirituality, about disappointment, and about the harsh realities of the world.  His lyrics spoke to me in a way that not much else had at that point and I didn't understand why at the time, but I do now.  The Who's songs, unlike pretty much all pop music that was popular amongst my age group at the time (well, pretty much pop music in general, really), were not about love.  They were about rebellion.  They were about frustration.  They were about action.  The Who were the Angry Young Man's band, and mentally, I was an Angry Young Man.  I know this, because what do Angry Young Men (well, mostly white, middle class, Angry Young Men who don't actually have that much to be angry about) do?  They learn how to play guitar.  And that's what I did.

Currently listening : Meaty Beaty Big and Bouncy By The Who Release date: 24 April, 1996

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Cause for Review Part 2: Corrupter of the Young
Current mood: contemplative
Category: Blogging

It is hard to say why sex appealed to me more as a youngster than love did.  It might have had something to do with the fact that, like many people of my generation, I was raised by a single mother.  I truly do believe that my mother and father were soul mates, because after my father died, my mother did not have any desire to ever marry again.  She dated a few people when I was younger, but she has since explained to me that this had more to do with 1) wanting to find a father for me, and 2) just not being used to being alone.  And so, since I can't remember a man being invited into the house by my mother since I was five years old, I never got to witness any scenes of domestic bliss that many other girls did.  My mother was, and still is, fiercely independent, and resents any implication that she needs a man to survive.  In fact, in my opinion, it was this very insinuation that drove her to embrace single life.  I can just see my poor mom, eight months pregnant, being comforted by co-workers, friends, and relatives alike as she related the shock of loosing her husband to an unexpected fatal heart attack, and listening politely to comments like, "But how are you going to raise the baby on your own?"  To my adorably stubborn mother, a remark like this probably brought up the thought, I'll show them.  I'll raise a perfectly acceptably human being by myself and then we'll see who can't do what!

In the spirit of Manifest Destiny, my parents had decided back in 1978 that it would be a good idea to move out west (not far enough west, in my opinion.  A little bit farther north would have been nice, too.), away from every known, barely known, and unknown relative.  Therefore, the role of "father figure" went unfilled by any uncles or grandfathers.  And since my mother was never a social butterfly (dad filled that role), there were no family friends to fill the slot either.  It wasn't until my teens that I would turn to the media to satisfy that position, but we'll get to that in a bit.

Strangely, as a child (and for parts of my adulthood too), most of my best friends were boys.  I wasn't necessarily a "tomboy" per say, but I wasn't a frilly girley-girl either.  I guess I never understood, like most girls seem to at that age, that I was supposed to be afraid of/disgusted by boys.  Playing pretend with dolls was ok, but I preferred to play pretend with actual people (funny, since I later decided to become a playwright and get paid for doing the same thing), and this seemed to be more of a boyish pursuit.  So instead of playing "house" like the other girls, I got suckered into war games, usually being forced into the role of battlefield nurse, though occasionally, I would get to play a more exciting part like a sniper or a robot.  The natural process of outgrowing the things you actually like to do led from war games into field sports like soccer and kickball.  I tagged along with the boys here too.  I've never been particularly athletic, so I would usually take an easy position like goal keeper or catcher, neither of which required any running, which is still the one physical activity I dread.  But when it became clear that this sort of recess activity did not hold the same kind of creative expression that playing pretend did, I deserted my position on the field, and retreated into the world of geeky bookishness, hunkering under trees and reading things that were far too advanced for my age group.  Thusly, the boys lost interest in me, but I had a way of winning them back.

You see, because of my new found love of the library, and my mother's decision to treat me like an adult and let me read and/or watch pretty much anything I wanted to, I became the corrupter of the young.  I learnt about things before the other children did, and then pissed off many a friend's parent by explaining, in clinical detail, things I still did not fully understand, but which seemed to endlessly fascinate the other children.  In the fifth grade alone, I read, amongst other things, Les Miserables, The Phantom of the Opera, and several biographies of Eva Peron (I was a nerdy theater kid, what can I say?).  I read Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Grey at the tender age of 12, and the careful research that followed the reading of this wonderful masterwork taught me all about that particular brand of boy who enjoys the company of other boys (I should point out that at that time, this was not necessarily common knowledge amongst 12 year olds, like it seems to be today.  Remember, this was before the advent of Will and Grace.  Also, I grew up in an area with a large Mormon population).  A year later, I read 1984, and learned all about pornography (Orwell describes in detail how dirty magazines were manufactured for the expressed purpose of keeping the "prolls" happy and distracted).  The other kids seemed to pick up on the fact that I was privy to knowledge that they were not permitted to explore, so I became a bastion of forbidden information, often holding seminars beneath my tree, innocently believing that the reason the other children were asking me to relate to them passages from my books was that they genuinely liked listening to me read, and not that they were simply titillated by hearing a sex scene described in poetic detail.

Currently listening : Scary Monsters By David Bowie Release date: 28 September, 1999

2:01 PM - 1 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Cause for Review Part 1: Chick Flicks
Current mood: contemplative
Category: Blogging

There is a reason that girls cry while watching chick flicks.  There is a part of every woman (no matter how much she may try to deny it in order to be a hip and modern woman who tries to live her love life as indifferently and lustfully as possible) who wants flowers, chocolates, grand gestures, and romance in general.  That is why you will find, if you dig far enough, that even the staunchest of liberal, independent, feminists will occasionally break down in front of their televisions late at night, clutching their knees to their chests, dabbing away tears with a snotty tissue, and shoveling something salty and/or sweet into their gasping mouths as they watch Meg Ryan/Julia Roberts/Renee Zellweger and Tom Hanks/Richard Gere/Hugh Grant share that truly beautiful kiss on top of a building at night/at the airport/in the pouring rain.  These women will deny that they do such things, but they're lying.  I know, because I used to be one of them.

I can say that for the vast majority of my life, this kind of glurg had no affect upon me.  I was more driven to tears by British independent movies about drug addicts, or surrealistic interpretations of war atrocities, told through the eyes of a child.  Pretty much anything with an accent and a tragedy would have me sniffling and gulping like a puppy with a cold.  But there is a reason that women cry while watching chick flicks, and it wasn't until a little bit later in my life (later than most woman, I suppose) that I understood why.

Women cry at chick flicks because there is also a part of every woman (no matter how fluffy and pink her pillows are, no matter how much she giggles and flips her hair, and no matter how "popular" she is) that knows that she will never have a love like in those movies.  It is not possible.  She may have been kissed in the rain on top of the tallest airport in the world by a man whose only rivals in looks, brains, and kindness are George Clooney, Albert Einstein, and Jesus Christ respectively, but unless he's also a one man orchestra, there won't be any swelling music.  And for women, one silly little element like that is the deciding factor between fantasy and reality. 

It has often been said that chick flicks are a woman's version of porn and in many ways that is true.  Men (not all men, of course, and yes, some women too) strive to have that perfect fuck; that mind blowing orgasm that sends the body hurtling into an unfathomable rainbow of pleasurable sensations that can only equal the eternal ecstasy that heaven supposedly offers us if we've lived a "good life."  Porn lets men pretend that this kind of perfect fuck is possible in the same way that chick flicks let women pretend that the perfect relationship is possible.  Neither really is, and if anyone tells you otherwise, they're exaggerating.

The first time I ever found myself tearing up at the sight of lips meeting in eternal love, the only thought that was going through my head was "I'll never have that."  The reason this thought had never occurred to me before was that up until then, I had not been looking for it.  I never had a desire to be loved with any ferocity, and in this way, I suppose I was a bit stunted in my development as a woman, as most girls seem to acquire that particular kind of longing very early on in their feminine careers, usually honing it while playing out various ideal domestic scenes amongst Barbie and Ken.  My Barbie and Ken, however, were far more interested in sex.  I distinctly remember the first time my mother found my Barbie and Ken sharing a bed together on the third floor of their townhouse (strike that; it was Barbie's townhouse.  Ken just stayed over…every night.  Lazy bastard).  She looked at me with a sort of frightened expression and asked ever so gently, "What are your dolls doing?"  I looked back at her, unblinkingly, from over the top of whatever book I had been reading at the time, and said rather flatly, "They're sleeping together.  What does it look like?"  I was not permitted to watch cable television for the next three months.

Currently listening : Hey Now Girls Just Want To Have Fun By Cyndi Lauper

12:10 PM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

A tale of self pity
Current mood: disappointed
Category: Life

These past months have been very trying for me.  In the course of these past few turns of the moon I have been simultaneously rejected in every facet of my life:  rejected for my writing and artistic endeavors, rejected from two day jobs which would have eventually drained me of what life I had left anyway, rejected countless times in my love life, rejected by those I thought were friends, and most of all, rejected by God...:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

I know there are still those of you that care for me, otherwise I would not be writing this.  I do not set down these sentiments to have them tossed into an endless ether, to let them drift amongst the virtual world of musings on love and pop culture.  Some of you may read this and think it nothing but self pity, melodramatic drivel.  There are some who are used to this sort of thing coming from me and no longer pay it any mind

But let me say this:  I am currently in a state where I no longer recognize myself.  I have spent too many hours in my bed, trying not to think on things, trying only to be numb, to be senseless.  I have never done that before.  I have listened to the words of friends and books who urged me to seek the light that God offers.  I have prayed upon His deaf ears, hoping for some kind of miracle to bring me out of this mire.  But the more one prays, the more the realization of what the priests say dawns on you.  "God helps those who help themselves."  Then what is the point of God?  Is He a false hope on which to set my life?  Does thinking when all else is lost, that there is still one power that is good and kind and will save me from myself do any good at all?  Or is it the blind ambition of generations, wanting to believe that they are not drifting alone in a dark and unfair world?

I am sorry if my words trouble you.  This is my only outlet left, you see.  This is the only way in which I can think of to help myself.  This is the last refuge; the hope that an actual person might read this and take it at face value; that they will not scoff at my pain and think "She's always whining.  When will she just learn to be happy?"  I know that my life may seem charmed to some.  I grant you that there are millions of others whose pain is far worse than my own.  I have not felt true loss.  I have not felt true need.  My life has been simple and privileged in a wider view.

But this is part of what fills me with such emptiness.  I feel as though I have not lived.  I feel as though these 24 years of life have been a waste.  I have nothing to show for them, after all.  And I do not speak of fame or fortune.  I speak now of love.  I have never known another who has loved me, and I begin to doubt I ever will.  Everything inside me tells me that I was meant to live a solitary life; to be a mere observer who records objectively what the human experience is like.  This is the fate I think God has set aside for me.  To live out the lives of others.  Why else would I not be permitted to have a life of my own?  When then would the simplest of relationships bring me nothing but pain and misery?  Why have I never felt that I could function as a part of society as it stands today?

Think what you will about how disgusting my self pity is.  Think, if you must, that I have everything to live for.  No one knows my true self, not even me.  I've kept her hidden amongst the piles of facts and lies I spout every day.  My fingers tremble now because they know these are the truest words I have ever written.  The crystalline drops of moister on my cheeks speak more volumes about my current state of mind than a thousand verses of poetry ever could.

I want to be rid of this emptiness.  My vain hope in recording these thoughts as they come to me now is that some one will read them and bring me back to the person I was.  This is me helping myself.  This is not self pity.  This is truth.  This is one of hundreds of attempts to set myself right.  I know no other way. 

I know there are still those that love me, and I know that these words might hurt them.  I know they do not want to see me in such a state.  To them, I say this: your kindness has not gone unheeded.  I treasure you and hope that you will always be with me.  Do not feel that I have forsaken your love by writing this.  I hold you words of encouragement close to my heart like a miser protecting his last few pieces of precious gold.  You are among the few things that keep me alive right now, so please do not feel that I have not heard you.

But to the others, the others who lie and pledge their undying love and friendship, whose promises are made to dust and dirt, I know you will not listen to me now.  You are the ones who won't even bother to read this passage, who are so consumed by your own lives that you care not for the ones who you leave broken and crying amongst the refuse.  If I have caused you even one tiny pang of guilt, then I am vindicated.

And to the last of my tormenters, the one whom we call God, what is there to say that hasn't already been said by others, whose words are far more eloquent than mine?  If you are there, if you truly do love us, if you are listening, and if you can act...I beg you to do so.  Not just for me, but for all who suffer.  Bring us some measure of comfort.  You gifted us this life, which we are then told to be grateful for, but how can we when we spend our time trying so desperately to be happy?  Things are unbalanced as they stand now and I refuse to worship you until they are set right!

I have exhausted myself now.  I hear the sweet whisper of sleep calling, but I must resist.  I have succumbed to that temptation all too often in the past week.  If you have continued with me this long, I thank you.  I will try, once more, to raise myself up with nothing but my own will to support me, but I don't know how long I can last this time.  If you have love for me in your heart, I will know it.  There are so few things I recognize now, but that is the one thing I am able to see.  Thank you for your time.  I hope the next time I speak, it will be to bring you something more profound and less...pitiful.

11:06 AM - 4 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

In the Belfrey
Current mood: uncomfortable
Category: Writing and Poetry

Ok guys, here's something new I've been working on.  Let me know what you think of it, if it captures your attention and interest.  I'm most interested in whether the atmosphere I'm trying to establish is coming across, so let me know.  Other than that, any comments, praise or advice, are greatly appreciated, especially if it's constructive.  Most of all, enjoy the read!

Fiona shone just as brightly as the ten carat red diamond that hung from the chain around her neck as she greeted the myriad of guests who flooded into the parlor.  Hand after hand was offered to her, each with an accompanying "Congratulations."  "I'm sure you'll be very happy," said one person.  "A match made in heaven," said another.  She glanced across the room, where her fiancé Richard stood, receiving the same guests with the same handshakes and the same "Congratulations."  He smiled half heartedly at her, then turned his attention to the Colonel and his wife, who had stepped up to greet him. 

Fiona noticed Tilly, one of the maids, standing anxiously in the doorway of the parlor, trying to catch her attention.  She shook one last hand, then approached Tilly.  "Is something the matter?" she asked in hushed tones. 

Tilly glanced around the room quickly, then leaned closer to Fiona.  "He's asking for you, mum," she whispered, "He's very upset." 

Fiona sighed, then nodded slowly.  "I'll go see him.  If anyone asks where I've gone, just tell them that I'm answering a very important message."  Tilly nodded dutifully and moved aside so that Fiona could pass her. 

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Fiona never did care for the creaky stairs that lead up to the attic.  Every time she climbed them she felt as if she was being watched by every previous occupant of the vast manor.  As she came to the top of the stairs, she reached into her pocket and retrieved the ancient skeleton key that unlocked the intricately carved door before her.  She stepped inside the room, cautiously peering around the threshold.  "Jacob?" she called out.  She took a further step into the room and made sure to shut and lock the door behind her.  Then she spotted him, seated underneath the window with his long blond hair hanging over his face, clutching his knees to his chest and rocking back and forth.  "Jacob?" she said again. 

This time he heard her.  His head snapped up and a smile spread onto his thin, pink lips.  "There you are!  Where have you been?" he breathed.  In an instant he was on his feet and in her arms, his face buried in her long auburn tresses as he kissed her neck and ears and anything else he could reach. 

Fiona indulged him for a moment, then pulled away gently.  "Tilly said you were asking for me," she said.  Jacob placed his hands on either side of her face and looked directly into her eyes. 

"He's coming for you, Fiona.  He wants you," he said, wild eyed. 

"Who wants me, Jacob?" 

"He's coming for you!  I have to protect you!  He said he would come and take you away!" Jacob cried, kissing her eyelids and her forehead. 

Fiona placed her hand on his cheek and gently tried to turn his face to focus on hers.  She always found that if she could get him to look directly into her eyes, he would speak with a bit more clarity.  "Jacob, who is coming for me?" she asked. 

"Lucifer," Jacob hissed, "He's coming to make you his bride!  But I won't let him!"  He wrapped his arms tightly around her and pulled her down with him as he sank to his knees, sobbing onto her shoulder.  "He can't have you!  I won't let him!  I'll protect you!  You're mine, he promised.  He promised you to me!  He said I could have you and now he wants you for himself!" 

Fiona sighed.  "It's alright, Jacob.  No one's coming for me.  I'm safe," she cooed, rubbing his back. 

Jacob sat back on his heals, tears still streaming down his face.  He grasped her hands in his, kissing her fingertips and knuckles individually.  "No, he is coming.  I heard him.  He whispered it to me and…he wants you for his bride, Fiona.  But don't worry.  I'll protect you." 

She tried to smile at him.  "Jacob, do you know what tomorrow is?" she asked. 

Jacob thought for a moment.  "All Hallow's Eve?" he asked.  Fiona shook her head.  "Then surely it must be All Saint's Day," he said. 

Fiona shook her head and laughed.  "No, Jacob.  Do you know what is happening tomorrow?"  Jacob cocked his head to one side and squinted his eyes a little.  "I'm getting married tomorrow, Jacob." 

His eyes widened again and he grasped her shoulders tightly.  "You can't!  Fiona, you can't marry him!  He promised you to me!  He promised you to me!" 

Fiona quickly shushed him, putting her finger to her lips.  "It's not Lucifer, Jacob.  His name is Richard.  Father arranged it." 

Jacob's face fell.  "What?  Why?" he whimpered. 

"I have to, Jacob.  I don't want to, but I have to.  Richard is very wealthy.  If I marry him, we can afford to get you some proper help." 

"I don't need help, I need you!  Are you leaving me?  Why are you leaving me?  Don't you love me?" 

"Of course I love you, sweetheart.  I'll only be leaving for a little while.  Richard and I are going to ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />France for a few weeks, but then we'll be back.  I wouldn't leave this house or you, you know that." 

Tears once again began to pour from Jacob's eyes.  "You can't leave me, Fiona," he whimpered. 

Fiona felt tears begin to well up in her eyes.  "I don't want to leave you, my love, but I must.  I'm doing this for you.  I'll be back before you even know I'm gone, I promise." 

Jacob fell forward, sobbing hysterically, and laid his head in her lap.  Fiona helplessly stroked his hair, not knowing what else to do to calm him.  The door behind her opened and someone stepped into the room.  She knew who it was without ever turning around.  "I thought you told him," she said over her shoulder. 

"You know he doesn't understand anything I tell him," Roderick said in a low, flat voice.  He came and knelt beside her and looked sadly down at his only son, whose tears had faded into juvenile hiccups. 

"I'm afraid to leave him for so long, father.  Perhaps I can convince Richard to come back early," Fiona said. 

"How would you explain wanting to cut your honeymoon short?" 

"Well, I'll have to tell him about Jacob eventually.  He's already asking me why I want to stay here and not move to his family's estate." 

"You can explain it after the marriage has been consummated.  The longer we can keep him in the dark, the better." 

Jacob suddenly seemed to notice that someone else was in the room and sat up.  "Hello father," he said somewhat happily, wiping the tears away from his cheeks with the heel of his hand. 

"Hello, Jacob.  How are you doing today, my boy?" Roderick asked formally, yet warmly. 

"I'm…I'm weary, father," Jacob said, "I hear so many things…the birds outside, the twitter incessantly and the things that they whisper…they keep bringing me messages but none that are meant for me.  I think they get confused because they've been given the wrong address…"  He trailed off, starring intently at a dark spot on the floor. 

"I'll have the gardener trim the tree outside so they can't bother you," Roderick said, but Jacob didn't seem to hear him, so he turned to Fiona.  "You should go back down stairs.  People are beginning to wonder where you've gone." 

Fiona nodded.  "Jacob, I have to go now, but I'll be up to see you after dinner, alright?" 

Jacob looked at her with rapt attention.  "Be careful, Fiona," he whispered, "He'll be looking for you and I can't hold him at bay from up here." 

"I'll keep an eye out," Fiona said, forcing herself to smile at him.  She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.  Jacob ran a rough hand through her hair and kissed her lips several times before she got to her feet.  Roderick rose too, taking one last look into his son's wild eyes before escorting Fiona to the door. 

"I love you, Fiona!" Jacob shouted as the door closed. 

The moment Roderick's key was out of the lock, Fiona fell onto his chest, weeping.  "I can't stand this any more!" she wailed. 

Roderick clutched her to him, placing his lips on the top of her head.  "It breaks my heart as much as it does yours, my dear," he said softly, "This is precisely why you should go with Richard to France.  It's time you were away from him, if only for a little while.  You've catered to him long enough." 

"Why shouldn't I cater to him?  It's my fault he's like this, after all." 

"It wasn't your fault, Fiona.  You have to stop blaming yourself."  Fiona sniffled a little and raised her head.  Roderick took out his handkerchief and dabbed the tears from her cheeks.  "He's lucky to have a sister as devoted as you," he said softly. 

Fiona nodded, desperately trying to regain her composure.  "I'm alright, I'm alright," she said, heaving a heavy breath, "Let's go back downstairs."

Richard stood at the foot of the stairs, waiting for them.  "Where ever did you disappear to, my dear?  Everyone's been asking for you," he said with a smile, offering her his arm to Fiona.