At the end of the movie American Beauty, Chris Cooper's marine colonel murders Kevin Spacey's character. This happens after Cooper's homosexual advance is spurned by Spacey, an advance that exposes the inner nature of many overtly angry homophobes: that they themselves are gay and use anger to blanket such feelings. Outside of Hollywood, we've seen this pattern repeated in Right-Wing senators and Ultra-Conservative Religious figures.
If you are unaware, Lyds and I have two kitties, Simon and Pandora. They're both female, even though Simon is gender confused and thinks he's a boy. Regardless, these two female kitties engage daily in a ritual not unlike the rage of a closet case being discovered.
Many times upon waking from a nap, a nap usually taken while snuggled up together, they decide to help one another clean the area they themselves cannot alone: their face. Each begins to lick the other's noggin, and all is well for a minute or so. They're happy, relaxed... but almost immediately after a few cleaning licks have taken place, they always, always, always engage in an all out hiss-fight, with back-bent ears and snarling mouths.
I could be wrong, but I'm guessing they're closeted lesbians, and as they fully wake up from their naps and realize what they're in the middle of doing, Christian Kitty Guilt hits them full force and causes them to lash out at one another. "You tricked me! I'm no lesbian! I would never lick another female kitty when in my right mind!"
I'm going to ask the government for a million dollar grant to study homosexual animal guilt.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
I Remember Harry Houdini
When I was ten, my parents allowed me to make my first real life decision.
We were moving again, leaving Milwaukee and heading north to Appleton, WI. Gainful employment awaited my father at a local hospital, where he was going to work in something along the lines of administrative training.
The decision to be made was what grade to place me in at school. When I was in kindergarten--many years and cities previous--my mother stopped by the classroom one day and discovered me sitting inside my flip-top desk, playing with Hot Wheels cars while the rest of the students were doing reading assignments. Asking the teacher why I was allowed to fuck around and not pay attention, she was told I was already above and beyond the rest of the class in the language arts department, and thus was given "extra free time." Not wanting her son to miss out on any opportunities, my mother arranged for me to travel from kindergarten into 2nd grade during the reading portion of class.
Switching classrooms was un-nerving for my wee sensibilities, and on my first day, when everyone was ushered onto the floor and into a sitting-circle to read, I was so nervous I eventually peed myself. Not knowing anyone had intimidated me into trying to hold it instead of asking for a bathroom pass. I had been lying on the floor, pressing my little hips down as hard as possible in order to try and create a pressure that would hold the urine in, which of course that didn't work. A trickle became a torrent, and soon I was soaking in a puddle of my own piddle, with my clothes absorbing it like Bounty and creating a nice wet spot from nipples to knees across my front.
Though that auspicious beginning should have been the end of my days of advancement, instead I began being bumped up entire grades. In 3rd grade I was moved forward two levels, so when the time came to move to Appleton I was technically ready to enter what was known back then as Junior High. I would have been ten and entering 7th grade.
My parents were split on the issue. I was very young and would easily be the smallest child, and therefore the largest target, there. Even the un-cool kids would be able to vent their hormonal frustrations onto me. But, as I had already completed the grades others my age were attending, why would I mingle among them a second time? After discussing it heatedly amongst themselves and coming to no conclusion, I was asked what I wanted to do: enter 5th grade and be around kids my own age, enter 6th grade and be slightly younger but mostly compatible with those around me, or venture onward into a Doogie Howser future of academics and angst. I've no idea why I chose the way I did, but I opted to start all over and mingle with my peers in the 5th grade of Franklin Elementary. Maybe I was shooting myself in the academic foot, maybe it was explained to me that I would find the easiest assimilation there, but whatever the reason the outcome remained: I would be repeating two grades, thankfully without the stigma of having been held back.
Arriving in Appleton, the biggest shock to my system was the small-town societal psyches. In Milwaukee, I had been a minority in the next-door-to-inner city; in Appleton, all was white. With isolation, then, came fear and judgment. Even among those at my young age were racial epitaphs being tossed about with a surprising casual nature. I was confused; here everyone was complaining about "niggers," when there weren't even any black people in town. As a child, I had no idea what impact media portrayal played on a people's beliefs. If you have no interaction with a race, religion or sexual orientation, yet are exposed through your television set to either gross stereotypes or only the most negative of events, you will form a perception based not in truth, but limited exposure. Thus you will consider yourself aware while remaining utterly ignorant, an interesting irony.
Donna White had been my first schoolyard crush, back at the 38th St. School in Milwaukee. A cute little blonde, she taught me the importance of athleticism and alpha male attitude by favoring David Sutphen over me. David was going to be the next Pele, where I was, well, not. Learning from this rejection, after moving to Appleton and discovering Melanie Marceau, who became my second classroom crush, I quickly signed up to play soccer that I might impress her. Unfortunately, soccer wasn't exactly as popular in Appleton as it had been in Milwaukee. Sadly, I was reaching for the low rung on the jock-oriented totem pole. Even worse, upon first meeting Melanie I believe I said in the worst French accent possible, "Ah, Marceau, eh?" and pantomimed a bit, probably the "I'm in a box" routine. At the time, I took her look to suggest she heard the bit all too often, but I'd go on record today and guess she had no idea who Marcel Marceau was and that she simply thought me a freak.
Over the course of the school year, though, I wore Melanie down and in summer actually got her to go on one date with me. It was, in fact, my first date ever, and it was every bit as lovely and awkwardly embarrassing as first dates are supposed to be. My mom drove me to Melanie's house, where I got in the back of the car and she sat up front. The two women then chatted happily while I did my best not to die of mortification. Having mom there was bad enough. Having my date enjoying her company was a fate worse than karaoke with your co-workers. Your boss might think he can sing, but no, no he cannot.
(Like Kanye West when his voice synth is turned off).
In my mind, I wanted to be driving. It would have been so cool had I at my young age been able to roll up all on my own. Melanie would have been so impressed, she probably would have let me get all the way to second base, which for an eleven-year-old boy meant rubbing a girl whose chest was the same curvature as my own.
To make matters worse, my mom had to buy the tickets for my mid-day matinee; the theater wouldn't sell seats to such young kids. No idiot I, I wanted to take Melanie to a scary movie, one I had just seen and knew would startle her right into my waiting arms. The previous weekend, my mom had taken the family to the theater, but had done so without researching exactly what it was she wanted everyone see. There was a blockbuster of epic proportions currently running riot across the country, a family friendly crowd-pleaser that was getting great reviews and selling out theaters everywhere. Approaching the ticket booth with her husband, son and six-year-old daughter, my mom told the teen ticket clerk she needed "Two adults and two children for the new Speilberg film she'd heard about." Well, this was enough for any teen with a sense of humor to send us into the horror movie Mr. Steven had just produced. The woman hadn't, after all, said, "the movie Speilberg directed."
It wasn't until the paranormal researcher began tearing his own face off in a bathroom did my mom ultimately understand we were seeing the wrong movie. As quickly and quietly as she could, she escorted my terrified and crying sister out of Poltergeist and into the lobby. My dad and I refused to budge, however, and remained and had a dandy of a time.
The next day, three of us returned--my dad had had enough of the movies for one weekend--and tickets to E.T. were purchased. It was near sold out by the time we arrived, and we could only find two seats together. Mom and sister took them, leaving me to my own devices. Now, the funny thing about embarrassment is, it's something we generally do to ourselves. As I was sitting all alone, there was no way for anyone in the packed theater to know I was my mother's son; any actions of mine would in no way reflect her, sitting rows away with her daughter. Yet at the movies climax, as E.T. withered away and several hundred people started crying, a laugh rose above the sniffled din, and my mother began to grow beet red.
"It's a goddamn puppet and a contrived scene!" I would have yelled had I known what emotional manipulation was. I simply understood I was being toyed with, and I wanted nothing to do with it. As the puppet "died," and hoards of people blew their runny noses and wiped teary eyes, I laughed harder and harder, to the point I almost peed myself like it was second grade reading period.
So the allure of E.T. was lost on me, as was the fun of Poltergeist on my mom. Sadly, when it came to my first date, as Melanie was female, she enjoyed neither the scary movie nor my company. Melanie Marceau was my first date, but that one moment was also our last. Nichole Bouvery was my second Appleton crush, but she never even deemed do dine with me a single time. Oddly enough, I cannot recall the name of the one who did become my first girlfriend, which happened in Appleton in 6th grade. I can remember her brown hair, blue eyes and spotted freckles, but no name rushes to the forefront of my memory. It's funny how failure and rejection remains ingrained, while success fades with time.
Soccer having been a poor choice of "cool" sports, as the days grew short and winter entered into the Northern Wisconsin town, basketball became my next attempt to attract women. I remember playing one game, for about one minute, and shooting one basket for two points. Beyond that I was a benchwarmer. Being new to the sport meant I wasn't all that good at it, so I practiced, and practiced often. Even in the cold outdoors of lunch and recess, when we were supposed to run around to create warmth, if no snow was on the ground I'd be on the outdoor court performing shooting drills. This ultimately led to my demise. One winter day, I threw the ball through the air, and like most of my shots it was well off the mark. The basketball lodged itself between the rim and the backboard, leaving me to climb up and knock it free. Unable to retain a grip while wearing gloves, I barehanded it up the cold metal piping and reached for the stuck sphere. Dislodging the ball was easy enough; getting down was not. While my original plan had been to simply let go and fall to the ground, I had not anticipated my bare skin freezing lightly to the pole, making my dismount ungraceful to even the most forgiving judge. Instead of descending feet forward, I managed to somehow pull my hand back in alarm, and then twist and drop to the concrete elbows first.
What happened next comes in snippets to my memory.
I landed and heard a crunch emanate from my left elbow. Springing to my feet, though no doctor I, I could tell something was wrong given the new geometric angles my jacketed arm was sporting. I started to scream, and made a crying dash for the school. Only one teacher was my nemesis back then, she who thought I was a brat and a troublemaker, and while she was probably right, she was also a bitter cunt of a woman. Proof of that harsh label lay in her next action. As I ran screaming and crying past her, one arm holding the malformed mess of the other, she actually grabbed my collar and said something about not being allowed inside until the bell had sounded. I pulled free and bellowed "FUCK YOU," something she tried getting me suspended for, and darted into the office where I passed out.
According to my mother, the school, acting in its infinite wisdom and compassion, neither called an ambulance, or her with worry in their voice. Their direct quote was, "You need to come pick Nathan up, he's in our office." That's all they would say. Unsure why, my mother did not rush out the door, but took all the steps she needed to in order to leave work early. According to her best estimates, I sat in the office with a shattered elbow for anywhere between an hour and ninety minutes until she arrived. By the time my mother walked through the door, I was sheet-white, deliriously fading in and out of consciousness and couldn't walk. Though my mother should have demanded an ambulance on the spot, she was too panicked and enraged and had the principle help her carry the chair I was haphazardly balancing on to her car. She hurried me to the emergency room, something a mere half mile away, where the doctors looked me over, then quickly re-set my elbow, saying it was merely dislocated.
Fortunately for my future, I was an inquisitive little bugger, and as they were rolling me out the door in a wheelchair I innocently asked, "So it's ok that I can't feel or move my hand?" Whoever was pushing me paused in his tracks, and then and only then, decided to order some X-Rays.
What they discovered was the bone had not just dislocated, it had shifted and several pieces that make up the joint were pinching my nerve. Apparently only a few more hours of remaining in such condition would have rendered my left arm a paperweight. Had I not opened my mouth and asked, had I asked when we got home and had been told to come in the next morning, any small little accident of fate and the nerve would have died and today I'd be typing these words one handed. Feel free to insert your own on-line masturbation joke here, if you wish.
I had immediate surgery, which made me nervous, but all I remember was a ceiling and a man telling me to count backwards from ten. I made it to eight. After that I had a lovely plaster cast outside my arm and two metal pins inside it. I quit basketball, as sitting on the bench hadn't done much for my self-esteem anyway.
While I wouldn’t actually go back and change a single day of my life, I do sometimes smile and wish the elbow event had occurred later on, say in the 1990's. By then my family and I would have known all bout lawsuits. In the early 1980's, however, suing the shit out of someone wasn't yet the fashion trend it became. So the school system that should have been bankrupted by a settlement, the hospital that would have made my family millionaires due to negligence and incompetence, well, they both got off scott-free.
Bummer.
Appleton gave me my first glimpses into what would become my living, though there would be no way of knowing that at the time. Stand up comedy first reached my eyes and ears in those young years through the ignorance of the elderly and the excitement of youth. My maternal-side grandmother lived fifteen minutes away in a town called Kaukauna, and we visited often. I would find out much later in life that grandmother's house was used as an escape both from and for infidelity and arguments at home, but as a child it was simply a visit. Kaukauna, for the record, is a town whose major industry is a paper mill. If you've never smelled one, it is eerily akin to that of a freshly filled diaper. Thus every time we visited my grandmother, I thought she had had an "accident," something that I feared came with advanced age. But, she made me Oscar Meyer cheese-filled hot dogs whenever I wanted, something my mother frowned upon, so I always forgave the smell for the reward of my taste buds.
My grandmother, like most spoiling grandparents, would usually take me shopping for little nothings. We generally went to the dime store downtown, but on occasion sojourned at the mall where the biggest and best presents lay. It was on one of these jaunts I made one of the most important discoveries of my life. Perusing the KISS albums in the record store, I browsed my way past an album with an interesting cover. What you have to realize is, these were not the wimpy little CD's of today, in tiny casings with miniature artwork. I was looking at 33 rpm, vinyl records inside big cardboard packages, where the covers jumped out at you and you could see them from across the store. On this particular day, I saw an album with a man on the cover. He was faking one finger up his nose, was sitting on the dunce's chair in front of a chalkboard that had the words "Class Clown" inscribed on it. I had no idea what it was, but I knew I wanted it. I was a class clown, and the idea of picking your nose was hilarious to me. Seeing as there were no "Parental Advisory Stickers" back then, I pointed, my grandmother shrugged, and I took home a copy of one of George Carlin's most infamous records. To say it was beyond my eleven-year-old sensibilities would be saying too little; the first time I listened to it, I don't think I even knew what to think. I was, however, utterly transfixed by the words. Words about war, America and racism. Words about life, living and growing up different. Dirty words. Very dirty words. Seven, dirty words.
I listened to the album obsessively, memorizing every word and nuance. I absolutely absorbed the seven dirty words contained within the oil-based grooves and proudly repeated "shit-piss-fuck-cunt-cocksucker, motherfucker and tits" to all my peers. I started trying to figure out exactly what stand up comedy was, and in 1982 in a wonderful little bit of manipulation, convinced my mother that seeing the R-rated "Richard Pryor Live On The Sunset Strip" was a great "mother/son" moment to share. It was playing at a single location, The Viking Movie Theater in downtown Appleton, and I reveled in the big screen experience. Hearing George Carlin had been one thing, seeing Richard Pryor's full body interpretation of ideas and words was sensory overload. I loved it all and wanted more.
Stand up comedy became my new fetish. I'd already been listening to Steve Martin and watching Saturday Night Live and SCTV, but in my mind Steve Martin was a TV/movie star. I knew little of his actual touring comedy, but I got the bug up my butt to learn. Learn about his early career, and what other stand up comics were out there. This interest would last until high school, where music and the bass guitar would surpass comedy in the foot race for my spare time.
There are only other two memories of note from my two years in Appleton. One wobbles forth from my mind randomly, the other is a bookend to a previous tale. The random but wistful to me tale is that my father was able to bring a small, suitcase-sized movie projector home from work. Oddly enough, the library had old, silent movies on film you could check out as easily as their books. So it was in the eleventh year of my life I discovered Buster Keaton, specifically his classic "The General." I'd thread the film between the two spinning reels and project it onto my bedroom wall. After the climax of the bridge collapse, I'd stop the movie, scan-rewind it to watch the structure rise from its ashes, then watch the trestles tumble earthward again. I tried inviting friends over for movie adventures, but they always seemed bored by the silence and confused by having to read a movie like a novel, so the magic of silent movies remained an event flown solo. I used to own The Buster Keaton Collection on VHS, but have yet to translate that to my DVD shelf. Maybe I'll remember to ask for it for Christmas one day.
My final note takes me back to my broken arm, covered in cast and held together by pins. As said, one teacher and I were at constant odds in Franklin Elementary, and on the day I shattered my left elbow, she actually tried to prevent me from seeking help. Upon returning from the hospital and re-entering school, I came across her in the hallway on my first day back. Frustration, snotty arrogance and a tinge of self-righteousness overtook me, and I held my mended arm up to her and said, "I told you I was hurt."
Without flinching, she shot back angrily, "Do you want detention tonight after school?"
How some people are allowed around kids is beyond me.
We were moving again, leaving Milwaukee and heading north to Appleton, WI. Gainful employment awaited my father at a local hospital, where he was going to work in something along the lines of administrative training.
The decision to be made was what grade to place me in at school. When I was in kindergarten--many years and cities previous--my mother stopped by the classroom one day and discovered me sitting inside my flip-top desk, playing with Hot Wheels cars while the rest of the students were doing reading assignments. Asking the teacher why I was allowed to fuck around and not pay attention, she was told I was already above and beyond the rest of the class in the language arts department, and thus was given "extra free time." Not wanting her son to miss out on any opportunities, my mother arranged for me to travel from kindergarten into 2nd grade during the reading portion of class.
Switching classrooms was un-nerving for my wee sensibilities, and on my first day, when everyone was ushered onto the floor and into a sitting-circle to read, I was so nervous I eventually peed myself. Not knowing anyone had intimidated me into trying to hold it instead of asking for a bathroom pass. I had been lying on the floor, pressing my little hips down as hard as possible in order to try and create a pressure that would hold the urine in, which of course that didn't work. A trickle became a torrent, and soon I was soaking in a puddle of my own piddle, with my clothes absorbing it like Bounty and creating a nice wet spot from nipples to knees across my front.
Though that auspicious beginning should have been the end of my days of advancement, instead I began being bumped up entire grades. In 3rd grade I was moved forward two levels, so when the time came to move to Appleton I was technically ready to enter what was known back then as Junior High. I would have been ten and entering 7th grade.
My parents were split on the issue. I was very young and would easily be the smallest child, and therefore the largest target, there. Even the un-cool kids would be able to vent their hormonal frustrations onto me. But, as I had already completed the grades others my age were attending, why would I mingle among them a second time? After discussing it heatedly amongst themselves and coming to no conclusion, I was asked what I wanted to do: enter 5th grade and be around kids my own age, enter 6th grade and be slightly younger but mostly compatible with those around me, or venture onward into a Doogie Howser future of academics and angst. I've no idea why I chose the way I did, but I opted to start all over and mingle with my peers in the 5th grade of Franklin Elementary. Maybe I was shooting myself in the academic foot, maybe it was explained to me that I would find the easiest assimilation there, but whatever the reason the outcome remained: I would be repeating two grades, thankfully without the stigma of having been held back.
Arriving in Appleton, the biggest shock to my system was the small-town societal psyches. In Milwaukee, I had been a minority in the next-door-to-inner city; in Appleton, all was white. With isolation, then, came fear and judgment. Even among those at my young age were racial epitaphs being tossed about with a surprising casual nature. I was confused; here everyone was complaining about "niggers," when there weren't even any black people in town. As a child, I had no idea what impact media portrayal played on a people's beliefs. If you have no interaction with a race, religion or sexual orientation, yet are exposed through your television set to either gross stereotypes or only the most negative of events, you will form a perception based not in truth, but limited exposure. Thus you will consider yourself aware while remaining utterly ignorant, an interesting irony.
Donna White had been my first schoolyard crush, back at the 38th St. School in Milwaukee. A cute little blonde, she taught me the importance of athleticism and alpha male attitude by favoring David Sutphen over me. David was going to be the next Pele, where I was, well, not. Learning from this rejection, after moving to Appleton and discovering Melanie Marceau, who became my second classroom crush, I quickly signed up to play soccer that I might impress her. Unfortunately, soccer wasn't exactly as popular in Appleton as it had been in Milwaukee. Sadly, I was reaching for the low rung on the jock-oriented totem pole. Even worse, upon first meeting Melanie I believe I said in the worst French accent possible, "Ah, Marceau, eh?" and pantomimed a bit, probably the "I'm in a box" routine. At the time, I took her look to suggest she heard the bit all too often, but I'd go on record today and guess she had no idea who Marcel Marceau was and that she simply thought me a freak.
Over the course of the school year, though, I wore Melanie down and in summer actually got her to go on one date with me. It was, in fact, my first date ever, and it was every bit as lovely and awkwardly embarrassing as first dates are supposed to be. My mom drove me to Melanie's house, where I got in the back of the car and she sat up front. The two women then chatted happily while I did my best not to die of mortification. Having mom there was bad enough. Having my date enjoying her company was a fate worse than karaoke with your co-workers. Your boss might think he can sing, but no, no he cannot.
(Like Kanye West when his voice synth is turned off).
In my mind, I wanted to be driving. It would have been so cool had I at my young age been able to roll up all on my own. Melanie would have been so impressed, she probably would have let me get all the way to second base, which for an eleven-year-old boy meant rubbing a girl whose chest was the same curvature as my own.
To make matters worse, my mom had to buy the tickets for my mid-day matinee; the theater wouldn't sell seats to such young kids. No idiot I, I wanted to take Melanie to a scary movie, one I had just seen and knew would startle her right into my waiting arms. The previous weekend, my mom had taken the family to the theater, but had done so without researching exactly what it was she wanted everyone see. There was a blockbuster of epic proportions currently running riot across the country, a family friendly crowd-pleaser that was getting great reviews and selling out theaters everywhere. Approaching the ticket booth with her husband, son and six-year-old daughter, my mom told the teen ticket clerk she needed "Two adults and two children for the new Speilberg film she'd heard about." Well, this was enough for any teen with a sense of humor to send us into the horror movie Mr. Steven had just produced. The woman hadn't, after all, said, "the movie Speilberg directed."
It wasn't until the paranormal researcher began tearing his own face off in a bathroom did my mom ultimately understand we were seeing the wrong movie. As quickly and quietly as she could, she escorted my terrified and crying sister out of Poltergeist and into the lobby. My dad and I refused to budge, however, and remained and had a dandy of a time.
The next day, three of us returned--my dad had had enough of the movies for one weekend--and tickets to E.T. were purchased. It was near sold out by the time we arrived, and we could only find two seats together. Mom and sister took them, leaving me to my own devices. Now, the funny thing about embarrassment is, it's something we generally do to ourselves. As I was sitting all alone, there was no way for anyone in the packed theater to know I was my mother's son; any actions of mine would in no way reflect her, sitting rows away with her daughter. Yet at the movies climax, as E.T. withered away and several hundred people started crying, a laugh rose above the sniffled din, and my mother began to grow beet red.
"It's a goddamn puppet and a contrived scene!" I would have yelled had I known what emotional manipulation was. I simply understood I was being toyed with, and I wanted nothing to do with it. As the puppet "died," and hoards of people blew their runny noses and wiped teary eyes, I laughed harder and harder, to the point I almost peed myself like it was second grade reading period.
So the allure of E.T. was lost on me, as was the fun of Poltergeist on my mom. Sadly, when it came to my first date, as Melanie was female, she enjoyed neither the scary movie nor my company. Melanie Marceau was my first date, but that one moment was also our last. Nichole Bouvery was my second Appleton crush, but she never even deemed do dine with me a single time. Oddly enough, I cannot recall the name of the one who did become my first girlfriend, which happened in Appleton in 6th grade. I can remember her brown hair, blue eyes and spotted freckles, but no name rushes to the forefront of my memory. It's funny how failure and rejection remains ingrained, while success fades with time.
Soccer having been a poor choice of "cool" sports, as the days grew short and winter entered into the Northern Wisconsin town, basketball became my next attempt to attract women. I remember playing one game, for about one minute, and shooting one basket for two points. Beyond that I was a benchwarmer. Being new to the sport meant I wasn't all that good at it, so I practiced, and practiced often. Even in the cold outdoors of lunch and recess, when we were supposed to run around to create warmth, if no snow was on the ground I'd be on the outdoor court performing shooting drills. This ultimately led to my demise. One winter day, I threw the ball through the air, and like most of my shots it was well off the mark. The basketball lodged itself between the rim and the backboard, leaving me to climb up and knock it free. Unable to retain a grip while wearing gloves, I barehanded it up the cold metal piping and reached for the stuck sphere. Dislodging the ball was easy enough; getting down was not. While my original plan had been to simply let go and fall to the ground, I had not anticipated my bare skin freezing lightly to the pole, making my dismount ungraceful to even the most forgiving judge. Instead of descending feet forward, I managed to somehow pull my hand back in alarm, and then twist and drop to the concrete elbows first.
What happened next comes in snippets to my memory.
I landed and heard a crunch emanate from my left elbow. Springing to my feet, though no doctor I, I could tell something was wrong given the new geometric angles my jacketed arm was sporting. I started to scream, and made a crying dash for the school. Only one teacher was my nemesis back then, she who thought I was a brat and a troublemaker, and while she was probably right, she was also a bitter cunt of a woman. Proof of that harsh label lay in her next action. As I ran screaming and crying past her, one arm holding the malformed mess of the other, she actually grabbed my collar and said something about not being allowed inside until the bell had sounded. I pulled free and bellowed "FUCK YOU," something she tried getting me suspended for, and darted into the office where I passed out.
According to my mother, the school, acting in its infinite wisdom and compassion, neither called an ambulance, or her with worry in their voice. Their direct quote was, "You need to come pick Nathan up, he's in our office." That's all they would say. Unsure why, my mother did not rush out the door, but took all the steps she needed to in order to leave work early. According to her best estimates, I sat in the office with a shattered elbow for anywhere between an hour and ninety minutes until she arrived. By the time my mother walked through the door, I was sheet-white, deliriously fading in and out of consciousness and couldn't walk. Though my mother should have demanded an ambulance on the spot, she was too panicked and enraged and had the principle help her carry the chair I was haphazardly balancing on to her car. She hurried me to the emergency room, something a mere half mile away, where the doctors looked me over, then quickly re-set my elbow, saying it was merely dislocated.
Fortunately for my future, I was an inquisitive little bugger, and as they were rolling me out the door in a wheelchair I innocently asked, "So it's ok that I can't feel or move my hand?" Whoever was pushing me paused in his tracks, and then and only then, decided to order some X-Rays.
What they discovered was the bone had not just dislocated, it had shifted and several pieces that make up the joint were pinching my nerve. Apparently only a few more hours of remaining in such condition would have rendered my left arm a paperweight. Had I not opened my mouth and asked, had I asked when we got home and had been told to come in the next morning, any small little accident of fate and the nerve would have died and today I'd be typing these words one handed. Feel free to insert your own on-line masturbation joke here, if you wish.
I had immediate surgery, which made me nervous, but all I remember was a ceiling and a man telling me to count backwards from ten. I made it to eight. After that I had a lovely plaster cast outside my arm and two metal pins inside it. I quit basketball, as sitting on the bench hadn't done much for my self-esteem anyway.
While I wouldn’t actually go back and change a single day of my life, I do sometimes smile and wish the elbow event had occurred later on, say in the 1990's. By then my family and I would have known all bout lawsuits. In the early 1980's, however, suing the shit out of someone wasn't yet the fashion trend it became. So the school system that should have been bankrupted by a settlement, the hospital that would have made my family millionaires due to negligence and incompetence, well, they both got off scott-free.
Bummer.
Appleton gave me my first glimpses into what would become my living, though there would be no way of knowing that at the time. Stand up comedy first reached my eyes and ears in those young years through the ignorance of the elderly and the excitement of youth. My maternal-side grandmother lived fifteen minutes away in a town called Kaukauna, and we visited often. I would find out much later in life that grandmother's house was used as an escape both from and for infidelity and arguments at home, but as a child it was simply a visit. Kaukauna, for the record, is a town whose major industry is a paper mill. If you've never smelled one, it is eerily akin to that of a freshly filled diaper. Thus every time we visited my grandmother, I thought she had had an "accident," something that I feared came with advanced age. But, she made me Oscar Meyer cheese-filled hot dogs whenever I wanted, something my mother frowned upon, so I always forgave the smell for the reward of my taste buds.
My grandmother, like most spoiling grandparents, would usually take me shopping for little nothings. We generally went to the dime store downtown, but on occasion sojourned at the mall where the biggest and best presents lay. It was on one of these jaunts I made one of the most important discoveries of my life. Perusing the KISS albums in the record store, I browsed my way past an album with an interesting cover. What you have to realize is, these were not the wimpy little CD's of today, in tiny casings with miniature artwork. I was looking at 33 rpm, vinyl records inside big cardboard packages, where the covers jumped out at you and you could see them from across the store. On this particular day, I saw an album with a man on the cover. He was faking one finger up his nose, was sitting on the dunce's chair in front of a chalkboard that had the words "Class Clown" inscribed on it. I had no idea what it was, but I knew I wanted it. I was a class clown, and the idea of picking your nose was hilarious to me. Seeing as there were no "Parental Advisory Stickers" back then, I pointed, my grandmother shrugged, and I took home a copy of one of George Carlin's most infamous records. To say it was beyond my eleven-year-old sensibilities would be saying too little; the first time I listened to it, I don't think I even knew what to think. I was, however, utterly transfixed by the words. Words about war, America and racism. Words about life, living and growing up different. Dirty words. Very dirty words. Seven, dirty words.
I listened to the album obsessively, memorizing every word and nuance. I absolutely absorbed the seven dirty words contained within the oil-based grooves and proudly repeated "shit-piss-fuck-cunt-cocksucker, motherfucker and tits" to all my peers. I started trying to figure out exactly what stand up comedy was, and in 1982 in a wonderful little bit of manipulation, convinced my mother that seeing the R-rated "Richard Pryor Live On The Sunset Strip" was a great "mother/son" moment to share. It was playing at a single location, The Viking Movie Theater in downtown Appleton, and I reveled in the big screen experience. Hearing George Carlin had been one thing, seeing Richard Pryor's full body interpretation of ideas and words was sensory overload. I loved it all and wanted more.
Stand up comedy became my new fetish. I'd already been listening to Steve Martin and watching Saturday Night Live and SCTV, but in my mind Steve Martin was a TV/movie star. I knew little of his actual touring comedy, but I got the bug up my butt to learn. Learn about his early career, and what other stand up comics were out there. This interest would last until high school, where music and the bass guitar would surpass comedy in the foot race for my spare time.
There are only other two memories of note from my two years in Appleton. One wobbles forth from my mind randomly, the other is a bookend to a previous tale. The random but wistful to me tale is that my father was able to bring a small, suitcase-sized movie projector home from work. Oddly enough, the library had old, silent movies on film you could check out as easily as their books. So it was in the eleventh year of my life I discovered Buster Keaton, specifically his classic "The General." I'd thread the film between the two spinning reels and project it onto my bedroom wall. After the climax of the bridge collapse, I'd stop the movie, scan-rewind it to watch the structure rise from its ashes, then watch the trestles tumble earthward again. I tried inviting friends over for movie adventures, but they always seemed bored by the silence and confused by having to read a movie like a novel, so the magic of silent movies remained an event flown solo. I used to own The Buster Keaton Collection on VHS, but have yet to translate that to my DVD shelf. Maybe I'll remember to ask for it for Christmas one day.
My final note takes me back to my broken arm, covered in cast and held together by pins. As said, one teacher and I were at constant odds in Franklin Elementary, and on the day I shattered my left elbow, she actually tried to prevent me from seeking help. Upon returning from the hospital and re-entering school, I came across her in the hallway on my first day back. Frustration, snotty arrogance and a tinge of self-righteousness overtook me, and I held my mended arm up to her and said, "I told you I was hurt."
Without flinching, she shot back angrily, "Do you want detention tonight after school?"
How some people are allowed around kids is beyond me.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Dance for Your Dinner, Monkey-boy
Dance for Your Dinner, Monkey-boy
There is a philosophy that states you will experience whatever you focus your attention on. If you think, "man, I'd hate to trip and fall down in public, that'd be so embarrassing," you'll trip and fall in public, that you may confront your fear.
A while ago, I was performing in the middle slot of a three-person show, and when I walked up on stage I was met with an ear-piercing cry of, "Bring it on, motha-fucka!" That someone was so drunk to bellow at a comedy show did not surprise me; live comedy is sadly a realm of entertainment where drunken louts have to be dealt with on a semi-regular basis. The source of the screeching on that particular occasion, however, did make me tilt my head to the side like a dog riddled with confusion. At a table in front of the stage was a group of ten women, all dressed to the hilt, all white, and all easily aged sixty and above. Grandmother's night out, if you will. In the front row, one of them was so drunk she was doing a head bob, as if it were eighth grade history and staying awake was a chore in and of itself. This woman had been the source of the high-pitched screech of obscenity.
I asked her to repeat her war cry, as I wasn't positive my ears were working correctly, and once again the live-action Mrs. Howell cried, "Bring it on, motha-fucka!" I half nodded my head, said "Well ok then," and started telling jokes. The woman randomly bellowed the same refrain several times throughout my time on stage, and after giving her the benefit of the drunken doubt for a couple of her interactions, I slammed her pretty hard and the audience roared their approval. The woman realized she was on a losing path and proceeded to doze off and drool lightly out the side of her mouth. Through the rest of my time on stage, two tables of drunks in the corner did their best to "contribute" and derail the show with shouts and inter-table talk, but I simply shouted over them until a bouncer finally made his way over to shush them.
After I exited the stage, the headliner, who I am going to call Adam, was introduced. If I thought the wealthy dowager up front had been belligerent enough to warrant getting kicked out during my set, what happened next was unlike anything I'd ever seen; when the headliner hit the stage, he too was met with a new high-pitched cry from the elderly woman. It wasn't a random generalization as had been with me, this time, she took one look at the comedian and knew exactly what to scream. "Bring it on, nigger!" echoed above the welcoming applause the host had called for. Not "nigga," which could have been considered marginally more appropriate (but not really), but "nigger," as bright as a day in July and loud and proud like Alabama man might cry. It wasn't said as a challenge, but more a hoot, like the full-blown cheer of someone looking to have a good time.
To say the audience was stunned would be saying too little; there are rare times when you can make two hundred people gasp collectively and hold their breath, but this was one of them. Adam, to his credit, handled the situation with as much grace as possible; he didn't blow up at her, but he didn't let it go. His first response was a measured, "Excuse me?" to which he received a second, "Bring it on, nigger!" He asked why she thought it was an appropriate thing to say, or if she was playing or believing she was somehow relating to him. Her response was yet again, "Bring it on, nigger!"
Given that the room was filled with as diverse a cross section of Americana as possible, and that a certain tension filled it from the instant her first racial slur was shouted, anything could happen. Still, Adam kept control of the situation and did his best to move on. The club, believe it or not, made no move to have the woman removed or quieted. In the corner, meanwhile, the two tables of white trash I had done my best to ignore got even louder, to the point Adam could do nothing but wage war with them.
By now, most everyone was talking amongst themselves about what was happening, shouting at either the two tables in the corner or the racist woman to "shut the fuck up," or directly up at Adam, who was doing his best in trying to deal with an out of control room. In the midst of this battle, the manager of the club carried a note to the stage and handed it directly to him. Adam read it, then resumed his war with the out of control audience. Eventually the table of women left, and did so to a chant of "Na-na-na-na, hey-hey-hey, good bye" from the entire audience (save for the two drunken tables in the corner, who continued to shout random shit to the stage through the rest of the evening). Adam worked the stage for his contracted time, eventually closed his and the audience gave him thunderous applause for his efforts.
After all was over, as Adam and I stood by our for-sale wares, every person that walked by us issued an apology on behalf of the behavior of others. For the woman and her racial slur, for the staff who didn't intervene, for the drunks in the corner… everyone was apologetic save for those who should have been. Everyone was also curious. All who exited remembered the note being passed to the stage, and asked Adam what it said. They wondered if the police were being contacted, or if he was given insight as to how the drunks and racists were being handled. He passed on answering, instead tossing out vague little lies; "It was about something I had asked about earlier," "oh, nothing important," and the like. When all was said and done and every member of the public had left, I asked what the note really said. What I was told floored me. "Let it go and move on," was written in bold strokes on the folded piece of paper. A black man who had just been called a nigger in front of a room full of people, and three times no less, a man doing an amazing job of handling the situation in a club that was doing nothing to police its customers, well, he was handed a note telling him to let it go and move on.
I don’t think I had ever heard of anything less supportive.
To the manager's credit, somewhat, admitted to being in the wrong and said she was sorry for the note and much of the situation. Apparently she and the bouncers were unaware of what had happened, assessed the situation incorrectly and made the decision to intervene inappropriately. But that didn't make it right. An apology follows an accident, and to not have the comedian's back in a situation shows an incredible lack of faith in the person. I couldn't believe she had taken the note up there in the first place, was angry on behalf of the other comedian, and wondered what I'd do if anything like it ever happened to me.
The neat thing about life, then, is when you look at a situation and wonder how you'd react if it were presented to you, sometimes you are given the opportunity to find out.
A headliner myself now, in a different room in a different state, one fateful night I took to the stage a little after 10pm. The 9pm show had been delayed a half an hour, because a birthday party of twelve was exceedingly late in arriving. Such an action immediately set a poor precedent; the incoming people saw the show had been held just for them, and even if they didn't openly realize the power they had, they understood on a subtle level just how important they were.
That everyone arrived intoxicated should be no surprise, nor should the fact they then did jell-o shots all through the opening act. By ten o'clock, they were slurringly drunk. "That's my brother's name!" was shouted at my introduction. "Your brother is named Nathan Timmel?" I asked, and got a laugh from the audience. A gentle enough response, but enough of one to start the table off and running.
The birthday party was listless; they were talking to one another when I wasn't dealing with them, and shouting random incoherent shit when I would break from my jokes to acknowledge and attempt to shut them up. Instead of being witness to a bouncer or club employee kicking them out or quieting them down, I would look over to see them being served even more alcohol. They were all members of the Army, and as the club itself had called for a toast for those that serve, I was placating as nicely as firmly possible. I never have a problem telling a table to shut the fuck up--witness this if you haven't already seen it--but for the life of me couldn't get the group to behave in the slightest. So it was to my stunned anger when forty minutes into my set I was handed a note from the club owner, "Please stop talking to them and move on with your act."
I couldn't believe it. I felt defeated. I had just taken two flights across the country, rented a car and driven an hour and here I was, standing in front of a group of people who never should have been let in the door, let alone served more alcohol or had the show held thirty minutes for their arrival, and I was being told I was the fuckup. Had I an established career, I would have apologized to the people who had come out to see comedy, told the club to fuck off and walked off the stage and out the door. Fuck the pay; if I could have afforded the professional repercussions, I would have eaten the time and money. Instead, I remained on stage for another 20 minutes, doing my best to remain as professional as possible given the circumstances.
Unlike the time I was witness to a comedian being blamed for club failure, I was given no apology for the rude behavior or lack of support. I was, in fact, told, "The other tables complained and I had to give out comp tickets to another show because of that group." Apparently this was somehow my fault.
The final straw on this irritated back came from the doorman, who shook his head in resigned confidence to me; "Those people, I tell you, they came in a couple weeks ago and did the exact same thing."
Of course they did.
I have one other moment in my mind involving the "experience what you witness" theme, but it's rather anti-climactic after everything before it. Hell, given proper narrative form, this whole thing is probably written ass-backwards, with the peak being in the beginning with the racial story, but so be it.
I think Clerks II is a damn fine movie. Watching it recently, the scene that jumped out at me was that with the Jason Lee as the Internet Millionaire. If you're not familiar, Jason Lee arrives at the fast food restaurant the main characters Dante and Randall work at to mock them for being in their thirties and failing their way through life. The scene ends with an angry-at-his-existence Randall needing to get the hell away from everything and blow off some steam. Why that moment in the movie meant something too me I do not know, but I do remember thinking how much it would suck to run into a nemesis that superseded you in life.
As always, be weary what you wonder about.
The next comedy run I went on had me working with a fella who, though not an enemy of mine by any standard, had still been doing comedy less than half the time I had, was fairly green on stage, yet was already being invited to the biggest comedy festival in the world. Agents, managers, HBO and Comedy Central all scout it and thousands of comedians apply for entry annually; the kid on the run with me had a friend who knew those with clout and had gotten him a foot in the door. There is a conventional wisdom that says you respect something you earned more than anything simply given to you, but I'm going to have to cry bullshit on that. I have found money lying on the ground on several occasions and never once did I say, "Damn, I really wish I had earned this twenty dollars."
Playing the game "why not me?" is probably the most self-destructive thing a person can do. "She got a promotion, why not me?" "That person won a million dollars, why not me?" "That person lucked into success, why not me?"
Because life is random, and stupid.
I have no other answer than that right now.
All I have is attrition.
Hopefully that will be enough someday.
There is a philosophy that states you will experience whatever you focus your attention on. If you think, "man, I'd hate to trip and fall down in public, that'd be so embarrassing," you'll trip and fall in public, that you may confront your fear.
A while ago, I was performing in the middle slot of a three-person show, and when I walked up on stage I was met with an ear-piercing cry of, "Bring it on, motha-fucka!" That someone was so drunk to bellow at a comedy show did not surprise me; live comedy is sadly a realm of entertainment where drunken louts have to be dealt with on a semi-regular basis. The source of the screeching on that particular occasion, however, did make me tilt my head to the side like a dog riddled with confusion. At a table in front of the stage was a group of ten women, all dressed to the hilt, all white, and all easily aged sixty and above. Grandmother's night out, if you will. In the front row, one of them was so drunk she was doing a head bob, as if it were eighth grade history and staying awake was a chore in and of itself. This woman had been the source of the high-pitched screech of obscenity.
I asked her to repeat her war cry, as I wasn't positive my ears were working correctly, and once again the live-action Mrs. Howell cried, "Bring it on, motha-fucka!" I half nodded my head, said "Well ok then," and started telling jokes. The woman randomly bellowed the same refrain several times throughout my time on stage, and after giving her the benefit of the drunken doubt for a couple of her interactions, I slammed her pretty hard and the audience roared their approval. The woman realized she was on a losing path and proceeded to doze off and drool lightly out the side of her mouth. Through the rest of my time on stage, two tables of drunks in the corner did their best to "contribute" and derail the show with shouts and inter-table talk, but I simply shouted over them until a bouncer finally made his way over to shush them.
After I exited the stage, the headliner, who I am going to call Adam, was introduced. If I thought the wealthy dowager up front had been belligerent enough to warrant getting kicked out during my set, what happened next was unlike anything I'd ever seen; when the headliner hit the stage, he too was met with a new high-pitched cry from the elderly woman. It wasn't a random generalization as had been with me, this time, she took one look at the comedian and knew exactly what to scream. "Bring it on, nigger!" echoed above the welcoming applause the host had called for. Not "nigga," which could have been considered marginally more appropriate (but not really), but "nigger," as bright as a day in July and loud and proud like Alabama man might cry. It wasn't said as a challenge, but more a hoot, like the full-blown cheer of someone looking to have a good time.
To say the audience was stunned would be saying too little; there are rare times when you can make two hundred people gasp collectively and hold their breath, but this was one of them. Adam, to his credit, handled the situation with as much grace as possible; he didn't blow up at her, but he didn't let it go. His first response was a measured, "Excuse me?" to which he received a second, "Bring it on, nigger!" He asked why she thought it was an appropriate thing to say, or if she was playing or believing she was somehow relating to him. Her response was yet again, "Bring it on, nigger!"
Given that the room was filled with as diverse a cross section of Americana as possible, and that a certain tension filled it from the instant her first racial slur was shouted, anything could happen. Still, Adam kept control of the situation and did his best to move on. The club, believe it or not, made no move to have the woman removed or quieted. In the corner, meanwhile, the two tables of white trash I had done my best to ignore got even louder, to the point Adam could do nothing but wage war with them.
By now, most everyone was talking amongst themselves about what was happening, shouting at either the two tables in the corner or the racist woman to "shut the fuck up," or directly up at Adam, who was doing his best in trying to deal with an out of control room. In the midst of this battle, the manager of the club carried a note to the stage and handed it directly to him. Adam read it, then resumed his war with the out of control audience. Eventually the table of women left, and did so to a chant of "Na-na-na-na, hey-hey-hey, good bye" from the entire audience (save for the two drunken tables in the corner, who continued to shout random shit to the stage through the rest of the evening). Adam worked the stage for his contracted time, eventually closed his and the audience gave him thunderous applause for his efforts.
After all was over, as Adam and I stood by our for-sale wares, every person that walked by us issued an apology on behalf of the behavior of others. For the woman and her racial slur, for the staff who didn't intervene, for the drunks in the corner… everyone was apologetic save for those who should have been. Everyone was also curious. All who exited remembered the note being passed to the stage, and asked Adam what it said. They wondered if the police were being contacted, or if he was given insight as to how the drunks and racists were being handled. He passed on answering, instead tossing out vague little lies; "It was about something I had asked about earlier," "oh, nothing important," and the like. When all was said and done and every member of the public had left, I asked what the note really said. What I was told floored me. "Let it go and move on," was written in bold strokes on the folded piece of paper. A black man who had just been called a nigger in front of a room full of people, and three times no less, a man doing an amazing job of handling the situation in a club that was doing nothing to police its customers, well, he was handed a note telling him to let it go and move on.
I don’t think I had ever heard of anything less supportive.
To the manager's credit, somewhat, admitted to being in the wrong and said she was sorry for the note and much of the situation. Apparently she and the bouncers were unaware of what had happened, assessed the situation incorrectly and made the decision to intervene inappropriately. But that didn't make it right. An apology follows an accident, and to not have the comedian's back in a situation shows an incredible lack of faith in the person. I couldn't believe she had taken the note up there in the first place, was angry on behalf of the other comedian, and wondered what I'd do if anything like it ever happened to me.
The neat thing about life, then, is when you look at a situation and wonder how you'd react if it were presented to you, sometimes you are given the opportunity to find out.
A headliner myself now, in a different room in a different state, one fateful night I took to the stage a little after 10pm. The 9pm show had been delayed a half an hour, because a birthday party of twelve was exceedingly late in arriving. Such an action immediately set a poor precedent; the incoming people saw the show had been held just for them, and even if they didn't openly realize the power they had, they understood on a subtle level just how important they were.
That everyone arrived intoxicated should be no surprise, nor should the fact they then did jell-o shots all through the opening act. By ten o'clock, they were slurringly drunk. "That's my brother's name!" was shouted at my introduction. "Your brother is named Nathan Timmel?" I asked, and got a laugh from the audience. A gentle enough response, but enough of one to start the table off and running.
The birthday party was listless; they were talking to one another when I wasn't dealing with them, and shouting random incoherent shit when I would break from my jokes to acknowledge and attempt to shut them up. Instead of being witness to a bouncer or club employee kicking them out or quieting them down, I would look over to see them being served even more alcohol. They were all members of the Army, and as the club itself had called for a toast for those that serve, I was placating as nicely as firmly possible. I never have a problem telling a table to shut the fuck up--witness this if you haven't already seen it--but for the life of me couldn't get the group to behave in the slightest. So it was to my stunned anger when forty minutes into my set I was handed a note from the club owner, "Please stop talking to them and move on with your act."
I couldn't believe it. I felt defeated. I had just taken two flights across the country, rented a car and driven an hour and here I was, standing in front of a group of people who never should have been let in the door, let alone served more alcohol or had the show held thirty minutes for their arrival, and I was being told I was the fuckup. Had I an established career, I would have apologized to the people who had come out to see comedy, told the club to fuck off and walked off the stage and out the door. Fuck the pay; if I could have afforded the professional repercussions, I would have eaten the time and money. Instead, I remained on stage for another 20 minutes, doing my best to remain as professional as possible given the circumstances.
Unlike the time I was witness to a comedian being blamed for club failure, I was given no apology for the rude behavior or lack of support. I was, in fact, told, "The other tables complained and I had to give out comp tickets to another show because of that group." Apparently this was somehow my fault.
The final straw on this irritated back came from the doorman, who shook his head in resigned confidence to me; "Those people, I tell you, they came in a couple weeks ago and did the exact same thing."
Of course they did.
I have one other moment in my mind involving the "experience what you witness" theme, but it's rather anti-climactic after everything before it. Hell, given proper narrative form, this whole thing is probably written ass-backwards, with the peak being in the beginning with the racial story, but so be it.
I think Clerks II is a damn fine movie. Watching it recently, the scene that jumped out at me was that with the Jason Lee as the Internet Millionaire. If you're not familiar, Jason Lee arrives at the fast food restaurant the main characters Dante and Randall work at to mock them for being in their thirties and failing their way through life. The scene ends with an angry-at-his-existence Randall needing to get the hell away from everything and blow off some steam. Why that moment in the movie meant something too me I do not know, but I do remember thinking how much it would suck to run into a nemesis that superseded you in life.
As always, be weary what you wonder about.
The next comedy run I went on had me working with a fella who, though not an enemy of mine by any standard, had still been doing comedy less than half the time I had, was fairly green on stage, yet was already being invited to the biggest comedy festival in the world. Agents, managers, HBO and Comedy Central all scout it and thousands of comedians apply for entry annually; the kid on the run with me had a friend who knew those with clout and had gotten him a foot in the door. There is a conventional wisdom that says you respect something you earned more than anything simply given to you, but I'm going to have to cry bullshit on that. I have found money lying on the ground on several occasions and never once did I say, "Damn, I really wish I had earned this twenty dollars."
Playing the game "why not me?" is probably the most self-destructive thing a person can do. "She got a promotion, why not me?" "That person won a million dollars, why not me?" "That person lucked into success, why not me?"
Because life is random, and stupid.
I have no other answer than that right now.
All I have is attrition.
Hopefully that will be enough someday.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
An Uncovered Gem
On December 26th, 2008, my fiancée Lydia and I drove to Madison, Wisconsin, to spend the day with my mom and fake dad. Fake dad had been doing some winter cleaning and came across an old floppy disc of mine, God knows from where. He said it contained a word document titled "Psycho," that he had opened it and it looked like a story. I nearly shit a brick. I knew exactly what he was talking about, and was exceedingly excited as I had long thought the physical copy of the tale had been as long lost as the mental version in my muddled mind.
In 1996, I was attending college at the University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee, and tending bar at both Benjamin Briggs Pub & Grill (no longer in existence) and the restaurant Pieces of Eight (hilariously no longer in existence; they remodeled, re-invested, and were kicked off their property by the city). Back then, the internet was in its infancy, and email was foreign to most people. Texting didn't exist and public phones were still prevalent, as cell phones were not. The Fox network was still considered a rebellious challenge to the big three networks, and computers used floppy discs to store mobile files (that my mom and fake dad have a system that still accepts floppies tells you how often they update their technology). While modernization has changed the way we look at email and phone use, some things remain the same; not only do I still use the same email address I did back then, but writing out the tale I used a young rising star named Jennifer Aniston as an example of a sex symbol. Twelve years later, I'd probably do the same thing, only now I'd have to add and asterisk to her name and footnote that being involved with John Mayer has given her the same untouchable status as a leper. Some people you want nothing to do with after they make such poor life choices.
(Another amusing note is that this all got started due to what is essentially known today as "Forwarding." Back then, it was amusing to receive a chain email letter. Today, not so much so)
To date, I have had two stalkers in my life, and both instances occurred around somewhere during this period of the nineties. One was an Asian exchange student, someone who had bumped into me while tending bar at a restaurant called Nancy's (thankfully no longer in existence), and the other was a woman from South Dakota. Someday I'll sit down and do my best to recall what happened involving the Asian sensation, but the story "Psycho" was a re-telling of the tale involving the midwestern woman. Back then, in the days before blogging, I would write several long letters a year about my life, then print up and mail them (at a decent expense) to friends around the country who may or may not have been interested in receiving such shit.
I re-post the tale of my second stalker here, written in 1996, with only her name changed. When I first wrote and mailed it out, I used her real name, but I don't think there's any reason to do such a thing today when posting for public consumption to the web.
It started innocently enough. Then again, I suppose it always does, doesn’t it? A friend of mine in Boston, Pete, has a mailing list on his computer. Not a standard mailing list of addresses, but one of those Internet e-mail deals you’ve probably heard so much about. I am on this list, so is she. “She,” is Julia, a thirty-year-old grad. student in South Dakota. This is our story.
Pete's list has a theme to it: humor. If you happen across something amusing, such as a joke or story, you electronically send it in and he zaps to the people on file. One day I decided to offer a story I had written about Pete and I and our contributions to the Sperm Bank of Boston. The story was quite well received; I got many compliments from strangers. Julia was one of the complimenters. Trying to be considerate, I sent “Thank Yous” to anyone who wrote. Julia replied to the thank you, and a dialog was started.
Common interest came by way of "The Tick," a Saturday morning cartoon show. Living in South Dakota, though, prevented her from watching the program as no Fox affiliate existed; South Dakota ranks somewhere behind most Third World countries in this case. I was taping the show on a regular basis and offered to send her a copy. She was ecstatic. I was amused. We began emailing one another daily, and my eyebrow raised itself in curiosity; could this be one of those “Internet Romances” popping up across the country the media was raving about? I sent the tape, and with that she got my physical address.
Two weeks later I received a female condom in the mail. An odd thank you, as our interactions had never been anything more than friendly. Though we got along easily, we never discussed any sort of sexual attraction, and had never even exchanged photos. Regardless, a note was attached to the condom, “Save this, I’m coming to visit.” In my imagination, I figured that should this woman happen to look like Jennifer Aniston, I would be in heaven. No dummy I, I did not believe fortune would smile upon me so and became cautious. I asked Pete if I should be afraid. The single word reply was, “Yes.”
Julia asked for a picture. Playing off Pete's chillingly brief warning, I sent a photo of me skydiving. My head was bowed and the helmet covered my face. It gave no indication of my looks and was half joke, half identity protection. Julie emailed me that she loved the picture and hung it in the middle of the living room she shared with four other roommates. They told her I was “something special,” which alarmed me more than Pete's warning. Not only had I no idea how I was being described to warrant such a compliment, but I hadn't really told anyone about her, because there was nothing to tell. Meanwhile, I was common knowledge to her friends? Creepy.
The condom was followed by a string of erotic messages left in my e-mail account, each more graphic than the previous. They began to detail what she wanted to do to me and how it was going to be “the best night of my life.” Though several weeks had passed since I sent my picture, the favor had not yet been returned, a definite cause for alarm.
The volume with which I responded to her mail decreased by half. Where to this point I had always dropped a decent reply to each message, I now began sending short notes to roughly every third one. A detailed account of actions she was going to perform on my body would receive, “Just got home from work, got your letter, am too tired to write” in response. She used my backing off to double her efforts, sending two or three letters a day. Some would be violently angry, decrying her life and position in it, then do the most bizarre switch into how I would rescue her from her mundane existence. "I hate my job! Everyone I work with is stupid! I need a vacation. Can you perform oral sex for hours on end?” is a direct quote.
I was told my picture was masturbation material and received a second package in my physical mailbox. Nothing sexual this time, thankfully, but instead several small, odd, gifts. According to the accompanying note, she thought of me when she saw each item and decided to buy and send them. One trinket was a bizarre looking plastic mug shaped like a cartoon vampire, another was a Frankenstein refrigerator magnet. As I didn't have a particular affection for old horror movies and had never hinted to her I might, why these reminded her of me I do not know.
I decided I needed to stop being a pussy and just get everything out on the table. Where was she going with all of this, what did she look like, and what did she think we had going on? Her reply was hesitatingly honest, and I felt somewhat ashamed. “I am a little self-conscious because I am surrounded by women who eat red meat all the time and never exercise," she wrote. "It wears off on me and makes me lazy." At the end of the note, she dropped a mini-bomb; "By the way, I'll be visiting friends in Wisconsin in two weeks, and on December 28th we're going to road-trip to Milwaukee to meet you. You better be home, or else..."
The "or else" was probably meant playfully, but my reaction was immediately opposite; I told her was going to be out of town. There was a photography exhibit at the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art I wanted to see--by Andres Serrano--and several friends and I had plans to spend several days visiting the windy city.
She was furious. “ASSHOLE MOTHERFUCKER BASTARD SHITBAG ASSHOLE MOTHERFUCKER” was left in my inbox the very next day. “I AM COMING TO MEET YOU WHETHER OR NOT YOU WANT ME TO, SO YOU BETTER FIND TIME FOR ME TO DO SO BEFORE SUNDAY!”
Her "How to Win Friends and Influence People" response sealed the near-contracted deal for me. I told her my schedule was full and that there was nothing I could do about it. I received another thrashing. I also received and oddly timed surprise. On the same day her second email of vitriol and spite found its way into my email inbox, my physical mailbox received an envelope from her, something obviously mailed before I told her I wouldn't be around for her arrival. Gathering up great courage, Julia had finally sent her picture, along with the note, “Just wanted to send something so you’d know who was knocking at your door when I come.”
The picture was simply her face, which was enough. As cruel as it sounds, it is a face that created the phrase, "only a mother could love." I probably gave Homer Simpson's fear bleat upon gazing upon it. As much as I knew I was dealing with an easily wounded ego, I was also concerned with the tone of her emails and entirely sure I didn't want to end up in a room alone with her.
Two weeks passed quickly, with Julia continuing to insist she was going to meet me no matter what. My plans to visit Chicago fell apart, and I couldn't think of a thing to do for the weekend. In the least, I figured I just wouldn't answer my door if at home on Thursday.
As if on cue, at one o’clock that very afternoon, I was home alone, sitting in my room reading when the door buzzer went off. Someone was in the lobby looking to get in. I closed the book and frowned; no one ever buzzed my apartment. The door buzzed again--I got up cautiously--the door buzzed. I decided against answering, and instead walked into the living room and sat down behind a plant next to the window. From this vantage point I could see the front porch; the apartment was on the first floor, and when the person left I would know who it was. If friend, I would knock on the window, bid them back and explain my childish behavior. If foe...
The door buzzed. Two minutes had passed since the first sounding. This person was persistent. I remained seated. Two more minutes passed filled with intermittent buzzing. I was now irritated. When phoning, how many rings do you wait before deciding someone isn’t home? Twenty? Fifty? This was absurd. What was running through this person's mind, “Maybe someone’s home, but in the shower. if I keep ringing, they’ll get out and come to the door?” I have no idea.
After six minutes the front door opened. My mystery woman from South Dakota stepped out, shook her head, and walked away. As cruel as it is to say, her description of being "lazy" told half the story; she was roughly 5'4" and topped 200 pounds easily. I could see where the self-esteem problem came from, but the aggression that went with it is what had me on edge. I went back to my room and resumed reading. Moments later the door buzzer went off and was held for ten seconds. While not a long time in most cases, when listening to a door buzzer it is an eternity. I closed the book and wondered; had she somehow seen me step away from the window? Three short bursts filled the air, followed by silence. I began reading again and eventually went to work undisturbed.
This action repeated itself several times a day over the next few days, all the way until December 31st. On that evening, I went to work as usual, and it being New Years Eve my first call of order was to get as much stock ready as possible. The reservation book was full, and we expected to go through liquor like mad. I was in back of the restaurant grabbing bottles when the word came; “Nate, there’s someone here to see you.” My mind went on red alert. Never before had words spoken so innocently filled me with dread. Had I ever told this woman where I worked? Sometime in the beginning of our correspondence? She often referred to my early mailings, so I suspected she saved them. This was not good.
“Who is it?” I asked.
The hostess didn’t know.
“I’m busy,” I said flatly and went back to stocking.
She shrugged. Five minutes later my partner bartender came back; “Nate, your sister stopped by and dropped off some things for you.” I thumped my head against the wall. I was now officially paranoid.
That night I worked, went out with co-workers, and finally returned home and got to bed around six am. At nine my alarm went off; I was driving to Oshkosh for the day to visit a friend. I got up from my nighttime “nap” and called him, checking to make sure he was awake and such. The door buzzer went off in the middle of our brief conversation. I excused myself from the phone and hung up. Something didn’t feel right.
I took my seat by the window and waited. The door buzzer sounded repeatedly over three minutes, then paused. Moments later, I heard my neighbor’s door open; the lobby security door soon followed suit. Two seconds later the other apartment door closed and a knock came upon mine. This was not a knock used to wake a person on New Years Morning, but a cautious one, almost too quiet to be effective. It was repeated several times over the minute it took me to gently tiptoe across my creaky living room floor to reach the door. Once there, I looked through the peephole.
As sunlight was pouring into the inner lobby behind the figure, all I could see was a dark silhouette. It was very large. I couldn’t be 100% positive, but who else could it be? I stood bent over, watching every move, listening to every knock resound a mere inch from my head. My breathing was light. The figure leaned over. It looked into the peephole from the outside. We were now watching each other separated only by two inches of wood. I had to fight back laughter over the absurdity of the situation.
Then the doorknob turned.
Slowly.
Methodically.
Quietly.
This wasn’t a person casually entering a room. Someone was testing waters here, putting their big toe in to check for warmth. The knob reached its crescent and paused. Gentle pressure was applied; the door creaked in my ear. Someone wanted in. The door moved a millimeter, was halted by the lock, held in place a moment, then relaxed. I returned to the peephole.
The figure stood with slumped shoulders; a defeated pose. Its head looked up and to the side, as if in thought. It retreated into the light. Julia looked out the lobby door, back at the apartment, and left. I got dressed in twenty seconds and left out the back, un-showered and unconcerned by that stinky fact.
At 10:32 pm I returned to my apartment; it had been a good day. At 10:35 the door buzzer fired. Fortunately, I do not light the entire apartment when entering. I had walked in, gone to my room, and flipped only that switch on. This cannot be seen from the front of the building, which meant there was no sign of life in the apartment. I stole to my window seat in the darkness. The buzzer rang again. A minute later, my now nemesis left; her waits were growing dramatically shorter. I sat wondering how many times she had repeated this action throughout the day.
The next morning I woke around eight and lay in bed until eight thirty. I heard the phone ring and my roommate Jack rushed for it in a panic as he always did. Something about a ringing phone made Jack trip over himself to answer it, as if one day he would receive the winning lottery call from a beautiful nymphomaniac waiting to give him great sex with his million dollars. Regardless, Jack answered the phone, and moments later, there was a knock at my bedroom door.
“Hey,” he said, a look of caution on his face. “The phone’s for you. Some woman I don’t recognize. Should I say you aren’t home?” Jack knew the situation. How could he not? My South Dakota stalker had been buzzing our door for five days now.
I thought it over. It was Tuesday. Julia had mentioned she needed to be back in South Dakota this very morning. She left so quickly last night it looked like a last ditch effort.
“Nah,” I replied. I had never sent my number anyway, and I wasn't listed. “I’ll see who it is.”
“You sure? I’ll run interference for you.”
I waved him off, which I'll call an early morning "not thinking yet" mistake.
I grabbed the phone.
“Hello,” I stated.
“Is this Nate?”
I didn’t recognize the voice, and therefore knew exactly who it belonged to. Was I fucking retarded for taking the call? Jesus.
“Yup.”
“Do you know who this is?”
There was giddiness in her tone.
“I’ve got a pretty good idea.” I said flatly, suggesting this was not interesting to me.
“Ok, well, I’m coming over now.”
“Don’t bother.”
“I’m right around the corner on a pay phone, so don’t even try to get away. I’ll only stay for a minute, there’s something I want to give you.”
I paused. This would be difficult to get out of. Even if I hung up, she knew I was home. I decided she was NOT getting into my apartment. I’d meet her in the lobby.
“Whatever.”
“Ok, great, see you in a minute.”
She hung up. I shook my head. This would all be over soon.
Why hadn’t I let Jack tell the person I wasn't home?
The apartment door soon emitted a knock; the lobby must have been unlocked.
Great.
I walked into the next room and answered it.
There she stood, Julia in all her glory.
She was smiling. I frowned and gave a squint of irritation in greeting.
“DON’T SAY ANYTHING!!” She shouted, raising her hand in alarm. “DON’T SAY ANYTHING!! I don't want to ruin the moment!”
Ruin the moment?
She put forth her hand, in it was a small Tick figurine.
“DON’T SAY ANYTHING! Just take it... NO! DON’T SAY ANYTHING! Don’t ruin the moment... just stand there with my gift. My gift to you...”
I held out my hand, confused more than irritated, accepted the action figure, and watched as she clasped her hands together as if showing the joy of a child.
“DON’T SAY ANYTHING!"
This seemed to be all she could get out.
“I’m going now... I just wanted to meet you and give you that.”
She waved and moved away from the door.
I stood silently, unable to say anything even had I wanted to.
She left.
I closed the door.
What the hell had just happened?
That’s where it ends. Julia never emailed me again, and I had had enough of the anger and erotic pushing from her to reach out to her in either friendship or otherwise. I asked Pete about her once, and he had little to say, so I let it go. The only thing that remained to be explained was her phone call, which Jack had a theory about. I cannot prove or disprove it, and I can’t say that I disagree with his thoughts. Jack said she called two minutes after he walked in the front door that morning. This is the amount of time it would take a person to get to the pay phone around the corner if standing in front of our building. Was she watching? Standing in the cold or sitting in her car, waiting for someone to enter the apartment? Jack was roughly my height and we both had dark hair, so from a distance…
Either way, the phone was in Jack’s name. She must have looked him up after not finding my lovely moniker in the white pages and grabbing his off the mailbox in the lobby. Not much Sherlock Holmes action needed to figure that one out.
So, as Vonnegut wrote, it goes...
In 1996, I was attending college at the University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee, and tending bar at both Benjamin Briggs Pub & Grill (no longer in existence) and the restaurant Pieces of Eight (hilariously no longer in existence; they remodeled, re-invested, and were kicked off their property by the city). Back then, the internet was in its infancy, and email was foreign to most people. Texting didn't exist and public phones were still prevalent, as cell phones were not. The Fox network was still considered a rebellious challenge to the big three networks, and computers used floppy discs to store mobile files (that my mom and fake dad have a system that still accepts floppies tells you how often they update their technology). While modernization has changed the way we look at email and phone use, some things remain the same; not only do I still use the same email address I did back then, but writing out the tale I used a young rising star named Jennifer Aniston as an example of a sex symbol. Twelve years later, I'd probably do the same thing, only now I'd have to add and asterisk to her name and footnote that being involved with John Mayer has given her the same untouchable status as a leper. Some people you want nothing to do with after they make such poor life choices.
(Another amusing note is that this all got started due to what is essentially known today as "Forwarding." Back then, it was amusing to receive a chain email letter. Today, not so much so)
To date, I have had two stalkers in my life, and both instances occurred around somewhere during this period of the nineties. One was an Asian exchange student, someone who had bumped into me while tending bar at a restaurant called Nancy's (thankfully no longer in existence), and the other was a woman from South Dakota. Someday I'll sit down and do my best to recall what happened involving the Asian sensation, but the story "Psycho" was a re-telling of the tale involving the midwestern woman. Back then, in the days before blogging, I would write several long letters a year about my life, then print up and mail them (at a decent expense) to friends around the country who may or may not have been interested in receiving such shit.
I re-post the tale of my second stalker here, written in 1996, with only her name changed. When I first wrote and mailed it out, I used her real name, but I don't think there's any reason to do such a thing today when posting for public consumption to the web.
It started innocently enough. Then again, I suppose it always does, doesn’t it? A friend of mine in Boston, Pete, has a mailing list on his computer. Not a standard mailing list of addresses, but one of those Internet e-mail deals you’ve probably heard so much about. I am on this list, so is she. “She,” is Julia, a thirty-year-old grad. student in South Dakota. This is our story.
Pete's list has a theme to it: humor. If you happen across something amusing, such as a joke or story, you electronically send it in and he zaps to the people on file. One day I decided to offer a story I had written about Pete and I and our contributions to the Sperm Bank of Boston. The story was quite well received; I got many compliments from strangers. Julia was one of the complimenters. Trying to be considerate, I sent “Thank Yous” to anyone who wrote. Julia replied to the thank you, and a dialog was started.
Common interest came by way of "The Tick," a Saturday morning cartoon show. Living in South Dakota, though, prevented her from watching the program as no Fox affiliate existed; South Dakota ranks somewhere behind most Third World countries in this case. I was taping the show on a regular basis and offered to send her a copy. She was ecstatic. I was amused. We began emailing one another daily, and my eyebrow raised itself in curiosity; could this be one of those “Internet Romances” popping up across the country the media was raving about? I sent the tape, and with that she got my physical address.
Two weeks later I received a female condom in the mail. An odd thank you, as our interactions had never been anything more than friendly. Though we got along easily, we never discussed any sort of sexual attraction, and had never even exchanged photos. Regardless, a note was attached to the condom, “Save this, I’m coming to visit.” In my imagination, I figured that should this woman happen to look like Jennifer Aniston, I would be in heaven. No dummy I, I did not believe fortune would smile upon me so and became cautious. I asked Pete if I should be afraid. The single word reply was, “Yes.”
Julia asked for a picture. Playing off Pete's chillingly brief warning, I sent a photo of me skydiving. My head was bowed and the helmet covered my face. It gave no indication of my looks and was half joke, half identity protection. Julie emailed me that she loved the picture and hung it in the middle of the living room she shared with four other roommates. They told her I was “something special,” which alarmed me more than Pete's warning. Not only had I no idea how I was being described to warrant such a compliment, but I hadn't really told anyone about her, because there was nothing to tell. Meanwhile, I was common knowledge to her friends? Creepy.
The condom was followed by a string of erotic messages left in my e-mail account, each more graphic than the previous. They began to detail what she wanted to do to me and how it was going to be “the best night of my life.” Though several weeks had passed since I sent my picture, the favor had not yet been returned, a definite cause for alarm.
The volume with which I responded to her mail decreased by half. Where to this point I had always dropped a decent reply to each message, I now began sending short notes to roughly every third one. A detailed account of actions she was going to perform on my body would receive, “Just got home from work, got your letter, am too tired to write” in response. She used my backing off to double her efforts, sending two or three letters a day. Some would be violently angry, decrying her life and position in it, then do the most bizarre switch into how I would rescue her from her mundane existence. "I hate my job! Everyone I work with is stupid! I need a vacation. Can you perform oral sex for hours on end?” is a direct quote.
I was told my picture was masturbation material and received a second package in my physical mailbox. Nothing sexual this time, thankfully, but instead several small, odd, gifts. According to the accompanying note, she thought of me when she saw each item and decided to buy and send them. One trinket was a bizarre looking plastic mug shaped like a cartoon vampire, another was a Frankenstein refrigerator magnet. As I didn't have a particular affection for old horror movies and had never hinted to her I might, why these reminded her of me I do not know.
I decided I needed to stop being a pussy and just get everything out on the table. Where was she going with all of this, what did she look like, and what did she think we had going on? Her reply was hesitatingly honest, and I felt somewhat ashamed. “I am a little self-conscious because I am surrounded by women who eat red meat all the time and never exercise," she wrote. "It wears off on me and makes me lazy." At the end of the note, she dropped a mini-bomb; "By the way, I'll be visiting friends in Wisconsin in two weeks, and on December 28th we're going to road-trip to Milwaukee to meet you. You better be home, or else..."
The "or else" was probably meant playfully, but my reaction was immediately opposite; I told her was going to be out of town. There was a photography exhibit at the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art I wanted to see--by Andres Serrano--and several friends and I had plans to spend several days visiting the windy city.
She was furious. “ASSHOLE MOTHERFUCKER BASTARD SHITBAG ASSHOLE MOTHERFUCKER” was left in my inbox the very next day. “I AM COMING TO MEET YOU WHETHER OR NOT YOU WANT ME TO, SO YOU BETTER FIND TIME FOR ME TO DO SO BEFORE SUNDAY!”
Her "How to Win Friends and Influence People" response sealed the near-contracted deal for me. I told her my schedule was full and that there was nothing I could do about it. I received another thrashing. I also received and oddly timed surprise. On the same day her second email of vitriol and spite found its way into my email inbox, my physical mailbox received an envelope from her, something obviously mailed before I told her I wouldn't be around for her arrival. Gathering up great courage, Julia had finally sent her picture, along with the note, “Just wanted to send something so you’d know who was knocking at your door when I come.”
The picture was simply her face, which was enough. As cruel as it sounds, it is a face that created the phrase, "only a mother could love." I probably gave Homer Simpson's fear bleat upon gazing upon it. As much as I knew I was dealing with an easily wounded ego, I was also concerned with the tone of her emails and entirely sure I didn't want to end up in a room alone with her.
Two weeks passed quickly, with Julia continuing to insist she was going to meet me no matter what. My plans to visit Chicago fell apart, and I couldn't think of a thing to do for the weekend. In the least, I figured I just wouldn't answer my door if at home on Thursday.
As if on cue, at one o’clock that very afternoon, I was home alone, sitting in my room reading when the door buzzer went off. Someone was in the lobby looking to get in. I closed the book and frowned; no one ever buzzed my apartment. The door buzzed again--I got up cautiously--the door buzzed. I decided against answering, and instead walked into the living room and sat down behind a plant next to the window. From this vantage point I could see the front porch; the apartment was on the first floor, and when the person left I would know who it was. If friend, I would knock on the window, bid them back and explain my childish behavior. If foe...
The door buzzed. Two minutes had passed since the first sounding. This person was persistent. I remained seated. Two more minutes passed filled with intermittent buzzing. I was now irritated. When phoning, how many rings do you wait before deciding someone isn’t home? Twenty? Fifty? This was absurd. What was running through this person's mind, “Maybe someone’s home, but in the shower. if I keep ringing, they’ll get out and come to the door?” I have no idea.
After six minutes the front door opened. My mystery woman from South Dakota stepped out, shook her head, and walked away. As cruel as it is to say, her description of being "lazy" told half the story; she was roughly 5'4" and topped 200 pounds easily. I could see where the self-esteem problem came from, but the aggression that went with it is what had me on edge. I went back to my room and resumed reading. Moments later the door buzzer went off and was held for ten seconds. While not a long time in most cases, when listening to a door buzzer it is an eternity. I closed the book and wondered; had she somehow seen me step away from the window? Three short bursts filled the air, followed by silence. I began reading again and eventually went to work undisturbed.
This action repeated itself several times a day over the next few days, all the way until December 31st. On that evening, I went to work as usual, and it being New Years Eve my first call of order was to get as much stock ready as possible. The reservation book was full, and we expected to go through liquor like mad. I was in back of the restaurant grabbing bottles when the word came; “Nate, there’s someone here to see you.” My mind went on red alert. Never before had words spoken so innocently filled me with dread. Had I ever told this woman where I worked? Sometime in the beginning of our correspondence? She often referred to my early mailings, so I suspected she saved them. This was not good.
“Who is it?” I asked.
The hostess didn’t know.
“I’m busy,” I said flatly and went back to stocking.
She shrugged. Five minutes later my partner bartender came back; “Nate, your sister stopped by and dropped off some things for you.” I thumped my head against the wall. I was now officially paranoid.
That night I worked, went out with co-workers, and finally returned home and got to bed around six am. At nine my alarm went off; I was driving to Oshkosh for the day to visit a friend. I got up from my nighttime “nap” and called him, checking to make sure he was awake and such. The door buzzer went off in the middle of our brief conversation. I excused myself from the phone and hung up. Something didn’t feel right.
I took my seat by the window and waited. The door buzzer sounded repeatedly over three minutes, then paused. Moments later, I heard my neighbor’s door open; the lobby security door soon followed suit. Two seconds later the other apartment door closed and a knock came upon mine. This was not a knock used to wake a person on New Years Morning, but a cautious one, almost too quiet to be effective. It was repeated several times over the minute it took me to gently tiptoe across my creaky living room floor to reach the door. Once there, I looked through the peephole.
As sunlight was pouring into the inner lobby behind the figure, all I could see was a dark silhouette. It was very large. I couldn’t be 100% positive, but who else could it be? I stood bent over, watching every move, listening to every knock resound a mere inch from my head. My breathing was light. The figure leaned over. It looked into the peephole from the outside. We were now watching each other separated only by two inches of wood. I had to fight back laughter over the absurdity of the situation.
Then the doorknob turned.
Slowly.
Methodically.
Quietly.
This wasn’t a person casually entering a room. Someone was testing waters here, putting their big toe in to check for warmth. The knob reached its crescent and paused. Gentle pressure was applied; the door creaked in my ear. Someone wanted in. The door moved a millimeter, was halted by the lock, held in place a moment, then relaxed. I returned to the peephole.
The figure stood with slumped shoulders; a defeated pose. Its head looked up and to the side, as if in thought. It retreated into the light. Julia looked out the lobby door, back at the apartment, and left. I got dressed in twenty seconds and left out the back, un-showered and unconcerned by that stinky fact.
At 10:32 pm I returned to my apartment; it had been a good day. At 10:35 the door buzzer fired. Fortunately, I do not light the entire apartment when entering. I had walked in, gone to my room, and flipped only that switch on. This cannot be seen from the front of the building, which meant there was no sign of life in the apartment. I stole to my window seat in the darkness. The buzzer rang again. A minute later, my now nemesis left; her waits were growing dramatically shorter. I sat wondering how many times she had repeated this action throughout the day.
The next morning I woke around eight and lay in bed until eight thirty. I heard the phone ring and my roommate Jack rushed for it in a panic as he always did. Something about a ringing phone made Jack trip over himself to answer it, as if one day he would receive the winning lottery call from a beautiful nymphomaniac waiting to give him great sex with his million dollars. Regardless, Jack answered the phone, and moments later, there was a knock at my bedroom door.
“Hey,” he said, a look of caution on his face. “The phone’s for you. Some woman I don’t recognize. Should I say you aren’t home?” Jack knew the situation. How could he not? My South Dakota stalker had been buzzing our door for five days now.
I thought it over. It was Tuesday. Julia had mentioned she needed to be back in South Dakota this very morning. She left so quickly last night it looked like a last ditch effort.
“Nah,” I replied. I had never sent my number anyway, and I wasn't listed. “I’ll see who it is.”
“You sure? I’ll run interference for you.”
I waved him off, which I'll call an early morning "not thinking yet" mistake.
I grabbed the phone.
“Hello,” I stated.
“Is this Nate?”
I didn’t recognize the voice, and therefore knew exactly who it belonged to. Was I fucking retarded for taking the call? Jesus.
“Yup.”
“Do you know who this is?”
There was giddiness in her tone.
“I’ve got a pretty good idea.” I said flatly, suggesting this was not interesting to me.
“Ok, well, I’m coming over now.”
“Don’t bother.”
“I’m right around the corner on a pay phone, so don’t even try to get away. I’ll only stay for a minute, there’s something I want to give you.”
I paused. This would be difficult to get out of. Even if I hung up, she knew I was home. I decided she was NOT getting into my apartment. I’d meet her in the lobby.
“Whatever.”
“Ok, great, see you in a minute.”
She hung up. I shook my head. This would all be over soon.
Why hadn’t I let Jack tell the person I wasn't home?
The apartment door soon emitted a knock; the lobby must have been unlocked.
Great.
I walked into the next room and answered it.
There she stood, Julia in all her glory.
She was smiling. I frowned and gave a squint of irritation in greeting.
“DON’T SAY ANYTHING!!” She shouted, raising her hand in alarm. “DON’T SAY ANYTHING!! I don't want to ruin the moment!”
Ruin the moment?
She put forth her hand, in it was a small Tick figurine.
“DON’T SAY ANYTHING! Just take it... NO! DON’T SAY ANYTHING! Don’t ruin the moment... just stand there with my gift. My gift to you...”
I held out my hand, confused more than irritated, accepted the action figure, and watched as she clasped her hands together as if showing the joy of a child.
“DON’T SAY ANYTHING!"
This seemed to be all she could get out.
“I’m going now... I just wanted to meet you and give you that.”
She waved and moved away from the door.
I stood silently, unable to say anything even had I wanted to.
She left.
I closed the door.
What the hell had just happened?
That’s where it ends. Julia never emailed me again, and I had had enough of the anger and erotic pushing from her to reach out to her in either friendship or otherwise. I asked Pete about her once, and he had little to say, so I let it go. The only thing that remained to be explained was her phone call, which Jack had a theory about. I cannot prove or disprove it, and I can’t say that I disagree with his thoughts. Jack said she called two minutes after he walked in the front door that morning. This is the amount of time it would take a person to get to the pay phone around the corner if standing in front of our building. Was she watching? Standing in the cold or sitting in her car, waiting for someone to enter the apartment? Jack was roughly my height and we both had dark hair, so from a distance…
Either way, the phone was in Jack’s name. She must have looked him up after not finding my lovely moniker in the white pages and grabbing his off the mailbox in the lobby. Not much Sherlock Holmes action needed to figure that one out.
So, as Vonnegut wrote, it goes...
Thursday, December 4, 2008
the death of charity within me
it's taken me a long time to understand that questioning something and chastising it are often perceived as the same action.
lyds donated money to both the obama campaign and npr this year, and each time i wondered aloud why she did so. not that i didn't feel the causes worthy, it's just that for some time, giving has been something i rarely do. until recently, i never sat down to examine why. i cannot say i am either proud or ashamed of this mindset, it simply is what it is.
my initial flirtation with offering aid began in college. one day, without reason, i got a bug in my butt to volunteer at a soup kitchen. i made a few phone calls--this was back in the dark ages, before a google search could net you 10,000 hits in .23 seconds--and found a location in a church several miles from my apartment, one in a seedy milwaukee neighborhood. the shelter gave meals daily, so i simply showed up unannounced one evening. the hall was like any old-school rectory basement; spacious, and able to fit several rows of school-style picnic tables at a length of about ten deep. overall, a couple hundred people could eat simultaneously with enough elbowroom to be comfortable.
i wandered around looking for someone in charge and was brushed off several times by disinterested people, until i finally came upon a cluster of people with a bit of authority. i asked what i could do to help, and was met with an odd mix of suspicion and hostility. i was thrown, but after a few moments spent assuring everyone i was simply there to do what i was told, i was given the glorious honor of wiping down tables after people finished eating, that the next wave of needy could fill their tummies.
a line would begin to form about an hour before service, and i was warned not to hang out outside, as stabbings, muggings and other fun activities took place beyond god's walls. when the doors opened, an interesting influx of arrivals would enter, and even on my first night i could tell who was who. those new to the game had down turned heads and slumping body posture in embarrassment of their need. those who had surpassed this stage walked in with simple acceptance; they were hungry, this is what they had to do, and there was no shame in it. the final ingredient in the blend the actors. usually young men, they walked in with a swagger and sunglasses, dressed like they didn't need the food and making a show of their favor to the church in eating it. the ethnic mix was divided down easy lines; most volunteers were white, most recipients were black. my first couple weeks in, i wondered if this played into the attitudes and slight if not outright contempt many workers had for the diners.
wiping tables was by no means interesting, rewarding or fun, but i began a weekly pattern of riding my bike into the ghetto and doing what i could for those in need of human assistance. i didn't do it for bragging rights, karma or acknowledgement, i only volunteered because it seemed like the thing to do. i had the time, charity doesn't happen by accident and it seemed more productive than playing tetris, my common pastime. over the course of a year, my attitude did begin a shift into negative territory. while i never looked forward to going in, neither did i ever resent it. but toward the end, i did start to feel a hesitation.
when you spend time in any one area of life, you become aware of little nuances that make up the whole of a setting. cracks begin to shine through the foundation you once saw as solid. everything you witnessed but didn't notice initially stands out, and this takes place in jobs, relationships or friendships. after a year, instead of seeing simple need, i saw waste. people would go down the food line taking heaps of everything offered, then sit, eat the dessert and throw all else away. this action was far from rare, it was widely practiced. i began to get irritated by it; the idea people couldn't simply say "not interested" to whatever they weren't going to eat anyway offended me, especially when i noticed the families acting with complete disregard for instilling a sense of value in their children. to not clean your own plate is one thing, but to raise a child under the banner that waste, let alone waste of auspice, is acceptable? i began to understand why my fellow volunteers were embittered. before i could reach their level of apathy or anger, i bowed out. one week i didn't feel like volunteering, so i didn't go. and then i never went back again.
i still had the sense to act in a positive manner in me, though, and gestated a bit over my next move. such meditation eventually ended in deciding to adopt a third-world child in need. i researched a few outfits, centered on one and contacted away. forms were filed, choices were made and before long i was writing to (and sending checks for) a young boy in latin america. thanks to the simpsons, my friends and i diminished my kindness by referring to him as "pepe." but i was still happy to be doing my small part to combat the problems of a destitute nation. i wrote my little "dear ndugu" notes well ahead of the reference just made, and though i tried to be simple and straightforward in my letters--"i hope you are well, i hope your family is well"--i'm sure they were as foreign to my ward as those written by nicholson. i received pictures and crayola drawings in return, hung a few on the old fridge and filed others away in a folder i bought for correspondence.
the particular organization i went through had a graduation age for adoptees, and when it was reached i'd receive a packet of choices for my next child. in my years as a member, i believe i helped three children on three continents--south america, africa and asia--reach maturity, but as with the food pantry, i began becoming irritated by patterns i had dismissed early on. every new packet i received came with the same basic description, "(name) is the youngest of six/eight/ten children, living in abject poverty and in desperate need..." and i would read and wince. six children? eight children. ten fucking children? if these people are living in abject poverty, why the fuck are they continually squirting out more mouths they can't feed? because they need farm hands? because so few will eventually survive? sorry, that's shit logic and works against basic intuition regardless of education or economic standing. yes, once again, my ego got in the way of compassion and i had to opt out of adopting a fourth child before becoming even more of a fuck of a human being than i already felt like.
it was now the late 1990's and i was performing stand up comedy, so several of us decided to throw shows for charity. we would set everything up, practice our craft, and pass the door's take to a different foundation every time. many organizations were kind and giving, both putting out the word to supporters of their cause and appreciative of the money we gave. but an odd, or maybe understandable parallel between the size of the institution and their kindness (or lack of it) soon became apparent. when local groups were promoted, they were the most open and appreciative to our help. the larger the system, naturally, the more the red tape and less support there was.
my first (and worst) experience came at the hands of the make a wish foundation. a local dj heard of our shows, and having an interest in both comedy and the causes we supported, invited me to appear on air to promote the event. sadly, he wasn't aware of my ever-present ignorance when it comes to inappropriate behavior. simply put, i find very few subjects to be taboo in life, and things that somehow make others wince make me giggle. maybe i'm wired wrong, but when i got on the radio this was the exchange heard throughout the metropolis of milwaukee:
bryan erwin, dj: "i've got local comedian nathan timmel in the studio with me, he's part of a group of comics running "comedy for charity" down at stooges comedy club. every week they throw a show and donate the money to a worthy cause. nathan, why don't you tell us about this week's show and charity?"
me, idiot: "thanks bryan. this week we're donating to the very popular make a wish foundation. if you're not familiar, this is a great organization that allows terminally ill children the chance to do something they've always wanted to but never had the chance to, such as visit disneyworld, swim with the dolphins, or have their first homosexual experience."
bryan cut my mic and immediately went to commercial. he didn't exactly chastise me, but did explain that there was a difference between pushing the envelope and going too far, and for radio, that was definitely going too far.
and he was right.
the next morning my phone rang and the anything but lovely head of either the wisconsin (or milwaukee, i'm not quite sure which) branch of the foundation started shouting at me before i could barely say hello.
"how could you say that? did you think that was funny? how could you suggest that we could do such a thing for a child, or that a child would ever..."
what? be a homosexual?
i rarely show restraint in life when confronted with ignorance, but bryan had shown me great kindness and instead of blasting the woman, i apologized. the foundation had recently undergone a massive public relations disaster for supporting the dying wish of a child wanting to hunt and kill a bear (because i suppose sometimes when you're at your end you don't become enlightened to the idea of life being precious and simply want to take it from other creatures because as it was unfair to you, hey, fuck everyone and everything) and was widely rumored to have purchased prostitutes for children who wanted to lose their virginity. i absolutely wanted to hammer back at this ignorant cunt who was angry with me for suggesting a child would actually be--*gasp*--gay, but i tried, and failed, to keep bryan out of the mess i caused. bryan was eventually fired and i received legal notice to never promote anything even remotely involving the make a wish fucks ever again. as if i would want to.
oddly enough, bryan and i became close friends, and a big, blowout charity show was planned. bryan came from the world of bands and music, had connections, and a theater show was to be our grand farewell from the world of comedy and charity. after slight deliberations, the so-we-thought excellent habitat for humanity organization was green lit for fund reception. putting the cart before the horse, we printed posters, placards and got everything in place... and then contacted habitat for humanity. while kind, they claimed that their modus operandi was to remain inconspicuous. they didn't want to "get in anyone's face" with what they did. they appreciated the money, but weren't interested in either setting up a display at the event, or even sending anyone down to collect the money. they couldn't wait to get the check in the mail, but i don't remember being thanked by anyone i talked to. though feeling slighted, with everything already printed we had no choice but to go ahead with the plan and created what eventually turned out to be a standing room only crowd for an organization who wanted nothing to do with us. i will grant that it was our fault for not checking in with them before deciding to support their cause, but it still felt like a slight.
after that i pretty much ended my kind ways. i still donate food to pantries, but even that has become the occasional afterthought, like grabbing a canned item to place in a bin seen when entering the grocery store. lyds reminded me that this year i bought mosquito netting to combat malaria in africa, but that gesture was defeated by my complaining when lyds attempted to donate to npr a second time; "but i gave to the tribesmen this year..." as if giving was something to mark off a to do list but once.
charity should be like an apology; you don't give an apology to hear one in return, you offer supplication for reasons within you. when it comes to my period of giving, though i never did it for karma, thanks or even recognition, over a decade's time, desire to aid was removed from me. i could espouse bullshit about how governments could end all suffering if they would focus on it, but that doesn't forgive me my complacency or my questioning of lyds when she acts in a manner much more compassionately than i do.
today i find it hard supporting much of anything outside of systems involved with helping animals. maybe lyds can wring the old me back out of my current shell, or maybe i'll just donate more to the humane society and groups that focus on furry creatures.
how mother theresa managed to live among people perpetuating their own problem is beyond me.
sainthood truly is for the christ-like among us, and i have never claimed to be a decent human being.
lyds donated money to both the obama campaign and npr this year, and each time i wondered aloud why she did so. not that i didn't feel the causes worthy, it's just that for some time, giving has been something i rarely do. until recently, i never sat down to examine why. i cannot say i am either proud or ashamed of this mindset, it simply is what it is.
my initial flirtation with offering aid began in college. one day, without reason, i got a bug in my butt to volunteer at a soup kitchen. i made a few phone calls--this was back in the dark ages, before a google search could net you 10,000 hits in .23 seconds--and found a location in a church several miles from my apartment, one in a seedy milwaukee neighborhood. the shelter gave meals daily, so i simply showed up unannounced one evening. the hall was like any old-school rectory basement; spacious, and able to fit several rows of school-style picnic tables at a length of about ten deep. overall, a couple hundred people could eat simultaneously with enough elbowroom to be comfortable.
i wandered around looking for someone in charge and was brushed off several times by disinterested people, until i finally came upon a cluster of people with a bit of authority. i asked what i could do to help, and was met with an odd mix of suspicion and hostility. i was thrown, but after a few moments spent assuring everyone i was simply there to do what i was told, i was given the glorious honor of wiping down tables after people finished eating, that the next wave of needy could fill their tummies.
a line would begin to form about an hour before service, and i was warned not to hang out outside, as stabbings, muggings and other fun activities took place beyond god's walls. when the doors opened, an interesting influx of arrivals would enter, and even on my first night i could tell who was who. those new to the game had down turned heads and slumping body posture in embarrassment of their need. those who had surpassed this stage walked in with simple acceptance; they were hungry, this is what they had to do, and there was no shame in it. the final ingredient in the blend the actors. usually young men, they walked in with a swagger and sunglasses, dressed like they didn't need the food and making a show of their favor to the church in eating it. the ethnic mix was divided down easy lines; most volunteers were white, most recipients were black. my first couple weeks in, i wondered if this played into the attitudes and slight if not outright contempt many workers had for the diners.
wiping tables was by no means interesting, rewarding or fun, but i began a weekly pattern of riding my bike into the ghetto and doing what i could for those in need of human assistance. i didn't do it for bragging rights, karma or acknowledgement, i only volunteered because it seemed like the thing to do. i had the time, charity doesn't happen by accident and it seemed more productive than playing tetris, my common pastime. over the course of a year, my attitude did begin a shift into negative territory. while i never looked forward to going in, neither did i ever resent it. but toward the end, i did start to feel a hesitation.
when you spend time in any one area of life, you become aware of little nuances that make up the whole of a setting. cracks begin to shine through the foundation you once saw as solid. everything you witnessed but didn't notice initially stands out, and this takes place in jobs, relationships or friendships. after a year, instead of seeing simple need, i saw waste. people would go down the food line taking heaps of everything offered, then sit, eat the dessert and throw all else away. this action was far from rare, it was widely practiced. i began to get irritated by it; the idea people couldn't simply say "not interested" to whatever they weren't going to eat anyway offended me, especially when i noticed the families acting with complete disregard for instilling a sense of value in their children. to not clean your own plate is one thing, but to raise a child under the banner that waste, let alone waste of auspice, is acceptable? i began to understand why my fellow volunteers were embittered. before i could reach their level of apathy or anger, i bowed out. one week i didn't feel like volunteering, so i didn't go. and then i never went back again.
i still had the sense to act in a positive manner in me, though, and gestated a bit over my next move. such meditation eventually ended in deciding to adopt a third-world child in need. i researched a few outfits, centered on one and contacted away. forms were filed, choices were made and before long i was writing to (and sending checks for) a young boy in latin america. thanks to the simpsons, my friends and i diminished my kindness by referring to him as "pepe." but i was still happy to be doing my small part to combat the problems of a destitute nation. i wrote my little "dear ndugu" notes well ahead of the reference just made, and though i tried to be simple and straightforward in my letters--"i hope you are well, i hope your family is well"--i'm sure they were as foreign to my ward as those written by nicholson. i received pictures and crayola drawings in return, hung a few on the old fridge and filed others away in a folder i bought for correspondence.
the particular organization i went through had a graduation age for adoptees, and when it was reached i'd receive a packet of choices for my next child. in my years as a member, i believe i helped three children on three continents--south america, africa and asia--reach maturity, but as with the food pantry, i began becoming irritated by patterns i had dismissed early on. every new packet i received came with the same basic description, "(name) is the youngest of six/eight/ten children, living in abject poverty and in desperate need..." and i would read and wince. six children? eight children. ten fucking children? if these people are living in abject poverty, why the fuck are they continually squirting out more mouths they can't feed? because they need farm hands? because so few will eventually survive? sorry, that's shit logic and works against basic intuition regardless of education or economic standing. yes, once again, my ego got in the way of compassion and i had to opt out of adopting a fourth child before becoming even more of a fuck of a human being than i already felt like.
it was now the late 1990's and i was performing stand up comedy, so several of us decided to throw shows for charity. we would set everything up, practice our craft, and pass the door's take to a different foundation every time. many organizations were kind and giving, both putting out the word to supporters of their cause and appreciative of the money we gave. but an odd, or maybe understandable parallel between the size of the institution and their kindness (or lack of it) soon became apparent. when local groups were promoted, they were the most open and appreciative to our help. the larger the system, naturally, the more the red tape and less support there was.
my first (and worst) experience came at the hands of the make a wish foundation. a local dj heard of our shows, and having an interest in both comedy and the causes we supported, invited me to appear on air to promote the event. sadly, he wasn't aware of my ever-present ignorance when it comes to inappropriate behavior. simply put, i find very few subjects to be taboo in life, and things that somehow make others wince make me giggle. maybe i'm wired wrong, but when i got on the radio this was the exchange heard throughout the metropolis of milwaukee:
bryan erwin, dj: "i've got local comedian nathan timmel in the studio with me, he's part of a group of comics running "comedy for charity" down at stooges comedy club. every week they throw a show and donate the money to a worthy cause. nathan, why don't you tell us about this week's show and charity?"
me, idiot: "thanks bryan. this week we're donating to the very popular make a wish foundation. if you're not familiar, this is a great organization that allows terminally ill children the chance to do something they've always wanted to but never had the chance to, such as visit disneyworld, swim with the dolphins, or have their first homosexual experience."
bryan cut my mic and immediately went to commercial. he didn't exactly chastise me, but did explain that there was a difference between pushing the envelope and going too far, and for radio, that was definitely going too far.
and he was right.
the next morning my phone rang and the anything but lovely head of either the wisconsin (or milwaukee, i'm not quite sure which) branch of the foundation started shouting at me before i could barely say hello.
"how could you say that? did you think that was funny? how could you suggest that we could do such a thing for a child, or that a child would ever..."
what? be a homosexual?
i rarely show restraint in life when confronted with ignorance, but bryan had shown me great kindness and instead of blasting the woman, i apologized. the foundation had recently undergone a massive public relations disaster for supporting the dying wish of a child wanting to hunt and kill a bear (because i suppose sometimes when you're at your end you don't become enlightened to the idea of life being precious and simply want to take it from other creatures because as it was unfair to you, hey, fuck everyone and everything) and was widely rumored to have purchased prostitutes for children who wanted to lose their virginity. i absolutely wanted to hammer back at this ignorant cunt who was angry with me for suggesting a child would actually be--*gasp*--gay, but i tried, and failed, to keep bryan out of the mess i caused. bryan was eventually fired and i received legal notice to never promote anything even remotely involving the make a wish fucks ever again. as if i would want to.
oddly enough, bryan and i became close friends, and a big, blowout charity show was planned. bryan came from the world of bands and music, had connections, and a theater show was to be our grand farewell from the world of comedy and charity. after slight deliberations, the so-we-thought excellent habitat for humanity organization was green lit for fund reception. putting the cart before the horse, we printed posters, placards and got everything in place... and then contacted habitat for humanity. while kind, they claimed that their modus operandi was to remain inconspicuous. they didn't want to "get in anyone's face" with what they did. they appreciated the money, but weren't interested in either setting up a display at the event, or even sending anyone down to collect the money. they couldn't wait to get the check in the mail, but i don't remember being thanked by anyone i talked to. though feeling slighted, with everything already printed we had no choice but to go ahead with the plan and created what eventually turned out to be a standing room only crowd for an organization who wanted nothing to do with us. i will grant that it was our fault for not checking in with them before deciding to support their cause, but it still felt like a slight.
after that i pretty much ended my kind ways. i still donate food to pantries, but even that has become the occasional afterthought, like grabbing a canned item to place in a bin seen when entering the grocery store. lyds reminded me that this year i bought mosquito netting to combat malaria in africa, but that gesture was defeated by my complaining when lyds attempted to donate to npr a second time; "but i gave to the tribesmen this year..." as if giving was something to mark off a to do list but once.
charity should be like an apology; you don't give an apology to hear one in return, you offer supplication for reasons within you. when it comes to my period of giving, though i never did it for karma, thanks or even recognition, over a decade's time, desire to aid was removed from me. i could espouse bullshit about how governments could end all suffering if they would focus on it, but that doesn't forgive me my complacency or my questioning of lyds when she acts in a manner much more compassionately than i do.
today i find it hard supporting much of anything outside of systems involved with helping animals. maybe lyds can wring the old me back out of my current shell, or maybe i'll just donate more to the humane society and groups that focus on furry creatures.
how mother theresa managed to live among people perpetuating their own problem is beyond me.
sainthood truly is for the christ-like among us, and i have never claimed to be a decent human being.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
the mental retardation of a corporate mindset
when i was in college, i tended bar at a wannabe fine dining restaurant. a corporation that owned fifty or so eateries across the country ran it, but that doesn't mean it was part of a themed chain. each restaurant was its own entity, not a series of red lobsters or olive gardens. that said, no individual location was ever allowed to function in a manner that made it unique to its region. in the three years i worked there, i saw five general managers and more manager-managers than i can remember pass through. each story was fairly similar; the place wasn't pulling a profit, so a gm was replaced and given a new strategy with which to grow business. each strategy was handed down from corporate, written by people who lived across the country and who had zero knowledge of the local market. so each gm would arrive with a puffed chest and the idea they should be respected and listened to, and each would leave defeated as the clientele wanted to be cajoled, not bullied, into eating there. no matter how many times the failed pattern repeated itself, corporate still made sure to dictate everything from afar; from how a manager should manage to what the customers should want, edicts were handed down from above. naturally, the only thing corporate actually succeeded in accomplishing was creating a disaffected staff. my personal revenge was to constantly dump full bottles of absolut down the drain; if a manager yelled at me i'd roll my eyes, wait until they turned their back, then pour their attempted profits away. others i worked with quit by simply not showing up; no loyalty to the business was ever nurtured.
one of my best friends manages a movie theater. like a majority of theaters, it is corporate and he is micro-managed from across the country. right now, many braches of the chain are losing money; my friend's location, however, is solvent. such things do not matter to a corporate head. when they make changes, they do so using a sweeping motion, uninterested in nuancing their way across the country. their solution to the overall loss of money was to implement several policies: cut the first showing of the day, effective immediately. cut payroll, by making one person do the work of three. and of course, raise prices. oh, and to go with those changes, naturally, was the new slogan: "our focus is customer service!" the problem being, of course, that every new policy enacted is in direct contradiction to customer service.
a competing theater chain by my friend's location cut their early show long ago. naturally, senior citizens who enjoy daytime events all flocked to my friend's theater. these would be the same senior citizens who will now be turned away from their weekly routine. by cutting payroll, my friend, who is salaried, has had to pick up the slack. he mentioned having several calls who had been put on hold hanging up because he couldn't get back to them quickly enough; he was trying to sell tickets to a movie starting in five minutes, a movie he needed to get to the projection booth to run. but hey, as those customers were hanging up, $5 an hour was being saved by having a worker cut from the shift! corporate also mandated a nationwide rate at the concession stand, one already gutted of all the specialty sweets the competition didn't carry and replaced with par for the course candy. when challenging the new corporate rate, my friend argued that his market would have a problem with the exceedingly high price. corporate argued back that a flat rate made sense. my friend was furious. naturally a flat rate makes sense on paper, but in reality a two-bedroom apartment in houston doesn't rent for the same rate as a two-bedroom apartment in boise, so why would popcorn in new york city cost the same as popcorn in tulsa? corporate had no answer. but hey, it's for the customer! they should want to pay more! right?
last month, lyds dodged a bullet. fed up with the way corporate new york was running their satellite iowa city business, she up and found a new job. part of her frustration came in the way corporate was panicking this year. for three previous years, the business grew at an amazing rate; every year profits exploded, so at the start of every new year corporate set higher goals to reach. for example, if they demanded "10," the business hit "15." when new york demanded "25," iowa hit "30." until this year.
this year, with the economy slumping, profits slumped, too. the best the iowa satellite was able to do was to near last year's numbers, not grow to new heights. this was a problem for new york, because they wanted to sell the iowa branch and was offering up the business as a profitable powerhouse. so, though in the black, corporate decided to eliminate 20% of the iowa city workforce; lydia's department was decimated. all but four people were outright let go, no notice given. the other four were told they would be training their replacements, people who would be working out of the new marketing department in of all places, new york city. that's right, in an attempt to save money, corporate decided to shut down an already profitable and well oiled machine based in the labor cheap state of iowa, and train a whole new crew based in the ultra expensive location of manhattan. all so several people on top could show better returns and increase stock shares, making the iowa business ripe for sale. never mind the people they put out of work one week before thanksgiving, one month before christmas, and all within the walls of an already profitable company.
these are personal stories and don't even begin to dip into the asshole nature of corporate greed. general motors dismantled its electric car program and destroyed all prototypes years ago; now they beg for billions of dollars in order to restructure its business because they took a hit on gas guzzling hummers this past summer. they beg while flying to and from washington in private jets.
aig received billions and immediately all the top officers ran to a horrifically expensive spa for massages and manicures. before receiving their bailout money, just in case they got shot down they spent the months leading up to asking by securing enormous bonuses for the top dogs.
after 9/11, the airlines were given billions in bailout money, and somehow it all stayed at the top as lower level workers were laid off.
my point, if i have one, is this: write to your senators and congressmen and shout as loud as you can: don't support the corporate mindset. don't bail them out for using backwards thinking that got them into trouble in the first place, let them go bankrupt, because even when they have money, they still don't give a fuck about the workers they claim to be begging on the behalf of. they don't care about workers, and they definitely don't care about customers. they never have, and never will. if they did, they'd understand what a classic song tried to teach the world many years ago: "what might be right for you, may not be right for some."
(sorry, couldn't resist)
regardless, while i may not be a religious person, i do hope there is a special realm of hell reserved specifically for corporate fucks who live their lives off numbers on a piece of paper.
i cross my fingers for it.
.
one of my best friends manages a movie theater. like a majority of theaters, it is corporate and he is micro-managed from across the country. right now, many braches of the chain are losing money; my friend's location, however, is solvent. such things do not matter to a corporate head. when they make changes, they do so using a sweeping motion, uninterested in nuancing their way across the country. their solution to the overall loss of money was to implement several policies: cut the first showing of the day, effective immediately. cut payroll, by making one person do the work of three. and of course, raise prices. oh, and to go with those changes, naturally, was the new slogan: "our focus is customer service!" the problem being, of course, that every new policy enacted is in direct contradiction to customer service.
a competing theater chain by my friend's location cut their early show long ago. naturally, senior citizens who enjoy daytime events all flocked to my friend's theater. these would be the same senior citizens who will now be turned away from their weekly routine. by cutting payroll, my friend, who is salaried, has had to pick up the slack. he mentioned having several calls who had been put on hold hanging up because he couldn't get back to them quickly enough; he was trying to sell tickets to a movie starting in five minutes, a movie he needed to get to the projection booth to run. but hey, as those customers were hanging up, $5 an hour was being saved by having a worker cut from the shift! corporate also mandated a nationwide rate at the concession stand, one already gutted of all the specialty sweets the competition didn't carry and replaced with par for the course candy. when challenging the new corporate rate, my friend argued that his market would have a problem with the exceedingly high price. corporate argued back that a flat rate made sense. my friend was furious. naturally a flat rate makes sense on paper, but in reality a two-bedroom apartment in houston doesn't rent for the same rate as a two-bedroom apartment in boise, so why would popcorn in new york city cost the same as popcorn in tulsa? corporate had no answer. but hey, it's for the customer! they should want to pay more! right?
last month, lyds dodged a bullet. fed up with the way corporate new york was running their satellite iowa city business, she up and found a new job. part of her frustration came in the way corporate was panicking this year. for three previous years, the business grew at an amazing rate; every year profits exploded, so at the start of every new year corporate set higher goals to reach. for example, if they demanded "10," the business hit "15." when new york demanded "25," iowa hit "30." until this year.
this year, with the economy slumping, profits slumped, too. the best the iowa satellite was able to do was to near last year's numbers, not grow to new heights. this was a problem for new york, because they wanted to sell the iowa branch and was offering up the business as a profitable powerhouse. so, though in the black, corporate decided to eliminate 20% of the iowa city workforce; lydia's department was decimated. all but four people were outright let go, no notice given. the other four were told they would be training their replacements, people who would be working out of the new marketing department in of all places, new york city. that's right, in an attempt to save money, corporate decided to shut down an already profitable and well oiled machine based in the labor cheap state of iowa, and train a whole new crew based in the ultra expensive location of manhattan. all so several people on top could show better returns and increase stock shares, making the iowa business ripe for sale. never mind the people they put out of work one week before thanksgiving, one month before christmas, and all within the walls of an already profitable company.
these are personal stories and don't even begin to dip into the asshole nature of corporate greed. general motors dismantled its electric car program and destroyed all prototypes years ago; now they beg for billions of dollars in order to restructure its business because they took a hit on gas guzzling hummers this past summer. they beg while flying to and from washington in private jets.
aig received billions and immediately all the top officers ran to a horrifically expensive spa for massages and manicures. before receiving their bailout money, just in case they got shot down they spent the months leading up to asking by securing enormous bonuses for the top dogs.
after 9/11, the airlines were given billions in bailout money, and somehow it all stayed at the top as lower level workers were laid off.
my point, if i have one, is this: write to your senators and congressmen and shout as loud as you can: don't support the corporate mindset. don't bail them out for using backwards thinking that got them into trouble in the first place, let them go bankrupt, because even when they have money, they still don't give a fuck about the workers they claim to be begging on the behalf of. they don't care about workers, and they definitely don't care about customers. they never have, and never will. if they did, they'd understand what a classic song tried to teach the world many years ago: "what might be right for you, may not be right for some."
(sorry, couldn't resist)
regardless, while i may not be a religious person, i do hope there is a special realm of hell reserved specifically for corporate fucks who live their lives off numbers on a piece of paper.
i cross my fingers for it.
.
Monday, November 10, 2008
good god, it's great to be white
normally, when you go on the road as a comedian, the comedy club puts you up in a hotel. sometimes, however, you get an apartment rented specifically for traveling comedians.
the problem with staying in an apartment is: when it comes time to check in for a flight and print boarding passes in advance, you're shit out of luck.
most cities have a little business called "kinko's" within their borders, but not all, and ocala florida, if you do a google search, is lacking such an establishment.
just my luck, i happened to be performing in ocala, and had little interest in arriving at the airport early just to check in.
what to do...
what to do?
well, when you're a reasonably normal looking white guy, you just find the nearest hotel, wander into the lobby like you're staying there, walk over to the elevator as if to go to your room, then change your mind and meander back to the front desk and say, "excuse me, i'd like to check in for my flight and print my boarding passes, where's the business center?"
not only will they tell you, they'll give you the access code to the computer.
and they'll do it with a smile.
take that, minorities who receive suspicious eyes whenever you enter a business.
:D
.
the problem with staying in an apartment is: when it comes time to check in for a flight and print boarding passes in advance, you're shit out of luck.
most cities have a little business called "kinko's" within their borders, but not all, and ocala florida, if you do a google search, is lacking such an establishment.
just my luck, i happened to be performing in ocala, and had little interest in arriving at the airport early just to check in.
what to do...
what to do?
well, when you're a reasonably normal looking white guy, you just find the nearest hotel, wander into the lobby like you're staying there, walk over to the elevator as if to go to your room, then change your mind and meander back to the front desk and say, "excuse me, i'd like to check in for my flight and print my boarding passes, where's the business center?"
not only will they tell you, they'll give you the access code to the computer.
and they'll do it with a smile.
take that, minorities who receive suspicious eyes whenever you enter a business.
:D
.
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