The dust of commerce has settled and I sit blessed on this lovely pile of goodies as a result of 365 days of practicing nice. Christmas, especially for one who has waffled in his religious beliefs over the years, is a particularly interesting time of the year. Being inundated with a pop-culture that saturates the holidays with a healthy mix of hallmark schmaltz and warm crackling pre-fab joy, it's no real surprise that this season brings with it a bag of mixed emotions. As a life-long student of religious studies, I am often intrigued with the bending, co-opting, and usurping of a meld of traditions from a vast variety of different spheres. This year is no different. As I listen to my "Twisted Sister Holiday Album", I am truly reminded of the subcontracted reason for the commercial season.
I think it's fair to step away from the religious connotations of this month, and spend a few ecumenical paragraphs talking about some of the other joys that this time of year brings. Sure, there's the family, the food, and the frivolity of fellowship with friends from faraway. But there are other aspects of the Christmas season that don't have anything to do with an f-word. When the holiday turkey and ham is resting comfortably in your lower intestine, and the wine has started to warm your spirits like a kindled space heater, generally the holidays are then reduced to the offerings of hollywood and our friends at low-rent production companies the world over.
For most of us who've grown up prior to the digital age, but long after the gen-x'ers, we find our defining moments in the films that we pull out year after year to help recapture those days when the VCR was the highest form of entertainment technology: the Christmas movie. Today, as I prepare to go enjoy a wonderful meal with some dear friends, I thought I would pause and offer the blogger's requisite top ten list. As with any top ten list, there goes the caveat that controversy over placement, inclusions, and exclusions is likely to occur. In the event that you find a discrepancy with what I've decided to put on my list, I implore you to consider that this isn't a be-all, end-all list....merely a personal catalogue.
10.) GREMLINS
Admittedly, I was a child when this movie came out and it scared the cartoons off my underoos. However, after watching it as an adult (grownup is not applicable in my case), I have found that it is the perfect mix of horror and humor that makes any good movie worth repeat viewings. Phoebe Cates is ever the lovely virginal girlfriend who aids her beau in helping this idyllic small town rid itself of the perils of not obeying the rules attached to exotic pets. Particularly fun is the scene in the local bar when the gremlins are getting drunk and harassing the townies.
9.) EYES WIDE SHUT
A Christmas movie released in the summer of 1999. This is certainly one that tends to go on the bottom of the list of favorite Kubrick flicks, but with unjust cause I say. Of course, the plot is ridiculous, and the movie is about 1 hour too long, but it does offer some fun intrigue and the most arresting three note score since "Close Encounters of the Third Kind". Also, the rampant nudity of beautiful women is enough to make up for the utter absurdity of watching Tom Cruise use his medical license like a police badge. Plus, this movie reminds us that hookers need holiday love too.
8.) MIDNIGHT IN THE GARDEN OF GOOD AND EVIL
A wonderful creeping drama directed by Clint Eastwood, this movie opens in the most Christmas-y of Southern towns: Savannah, GA. While most of the movie takes place after the celebration of Christ's birth, the festive house party scene with its culinary spread of cajun cuisine is enough to make me nostalgic for many Christmas Eves on the Gulf Coast where we feasted on Gumbo, crabcakes, and shrimp. Also, Kevin Spacey is disarmingly eerie as the closeted art restorer cum neauveau riche host to John Cusack's everyman struggling writer.
7.) ROCKY IV
When you're preparing to end the cold war with a pair of boxing gloves, the best way to train is to haul logs up a Russian mountain, and go jogging in three feet of snow. The scene where Rocky, Paulie, and his trainers are sitting in the log cabin listening to the 'Alvin and the Chipmunks' Christmas album while playing chess and sitting by a crackling fire is enough to make me want to give up my city life and move to Siberia...but only if I get to make friends with Apollo Creed's widow. It's a Christmas miracle when Adrian shows up after travelling around the world to be with her man before his big fight.
6.) JAWS IV: THE REVENGE
There must be something festive about the roman numeral iv as this next film in a popular series is also centered around the noel. As we hear the Amity Island Children's choir rehearsing for their big holiday pageant, young Shawn Brody is attacked by both a piece of driftwood and the latest incarnation of the shark that has plagued his home since his father first came to be sheriff. We are then treated to Bahamanian Christmas celebration as Shawn's mother, the lovely but aged Ellen Brody, travels down to a more temperated climate to mourn her baby boy in the comforting arms of Michael Caine. The final battle where the widow Brody rams the surface-breached fish with the end of her yacht is as anticlimactic as the series offered. On an interesting note, Michael Caine won the 1987 Best Supporting Actor Oscar for "Hannah and her Sisters" but was not present to accept his statue as he was on location filming this aquatic masterpiece.
5.) CHILD'S PLAY
Ever what would happen if a smalltime criminal who dallies in voodoo were to be killed while fleeing the law in a toy store during the midst of a lightning storm? This movie can set your mind finally at ease. Seeing the demented Chucky Doll hack away at children through 4 sequels is enough for me to never buy my children any toy with a face.
4.) THE TOY
Richard Pryor in most racially sensitive role plays a gift to the spoiled son of a portly Jackie Gleeson (sporting a horrendous southern accent). Playing on themes of slavery and journalistic ethics, this movie doesn't really have much to do with Christmas, but it is certainly worth watching Pryor rolling through a toy store in a giant wonder wheel. Also, the rampant of jokes about the names of his employer's son (young Master Bates) is enough to keep the blue in the Holiday tradition.
3.) ERNEST SAVES CHRISTMAS
The day that Jim Varney died was a day that the laughter temporarily stopped. Arguably the best in his series of Ernest films, this Christmas-themed entry boasts jokes about Reindeer doody, runaway children, and senior citizens. Watching America's favorite boob fly through the air on a spark-shooting sleigh only to stop inches from ground after a perilous straight shot to the earth is made comedy legend by his confident utterance "Air Brakes" accompanied with his signature laugh. Plus, the frequent misidentification of the real Santa Claus as one "Mr. Santos" is sweet and off-putting.
2.) SCROOGED
It's the late 80's and Bill Murray is riding his film career high. In my opinion this movie is far superior to the Chevy Chase vehicle "Christmas Vacation". Though the plethora of one-liners in the former is commendable, the heart and soul of "Scrooged" is in the journey that his character goes through. The same man who once suggested stapling fake antlers onto the heads of live mice for the sake of a television special later gives Bobcat Goldthwait a raspberry on his beer gut after seeing his own demise at the hands of his Christmas Future. Watching him get his clock cleaned by a tutu wearing Carol Kane is also worth the price of admission. The final speech that he gives to camera after interuppting the live taping of his TV station's holiday ratings coup is enough to soften even the hardest heart. Try holding back your tears when the young mute boy whispers "Merry Christmas" and thus sparking the "Put A Little Love in Your Heart" sing-a-long to give the film a warm and spirited coda.
1.) DIE HARD
It's Christmas Eve and terrorists have taken over an LA high-rise. Who're you gonna call? This is my perennial holiday favorite movie. Not only is it the supremest of the supreme action movies, but there is nothing short of awesome in this kick-ass romp of a joy watching John McClain take out an entire platoon of Euro-trash hired goons. And he did it all barefoot and shirtless. A. Mazing. Yippi Ki Ay indeed.
I truly hope that this holiday season brings you safe and sound memories. May you receive the blessings that you don't deserve but aspire for anyway. I raise a glass to you that read these posts and send in your always welcome feedback. Merry Christmas!
Friday, December 25, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
A Heapin' Helpin' of Good Cheer
The stockings are hung on the chimney, though I can't say much care went into the process. The bells are jingling, the stars are twinkling, and the egg is nogging. It's the countdown to that ever-so special time of year. While clock ticks away the final moments of the 2009 Noel, I feel that some preliminary recollections are in order. But, in the spirit of the season, I think I'll save those momento mori for next week. While this year has certainly held some wonderful surprises for yours truly, there have certainly been a tad too many ebbs to counteract the flow. I'm occasionally feeling like Joseph deeling with the years of few, though I can't seem to find my techincolor dreamcoat anywhere. I've seen the passing of some dear friends. I've also closed the book on a few personal relationships that have left their share of scars. It's been a tough market year, and my wallet gasps for breath everytime a bill arrives. Not one to spend my time enumerating all my "woes are me", I think I'll move on to the plus side of having a crappy snappy year: giant meals of food!
Yes, if there is a meat-flavored silver lining to every dark cloud, then it would have to be that collection of heart-warming recipes that you keep secure until the days when the long night begins to set in. Not that a good meal is the best medicine, but a nice dish cooked with the right blend of special herbs and feeling can make the dreary, depressing, cold-cruel world seem a little more tolerable. I think it's fair to say that the past few weeks haven't been filled with as much bliss as I would prefer. I decided that I was going to rectify this slump by going to visit an old friend: comfort food.
The dish I'm going to regale you with today is one of my personal favorites. It's not particularly fancy. It's not exotic, expensive, or difficult to make. It's just good, old-fashioned love in a casserole dish. If you should find yourself in a melancholic mood, this is the perfect meal for you. There's enough to feed some friends (who should be caring enough to help you through whatever tragedy du jour has befallen you of late), it's fun to create, and you will genuinely feel your spirits lift and waistband expand all in the name of culinary relief. Ladies and gummyworms, may I proudly present to you the aptly named: DIVINE CASSEROLE!
To be honest, I have no idea where this recipe orginates. I am a confessed foody who revels in his own refined palate. I have a taste for the luxurious, and a desire to indulge my most extravagant gastronomical dreams. But this dish doesn't really fall into the category of the white-linen fare. It probably wouldn't appear on the menu of the restaurant elite, but that's part of the charm of this dish. I fondly remember my mother introducing this to our family when we were growing up. Though I don't remember exactly when she cooked it the first time, I do remember it being a weekly staple for my formative years. And it was a staple that I looked forward to with more relish than taco tuesdays.
The ingredients: Meat, pasta, cheese, sauce, and every good thought you can muster.
Cooking should never be overindulgent. Cooking should be about preparing something that will satisfy your hunger in the best possible way. It's not just about filling your belly, but it's equally important to provide a sustenance that encompasses your very being. Otherwise, we'd eat raw meat and drink water. Cooking allows us to express ourselves through our creations. This dish isn't about flair, or fanciful design. It's about taking good food, and making it better, deliciously more palatable, and truly satiating.
To start, take 2 lbs of ground meat. Generally I prefer round or sirloin (when the budget allows). Occasionally I'll replace 1 lb of beef with a pound of sausage to get a nice flavorful mix. Brown the meat and add in your favorite tomato sauce. At this point in the recipe, it's more about what you prefer than what I like. Whatever you like to do to a simple meat sauce, now is the time to make it happen! I will also add some garlic, and chopped onion. By the time you have the meat mixing with the sauce, the aroma should start to take its' effect. If you're still pissy or sad, you should let the fragrant meat bouquet begin to ease the negative out of your system.
Now for the pasta: Generally I'll use egg noodles for this dish, but if you have a certain nostalgic preferment for another type of pasta, then by all means substitute. I opt for the egg noodles because I think their consistency really compliments the meat sauce. You want something that I will hold up in the oven as you will eventually put this in the oven.
While your noodles are cooking (in seasoned water, of course), mix together 8 oz. of sour cream, one block of cream cheese, and a container of cottage cheese. Feel free to taste test this blend. If your spirits weren't feeling the improvement while the meat was cooking, a little spoonful of this should give your mood a shimmy and a shake. To add a bit of textural flavor, chop up a few green onions.
Once the noodles are ready, strain them and pour half of them into a large casserole dish. Layer the cheese mixture over the noodles, then add the rest of the noodles. Top off the dish with your meat sauce. A little sprinkling of parmesan cheese might just do the trick if you're feeling extra blue. Put the dish into an oven pre-heated to 350 degrees. Cook for about 30-45 minutes.
Now, if you're dining alone, I might suggest that you go easy onthe wine as no problem gets that much better with vintage. If you're having friends over, this dish pairs well with a big, full-bodied cabernet, or a zinfandel. You want a good hearty wine.
After you've eaten, if you don't feel even the slightest bit better, perhaps your problems are just too deep for one helping. Go ahead and pile another serving on that plate and let the magic of the casserole work its' divine power on your psyche. Or may I suggest punching a small child?
Yes, if there is a meat-flavored silver lining to every dark cloud, then it would have to be that collection of heart-warming recipes that you keep secure until the days when the long night begins to set in. Not that a good meal is the best medicine, but a nice dish cooked with the right blend of special herbs and feeling can make the dreary, depressing, cold-cruel world seem a little more tolerable. I think it's fair to say that the past few weeks haven't been filled with as much bliss as I would prefer. I decided that I was going to rectify this slump by going to visit an old friend: comfort food.
The dish I'm going to regale you with today is one of my personal favorites. It's not particularly fancy. It's not exotic, expensive, or difficult to make. It's just good, old-fashioned love in a casserole dish. If you should find yourself in a melancholic mood, this is the perfect meal for you. There's enough to feed some friends (who should be caring enough to help you through whatever tragedy du jour has befallen you of late), it's fun to create, and you will genuinely feel your spirits lift and waistband expand all in the name of culinary relief. Ladies and gummyworms, may I proudly present to you the aptly named: DIVINE CASSEROLE!
To be honest, I have no idea where this recipe orginates. I am a confessed foody who revels in his own refined palate. I have a taste for the luxurious, and a desire to indulge my most extravagant gastronomical dreams. But this dish doesn't really fall into the category of the white-linen fare. It probably wouldn't appear on the menu of the restaurant elite, but that's part of the charm of this dish. I fondly remember my mother introducing this to our family when we were growing up. Though I don't remember exactly when she cooked it the first time, I do remember it being a weekly staple for my formative years. And it was a staple that I looked forward to with more relish than taco tuesdays.
The ingredients: Meat, pasta, cheese, sauce, and every good thought you can muster.
Cooking should never be overindulgent. Cooking should be about preparing something that will satisfy your hunger in the best possible way. It's not just about filling your belly, but it's equally important to provide a sustenance that encompasses your very being. Otherwise, we'd eat raw meat and drink water. Cooking allows us to express ourselves through our creations. This dish isn't about flair, or fanciful design. It's about taking good food, and making it better, deliciously more palatable, and truly satiating.
To start, take 2 lbs of ground meat. Generally I prefer round or sirloin (when the budget allows). Occasionally I'll replace 1 lb of beef with a pound of sausage to get a nice flavorful mix. Brown the meat and add in your favorite tomato sauce. At this point in the recipe, it's more about what you prefer than what I like. Whatever you like to do to a simple meat sauce, now is the time to make it happen! I will also add some garlic, and chopped onion. By the time you have the meat mixing with the sauce, the aroma should start to take its' effect. If you're still pissy or sad, you should let the fragrant meat bouquet begin to ease the negative out of your system.
Now for the pasta: Generally I'll use egg noodles for this dish, but if you have a certain nostalgic preferment for another type of pasta, then by all means substitute. I opt for the egg noodles because I think their consistency really compliments the meat sauce. You want something that I will hold up in the oven as you will eventually put this in the oven.
While your noodles are cooking (in seasoned water, of course), mix together 8 oz. of sour cream, one block of cream cheese, and a container of cottage cheese. Feel free to taste test this blend. If your spirits weren't feeling the improvement while the meat was cooking, a little spoonful of this should give your mood a shimmy and a shake. To add a bit of textural flavor, chop up a few green onions.
Once the noodles are ready, strain them and pour half of them into a large casserole dish. Layer the cheese mixture over the noodles, then add the rest of the noodles. Top off the dish with your meat sauce. A little sprinkling of parmesan cheese might just do the trick if you're feeling extra blue. Put the dish into an oven pre-heated to 350 degrees. Cook for about 30-45 minutes.
Now, if you're dining alone, I might suggest that you go easy onthe wine as no problem gets that much better with vintage. If you're having friends over, this dish pairs well with a big, full-bodied cabernet, or a zinfandel. You want a good hearty wine.
After you've eaten, if you don't feel even the slightest bit better, perhaps your problems are just too deep for one helping. Go ahead and pile another serving on that plate and let the magic of the casserole work its' divine power on your psyche. Or may I suggest punching a small child?
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Send Me Your Life-Savings, or God is Going To "Murderize" Me.
Today is truly a sad day for anyone who has ever put money in an envelope because the TV made them feel guilty. The premiere televangelist, Oral Roberts, has passed on to the great self-named university in the sky. While there is nothing funny about death, or the passing of a beloved and revered figure, I did want to take this opportunity and dedicate today's post to a man who has given me so much material over the years. So many jokes were created at his expense. I feel that comedy owes him a true debt of gratitude for his unconcious contributions over the years.
For a man who once proclaimed on television that God was going to kill him if he didn't raise 8 million dollars for his ministry, Oral Roberts' 91 years were nothing short of entertaining. Comparing the almighty to North Jersey hitman and exceeding your fundraising goals is nothing short of impressive. He was able to keep a straight face while telling his viewers that a 900 ft Jesus appeared to him in a dream and told him to build a hospital. I like the concept of desiring to heal the sick, but do you really need a gargantuan deity's demand to make it happen?
Let's face it, this guy was obviously concerned with the welfare of his flock, and for that he should be applauded. Sure, he may have looked like "Bear" Bryant's gay brother, but he was certainly a man who was earnest in his attempts to increase cash flow for the Lord. He was willing to put his own reputation on the line to get God the big bucks. Kudos for that.
One of my favorite apocryphal anecdotes (read 'jokes') deals with a prayer meeting between Billy Graham and Oral Roberts. They were discussing the ins and outs of financial management of their respective ministries. Not one to shy away from matters of personal income, the Rev. Roberts asked Mr. Graham how he chose his salary. I think this is a good point. If one is raising only a few dollars a month, then one can't expect himself (or our Heavenly Father, for that matter) to truly make a living. However, if one were bringing in the millions, is a commission biblically acceptable? "How much of the offerings do you keep for yourself, and how much goes to your ministry?", Roberts asked. "Well, what I do," began Graham, "is draw a large circle on the floor of my office. I pray that God will grant me wisdom and help to intervene in the decision making process. Then I take the daily tithes and put them in a basket. I stand directly in the middle of the circle and throw the money in the air. Every dime that lands inside the circle goes directly to the ministry to pay for mission work, evangelism, and charity. Every thing that lands outside the circle I feel has been set aside by God's hand as a way of paying my own salary and living expenses. This way I feel like the Lord is able to tell me what is right to keep, and what belongs to him." Oral Roberts shook his head in an understanding manner. "You know, Billy, that sounds really similar to what I do. I also put all the daily tithes in a basket and toss the money in the air. I then pray to God, telling him that whatever he catches, he can keep".
I do think that Roberts had a progressive impact on the nature of television ministry. I'm sure that while his pockets were fattening up, the faith of his viewers was being enhanced. God does work in mysterious ways, and sometimes he chooses to use the words of a schmuck to prove his love for all of us. Of course God loves us, he sends us these putzes to flower our joke gardens.
I sincerely hope that those who felt that Roberts' ministry was worthwhile, may continue to find that peace and understanding that only comes with a healthy faith. I also hope that his family is able to recover from their loss. Seeing a loved one leave is never easy. In this case, I'm sure he's off to a better place. When he's standing in line to walkthrough the pearly gates, I'm sure St. Peter will look at him and say "Sorry, 900 ft. Jesus says you can't come in until you raise another $2 million." After seeing the crestfallen look on the pastor's face, St. Peter will then smile and say, "Nah, just kidding, man. Come on in, I have you booked for a golf game with Sen. Kennedy."
And so I say farewell to this man who has inspired me to laugh at his contemporaries and send my money directly to other charities. In all seriousness, I do think that the world is a better place when men like Oral Roberts are able to use their gifts for good and not just for personal gain. I'm sure there are many lives that have felt comfort in a time of hurting thanks to his words of counsel. There are lives that took what he said (whether he meant it or not) and were able to find peace during a time of loss. For that, thank-you Oral Roberts.
Epilogue.
I would like to point out that I was able to do this entire post without making any off-color jokes about the fact that his first name was Oral. I'm sure his son Richard would be proud. Yes, a man who grew up having to tell people his name was "Oral" named his own child "Dick". There truly is a God.
For a man who once proclaimed on television that God was going to kill him if he didn't raise 8 million dollars for his ministry, Oral Roberts' 91 years were nothing short of entertaining. Comparing the almighty to North Jersey hitman and exceeding your fundraising goals is nothing short of impressive. He was able to keep a straight face while telling his viewers that a 900 ft Jesus appeared to him in a dream and told him to build a hospital. I like the concept of desiring to heal the sick, but do you really need a gargantuan deity's demand to make it happen?
Let's face it, this guy was obviously concerned with the welfare of his flock, and for that he should be applauded. Sure, he may have looked like "Bear" Bryant's gay brother, but he was certainly a man who was earnest in his attempts to increase cash flow for the Lord. He was willing to put his own reputation on the line to get God the big bucks. Kudos for that.
One of my favorite apocryphal anecdotes (read 'jokes') deals with a prayer meeting between Billy Graham and Oral Roberts. They were discussing the ins and outs of financial management of their respective ministries. Not one to shy away from matters of personal income, the Rev. Roberts asked Mr. Graham how he chose his salary. I think this is a good point. If one is raising only a few dollars a month, then one can't expect himself (or our Heavenly Father, for that matter) to truly make a living. However, if one were bringing in the millions, is a commission biblically acceptable? "How much of the offerings do you keep for yourself, and how much goes to your ministry?", Roberts asked. "Well, what I do," began Graham, "is draw a large circle on the floor of my office. I pray that God will grant me wisdom and help to intervene in the decision making process. Then I take the daily tithes and put them in a basket. I stand directly in the middle of the circle and throw the money in the air. Every dime that lands inside the circle goes directly to the ministry to pay for mission work, evangelism, and charity. Every thing that lands outside the circle I feel has been set aside by God's hand as a way of paying my own salary and living expenses. This way I feel like the Lord is able to tell me what is right to keep, and what belongs to him." Oral Roberts shook his head in an understanding manner. "You know, Billy, that sounds really similar to what I do. I also put all the daily tithes in a basket and toss the money in the air. I then pray to God, telling him that whatever he catches, he can keep".
I do think that Roberts had a progressive impact on the nature of television ministry. I'm sure that while his pockets were fattening up, the faith of his viewers was being enhanced. God does work in mysterious ways, and sometimes he chooses to use the words of a schmuck to prove his love for all of us. Of course God loves us, he sends us these putzes to flower our joke gardens.
I sincerely hope that those who felt that Roberts' ministry was worthwhile, may continue to find that peace and understanding that only comes with a healthy faith. I also hope that his family is able to recover from their loss. Seeing a loved one leave is never easy. In this case, I'm sure he's off to a better place. When he's standing in line to walkthrough the pearly gates, I'm sure St. Peter will look at him and say "Sorry, 900 ft. Jesus says you can't come in until you raise another $2 million." After seeing the crestfallen look on the pastor's face, St. Peter will then smile and say, "Nah, just kidding, man. Come on in, I have you booked for a golf game with Sen. Kennedy."
And so I say farewell to this man who has inspired me to laugh at his contemporaries and send my money directly to other charities. In all seriousness, I do think that the world is a better place when men like Oral Roberts are able to use their gifts for good and not just for personal gain. I'm sure there are many lives that have felt comfort in a time of hurting thanks to his words of counsel. There are lives that took what he said (whether he meant it or not) and were able to find peace during a time of loss. For that, thank-you Oral Roberts.
Epilogue.
I would like to point out that I was able to do this entire post without making any off-color jokes about the fact that his first name was Oral. I'm sure his son Richard would be proud. Yes, a man who grew up having to tell people his name was "Oral" named his own child "Dick". There truly is a God.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Rage and Blow
Friday morning began with my overzealous alarm clock telling me that I was no longer able to enjoy the comforts of my warm bed. The hiddeous, shrill, electronic beeping forced me to swing my legs out, kicking a pile of unfolded laundry in the process, and make my descent on the world for yet another day. I was scheduled to go into the studio and do some recordings. As a freelance voice actor, one cannot look a financial gift-horse in its' molars. From time to time I do voice-recordings for a telecommunications company that designs phone and message systems for a variety of businesses. If you're ever in Newfoundland and get a call reminding you that your doctor's appointment is coming up and you should remember to bring your medical forms, or if you're enjoying a day in Hawaii but get a call from the power company telling you to pay your bill, you're most likely hearing my voice as the gentle, yet insistent message relaying important payment information. This is, by no means difficult work, but it does require me to be out of the house and functioning much earlier than I prefer.
On this day, the sky was quite overcast, and the temperatures were making their December trek down the other side of the comfort mountain. I stopped by a convenience store for a cup of caffeine. Not really liking the choices, I opted for a machine-dispensed, coffee/foam drink. I took one sip of the vanilla-meets-feet concoction, and knew I was in for a great day.
While paying for my crappuccino, I made some innocent small talk with the bearded attendant. She was a nice lady. I decided to keep the conversation pleasant while waiting for my card to be read. Instead of telling her how her hat was a nice distraction from her mustache, I thought it more prudent to discuss the weather. After a brief but amiable dialogue on the consistent inconsistency of the local weather patterns, I bid my adieu and left for my date with a microphone.
I realized while driving, that I tend to have conversations about the weather quite frequently. That seems to be my go-to topic when talking with people and I run out of things of consequence to discuss. Weather talk is innoccuous, plain, and guaranteed to stay in the realm of pleasant. But, not only do I discuss the weather, I've begun complaining about it more and more. Without being given any official warnings, I've suddenly become a curmudgeon, capable of ranting about the weather and not much else. This realization struck home with a vengeance. Surely I could find more interesting things to talk about than rising humidity, and the fact that it was nice outside yesterday, but today just looks unfavorable. "Unfavorable!?" People my age do not use that word in connection with the weather unless they add "conditions for extreme sports this afternoon after I pound some beers". I am only inches away from yelling at kids to "get off my damn lawn".
But I like talking about the weather. I'm no meteorol..., meteorit...I'm no weatherman, but I do find a source of genuine entertainment in the awesome power of nature. I'm drawn to disaster movies where man is battling with the elements, and the elements keep winning. There's something exciting about watching the sky grow black in the middle of the day, and you feel that cold rush of air as you realize that God just turned on the cosmic showers and the water pressure is good. I like seeing the clouds turn their menacing gaze on little old me. I feel both empowered and awed by the thrill of knowing that "this could be the perfect storm."
Maybe it's that sense of urgency that accompanies a feeling of impending doom, but great weather inspires me to want to be social and find a place with others so we can collectively brace ourselves against nature's brute brunt. Open the taps, and let's ride this one out together!
On this day, the sky was quite overcast, and the temperatures were making their December trek down the other side of the comfort mountain. I stopped by a convenience store for a cup of caffeine. Not really liking the choices, I opted for a machine-dispensed, coffee/foam drink. I took one sip of the vanilla-meets-feet concoction, and knew I was in for a great day.
While paying for my crappuccino, I made some innocent small talk with the bearded attendant. She was a nice lady. I decided to keep the conversation pleasant while waiting for my card to be read. Instead of telling her how her hat was a nice distraction from her mustache, I thought it more prudent to discuss the weather. After a brief but amiable dialogue on the consistent inconsistency of the local weather patterns, I bid my adieu and left for my date with a microphone.
I realized while driving, that I tend to have conversations about the weather quite frequently. That seems to be my go-to topic when talking with people and I run out of things of consequence to discuss. Weather talk is innoccuous, plain, and guaranteed to stay in the realm of pleasant. But, not only do I discuss the weather, I've begun complaining about it more and more. Without being given any official warnings, I've suddenly become a curmudgeon, capable of ranting about the weather and not much else. This realization struck home with a vengeance. Surely I could find more interesting things to talk about than rising humidity, and the fact that it was nice outside yesterday, but today just looks unfavorable. "Unfavorable!?" People my age do not use that word in connection with the weather unless they add "conditions for extreme sports this afternoon after I pound some beers". I am only inches away from yelling at kids to "get off my damn lawn".
But I like talking about the weather. I'm no meteorol..., meteorit...I'm no weatherman, but I do find a source of genuine entertainment in the awesome power of nature. I'm drawn to disaster movies where man is battling with the elements, and the elements keep winning. There's something exciting about watching the sky grow black in the middle of the day, and you feel that cold rush of air as you realize that God just turned on the cosmic showers and the water pressure is good. I like seeing the clouds turn their menacing gaze on little old me. I feel both empowered and awed by the thrill of knowing that "this could be the perfect storm."
Maybe it's that sense of urgency that accompanies a feeling of impending doom, but great weather inspires me to want to be social and find a place with others so we can collectively brace ourselves against nature's brute brunt. Open the taps, and let's ride this one out together!
Thursday, December 10, 2009
All Your Business Dreams Can Come True
I may be industrious, to a degree. I may be creative. I can count some of my more impressive life achievements as part and parcel of following that mysterious American Dream. I like to think of myself as forward-thinking and capable of extra-box thought. All that being said, I know that the world of business is not my playground. I am an artist, not a suit. I have come to terms with this. I know that there's no MBA waiting at the end of my career tunnel. I am fine with this. But this is no reason for me not to let my brain wander into the realm of free-enterprise. From time to time, I envision new and exciting businesses. Most of them tend to be restaurant-centered as I spend a lot of time eating. Today, in this relatively short post (a welcome relief for some of you), I thought I'd share one of my million dollar ideas. Go ahead and feel free to see if you can follow the little white rabbit of capitolism and see this idea turn into your own little cash cow. All I ask in return is a minor share of the profits....and a free parking space with my own little golden plaque.
Eating out can be fun and adventurous. Oftentimes, going to a restaurant is just as much about the social aspect as it is about the menu. While there are some restrictions to this norm, those who dine out with frequency tend to go to places where they're not just holed up in a dark booth. When you go to a restaurant you want both your stomach and your soul to be sated. You want entertainment options in case your date turns out to be a schmuck or vapid prude. Sports bars are great to watch a game with friends. Pubs are great places to enjoy the company of companions and strangers. Fine dining establishments offer you a bit of flair with the fare to keep you engaged in your meal. Sometimes, though, you might be in the mood for a real adventure. A guessing game. For those occasions when the rest isn't just cutting it, then come on down to my restaurant (concept): BREAKFAST AND EGGS!
Now, you're probably saying "Surely there are enough breakfast-type restaurants out there to not warrant the need for another one." I would have to disagree with you and also ask that you not call me an adverb. My restaurant may have a simple name, but I can assure you that the concept is far from ordinary.
THE MENU
When you arrive and are taken to your seat by a buxom co-ed paying her way through school by herding diners to booths, you will be given a plain white menu. On the inside you will see two items:
Eggs........................................$15.00
Breakfast................................$1.00
That's it. nothing more. Allow me to explain the genius behind this lack of description. For $15 you can have some of the best eggs you've ever eaten in your life. You can have them cooked any way you like (boiled, poached, fried, over-easy, scrambled, in an omelet) and as many as you can eat. These eggs will make you feel as though you've never eaten eggs before. These eggs will remind you of all your favorite childhood memories. These eggs will be little yellow glimpses of heaven.
Breakfast, on the other hand, will be dish that's a mystery. Breakfast might consist of a NY strip steak, or it may be a can of spam. Breakfast could be lobster bisque, or it might be an empty crab shell. You will never know what you're going to get when you order breakfast. And that's where the true beauty lies. I believe that humans love to gamble, and that's what will make this restaurant soar! It's like a dining experience to rival "Let's Make A Deal". You can take the safe bet and order the eggs. While the price might be fairly steep, you can rest assured that you're getting a good-quality meal. Or, you can go the cheap route and see if your culinary gamble pays off. Sure, you might end up with smoked salmon and shrimp Napoleon for an insane price, or you might be paying a dollar to have the head chef come out and give you a list of reasons as to why your mother never really liked you. It's a crapshoot.
THE STAFF
No theme restaurant would be complete without a staff that strictly adheres to the overall vision of the eatery. At "Breakfast and Eggs", our staff will be highly trained in the arts of superb service. The uniforms should reflect those that consumers most want to see in a fine dining establishment: The men will wear expertly tailored tuxedos, white ties, and smartly shined black shoes. The women will wear bikinis.
The waitstaff will encourage patrons to steer away from ordering the breakfast. They will act in the customer's best interest by doing so. They will remind repeat visitors of unsightly breakfasts that have come before, while coaxing new patrons to play it safe and go with the eggs.
"Sir, if you recall your last visit with us, your wife ordered the eggs and was treated to a lovely quiche lorraine, while your breakfast was a pie to the face. I would suggest that the gentleman try the eggs this time."
Part of the fun of coming to a place like "Breakfast and Eggs" will be to see other diners' reactions to the good, the bad, and inedible breakfast orders. Sure, you may see someone feasting on lamb chops with a port wine sauce. There's no guarantee that when you order breakfast that it won't be just a plate of lamb fur smothered in Thunderbird. It's the creativity that keeps them coming back.
Today marks the first week of posting on this site. I do hope that if you're reading these musings, that you'll consider leaving a comment. It's always nice to know what others like/dislike. Also, check out some of the sponsors. They're good people who may not know that they're contributing to the downfall of the written word.
Thanks for reading!
Eating out can be fun and adventurous. Oftentimes, going to a restaurant is just as much about the social aspect as it is about the menu. While there are some restrictions to this norm, those who dine out with frequency tend to go to places where they're not just holed up in a dark booth. When you go to a restaurant you want both your stomach and your soul to be sated. You want entertainment options in case your date turns out to be a schmuck or vapid prude. Sports bars are great to watch a game with friends. Pubs are great places to enjoy the company of companions and strangers. Fine dining establishments offer you a bit of flair with the fare to keep you engaged in your meal. Sometimes, though, you might be in the mood for a real adventure. A guessing game. For those occasions when the rest isn't just cutting it, then come on down to my restaurant (concept): BREAKFAST AND EGGS!
Now, you're probably saying "Surely there are enough breakfast-type restaurants out there to not warrant the need for another one." I would have to disagree with you and also ask that you not call me an adverb. My restaurant may have a simple name, but I can assure you that the concept is far from ordinary.
THE MENU
When you arrive and are taken to your seat by a buxom co-ed paying her way through school by herding diners to booths, you will be given a plain white menu. On the inside you will see two items:
Eggs........................................$15.00
Breakfast................................$1.00
That's it. nothing more. Allow me to explain the genius behind this lack of description. For $15 you can have some of the best eggs you've ever eaten in your life. You can have them cooked any way you like (boiled, poached, fried, over-easy, scrambled, in an omelet) and as many as you can eat. These eggs will make you feel as though you've never eaten eggs before. These eggs will remind you of all your favorite childhood memories. These eggs will be little yellow glimpses of heaven.
Breakfast, on the other hand, will be dish that's a mystery. Breakfast might consist of a NY strip steak, or it may be a can of spam. Breakfast could be lobster bisque, or it might be an empty crab shell. You will never know what you're going to get when you order breakfast. And that's where the true beauty lies. I believe that humans love to gamble, and that's what will make this restaurant soar! It's like a dining experience to rival "Let's Make A Deal". You can take the safe bet and order the eggs. While the price might be fairly steep, you can rest assured that you're getting a good-quality meal. Or, you can go the cheap route and see if your culinary gamble pays off. Sure, you might end up with smoked salmon and shrimp Napoleon for an insane price, or you might be paying a dollar to have the head chef come out and give you a list of reasons as to why your mother never really liked you. It's a crapshoot.
THE STAFF
No theme restaurant would be complete without a staff that strictly adheres to the overall vision of the eatery. At "Breakfast and Eggs", our staff will be highly trained in the arts of superb service. The uniforms should reflect those that consumers most want to see in a fine dining establishment: The men will wear expertly tailored tuxedos, white ties, and smartly shined black shoes. The women will wear bikinis.
The waitstaff will encourage patrons to steer away from ordering the breakfast. They will act in the customer's best interest by doing so. They will remind repeat visitors of unsightly breakfasts that have come before, while coaxing new patrons to play it safe and go with the eggs.
"Sir, if you recall your last visit with us, your wife ordered the eggs and was treated to a lovely quiche lorraine, while your breakfast was a pie to the face. I would suggest that the gentleman try the eggs this time."
Part of the fun of coming to a place like "Breakfast and Eggs" will be to see other diners' reactions to the good, the bad, and inedible breakfast orders. Sure, you may see someone feasting on lamb chops with a port wine sauce. There's no guarantee that when you order breakfast that it won't be just a plate of lamb fur smothered in Thunderbird. It's the creativity that keeps them coming back.
Today marks the first week of posting on this site. I do hope that if you're reading these musings, that you'll consider leaving a comment. It's always nice to know what others like/dislike. Also, check out some of the sponsors. They're good people who may not know that they're contributing to the downfall of the written word.
Thanks for reading!
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
May The Bard Be With You
Superstitions tend to be a big part of our lives. Whether we're crossing our fingers, knocking on wood, or rubbing a fat man's belly. We believe that luck can be achieved despite fate. If something sends a bad omen, we avoid it, walk the other way, step tentatively wherever we go. No crossing under a ladder, change your path when you see a black cat, and, for god's sake, don't pick up that quarter that's tails up. Perhaps superstitions are derived from common sense, or perhaps they're carryovers from some medieval remedy. It frankly doesn't matter. If you want to tempt fate, then by all means smash that mirror and see if you get that new job.
The world of theatre, much like sports, is filled with both personal and universal superstitions. I know plenty of actors who have to keep to their pre-show regimen or their performance will suffer. The cynic in me wants to tell some of them that wearing green on show day has no bearing on the fact that they suck. But try getting that point across to a tempermental diva. You'd be lucky enough to walk away with only one half of your face cat-clawed.
Of the more universal theatre superstions, there's the "Break a leg" instead of "Good Luck" well wishing that is fairly common knowledge. The roots of this tradition are as varied in myth as discovering who actually wrote "Proud Mary". The derivative is unimportant, the result is the key. Probably the most potent of the theatre superstitions is one that I personally adhere to. Never, under any circumstances, even if your life depends on it, ever, ever, ever speak the name of Shakespeare's dreaded Scottish Tragedy "Macb*#&!" In some circles you may only be mercifully sent to do a series of twists, spins, spits, and laps around the property before regaining entrance. In others, even quoting a line from this cursed play will get you black-balled and on the bus home before the final syllable has left your mouth.
In thinking about this play, which is actually a good one to see done in performance, I thought I might share some personal recollections of my experience with this particular superstion. As our theatre company is looking at including this play in our 2010 season, I think it prudent to remember some of the less-than-sterling moments from the last time I attempted this production. Sure, it may have only killed some careers, but it left an indelible mark on my psyche that shan't be erased.
A DRESSING ROOM BY ANY OTHER NAME WOULD SMELL AS TERRIBLE
I had the pleasure of playing the role of Malcolm in this particular production. For the most part, the cast was a delight to work with. Though there were varying levels of professionalism amongst some of the fake lairds, there was a healthy comraderie, and a great sense of friendship that developed through the players. Part of this friendship transpired as we approached the dress rehearsals. We were doing this show in the dead of August. The average daily temperature was in the high 90's, with the humidity surpassing that of a high-powered sauna. The producers of this show wanted to have a real "authentic" look, so we were dressed in layers of wool, leather, and flannel to give us that Clan mentality. Needless to say, these costumes were not exactly climate-appropriate offstage. I think most of us were able to lose quite a bit of unwanted weight due to the constant sweat that built up through each performance.
I shared a dressing room with two other guys. One of my fellow cast members was someone who, for lack of a better phrase, smelled like broken dreams and old hamburgers. The stench that drifted away from this guy under normal circumstances was enough to cut a 10' circle of terror around him. After two hours of building up a funk that could fight the furies, our pigpen could peel the paint off the walls when he began to undress. The smell would hit you like a wave of death, and your only hope was either to run for fresh air or pass out and awake in the hospital where the smell of urine and dying would be a sweet relief.
Luckily for me, this guy was in his early fifties, and not in the greatest physical shape (one whiff and any good doctor could probably detect a handful of odorous maladies). Our dressing room was in the attic area over the front of the theatre. To get there, you had to exit the back of the building, go outside, climb some exterior stairs, and then cross through some halls before you arrived. Every night after curtain call became a race for my life as I tore through the backstage running faster than a Jamaican Bolt. I took the stairs three and four at a time, tearing at my costume on the way. I knew that I had to get in there, change, and be well clear of the room before my smelly mirror-mate could get to the hall where the fans would waft the vile reeking air into my innocent nostrils. For the most part, I was able to accomplish this safely. On one occasion, however, I was not as lucky. For some reason, I wasn't making as good time as I'd thought. I was just bending over to unlace my leather mocs to hang with the rest of my costume. Before I was finished with one shoe, the door opened, and in sauntered the agent of olfactory death. I mumbled a "good show" as I was trying to conserve precious breath. He started peeling off the first soaking layer, and then he paused. "I think something I had for dinner must have disagreed with me. My stomach has been in knots all night". He was casual in this familiarity with me. He was trying to make light conversation, but I immediately knew that it was only a preemptive apology for what was surely coming. Only moments after making this little commentary on his evening meal, he did what I can only describe as use his body to create pure, malevolent evil. I have been around farts before. I have known people to be gassy. I admit that I can find easy humor in a bathroom concerto. This was not one of those light, airy, jaunty little farts that makes you smile. This man used his bowels to concoct a green-fumed spectre that was threatening to eat away at my very existence. Seriously, my eyes were burning. The mixture of BO and BM was something that could be used to get spies to turn on their country, or cause martyrs of the faith to recant their beliefs. The rest of the changing experience was a blur as I rapidly threw my clothes on and stumbled out into the inviting summer heat, welcoming the cleansing heavy air to wash the taint of wickedness from off my skin. To this day, I still have nightmares about reliving that experience, only this time the door is locked, and I can't escape. Death then becomes welcome and appreciated.
OH YEAH, YOU AND WHAT ARMY?
During the run of the show, there were moments that our audience was treated to some great unscripted drama. I have always loved Malcolm's plan to surprise Mackers (and fulfill the Witch's prophecy that the Usurper would remain on the throne until "Birnam Wood shall come to Dunsinane"). As he gathers a haphazard group of ragtag ruffians to join him in the siege of the castle, his great military tactic is to tell them: "Let every soldier hew him down a bough and bear't before him. Thereby shall we shadow the numbers of our host and make discovery err in report of us." (Act V scene 4). This brilliant tactician's concept is for the soldiers to cut down some branches and hold them in front of each other so they can hide while they march towards the castle. Take a moment for that to sink in. The army is hiding behind branches! Apparently Malcolm is taking his cue from the Looney Tunes school of warfare.
Despite the great planning this scene seemed to have its' own share of constant troubles. Under normal circumstances, I would make my entrance from upstage center, while the other soldiers (about seven in number) would enter from stage left. When the lights would come up, there I would be above the rabble, ready to give them Shakespeare's version of "Win one for the Gipper". In one instance, I made my entrance and was in place when the lights came up, but there was a significant lack of soldiers for me to address. Apparently, not all of the other actors were ready to go on cue, so the lights come up on me and an army of one poor, little extra. I suppose if you're going to attack a castle with sticks, the number of men you have fighting with you is irrelevant.
On another occasion, I had my full army and I began to speak. I started the speech beautifully, and was flawless in the first few lines. After that point, however, my brain decided to shut down and take a power nap. The Bard's text completely failed me. I had absolutely no clue as to what I was supposed to say next. This is an occasional problem for actors. When faced with this situation, the best thing is to fake a line, and wait for someone to save your irresponsible ass. But, in order for this to work, you must stop speaking. This was the problem: while my brain decided to take a vacation, it never gave my mouth any instructions. I realized that I never actually stopped speaking despite the fact that I had no clue what I was saying. I began to deliver some of the most nonsensical utterances with a fiery passion. I was staying in character, but what was coming out of my mouth was utterly illogical. "And this, that thou hast once had, with thine own self, to the which, that there were, to the ends, could be mine, runneth..." I was using as much antiquated phrasing as I had in my repetoire, hoping that if I stayed true to the moment the audience wouldn't even notice. At one point, I'm pretty sure I made up a few words as I looked on my soldiers and avowed, "To the rest, mine Fero". As soon as it came out of my mouth, my brain clicked on but failed to restart. It just went right to the thesaurus in my head searching for the word "Fero". What the hell was a fero? I looked down at my fellow actors who were giving me glassy-eyed stares filled with a "You do realize none of this makes sense?" kind of look. I saw one of my friends looking down to avoid eye-contact. I noticed his shoulders shaking like someone fighting desperately to suppress audible laughter.
Eventually I ended my speech and let the scene die its' necessary death. As soon as were out of earshot of the audience, my teary-eyed friend put his hand on my shoulder and said "Well done, Fero".
HEADS MAY NOT ROLL, BUT THEY SURE AS HELL MIGHT BOUNCE
So at the risk of spoiling the plot for those of you who slept through high school, the usurper is eventually defeated and the son of the slain king is now enshrined as the new leader. In other words, my character, Malcolm, wins the play. The final scene is a nice image of Scottish patriotism as Malcolm stands ready to take the throne, and the head of the murderous king is brought in on a pike. Unless you have a slew of actors that you're willing to off to create a nice effect, chances are you're going to be using a fake head. Our fake head was a fairly realistic styrofoam conction with a tousled wig, and blood stained cheeks. From a distance, I'm sure it did the trick. Up close, it was a little odd and creepy.
In our version, Macduff enters, and with a sweeping grandiosity announces "Behold where lies the usurper's cursed head!" He then removes a bloodied burlap sack to reveal the prop head. Usually this gets a nice reaction from the audience as modern folks sure do love their dismembodied parts. One night our over-zealous Macduff decided to put a little extra mustard on his sack ripping and seemed to grab the dummy-head's wig in his handful of burlap.
A simple lesson in physics later and the head pops right off the pike and falls out of the bag. Now, had this been planned for, this would have made an outstanding effect. Unfortunately, this particular head was made to be seen and not heard. The audience was treated to a thoroughly unrealistic patter as the sound of styrofoam met wood, and the head rolled right into plain view of the audience. Once again, immediately following this cock-up is my line, so a spotlight is able to catch my bewildered expression as I try to gracefully and professionally move on with the end of the play. It's not everyday when an actor is upstaged by nerf.
Life in theatre is rewarding both in its' tangible and intangible treats. Much like battle-scars, most actors wear their bad shows as badges of honor. A good story signifies that you've experienced humiliation, and you haven't quit yet. While superstitions come and go, I have learned that Shakespeare's tragedy is certainly cursed, but not necessarily in the life-threating way that others might present. For me, the curse is that the production will never be boring, or status quo. Heads may fall, actors my stink (even when they don't show up), and imaginations may take liberties with the text, but the show must go on.
The world of theatre, much like sports, is filled with both personal and universal superstitions. I know plenty of actors who have to keep to their pre-show regimen or their performance will suffer. The cynic in me wants to tell some of them that wearing green on show day has no bearing on the fact that they suck. But try getting that point across to a tempermental diva. You'd be lucky enough to walk away with only one half of your face cat-clawed.
Of the more universal theatre superstions, there's the "Break a leg" instead of "Good Luck" well wishing that is fairly common knowledge. The roots of this tradition are as varied in myth as discovering who actually wrote "Proud Mary". The derivative is unimportant, the result is the key. Probably the most potent of the theatre superstitions is one that I personally adhere to. Never, under any circumstances, even if your life depends on it, ever, ever, ever speak the name of Shakespeare's dreaded Scottish Tragedy "Macb*#&!" In some circles you may only be mercifully sent to do a series of twists, spins, spits, and laps around the property before regaining entrance. In others, even quoting a line from this cursed play will get you black-balled and on the bus home before the final syllable has left your mouth.
In thinking about this play, which is actually a good one to see done in performance, I thought I might share some personal recollections of my experience with this particular superstion. As our theatre company is looking at including this play in our 2010 season, I think it prudent to remember some of the less-than-sterling moments from the last time I attempted this production. Sure, it may have only killed some careers, but it left an indelible mark on my psyche that shan't be erased.
A DRESSING ROOM BY ANY OTHER NAME WOULD SMELL AS TERRIBLE
I had the pleasure of playing the role of Malcolm in this particular production. For the most part, the cast was a delight to work with. Though there were varying levels of professionalism amongst some of the fake lairds, there was a healthy comraderie, and a great sense of friendship that developed through the players. Part of this friendship transpired as we approached the dress rehearsals. We were doing this show in the dead of August. The average daily temperature was in the high 90's, with the humidity surpassing that of a high-powered sauna. The producers of this show wanted to have a real "authentic" look, so we were dressed in layers of wool, leather, and flannel to give us that Clan mentality. Needless to say, these costumes were not exactly climate-appropriate offstage. I think most of us were able to lose quite a bit of unwanted weight due to the constant sweat that built up through each performance.
I shared a dressing room with two other guys. One of my fellow cast members was someone who, for lack of a better phrase, smelled like broken dreams and old hamburgers. The stench that drifted away from this guy under normal circumstances was enough to cut a 10' circle of terror around him. After two hours of building up a funk that could fight the furies, our pigpen could peel the paint off the walls when he began to undress. The smell would hit you like a wave of death, and your only hope was either to run for fresh air or pass out and awake in the hospital where the smell of urine and dying would be a sweet relief.
Luckily for me, this guy was in his early fifties, and not in the greatest physical shape (one whiff and any good doctor could probably detect a handful of odorous maladies). Our dressing room was in the attic area over the front of the theatre. To get there, you had to exit the back of the building, go outside, climb some exterior stairs, and then cross through some halls before you arrived. Every night after curtain call became a race for my life as I tore through the backstage running faster than a Jamaican Bolt. I took the stairs three and four at a time, tearing at my costume on the way. I knew that I had to get in there, change, and be well clear of the room before my smelly mirror-mate could get to the hall where the fans would waft the vile reeking air into my innocent nostrils. For the most part, I was able to accomplish this safely. On one occasion, however, I was not as lucky. For some reason, I wasn't making as good time as I'd thought. I was just bending over to unlace my leather mocs to hang with the rest of my costume. Before I was finished with one shoe, the door opened, and in sauntered the agent of olfactory death. I mumbled a "good show" as I was trying to conserve precious breath. He started peeling off the first soaking layer, and then he paused. "I think something I had for dinner must have disagreed with me. My stomach has been in knots all night". He was casual in this familiarity with me. He was trying to make light conversation, but I immediately knew that it was only a preemptive apology for what was surely coming. Only moments after making this little commentary on his evening meal, he did what I can only describe as use his body to create pure, malevolent evil. I have been around farts before. I have known people to be gassy. I admit that I can find easy humor in a bathroom concerto. This was not one of those light, airy, jaunty little farts that makes you smile. This man used his bowels to concoct a green-fumed spectre that was threatening to eat away at my very existence. Seriously, my eyes were burning. The mixture of BO and BM was something that could be used to get spies to turn on their country, or cause martyrs of the faith to recant their beliefs. The rest of the changing experience was a blur as I rapidly threw my clothes on and stumbled out into the inviting summer heat, welcoming the cleansing heavy air to wash the taint of wickedness from off my skin. To this day, I still have nightmares about reliving that experience, only this time the door is locked, and I can't escape. Death then becomes welcome and appreciated.
OH YEAH, YOU AND WHAT ARMY?
During the run of the show, there were moments that our audience was treated to some great unscripted drama. I have always loved Malcolm's plan to surprise Mackers (and fulfill the Witch's prophecy that the Usurper would remain on the throne until "Birnam Wood shall come to Dunsinane"). As he gathers a haphazard group of ragtag ruffians to join him in the siege of the castle, his great military tactic is to tell them: "Let every soldier hew him down a bough and bear't before him. Thereby shall we shadow the numbers of our host and make discovery err in report of us." (Act V scene 4). This brilliant tactician's concept is for the soldiers to cut down some branches and hold them in front of each other so they can hide while they march towards the castle. Take a moment for that to sink in. The army is hiding behind branches! Apparently Malcolm is taking his cue from the Looney Tunes school of warfare.
Despite the great planning this scene seemed to have its' own share of constant troubles. Under normal circumstances, I would make my entrance from upstage center, while the other soldiers (about seven in number) would enter from stage left. When the lights would come up, there I would be above the rabble, ready to give them Shakespeare's version of "Win one for the Gipper". In one instance, I made my entrance and was in place when the lights came up, but there was a significant lack of soldiers for me to address. Apparently, not all of the other actors were ready to go on cue, so the lights come up on me and an army of one poor, little extra. I suppose if you're going to attack a castle with sticks, the number of men you have fighting with you is irrelevant.
On another occasion, I had my full army and I began to speak. I started the speech beautifully, and was flawless in the first few lines. After that point, however, my brain decided to shut down and take a power nap. The Bard's text completely failed me. I had absolutely no clue as to what I was supposed to say next. This is an occasional problem for actors. When faced with this situation, the best thing is to fake a line, and wait for someone to save your irresponsible ass. But, in order for this to work, you must stop speaking. This was the problem: while my brain decided to take a vacation, it never gave my mouth any instructions. I realized that I never actually stopped speaking despite the fact that I had no clue what I was saying. I began to deliver some of the most nonsensical utterances with a fiery passion. I was staying in character, but what was coming out of my mouth was utterly illogical. "And this, that thou hast once had, with thine own self, to the which, that there were, to the ends, could be mine, runneth..." I was using as much antiquated phrasing as I had in my repetoire, hoping that if I stayed true to the moment the audience wouldn't even notice. At one point, I'm pretty sure I made up a few words as I looked on my soldiers and avowed, "To the rest, mine Fero". As soon as it came out of my mouth, my brain clicked on but failed to restart. It just went right to the thesaurus in my head searching for the word "Fero". What the hell was a fero? I looked down at my fellow actors who were giving me glassy-eyed stares filled with a "You do realize none of this makes sense?" kind of look. I saw one of my friends looking down to avoid eye-contact. I noticed his shoulders shaking like someone fighting desperately to suppress audible laughter.
Eventually I ended my speech and let the scene die its' necessary death. As soon as were out of earshot of the audience, my teary-eyed friend put his hand on my shoulder and said "Well done, Fero".
HEADS MAY NOT ROLL, BUT THEY SURE AS HELL MIGHT BOUNCE
So at the risk of spoiling the plot for those of you who slept through high school, the usurper is eventually defeated and the son of the slain king is now enshrined as the new leader. In other words, my character, Malcolm, wins the play. The final scene is a nice image of Scottish patriotism as Malcolm stands ready to take the throne, and the head of the murderous king is brought in on a pike. Unless you have a slew of actors that you're willing to off to create a nice effect, chances are you're going to be using a fake head. Our fake head was a fairly realistic styrofoam conction with a tousled wig, and blood stained cheeks. From a distance, I'm sure it did the trick. Up close, it was a little odd and creepy.
In our version, Macduff enters, and with a sweeping grandiosity announces "Behold where lies the usurper's cursed head!" He then removes a bloodied burlap sack to reveal the prop head. Usually this gets a nice reaction from the audience as modern folks sure do love their dismembodied parts. One night our over-zealous Macduff decided to put a little extra mustard on his sack ripping and seemed to grab the dummy-head's wig in his handful of burlap.
A simple lesson in physics later and the head pops right off the pike and falls out of the bag. Now, had this been planned for, this would have made an outstanding effect. Unfortunately, this particular head was made to be seen and not heard. The audience was treated to a thoroughly unrealistic patter as the sound of styrofoam met wood, and the head rolled right into plain view of the audience. Once again, immediately following this cock-up is my line, so a spotlight is able to catch my bewildered expression as I try to gracefully and professionally move on with the end of the play. It's not everyday when an actor is upstaged by nerf.
Life in theatre is rewarding both in its' tangible and intangible treats. Much like battle-scars, most actors wear their bad shows as badges of honor. A good story signifies that you've experienced humiliation, and you haven't quit yet. While superstitions come and go, I have learned that Shakespeare's tragedy is certainly cursed, but not necessarily in the life-threating way that others might present. For me, the curse is that the production will never be boring, or status quo. Heads may fall, actors my stink (even when they don't show up), and imaginations may take liberties with the text, but the show must go on.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Did You Hear That?
I think it's safe to say that I have an eclectic taste in music and entertainment. I'm not one to thrust my artistic interests on others just to enhance my prestige in their perception. Sure, I enjoy reading Shakespeare, Umberto Eco, and Thomas Aquinas, but I also subscribe to MAD magazine. Sometimes I will select a nice foreign film to enjoy the evening, sometimes I just want to see things explode while half-naked women endure the shenanigans of the geeky guys down the street. Being pretentious for prentention's sake is not my cup of lipton. If I want to listen to a symphony, I will listen to a symphony. If I want to listen to Wham, I'll listen to Wham (and never admit it to a living soul).
Last night I had the pleasure of attending a yearly concert performance of Handel's "Messiah". What a great holiday tradition. The music sounded great, the singers were gifted, it was an overall enjoyable experience. Prior to the orchestra's opening notes, however, it was a decidedly different story. We were greeted and told that there would be a pre-concert performance by a local children's choir. Immediately I felt the shortness of breath and anxiety of an awkward band dork walking up to the hot girl he had a crush on to see if she wanted to go on a date (and yes I am drawing on sensory recall to make that comparison. Incidentally, the girl said no, and band dork walked away. Coincidentally, the hot girl is now fat and living with her alcoholic husband while the band dork runs his own theatre company....but I digest). The sweaty, sticky, sensation that was overcoming me had nothing to do with the quality of the upcoming performance. Nor did it have anything to do with children. One of my most unnatural fears was going to play out in this church sanctuary: children's choir music!!
Don't get me wrong. I love kids, and I fully support the arts. I think more and more children should have the opportunity to find their creative expression in as many different outlets as possible. These performers were top-notch. They were virtually flawless. But, this is what brought on the fear. As I sat in the pew, feeling the paranoia explode, I was experiencing that all-too-familiar sensation of abject fear. Thanks to the magic of Hollywood and my imagination, this innocuous and innocent choir of cherubs was evoking images of Children of the Corn, and creepy demon possession. I was suddenly unable to concentrate on what should be considered beautiful music by talented young singers. Instead, I was nervously looking around, waiting for the death and destruction from above that would coincide with the live soundtrack being showcased from the altar. This is what irrational fear is made of.
I thought that I would spend your reading time today talking about that little debilitating kick-to-the-crotch Achilles' Heel that can bring us all down: Fear. Now, certainly there are things that should warrant our fear should they become imminent. Excruciating death, dismemberment, or even just oncoming pain. These are rational fears. These are not the fears that I am talking about. Today I want to talk about the silly (under certain circumstances) fears that frighten the bejeezus out of me. Read on, if you dare.
1.) IT'S NEVER SAFE TO GO BACK IN THE WATER.
I am deathly afraid of wide open expanses of water. Be they lakes, oceans, rivers, large pools, it doesn't matter. I'm not going in, on, through, or within any expanse of water larger than a wading pool. Even the deep end of the pool can give me the willies. Why? Am I afeard of drowning? Frightened of being alone? Nope. The answer is simple and falls neatly into the irrational category: Sharks. Sharks are evil-looking death machines, whose sole purpose in life is to chase you down and eat you piece by piece. They're sneaky. You go in the water and everything's calm, and then BAM! Out of nowhere this hulking fin pops up and you find yourself swimming in red Kool Aid. Quint, the salty fisherman in the first "JAWS" movie, made damn sure that I was never going near a body of water ever again. Hearing his description of the "doll's eyes", was enough to keep mine firmly shut.
"OK, Mr. Murrill", you say with passive aplomb, "That may explain the ocean, but what about the other types of water you describe?" Well, smart-ass, that's exactly my point. Thanks to an over-active imagination, Sharks can easily exist in rivers, lakes, and even the giant tidal pools that water parks feature. There I am wading in a land-locked lake, minding my own business, and all of a sudden I hear the opening bass notes of that terrifying theme. For all I know, some crazy supervillain has flown in white sharks to breed in this particular lake, and their humongous genetically-altered brains have been wired to hunt down Brent-meat. No thank-you!
2.) FROM THE PENALTY BOX TO THE FRONT DOOR
I spent a good amount of time playing at my grandparent's house during my more formative years. There was a path that led from my grandmother's house to my aunt's house next door. Many times, playing with my cousins, we would be terrorizing the neighborhood until well-after dark. When this was the case, I knew I would have to walk home in less than ideal lighting. This also meant taking this path which went right in front of a large Azalea bush. During the day, this bush was elegant with its seasonal offerings of redish pink blooms. The colors bursting from the hunter green canopy in a way that was so charmingly southern. At night, gone were the simple pretty flowers. This thing was not a source of wonder and natural awe, it was the home of Jason Vorhees! Yes, I was absolutely certain that the machete-wielding disgruntled goalie was lurking in the bush waiting for little innocent me to walk right into his trap of doom. He was certainly patient, but he was bound to get me.
To this day, I wake up from nightmares where I'm being chased by this slow-moving backwoods behemoth. I know there's no use turning around to fight him as he can survive, fire, drowning, the deep recesses of outer space, Hell itself, shotguns, beheading, cannon fire, nuclear blasts, Joe Lieberman, and even sub-frozen temperatures. Throw anything you want at him and he'll continue to plod his way after you. I'm still not sure what he wants with me. I'm no big-breasted co-ed, I'm not a wayward stoner, I didn't kill his mother, I don't work at a summer camp (anymore). I shouldn't be his normal fare, but yet he still pursues me with that otherworldly devotion of a hell hound for its' prey.
Fear is what drives us upon occasion, but it can also impede our progress. There are many things that keep me up at night, drenched in a cold sweat. Do I let them have an active role in the decision-making process for me? Not necessarily, but I certainly avoid situations (rational or otherwise) when my fears can manifest themselves in all-too-real ways. Perhaps, if I am being chased down by Mr. Vorhees, I should find a shark tank and see if battling it out with Jaws will distract him. Just my luck, they would make a fin-to-hand agreement and swear to join forces. The next thing I would see would be a great white with a hockey mask. I think I'll sleep with the lights on tonight!
Last night I had the pleasure of attending a yearly concert performance of Handel's "Messiah". What a great holiday tradition. The music sounded great, the singers were gifted, it was an overall enjoyable experience. Prior to the orchestra's opening notes, however, it was a decidedly different story. We were greeted and told that there would be a pre-concert performance by a local children's choir. Immediately I felt the shortness of breath and anxiety of an awkward band dork walking up to the hot girl he had a crush on to see if she wanted to go on a date (and yes I am drawing on sensory recall to make that comparison. Incidentally, the girl said no, and band dork walked away. Coincidentally, the hot girl is now fat and living with her alcoholic husband while the band dork runs his own theatre company....but I digest). The sweaty, sticky, sensation that was overcoming me had nothing to do with the quality of the upcoming performance. Nor did it have anything to do with children. One of my most unnatural fears was going to play out in this church sanctuary: children's choir music!!
Don't get me wrong. I love kids, and I fully support the arts. I think more and more children should have the opportunity to find their creative expression in as many different outlets as possible. These performers were top-notch. They were virtually flawless. But, this is what brought on the fear. As I sat in the pew, feeling the paranoia explode, I was experiencing that all-too-familiar sensation of abject fear. Thanks to the magic of Hollywood and my imagination, this innocuous and innocent choir of cherubs was evoking images of Children of the Corn, and creepy demon possession. I was suddenly unable to concentrate on what should be considered beautiful music by talented young singers. Instead, I was nervously looking around, waiting for the death and destruction from above that would coincide with the live soundtrack being showcased from the altar. This is what irrational fear is made of.
I thought that I would spend your reading time today talking about that little debilitating kick-to-the-crotch Achilles' Heel that can bring us all down: Fear. Now, certainly there are things that should warrant our fear should they become imminent. Excruciating death, dismemberment, or even just oncoming pain. These are rational fears. These are not the fears that I am talking about. Today I want to talk about the silly (under certain circumstances) fears that frighten the bejeezus out of me. Read on, if you dare.
1.) IT'S NEVER SAFE TO GO BACK IN THE WATER.
I am deathly afraid of wide open expanses of water. Be they lakes, oceans, rivers, large pools, it doesn't matter. I'm not going in, on, through, or within any expanse of water larger than a wading pool. Even the deep end of the pool can give me the willies. Why? Am I afeard of drowning? Frightened of being alone? Nope. The answer is simple and falls neatly into the irrational category: Sharks. Sharks are evil-looking death machines, whose sole purpose in life is to chase you down and eat you piece by piece. They're sneaky. You go in the water and everything's calm, and then BAM! Out of nowhere this hulking fin pops up and you find yourself swimming in red Kool Aid. Quint, the salty fisherman in the first "JAWS" movie, made damn sure that I was never going near a body of water ever again. Hearing his description of the "doll's eyes", was enough to keep mine firmly shut.
"OK, Mr. Murrill", you say with passive aplomb, "That may explain the ocean, but what about the other types of water you describe?" Well, smart-ass, that's exactly my point. Thanks to an over-active imagination, Sharks can easily exist in rivers, lakes, and even the giant tidal pools that water parks feature. There I am wading in a land-locked lake, minding my own business, and all of a sudden I hear the opening bass notes of that terrifying theme. For all I know, some crazy supervillain has flown in white sharks to breed in this particular lake, and their humongous genetically-altered brains have been wired to hunt down Brent-meat. No thank-you!
2.) FROM THE PENALTY BOX TO THE FRONT DOOR
I spent a good amount of time playing at my grandparent's house during my more formative years. There was a path that led from my grandmother's house to my aunt's house next door. Many times, playing with my cousins, we would be terrorizing the neighborhood until well-after dark. When this was the case, I knew I would have to walk home in less than ideal lighting. This also meant taking this path which went right in front of a large Azalea bush. During the day, this bush was elegant with its seasonal offerings of redish pink blooms. The colors bursting from the hunter green canopy in a way that was so charmingly southern. At night, gone were the simple pretty flowers. This thing was not a source of wonder and natural awe, it was the home of Jason Vorhees! Yes, I was absolutely certain that the machete-wielding disgruntled goalie was lurking in the bush waiting for little innocent me to walk right into his trap of doom. He was certainly patient, but he was bound to get me.
To this day, I wake up from nightmares where I'm being chased by this slow-moving backwoods behemoth. I know there's no use turning around to fight him as he can survive, fire, drowning, the deep recesses of outer space, Hell itself, shotguns, beheading, cannon fire, nuclear blasts, Joe Lieberman, and even sub-frozen temperatures. Throw anything you want at him and he'll continue to plod his way after you. I'm still not sure what he wants with me. I'm no big-breasted co-ed, I'm not a wayward stoner, I didn't kill his mother, I don't work at a summer camp (anymore). I shouldn't be his normal fare, but yet he still pursues me with that otherworldly devotion of a hell hound for its' prey.
Fear is what drives us upon occasion, but it can also impede our progress. There are many things that keep me up at night, drenched in a cold sweat. Do I let them have an active role in the decision-making process for me? Not necessarily, but I certainly avoid situations (rational or otherwise) when my fears can manifest themselves in all-too-real ways. Perhaps, if I am being chased down by Mr. Vorhees, I should find a shark tank and see if battling it out with Jaws will distract him. Just my luck, they would make a fin-to-hand agreement and swear to join forces. The next thing I would see would be a great white with a hockey mask. I think I'll sleep with the lights on tonight!
Monday, December 7, 2009
Hello Bypass, My Old Friend
I fondly remember growing up watching "The Cosby Show". That Greenwich brownstone housed many fabricated memories for me. It was the birthplace of a family unit that was both entertaining and inspiring. When I watched, I felt like I was sharing their moments with them. I felt like I was one of the Huxtables. As I've grown older, I realize that sometimes it's difficult to distinguish what happened in my youth with what was happening on the show. It seemed as though my life and the scripted family's journey were intertwined. Was I with Rudy and her friends when Cliff took them all to the fancy restaurant and Bud thought the croutons were sawdust? Was I in the car that got hit by Stevie Wonder's limo? Maybe I was one of Theo's wrestling teammates, or I was Vanessa's boyfriend Robert?
It's difficult to fully assess the differences in reality and NBC programming, nor can I judge the limits of impact that Claire's stern, yet loving mother had on my decision-making. Regardless, the show helped to mold me into the person that I am today. That being said, there are inspirations that were less than lofty. Sure, I'll never go to a party and play the alphabet game while drinking rock-gut whiskey. I'll never try to take a helicopter to prom. These are good life-lessons. But what about the things that I picked up that could have detrimental consequences?
I am, by all accounts, a registered foody. I love food. I love to cook. I love to eat. I love when food is brought to me. I love discovering new and exciting ways of preparing the same-old tired dishes. Food is exciting. Food can fill up not only your stomach, but your sense of worth. Heathcliff Huxtable loved food. I always looked forward to the shows where his culinary taste was displayed. Whether it was BBQ, a massive Hoagie, or even that secret spaghetti sauce, Cliff was a man with finely-tuned tastebuds. I would watch his cooking and feel the need to emulate what he was doing in the kitchen. It always sounded good. But not every dish deserved to be replicated. Enter: The Bacon Burger Dog.
In a few apocryphal episodes, this elusive mystery was mentioned as the major enticement to Theo and his unappetizingly-named friend Walter. (As I have a phobia of certain types of bugs, I'll refrain from using his nom du pest). The exact recipe was never discussed so my imagination had to craft what I envisioned as the perfect grilling beast. I dreamed about what it must taste like. I dreamed of designing this sure-fire backyard treat. Two years ago, I decided to make my dreams become reality.
Since the writers were wise enough to never explain what this delicacy was made of, I had to come up with a recipe on my own. Taking the name, I knew that there had to be bacon and elements of both a hamburger and a hotdog. Here's where the genius came in. I laid out five slices of thick-cut, applewood smoked bacon. This was going to be the palette upon which my masterpiece would be constructed. I then began to mix up some ground sirloin with the various spices, condiments, and tastes of heaven that I would normally use for making a hamburger patty. A little garlic, some Worcestshire sauce, some blackening seasoning, a little red wine vinegar, a hail mary or two, and then some Italian bread crumbs and an egg to bind. Over the bacon-y goodness I spread this mash of red meat perfection. I now had two of the three components down. Bacon? Check. Burger? Check. Dog? Here comes the piece de resistance'. I didn't want any plain old wieners to taint the glory of this dish. I needed a dog worthy of being part of this mystical trifecta. I needed a big fat sausage. I opted for some locally produced bratwurst. I took this little grey pork grenade and began to roll it up in the bacon and hamburger. Pretty soon I had a giant meat spliff that was ready for cooking. Picture it: weighing in at nearly three pounds, it was about three inches in diameter, and about eight inches long. As it sat there on my counter top, I began to hear angel choirs singing the praises of a creation so divine. It was a thing of carnivorous beauty.
So now that it was prepared, bring on the heat! Over an open flame, much like my neanderthal predecessors, I roasted this staggering gem until it was fully cooked. As the smoke wafted throughout my backyard, animals began to let their nosebud curiosity draw them closer to inspect what was obviously a true work of art. One neighborhood dog seemed to look at me with a kinship rarely seen between animal and man. His big brown eyes weren't of envy but of congratulations. It was if he were saying to me "Hey, man, well done. I applaud your efforts at creating something so right." He was giving me his canine vote of confidence. To show my generosity, I responded my offering him some of the fat drippings that were collecting. He ate with a relish that made my own mouth water in anticipation for that upon which I would soon be feasting. I'm pretty sure I saw him raise his forepaw and give me a thumbs up.
Once my Bacon Burger Dog was grilled to its quintessence, I took it back inside to prepare the fixin's. In prior anticipation for the expected size, I knew that no mortal bun would suffice to carry this thing. I had purchased a sizeable Italian loaf that would be fortunate enough to house the sacred meat. A little mayo, mustard, bbq sauce, tomatoes, onions, and cheese later, I was ready to start the dining experience that I had yearned for ever since my tastebuds were piqued while hearing Dr. Huxtable mention this elusive treat. I took a few bites (noting that my mouth was in no way large enough to do anything other than nibble the outsides). As I tasted what can only be described as the food equivalent of a first kiss, I was sent into a nirvana of sensual delight. The bacon (which can make any food taste better) was perfectly cooked. The flavor of the hamburger mixed with the sausage was nearly poetic. It was like I was looking into the face of God, and he was pleased. Soon, however, God began to wear a different expression.
You see, this is not a dish for the faint of heart. This is a dietician's nightmare. Meat, bread, and dressings in copious quantities. One of these BBD's could feed a starving nation for a month. Gluttony is listed as a deadly sin for a good and natural reason. As I continued to attack this monster with a verve usually seen only in shark feeding frenzies, my body and my desire began to battle for supremacy. The very smell of this thing would be enough to give a normal person a massive coronary. The manufacture of one of these could send a cardiologist's children to college. This was not meant for human consumption. But yet, I stared into the face of destruction and ignored rational thought. This is when the meat sweats started.
You know that feeling of growing exhaustion and serious perspiration that accompanies a heavy workout? If you experience those same feelings while having a meal, something is terribly, horribly, republicanly wrong. I had to wipe my brow repeatedly, but I was not willing to throw in the paper towel. I would trudge on. This was my great white whale. I kept eating. Then I noticed that I was starting to lose feeling on one side of my face while the other side was tingling? Is this a stroke? Are my heart and brain telling me to stop? Ha! You're going to have to do better than that. I've waited since my childhood to experience this cuisine, and I'm not going to let a little possible ephasia or blindness stop me now!
I managed a few more bites before realizing that this thing was only getting bigger and heavier in my hand. I was fighting it. I was a marathon runner in the last six miles. I was swimming and could almost see the English coast just over the channel's horizon. Only, I just couldn't do it anymore. I was beaten. I had been defeated by a massive roll of beef, pork, and German engineering. I sank back into my red chair and accepted the food coma that was washing over me. If I woke in heaven, I wouldn't need to eat a thing.
Eventually I recovered, vowing that never again would I attempt to copy any aspect of Bill Cosby's diet. No matter how good it sounded, I would certainly regret it. Only after this abusive experience did I remember the episode where all the men of New York were mysteriously getting pregnant. Towards the end of the episode we saw each of the Huxtable men (including husbands Martin and Elvin) giving birth to objects signifying their hopes and personality. Cliff Huxtable became the proud father of a meat-riddled sandwich and a two litre grape soda. Mazel Tov!
It's difficult to fully assess the differences in reality and NBC programming, nor can I judge the limits of impact that Claire's stern, yet loving mother had on my decision-making. Regardless, the show helped to mold me into the person that I am today. That being said, there are inspirations that were less than lofty. Sure, I'll never go to a party and play the alphabet game while drinking rock-gut whiskey. I'll never try to take a helicopter to prom. These are good life-lessons. But what about the things that I picked up that could have detrimental consequences?
I am, by all accounts, a registered foody. I love food. I love to cook. I love to eat. I love when food is brought to me. I love discovering new and exciting ways of preparing the same-old tired dishes. Food is exciting. Food can fill up not only your stomach, but your sense of worth. Heathcliff Huxtable loved food. I always looked forward to the shows where his culinary taste was displayed. Whether it was BBQ, a massive Hoagie, or even that secret spaghetti sauce, Cliff was a man with finely-tuned tastebuds. I would watch his cooking and feel the need to emulate what he was doing in the kitchen. It always sounded good. But not every dish deserved to be replicated. Enter: The Bacon Burger Dog.
In a few apocryphal episodes, this elusive mystery was mentioned as the major enticement to Theo and his unappetizingly-named friend Walter. (As I have a phobia of certain types of bugs, I'll refrain from using his nom du pest). The exact recipe was never discussed so my imagination had to craft what I envisioned as the perfect grilling beast. I dreamed about what it must taste like. I dreamed of designing this sure-fire backyard treat. Two years ago, I decided to make my dreams become reality.
Since the writers were wise enough to never explain what this delicacy was made of, I had to come up with a recipe on my own. Taking the name, I knew that there had to be bacon and elements of both a hamburger and a hotdog. Here's where the genius came in. I laid out five slices of thick-cut, applewood smoked bacon. This was going to be the palette upon which my masterpiece would be constructed. I then began to mix up some ground sirloin with the various spices, condiments, and tastes of heaven that I would normally use for making a hamburger patty. A little garlic, some Worcestshire sauce, some blackening seasoning, a little red wine vinegar, a hail mary or two, and then some Italian bread crumbs and an egg to bind. Over the bacon-y goodness I spread this mash of red meat perfection. I now had two of the three components down. Bacon? Check. Burger? Check. Dog? Here comes the piece de resistance'. I didn't want any plain old wieners to taint the glory of this dish. I needed a dog worthy of being part of this mystical trifecta. I needed a big fat sausage. I opted for some locally produced bratwurst. I took this little grey pork grenade and began to roll it up in the bacon and hamburger. Pretty soon I had a giant meat spliff that was ready for cooking. Picture it: weighing in at nearly three pounds, it was about three inches in diameter, and about eight inches long. As it sat there on my counter top, I began to hear angel choirs singing the praises of a creation so divine. It was a thing of carnivorous beauty.
So now that it was prepared, bring on the heat! Over an open flame, much like my neanderthal predecessors, I roasted this staggering gem until it was fully cooked. As the smoke wafted throughout my backyard, animals began to let their nosebud curiosity draw them closer to inspect what was obviously a true work of art. One neighborhood dog seemed to look at me with a kinship rarely seen between animal and man. His big brown eyes weren't of envy but of congratulations. It was if he were saying to me "Hey, man, well done. I applaud your efforts at creating something so right." He was giving me his canine vote of confidence. To show my generosity, I responded my offering him some of the fat drippings that were collecting. He ate with a relish that made my own mouth water in anticipation for that upon which I would soon be feasting. I'm pretty sure I saw him raise his forepaw and give me a thumbs up.
Once my Bacon Burger Dog was grilled to its quintessence, I took it back inside to prepare the fixin's. In prior anticipation for the expected size, I knew that no mortal bun would suffice to carry this thing. I had purchased a sizeable Italian loaf that would be fortunate enough to house the sacred meat. A little mayo, mustard, bbq sauce, tomatoes, onions, and cheese later, I was ready to start the dining experience that I had yearned for ever since my tastebuds were piqued while hearing Dr. Huxtable mention this elusive treat. I took a few bites (noting that my mouth was in no way large enough to do anything other than nibble the outsides). As I tasted what can only be described as the food equivalent of a first kiss, I was sent into a nirvana of sensual delight. The bacon (which can make any food taste better) was perfectly cooked. The flavor of the hamburger mixed with the sausage was nearly poetic. It was like I was looking into the face of God, and he was pleased. Soon, however, God began to wear a different expression.
You see, this is not a dish for the faint of heart. This is a dietician's nightmare. Meat, bread, and dressings in copious quantities. One of these BBD's could feed a starving nation for a month. Gluttony is listed as a deadly sin for a good and natural reason. As I continued to attack this monster with a verve usually seen only in shark feeding frenzies, my body and my desire began to battle for supremacy. The very smell of this thing would be enough to give a normal person a massive coronary. The manufacture of one of these could send a cardiologist's children to college. This was not meant for human consumption. But yet, I stared into the face of destruction and ignored rational thought. This is when the meat sweats started.
You know that feeling of growing exhaustion and serious perspiration that accompanies a heavy workout? If you experience those same feelings while having a meal, something is terribly, horribly, republicanly wrong. I had to wipe my brow repeatedly, but I was not willing to throw in the paper towel. I would trudge on. This was my great white whale. I kept eating. Then I noticed that I was starting to lose feeling on one side of my face while the other side was tingling? Is this a stroke? Are my heart and brain telling me to stop? Ha! You're going to have to do better than that. I've waited since my childhood to experience this cuisine, and I'm not going to let a little possible ephasia or blindness stop me now!
I managed a few more bites before realizing that this thing was only getting bigger and heavier in my hand. I was fighting it. I was a marathon runner in the last six miles. I was swimming and could almost see the English coast just over the channel's horizon. Only, I just couldn't do it anymore. I was beaten. I had been defeated by a massive roll of beef, pork, and German engineering. I sank back into my red chair and accepted the food coma that was washing over me. If I woke in heaven, I wouldn't need to eat a thing.
Eventually I recovered, vowing that never again would I attempt to copy any aspect of Bill Cosby's diet. No matter how good it sounded, I would certainly regret it. Only after this abusive experience did I remember the episode where all the men of New York were mysteriously getting pregnant. Towards the end of the episode we saw each of the Huxtable men (including husbands Martin and Elvin) giving birth to objects signifying their hopes and personality. Cliff Huxtable became the proud father of a meat-riddled sandwich and a two litre grape soda. Mazel Tov!
Friday, December 4, 2009
It's Game Time, Do You Care Where Your Children Are?
In "The Search for Signs of Intelligent Life in the Universe", Lily Tomlin says "My life got so busy that I had to give up something, so I chose reality." I can't think of a better way to begin today's post than by recognizing the familiarity of that statement. One of our favorite pastimes as a culture is to separate ourselves from the day-to-day. That's why we go to movies, that's why we immerse ourselves in literature, that's why we turn our cell phones off in the theatre, that's why we look at web porn. We want so desperately to escape our own humdrum stresses, that we need to let go of reality for a while, and focus on something else.
This is my favorite time of year. Yes, the exciting drama of the countdown between Thanksgiving and New Year's is filled with fun, family, frivolity, and other F-words. But, I also find this end of the calendar to be most enjoyable because it's championship season in football. Between high school teams vying for that state championship on under the crisp Friday night lights, to the colleges competing for conference championships in the hopes of making an elite bowl game, this is excitement. The drama is real and Shakespearean in its' scope. The athletes have prepared their whole lives to withstand 60 minutes of sheer anxiety, pressure, and that tension and energy that comes from playing before a packed house of rowdy fans. And that's what I want to focus on today: The fans.
Yes, yes, I know that athletes get the credit for the wins, and the blame for the losses. Yes, games are played out on the field and not in front of the TV. Passes are thrown from the line of scrimmage, and not from the armchair. I understand that as reality, but fandom opens a whole new universe where the die-hards are blissfully divorced from said reality. Take me, for instance. I recognize that on game day, the rest of the world stops. From kickoff to the final ticks of the fourth quarter, my world exists solely in between the hashmarks, only from a much safer distance.
Being a true fan means a lot more than being a casual observer of the game. Remember, fan is short for fanatic (and a more appropriate sobriquet does not apply). For the uninitiated into the world of true fandom, may I offer some helpful insights below:
1.) THE RITUALS MORE SACRED THAN CATHOLIC RITES
As game day arrives, there are certain preparations that must take place. I am quite positive that the players are going through their stretches, mental walkthroughs, and emotional revving up. That's all great and good, but you cannot overlook the amount of work the fan has done in getting ready for the kickoff.
A. First, there's the attire. To gain the proper mojo, you need to have your game day shirt. For some it's a jersey, for others a pullover. A simple t-shirt, a button-down modelled after the one your coach is wearing, or maybe even a concoction of home-made means. Regardless, you have the shirt, the shoes, the pants, the body paint (which is still appropriate, even if you are viewing from home), and all of the proper gear ready to go. This outfit will not change. Ever. My own game day shirt looks like it hosted a moth bar mitzvah. It has unidentifiable stains from the various pre-game meals from over the years. It's not fit for public wear. But every Saturday during football season, I pull it out of its' safe home amongst the other, fancier t-shirts, and wear it like a tuxedo. I once had a girlfriend who wanted to do something special for me, so she went out and bought a new, fresh, shirt, almost identical (though in much better condition) to my own relic. She just couldn't understand why I wouldn't wear it instead. I didn't understand why she wanted my team to lose because I would be wearing an illicit forgery. She told me I was too concerned with football. I told her she was too concerned with being a bitch. She is no longer in the picture, so let's move on.
B. Second, there's the mental focus. You must know your team like you know the sundry condiments in the back of your fridge. Starters for defense, offense, special teams. You have to be able to identify substitutions when they occur. Sure, you may not be able to remember other trivial stuff like dates for anniversaries, spousal birthdays, or even your kids' full names, but you will know every jersey number, first and last name, and high school for every player on the roster. It's your job. I am ready to step in and take over the play-calling should the coordinators or coaches become suddenly ill. You must have your concentration skills at their highest peak. How else can you give them imaginary high fives, and chest bumps?
C. Finally, there's the physical preparation. I do calisthenics that would make a 1960's workout video jealous. I am limber, cat-like and nimble in my movements, and ready to toss my football back and forth between hands. I have my pump-up playlist that includes various versions of the fight song (including one sung by a drag queen), and other appropriate music. I have given my body the temple treatment it deserves, I am ready to cheer.
2.) IT'S GAME TIME, WATCH WHERE YOU STEP
Once the game begins, I am like an alchemist, carefully weighing every movement I make and judging its' effect on what's happening on the field. If I reach for a chip and my team fumbles, there will be no more pringles for the duration of the game. If I stand up and my team scores, chairs become instantly verboten. I adhere to the chaos principle's "butterfly effect". I know that what I am doing while watching the game, no matter how trivial or insignificant, can have drastic and outstanding effects on a game being played hundreds of miles away. Yeah, that second blocked kick came as the result of me standing on one foot with a beer can poised over my head in the most amazing display of balance ever exhibited! I have been known to contort myself into ridiculous positions if I see positive consequences. I completely believe in the power of football feng shui. It's the small sacrifices that a fan is willing to make that help bring home the trophies.
3.) THE SPACE TIME CONTINUUM CAN BE ALTERED BY A FAN
There are, upon occasion, times when I am unable to watch a game live. These are stressful times, but I must make do. Thanks to the magic of DVR, I can record the game while I'm making my presence known at some unnecessary wedding scheduled by an insensitive bride and her whipped husband. I can occupy my brain with other thoughts while sitting through an ungodly production of "Wizard of Oz". I can stay focused until I can get back to the sanctity and sweetness of my living room and press play. Granted, the biggest obstacle in these instances is avoiding any and all contact with anyone who might be watching (or have already watched) the game. I carefully screen my calls with the muddled: "Ifyouknowthescoreofthegamedon'tsayanythingorI'llhurtyourchildren!" I ignore all text messages. I steer clear of TVs, and keep my radio tuned to the safe sounds of NPR (I figure the day NPR starts reporting college scores is a sign of the coming armageddon and I now have bigger things to worry about...i.e. the blood and fire falling from the sky). This can be difficult, but when I finally get to watch the game, it's new to me therefore, I can cheer and yell as though my words will travel through time to play their magic on something whose outcome has already occurred. I am back in my comfort zone.
4.) THE CONCLUSION HAS A STRONG BEARING ON THE REST OF THE DAY.
So the game is over, and what you do now is dictated by the outcome. If your team has just routed the opponent, you are energetic. You can celebrate moderately (unless it was against a major rival, in which case you douse yourself in champagne and call every living alumni of the rival school that you know and give them a litany of reasons as to why they might want to consider professional help). You can also go about the rest of your day or evening feeling confident, cock-sure, and full of that winning attitude that came so easily for you and your team.
If it was a last-minute, nail-biting, butt-clinching, brow-sweating final catch in the endzone, or field goal that gets blocked to add another W to your team's win/loss column, then you hug, kiss, congratulate, shake hands with, and virtually molest everyone else in the room as though you yourself had just been elected President of the US, before melting into a pool of exhaustion with a face that will carry a perpetual grin for the next seven days.
If the same scenario as above occurs, only with the game ending in a loss, then it's best to have a friend remove all breakables from within your reach before they become projectiles of death upon your TV.
If it's your team that received the beatdown, then you casually turn the TV off, burn your game day shirt, and ask "what's for dinner?"
Being a real fan often means having to explain your behavior to others. My friend Mike (who regrettably finds himself frequently working during the game), has been known to walk around his place of business with four fingers proudly held up to signify the dominance that is about to occur as the seconds pass into the opening of the fourth quarter. This is excusable to other fans. The rest of the world just needs to catch up. Afterall, it's our choice to step away from reality, we should be applauded.
Fans go through so much for their teams. The victories are hard fought, the minutes are filled with racing heartbeats, joyous highs, and inconsolable lows. When the game is over and you see the winning results posted on the scoreboard, you pride yourself in a game well watched, cheered, and generally aided. I suppose some credit goes to the players. Afterall, they helped.
This is my favorite time of year. Yes, the exciting drama of the countdown between Thanksgiving and New Year's is filled with fun, family, frivolity, and other F-words. But, I also find this end of the calendar to be most enjoyable because it's championship season in football. Between high school teams vying for that state championship on under the crisp Friday night lights, to the colleges competing for conference championships in the hopes of making an elite bowl game, this is excitement. The drama is real and Shakespearean in its' scope. The athletes have prepared their whole lives to withstand 60 minutes of sheer anxiety, pressure, and that tension and energy that comes from playing before a packed house of rowdy fans. And that's what I want to focus on today: The fans.
Yes, yes, I know that athletes get the credit for the wins, and the blame for the losses. Yes, games are played out on the field and not in front of the TV. Passes are thrown from the line of scrimmage, and not from the armchair. I understand that as reality, but fandom opens a whole new universe where the die-hards are blissfully divorced from said reality. Take me, for instance. I recognize that on game day, the rest of the world stops. From kickoff to the final ticks of the fourth quarter, my world exists solely in between the hashmarks, only from a much safer distance.
Being a true fan means a lot more than being a casual observer of the game. Remember, fan is short for fanatic (and a more appropriate sobriquet does not apply). For the uninitiated into the world of true fandom, may I offer some helpful insights below:
1.) THE RITUALS MORE SACRED THAN CATHOLIC RITES
As game day arrives, there are certain preparations that must take place. I am quite positive that the players are going through their stretches, mental walkthroughs, and emotional revving up. That's all great and good, but you cannot overlook the amount of work the fan has done in getting ready for the kickoff.
A. First, there's the attire. To gain the proper mojo, you need to have your game day shirt. For some it's a jersey, for others a pullover. A simple t-shirt, a button-down modelled after the one your coach is wearing, or maybe even a concoction of home-made means. Regardless, you have the shirt, the shoes, the pants, the body paint (which is still appropriate, even if you are viewing from home), and all of the proper gear ready to go. This outfit will not change. Ever. My own game day shirt looks like it hosted a moth bar mitzvah. It has unidentifiable stains from the various pre-game meals from over the years. It's not fit for public wear. But every Saturday during football season, I pull it out of its' safe home amongst the other, fancier t-shirts, and wear it like a tuxedo. I once had a girlfriend who wanted to do something special for me, so she went out and bought a new, fresh, shirt, almost identical (though in much better condition) to my own relic. She just couldn't understand why I wouldn't wear it instead. I didn't understand why she wanted my team to lose because I would be wearing an illicit forgery. She told me I was too concerned with football. I told her she was too concerned with being a bitch. She is no longer in the picture, so let's move on.
B. Second, there's the mental focus. You must know your team like you know the sundry condiments in the back of your fridge. Starters for defense, offense, special teams. You have to be able to identify substitutions when they occur. Sure, you may not be able to remember other trivial stuff like dates for anniversaries, spousal birthdays, or even your kids' full names, but you will know every jersey number, first and last name, and high school for every player on the roster. It's your job. I am ready to step in and take over the play-calling should the coordinators or coaches become suddenly ill. You must have your concentration skills at their highest peak. How else can you give them imaginary high fives, and chest bumps?
C. Finally, there's the physical preparation. I do calisthenics that would make a 1960's workout video jealous. I am limber, cat-like and nimble in my movements, and ready to toss my football back and forth between hands. I have my pump-up playlist that includes various versions of the fight song (including one sung by a drag queen), and other appropriate music. I have given my body the temple treatment it deserves, I am ready to cheer.
2.) IT'S GAME TIME, WATCH WHERE YOU STEP
Once the game begins, I am like an alchemist, carefully weighing every movement I make and judging its' effect on what's happening on the field. If I reach for a chip and my team fumbles, there will be no more pringles for the duration of the game. If I stand up and my team scores, chairs become instantly verboten. I adhere to the chaos principle's "butterfly effect". I know that what I am doing while watching the game, no matter how trivial or insignificant, can have drastic and outstanding effects on a game being played hundreds of miles away. Yeah, that second blocked kick came as the result of me standing on one foot with a beer can poised over my head in the most amazing display of balance ever exhibited! I have been known to contort myself into ridiculous positions if I see positive consequences. I completely believe in the power of football feng shui. It's the small sacrifices that a fan is willing to make that help bring home the trophies.
3.) THE SPACE TIME CONTINUUM CAN BE ALTERED BY A FAN
There are, upon occasion, times when I am unable to watch a game live. These are stressful times, but I must make do. Thanks to the magic of DVR, I can record the game while I'm making my presence known at some unnecessary wedding scheduled by an insensitive bride and her whipped husband. I can occupy my brain with other thoughts while sitting through an ungodly production of "Wizard of Oz". I can stay focused until I can get back to the sanctity and sweetness of my living room and press play. Granted, the biggest obstacle in these instances is avoiding any and all contact with anyone who might be watching (or have already watched) the game. I carefully screen my calls with the muddled: "Ifyouknowthescoreofthegamedon'tsayanythingorI'llhurtyourchildren!" I ignore all text messages. I steer clear of TVs, and keep my radio tuned to the safe sounds of NPR (I figure the day NPR starts reporting college scores is a sign of the coming armageddon and I now have bigger things to worry about...i.e. the blood and fire falling from the sky). This can be difficult, but when I finally get to watch the game, it's new to me therefore, I can cheer and yell as though my words will travel through time to play their magic on something whose outcome has already occurred. I am back in my comfort zone.
4.) THE CONCLUSION HAS A STRONG BEARING ON THE REST OF THE DAY.
So the game is over, and what you do now is dictated by the outcome. If your team has just routed the opponent, you are energetic. You can celebrate moderately (unless it was against a major rival, in which case you douse yourself in champagne and call every living alumni of the rival school that you know and give them a litany of reasons as to why they might want to consider professional help). You can also go about the rest of your day or evening feeling confident, cock-sure, and full of that winning attitude that came so easily for you and your team.
If it was a last-minute, nail-biting, butt-clinching, brow-sweating final catch in the endzone, or field goal that gets blocked to add another W to your team's win/loss column, then you hug, kiss, congratulate, shake hands with, and virtually molest everyone else in the room as though you yourself had just been elected President of the US, before melting into a pool of exhaustion with a face that will carry a perpetual grin for the next seven days.
If the same scenario as above occurs, only with the game ending in a loss, then it's best to have a friend remove all breakables from within your reach before they become projectiles of death upon your TV.
If it's your team that received the beatdown, then you casually turn the TV off, burn your game day shirt, and ask "what's for dinner?"
Being a real fan often means having to explain your behavior to others. My friend Mike (who regrettably finds himself frequently working during the game), has been known to walk around his place of business with four fingers proudly held up to signify the dominance that is about to occur as the seconds pass into the opening of the fourth quarter. This is excusable to other fans. The rest of the world just needs to catch up. Afterall, it's our choice to step away from reality, we should be applauded.
Fans go through so much for their teams. The victories are hard fought, the minutes are filled with racing heartbeats, joyous highs, and inconsolable lows. When the game is over and you see the winning results posted on the scoreboard, you pride yourself in a game well watched, cheered, and generally aided. I suppose some credit goes to the players. Afterall, they helped.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Fun Times With the Bible, Part I: Genesis
I love to read. I find sheer joy in opening up a new book and feeling the crackle of the pages, knowing that I could be the first person to enjoy the contents it so lovingly binds together. Then, there is the thrill of finding an old book. Perhaps an antique perfectly preserved, or a forgotten desk piece, I find myself gaining a clearer consciousness of my fragility as a human when I am holding something that has been read countless times before. It's as though I'm attached to those who have gone before. Books are great. Books are sources of information and entertainment. It's much like TV or the internet, but with fewer Viagra ads.
I recently decided to comb through my personal library and begin reading books that I've amassed over the years, but never actually read. I am finding all sorts of gems that have laid dormant on dusty shelves since I first rescued them from other dustier shelves. Though this task has become a rather daunting one (with a reading list that now is stacked to my office ceiling several times over), I've decided to intersperse it with some other reading. Enter The Bible.
Now I did have a fairly structured upbringing where church attendance numbered in the multiple-times-a-week category. I sat through many a Sunday morning, evening, and Wednesday night Prayer Meeting sermon. I am quite sure that I was well-exposed to the Bible. In college, I took religion courses spanning both the Judeo-Christian world, as well as introductions to other World Religions. I am not unfamiliar to the Bible. Granted, it has been sometime since I purposfully cracked it's leather covers for reasons other than a Jeopardy! answer. But I still felt like I had a decent grasp of this holiest of tomes.
One week ago I decided that, in addition to my copious daily reading of my long-lost book collection, I would also begin going piecemeal through the Bible from cover to cover. After all, isn't that the way a book should be read? From start to finish? I have begun to jot down some of the more interesting concepts, facts, and idiosyncracies that I have come across in my journey through God's word. Being ever the cynic, I thought I'd share them with you periodically. So, without further ado let me present to you: FUN TIMES WITH THE BIBLE, Part I: GENESIS!!
Commonly referred to as Genesis, this is the first book of the five books attributed to Moses. Yes, Moses. Or Charleton Heston if you're a cinephile. We all know the basic stories that are introduced in this book: the Creation of Man, Noah and the Ark, Jacob wrestling the Angel, Abraham's attempt to sacrifice his son, Joseph and his Andrew Lloyd Webber Musical, and so many more. There's a treasure trove of great things to be found in this book. Today I want to focus on six things I've learned in the Book of Genesis.
1.) IF YOU WANT TO PROTECT YOUR GUESTS FROM A RAPE-HUNGRY CROWD, OFFER YOUR DAUGHTERS AS A SACRIFICE.
Chapter 19. Lot, the nephew of Abraham, has decided to take up residence in the original Sin City: Sodom. Here can be found any and all types of debauchery that would set your hedonistic hearts aflutter. God, deciding that this much wickedness must surely be punished, sends two angels to visit Lot and convince him to leave town before the rain of fire comes down. Seeing two handsome angelic figures, a crowd of lust-hungry men begins to form outside of Lot's house. They begin to beat on the door, demanding that Lot send his hunky guests out so the crowd can "know them". Lot, being ever so the generous host, decides that it would be in bad form to subject his two new friends to the "knowing" that awaits them. He steps outside to address the crowd and says: "Behold now, I have two daughters which have not known man; let me, I pray you, bring them out unto you, and do ye to them as is good in your eyes: only unto these men do nothing; for therefore came they under the shadow of my roof." (Genesis 19:8).
Well, isn't that the picture of a loving father. It's clear why God would want to save the life of this man who so bravely offers his VIRGIN daughters to a sex-starved crowd of horny men. Years later, as Lot sat drinking from his world's greatest dad coffee mug, chipping of a bit of salt from the pillar that used to be his curious wife, I wonder if he regretted his choice. This chapter is great biblical storytelling. Fire, virgins, butt-sex, and angels wielding swords to smite the evil homosexuals. So, the moral is: sex between men=bad; offering to let a hormone-enraged crowd rampage your pure daughters=OK!
2.) SHAKING HANDS IS FOR SISSIES, REAL MEN SWEAR OATHS BY TOUCHING EATH OTHER'S THIGHS.
"And Abraham said unto his eldest servant of his house, that ruled over all that he had, Put, I pray thee, thy hand under my thigh: And I will make thee swear by the Lord, the God of heaven, and the God of the earth..." (Genesis 24:2-3). I noticed this odd ritual early on, and I saw that it kept reoccuring whenever a solemn oath was taking place. This is quirky. Instead of shaking hands, hugging it out, or even offering the sacred pinky-swear, men of the Old Testament would seal oaths by grabbing the backs of each other's thighs. Yes, ass-grabbing was the period of choice to cap off any agreement made with true verve. Imagine yourself at a business meeting. Your client has now offered a considerable addendum to the contract. He extends his hand to make it final, you turn around and drop trou. I can see a small-claims court Judge asking the defendent if he "grabbed cheek" or if there was only a grazing of the ham to decide on property rights. This is something we might want to revive. My only real question: does clinching work the same way as crossing one's fingers?
3.) JACOB WAS KIND OF A DOUCHEBAG
The man who would later be called Israel. The man who would father many nations. The man who would leg-drop an angel. Jacob was many things, but first and foremost, he was quite a douchebag....especially to his brother. We all know that Jacob had a twin brother, Esau. One day Esau (their father's favorite) had been out hunting and asked his brother to make him some food. Seeing his Esau claiming that he would die without sustenance, Jacob says "Sure, I'll make you some food. But first you should sell me your birthright". If that ain't brotherly love, I don't know what is. Later, when their beloved father was on his deathbed, he called Esau to his side and asked his son to go kill a deer and bring it to him. While Esau was doing his father's bidding, Jacob quickly prepares some venison of his own and brings it to his father (now blind with old-age). He claims to be Esau and asks for his father's blessing. To complete the ruse, the smooth-skinned Jacob had attached goat skins to his arms to give off the impress that he was the obviously hairy Esau. Ignoring the fact that the bible is telling us that Esau must have had fur growing on him, Isaac is fooled by his son and offers the blessing to Jacob instead of Esau. Curses! Foiled again!
4.) CIRCUMCISION AS A RED HERRING
In chapter 34 we get the best military tactic ever! Jacob's daughter Dinah was taken by a prince, Shechem, and summarily raped because he fell in love with her. Shechem then goes to his father to ask Jacob if he could marry the defiled girl. Jacob, learning that her purity was no more, decided to take this oppportunity for revenge. Jacob tells Shechem's father (Hamor, for those of you keeping score at home) that it would be impossible for his daughter to marry an uncircumcised man. Jacob then suggested that if Shechem and all the men in their village would each undergo a circumcision to signify their interest in the covenant with God, then not only could Shechem marry Dinah, but Jacob would allow all of his daughters to be married to the men of Hamor's village. Ready to get some good ol' Israelite lovin', Hamor consents to the surgery. "And it came to pass on the third day, when they were sore, that two of the sons of Jacob, Simeon and Levi, Dinah's brethren, took each man his sword, and came upon the city boldly, and slew all the males. And they slew Hamor and Shechem his son with the edge of the sword, and took Dinah out of Shechem's house, and went out. The sons of Jacob came upon the slain, and spoiled the city, because they had defiled their sister." (Genesis 34:25-27). What a way to go out! There you are, laid up in bed with primitive painkillers on your junk, and two men with swords come in to hack you to bits. If only our government were smart enough to employ this methodology to the war on terror. Circumcision: better than napalm!
5.) IF YOU DON'T STOP ONAN, YOU'LL GO BLIND!
Tucked away gently in the midst of the story of Joseph and his technicolor adventures, is the story of two brothers: Er and Onan. For years I had heard the legend of Onan and his sin of spilling his seed on the ground. Supposedly this was supposed to be warning against masturbation or the misuse of one's "seed". So what does the Bible have to say about this story? "And Er, Judah's firstborn, was wicked in the sight of the Lord; and the Lord slew him. And Judah said to Onan, go in unto thy brother's wife, and marry her, and raise up seed to thy brothre. And Onan knew that the seed should not be his; and he went in unto his brother's wife, that he spilled it on the ground, lest that he should give seed to his brother. And the thing which he did displeased the Lord: wherefore he slew him also."(Genesis 38: 7-10). So, I have a few questions. Namely, what the hell did Er do that was so "wicked". In just this one book of the Bible we've seen God let cities, and civilizations build up before he takes any smiting action. Instead of any explanation (much less a warning to learn from Er's mistakes) we just read that "he was a little shit and God took him out". So then Judah tells his son to go sleep with his own sister-in-law to honor his brother. Apparently I'm not following Judah's logic, but I'm willing to give it the benefit of the doubt if she's hot. Onan decides that nailing her is fine, he just doesn't want her knocked up with a kid that will be considered his smitten brother's. This was certainly the wrong time to pull out! I also love how the final verse just says that God was displeased and decided to slay Onan as well. Too much smiting, too little time.
6.) HOME IS WHERE THE BOWELS ARE.
The King James Version of the scriptures have often left me wondering why some many modern, church-going folks feel the need to hold on to this antiquated, and obviously inaccurate translation of their sacred verses. I, on the other hand, find this version to be filled with quaint verbage, and hilarious euphemisms. Take chapter 43 for example. Joseph had been thrown in a pit by his jealous brothers (it seemed as though they weren't content with second-billing in the West End). He had been sold into slavery, accused of "knowing" his boss's wife, thrown into jail, being pardoned out of jail for his ability to interpret dreams, and ultimately becoming second-in-command of all Egypt. It's the Rudy of Bible feel-good stories. After many years of separation, Joseph is reunited with his brothers who fail to recognize that this now-powerful bronzed figure is also their left-for dead brother. Joseph feeling a little tug at his heartstrings reacts this way: "And Joseph made haste; for his bowels did yearn upon his brother; and he sought where to weep; and he entered into his chamber and wept there." (Genesis 43:30). What the hell does this mean? Is this author saying he was so sad he had stomach cramps? Or that he felt a sudden urge to do the Egyptian two-step? Or that he just needed a good cry? What do his bowels have to do with his feelings? In other places I had seen bowels used where maybe heart might have been a more appropriate organ. 'Yes, Rachael loved Jacob, her bowels moved for him.' Doesn't quite have that Hallmark-y ring to it.
And so as I draw this second post to a conclusion, I must point out that while I'm only one book in, I can't wait for what the other 65 have in store. By no means is this an attack on the holiness of religion. This is more of an editorial on man's secretarial skills. Afterall, isn't one of the main messages of the bible that: Man is flawed, God is not? If this post is something that rattles your faith, then personally you have bigger problems than the spirit knocking on the door of your bowels.
I recently decided to comb through my personal library and begin reading books that I've amassed over the years, but never actually read. I am finding all sorts of gems that have laid dormant on dusty shelves since I first rescued them from other dustier shelves. Though this task has become a rather daunting one (with a reading list that now is stacked to my office ceiling several times over), I've decided to intersperse it with some other reading. Enter The Bible.
Now I did have a fairly structured upbringing where church attendance numbered in the multiple-times-a-week category. I sat through many a Sunday morning, evening, and Wednesday night Prayer Meeting sermon. I am quite sure that I was well-exposed to the Bible. In college, I took religion courses spanning both the Judeo-Christian world, as well as introductions to other World Religions. I am not unfamiliar to the Bible. Granted, it has been sometime since I purposfully cracked it's leather covers for reasons other than a Jeopardy! answer. But I still felt like I had a decent grasp of this holiest of tomes.
One week ago I decided that, in addition to my copious daily reading of my long-lost book collection, I would also begin going piecemeal through the Bible from cover to cover. After all, isn't that the way a book should be read? From start to finish? I have begun to jot down some of the more interesting concepts, facts, and idiosyncracies that I have come across in my journey through God's word. Being ever the cynic, I thought I'd share them with you periodically. So, without further ado let me present to you: FUN TIMES WITH THE BIBLE, Part I: GENESIS!!
Commonly referred to as Genesis, this is the first book of the five books attributed to Moses. Yes, Moses. Or Charleton Heston if you're a cinephile. We all know the basic stories that are introduced in this book: the Creation of Man, Noah and the Ark, Jacob wrestling the Angel, Abraham's attempt to sacrifice his son, Joseph and his Andrew Lloyd Webber Musical, and so many more. There's a treasure trove of great things to be found in this book. Today I want to focus on six things I've learned in the Book of Genesis.
1.) IF YOU WANT TO PROTECT YOUR GUESTS FROM A RAPE-HUNGRY CROWD, OFFER YOUR DAUGHTERS AS A SACRIFICE.
Chapter 19. Lot, the nephew of Abraham, has decided to take up residence in the original Sin City: Sodom. Here can be found any and all types of debauchery that would set your hedonistic hearts aflutter. God, deciding that this much wickedness must surely be punished, sends two angels to visit Lot and convince him to leave town before the rain of fire comes down. Seeing two handsome angelic figures, a crowd of lust-hungry men begins to form outside of Lot's house. They begin to beat on the door, demanding that Lot send his hunky guests out so the crowd can "know them". Lot, being ever so the generous host, decides that it would be in bad form to subject his two new friends to the "knowing" that awaits them. He steps outside to address the crowd and says: "Behold now, I have two daughters which have not known man; let me, I pray you, bring them out unto you, and do ye to them as is good in your eyes: only unto these men do nothing; for therefore came they under the shadow of my roof." (Genesis 19:8).
Well, isn't that the picture of a loving father. It's clear why God would want to save the life of this man who so bravely offers his VIRGIN daughters to a sex-starved crowd of horny men. Years later, as Lot sat drinking from his world's greatest dad coffee mug, chipping of a bit of salt from the pillar that used to be his curious wife, I wonder if he regretted his choice. This chapter is great biblical storytelling. Fire, virgins, butt-sex, and angels wielding swords to smite the evil homosexuals. So, the moral is: sex between men=bad; offering to let a hormone-enraged crowd rampage your pure daughters=OK!
2.) SHAKING HANDS IS FOR SISSIES, REAL MEN SWEAR OATHS BY TOUCHING EATH OTHER'S THIGHS.
"And Abraham said unto his eldest servant of his house, that ruled over all that he had, Put, I pray thee, thy hand under my thigh: And I will make thee swear by the Lord, the God of heaven, and the God of the earth..." (Genesis 24:2-3). I noticed this odd ritual early on, and I saw that it kept reoccuring whenever a solemn oath was taking place. This is quirky. Instead of shaking hands, hugging it out, or even offering the sacred pinky-swear, men of the Old Testament would seal oaths by grabbing the backs of each other's thighs. Yes, ass-grabbing was the period of choice to cap off any agreement made with true verve. Imagine yourself at a business meeting. Your client has now offered a considerable addendum to the contract. He extends his hand to make it final, you turn around and drop trou. I can see a small-claims court Judge asking the defendent if he "grabbed cheek" or if there was only a grazing of the ham to decide on property rights. This is something we might want to revive. My only real question: does clinching work the same way as crossing one's fingers?
3.) JACOB WAS KIND OF A DOUCHEBAG
The man who would later be called Israel. The man who would father many nations. The man who would leg-drop an angel. Jacob was many things, but first and foremost, he was quite a douchebag....especially to his brother. We all know that Jacob had a twin brother, Esau. One day Esau (their father's favorite) had been out hunting and asked his brother to make him some food. Seeing his Esau claiming that he would die without sustenance, Jacob says "Sure, I'll make you some food. But first you should sell me your birthright". If that ain't brotherly love, I don't know what is. Later, when their beloved father was on his deathbed, he called Esau to his side and asked his son to go kill a deer and bring it to him. While Esau was doing his father's bidding, Jacob quickly prepares some venison of his own and brings it to his father (now blind with old-age). He claims to be Esau and asks for his father's blessing. To complete the ruse, the smooth-skinned Jacob had attached goat skins to his arms to give off the impress that he was the obviously hairy Esau. Ignoring the fact that the bible is telling us that Esau must have had fur growing on him, Isaac is fooled by his son and offers the blessing to Jacob instead of Esau. Curses! Foiled again!
4.) CIRCUMCISION AS A RED HERRING
In chapter 34 we get the best military tactic ever! Jacob's daughter Dinah was taken by a prince, Shechem, and summarily raped because he fell in love with her. Shechem then goes to his father to ask Jacob if he could marry the defiled girl. Jacob, learning that her purity was no more, decided to take this oppportunity for revenge. Jacob tells Shechem's father (Hamor, for those of you keeping score at home) that it would be impossible for his daughter to marry an uncircumcised man. Jacob then suggested that if Shechem and all the men in their village would each undergo a circumcision to signify their interest in the covenant with God, then not only could Shechem marry Dinah, but Jacob would allow all of his daughters to be married to the men of Hamor's village. Ready to get some good ol' Israelite lovin', Hamor consents to the surgery. "And it came to pass on the third day, when they were sore, that two of the sons of Jacob, Simeon and Levi, Dinah's brethren, took each man his sword, and came upon the city boldly, and slew all the males. And they slew Hamor and Shechem his son with the edge of the sword, and took Dinah out of Shechem's house, and went out. The sons of Jacob came upon the slain, and spoiled the city, because they had defiled their sister." (Genesis 34:25-27). What a way to go out! There you are, laid up in bed with primitive painkillers on your junk, and two men with swords come in to hack you to bits. If only our government were smart enough to employ this methodology to the war on terror. Circumcision: better than napalm!
5.) IF YOU DON'T STOP ONAN, YOU'LL GO BLIND!
Tucked away gently in the midst of the story of Joseph and his technicolor adventures, is the story of two brothers: Er and Onan. For years I had heard the legend of Onan and his sin of spilling his seed on the ground. Supposedly this was supposed to be warning against masturbation or the misuse of one's "seed". So what does the Bible have to say about this story? "And Er, Judah's firstborn, was wicked in the sight of the Lord; and the Lord slew him. And Judah said to Onan, go in unto thy brother's wife, and marry her, and raise up seed to thy brothre. And Onan knew that the seed should not be his; and he went in unto his brother's wife, that he spilled it on the ground, lest that he should give seed to his brother. And the thing which he did displeased the Lord: wherefore he slew him also."(Genesis 38: 7-10). So, I have a few questions. Namely, what the hell did Er do that was so "wicked". In just this one book of the Bible we've seen God let cities, and civilizations build up before he takes any smiting action. Instead of any explanation (much less a warning to learn from Er's mistakes) we just read that "he was a little shit and God took him out". So then Judah tells his son to go sleep with his own sister-in-law to honor his brother. Apparently I'm not following Judah's logic, but I'm willing to give it the benefit of the doubt if she's hot. Onan decides that nailing her is fine, he just doesn't want her knocked up with a kid that will be considered his smitten brother's. This was certainly the wrong time to pull out! I also love how the final verse just says that God was displeased and decided to slay Onan as well. Too much smiting, too little time.
6.) HOME IS WHERE THE BOWELS ARE.
The King James Version of the scriptures have often left me wondering why some many modern, church-going folks feel the need to hold on to this antiquated, and obviously inaccurate translation of their sacred verses. I, on the other hand, find this version to be filled with quaint verbage, and hilarious euphemisms. Take chapter 43 for example. Joseph had been thrown in a pit by his jealous brothers (it seemed as though they weren't content with second-billing in the West End). He had been sold into slavery, accused of "knowing" his boss's wife, thrown into jail, being pardoned out of jail for his ability to interpret dreams, and ultimately becoming second-in-command of all Egypt. It's the Rudy of Bible feel-good stories. After many years of separation, Joseph is reunited with his brothers who fail to recognize that this now-powerful bronzed figure is also their left-for dead brother. Joseph feeling a little tug at his heartstrings reacts this way: "And Joseph made haste; for his bowels did yearn upon his brother; and he sought where to weep; and he entered into his chamber and wept there." (Genesis 43:30). What the hell does this mean? Is this author saying he was so sad he had stomach cramps? Or that he felt a sudden urge to do the Egyptian two-step? Or that he just needed a good cry? What do his bowels have to do with his feelings? In other places I had seen bowels used where maybe heart might have been a more appropriate organ. 'Yes, Rachael loved Jacob, her bowels moved for him.' Doesn't quite have that Hallmark-y ring to it.
And so as I draw this second post to a conclusion, I must point out that while I'm only one book in, I can't wait for what the other 65 have in store. By no means is this an attack on the holiness of religion. This is more of an editorial on man's secretarial skills. Afterall, isn't one of the main messages of the bible that: Man is flawed, God is not? If this post is something that rattles your faith, then personally you have bigger problems than the spirit knocking on the door of your bowels.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
You Too Can Travel the World (If Your IQ is Below 80)
There are many times during the course of any particular day when the world can seem to rain heavy on you like a brimming bowl of juggernaut soup. I'm sure it must feel like there's this Andre-the-Giant-sized weight sitting on top of you, and nowhere can you find a balding man in yellow underpants to bodyslam it away. When the fates seem to be giving you the stink-eye, rest assured that you're probably not alone.
In this quickly-devolving economic crisis, we are all feeling the relentless pinch just a bit more prickly this time of year. The pockets seem to be drying up, the tinsel on the tree isn't filling you with the same glittery comfort, and the egg isn't as noggy as you remember it in years gone by. Hopefully you're not feeling the sudden urge to take the angel's dive off the douglas fir, and find yourself scattered about the carpet like a wayward ornament. It's in this vein that I want to help you find some comfort. Rest, Ye merrie readers, 'tis the season to don yourself with the gayest apparel despite what your machismoistic better instincts tell you. Go ahead and put on that cherry-red sweater with the stuffed snowman with puffball eyes. It's the holidays, time to get festive!
And speaking of festive, I can think of no better way to grind the yule gears than by looking at the life lessons that are ever-present around us all. Case in point: let's learn a few things from an Oscar-winning film.
The other night I had the opportunity to watch (for the first time in years) "Forrest Gump". As I sat in my comfy red leather chair drinking my boxed wine, I realized that this movie is rife with rules for better living. It's a cornucopia of ideals for improving one's way of accepting the pits and pratfalls of just another day on God's green. So, as a means of sharing the gift of learning, I now present to you: "Things I learned from watching 'Forrest Gump".
1.) IF YOU REALLY REALLY LOVE SOMEONE, WAIT FOR THEM TO GET AIDS, REALIZE THEY NEED A FATHER FOR THEIR CHILD (WHICH YOU SIRED UNKNOWINGLY), AND THEN THEY WILL BE YOURS FOR THE LAST FEW WEEKS OF THEIR DRUG-ADDLED LIFE.
Yes, for a movie with such a sweet premise, it does teach us to be patient with our feelings for that special someone. I think this is important. Let's say you meet the girl of your dreams while the two of you are still in grade school. Of course, at that age it would be too early to foster a blossoming relationship, so wait until you're both in college, and then you might get to cop a feel (after you beat up her date). This is progress, though be prepared to let her go off and be a stripper (since that's the most natural progression to becoming a legitimate singer) before you run into her again in the midst of a massive peace rally. Ah yes, now you're probably thinking that life has come full circle and the time for your togetherness has come. But, hold on, she still needs to go back to California and experience the joys of disco and the drug trade. After she feels the cool rush of the needle, she will come for a visit. While the romance of a rainstorm brings her to your bed, the real heartstrings have yet to be tugged as you need to let her sneak off in the early morning to go live life as a waitress. By this point, you are doing what any natural man would do, and that is to remain celibate and keep yourself in good shape (running several thousand miles should do it). Finally, after years of no contact (not even to let you know that the one and only time you ever had sex WITH ANYONE it did indeed result in the birth of a little boy) she writes you a letter. Yes, a letter. Once you are able to figure out public transportation, the two of you can live a very happy (albeit short) life together. After all, you've earned it buddy!
2.) IF YOU THROW ROCKS AT THE SWEETLY RETARDED, YOU ARE HELPING THEM TO ACHEIVE THEIR LIFE'S DREAMS.
We all remember the scene, little Forrest, with his surgical braces still imprisoning his legs, is attacked by local hooligans who mock his stutter and hurl rocks at his face. With the drawling words of Jenny's "Run, Forrest, run!" echoing through his ears, the adolescent wunderkind takes off down the dirt road where the literal and metaphorical shackles that have hindered him now release him to gain inhuman speeds and leave his attackers feasting on his dust. From here, his running literally takes him anywhere he can imagine: to college, through the military, around the world, etc. So the life lesson here, is that while we booed those little impish brats for their prejudice against someone different from themselves, they were really only helping to propel this child into the superstardom that was his to take. I am reminded of the "sticks and stones" adage that we used to chant as children. Perhaps it should be amended to "Sticks and Stones may break my bones, but if you keep throwing things at me I will one day be super-rich". I wouldn't advise testing this one without a good lawyer's number on speed dial.
3.) IF YOU YELL AND CURSE AT GOD DURING THE MIDST OF A MAJOR HURRICANE, IT WILL IMPROVE YOUR FAILING BUSINESS.
There he was, perched like a profit on the wind-blown crow's nest. With his bandanna failing to keep his water-logged locks from slapping him the face, Lt. Dan decided to taunt the Almighty while giant waves and gail-force winds slapped at the tempest-tossed shrimp boat. As he struggled to maintain his grip on both the mast and reality, our favourite leg-less fisherman decided that the middle of a massive storm was the best time to call God to the carpet. Now, I am a man of faith, though not necessarily one who attends service regularly. I can't think of any time (especially when death at sea is imminent) that I might want to throw the guantlet down against a deity of choice. Yet, miraculously, both the captain and his poop deck are able to weather the storm. Not only do they come out victorious against the elements, their business (which was surely near bankruptcy before the clouds rolled in) is now the only game in town. I suppose that the more pious of Bubba Gump's competition found themselves in less than immaculate situations. Maybe playing Devil's Advocate to a modern Job will reap you benefits.
4.) CITY BUS SCHEDULES ARE SLOW ENOUGH THAT YOU HAVE TIME TO TELL YOUR WHOLE LIFE STORY TO COMPLETE STRANGERS.
Imagine a long day waiting tables, or wading through bridge-circle gossip, or chasing after your toddler, or even just wheezing through your day as an obese businessman and you find yourself at the bus stop. Surely, you'd rather just let the minutes tick off one by one for the next two hours, but instead, you get treated to a cavalcade of Candide-like exploits by a man with a box full of chocolates and homespun "mama-isms". I have spent my time in cities where the average traveller is at the mercy of transportation timetables that didn't necessarily have that Mussolini touch. But never was I in a delay in which I had enough time to hear the rhapsodic waxings of a man who could have purchased private cars for everyone who shared that bench with him. Thank-God those people weren't sharing a bench with someone whose autobiography was in volume form. I can sometimes imagine Hell as one of those situations where you're forced to listen to someone else go through the mind-numbing details of their every day despite your own desire to just go home, put on the Aretha, and enjoy your wine spritzer.
5.) ALL OF LIFE CAN BE SUMMARIZED BY A F&!*ING FEATHER!
You've just seen your only son taken off to school by the chain-smoking bus driver and you see this pristine little blessing from heaven float down and land at your feet. You've had a fascinating life that is no where near over, and here you see this little metaphor for your whole existence dancing in the breeze as if to remind you of your own insignificance. I'm all for symbols, but really? A feather? Was a rainbow too much? Was there not enough in the budget for a whole bird? Do we really need to see this plumage to realize the cycle of life? Apparently, no matter how many great and wonderful things you are able to accomplish (whether it's saving the lives of friends, fighting for your country, meeting star athletes, celebrities, and presidents, and the countless other incredible feats that befell our idiot savant) you are no more important than the molted feather of some mysteriously white bird. How poetic. How just.
As I draw this inaugural post to a conclusion, I find it necessary to point out that while life may be likened to a package of candy, or stupid both is and does, I think that the world around us is full with many opportunities to engage our minds, quicken our heartbeats, and let our spirits soar. Avoid getting in fights during the middle of Black Panther rallies. Seats not offered will only lead you to the people who will change your life. And if God could make you into a bird to fly far away, would you really want him to?
In this quickly-devolving economic crisis, we are all feeling the relentless pinch just a bit more prickly this time of year. The pockets seem to be drying up, the tinsel on the tree isn't filling you with the same glittery comfort, and the egg isn't as noggy as you remember it in years gone by. Hopefully you're not feeling the sudden urge to take the angel's dive off the douglas fir, and find yourself scattered about the carpet like a wayward ornament. It's in this vein that I want to help you find some comfort. Rest, Ye merrie readers, 'tis the season to don yourself with the gayest apparel despite what your machismoistic better instincts tell you. Go ahead and put on that cherry-red sweater with the stuffed snowman with puffball eyes. It's the holidays, time to get festive!
And speaking of festive, I can think of no better way to grind the yule gears than by looking at the life lessons that are ever-present around us all. Case in point: let's learn a few things from an Oscar-winning film.
The other night I had the opportunity to watch (for the first time in years) "Forrest Gump". As I sat in my comfy red leather chair drinking my boxed wine, I realized that this movie is rife with rules for better living. It's a cornucopia of ideals for improving one's way of accepting the pits and pratfalls of just another day on God's green. So, as a means of sharing the gift of learning, I now present to you: "Things I learned from watching 'Forrest Gump".
1.) IF YOU REALLY REALLY LOVE SOMEONE, WAIT FOR THEM TO GET AIDS, REALIZE THEY NEED A FATHER FOR THEIR CHILD (WHICH YOU SIRED UNKNOWINGLY), AND THEN THEY WILL BE YOURS FOR THE LAST FEW WEEKS OF THEIR DRUG-ADDLED LIFE.
Yes, for a movie with such a sweet premise, it does teach us to be patient with our feelings for that special someone. I think this is important. Let's say you meet the girl of your dreams while the two of you are still in grade school. Of course, at that age it would be too early to foster a blossoming relationship, so wait until you're both in college, and then you might get to cop a feel (after you beat up her date). This is progress, though be prepared to let her go off and be a stripper (since that's the most natural progression to becoming a legitimate singer) before you run into her again in the midst of a massive peace rally. Ah yes, now you're probably thinking that life has come full circle and the time for your togetherness has come. But, hold on, she still needs to go back to California and experience the joys of disco and the drug trade. After she feels the cool rush of the needle, she will come for a visit. While the romance of a rainstorm brings her to your bed, the real heartstrings have yet to be tugged as you need to let her sneak off in the early morning to go live life as a waitress. By this point, you are doing what any natural man would do, and that is to remain celibate and keep yourself in good shape (running several thousand miles should do it). Finally, after years of no contact (not even to let you know that the one and only time you ever had sex WITH ANYONE it did indeed result in the birth of a little boy) she writes you a letter. Yes, a letter. Once you are able to figure out public transportation, the two of you can live a very happy (albeit short) life together. After all, you've earned it buddy!
2.) IF YOU THROW ROCKS AT THE SWEETLY RETARDED, YOU ARE HELPING THEM TO ACHEIVE THEIR LIFE'S DREAMS.
We all remember the scene, little Forrest, with his surgical braces still imprisoning his legs, is attacked by local hooligans who mock his stutter and hurl rocks at his face. With the drawling words of Jenny's "Run, Forrest, run!" echoing through his ears, the adolescent wunderkind takes off down the dirt road where the literal and metaphorical shackles that have hindered him now release him to gain inhuman speeds and leave his attackers feasting on his dust. From here, his running literally takes him anywhere he can imagine: to college, through the military, around the world, etc. So the life lesson here, is that while we booed those little impish brats for their prejudice against someone different from themselves, they were really only helping to propel this child into the superstardom that was his to take. I am reminded of the "sticks and stones" adage that we used to chant as children. Perhaps it should be amended to "Sticks and Stones may break my bones, but if you keep throwing things at me I will one day be super-rich". I wouldn't advise testing this one without a good lawyer's number on speed dial.
3.) IF YOU YELL AND CURSE AT GOD DURING THE MIDST OF A MAJOR HURRICANE, IT WILL IMPROVE YOUR FAILING BUSINESS.
There he was, perched like a profit on the wind-blown crow's nest. With his bandanna failing to keep his water-logged locks from slapping him the face, Lt. Dan decided to taunt the Almighty while giant waves and gail-force winds slapped at the tempest-tossed shrimp boat. As he struggled to maintain his grip on both the mast and reality, our favourite leg-less fisherman decided that the middle of a massive storm was the best time to call God to the carpet. Now, I am a man of faith, though not necessarily one who attends service regularly. I can't think of any time (especially when death at sea is imminent) that I might want to throw the guantlet down against a deity of choice. Yet, miraculously, both the captain and his poop deck are able to weather the storm. Not only do they come out victorious against the elements, their business (which was surely near bankruptcy before the clouds rolled in) is now the only game in town. I suppose that the more pious of Bubba Gump's competition found themselves in less than immaculate situations. Maybe playing Devil's Advocate to a modern Job will reap you benefits.
4.) CITY BUS SCHEDULES ARE SLOW ENOUGH THAT YOU HAVE TIME TO TELL YOUR WHOLE LIFE STORY TO COMPLETE STRANGERS.
Imagine a long day waiting tables, or wading through bridge-circle gossip, or chasing after your toddler, or even just wheezing through your day as an obese businessman and you find yourself at the bus stop. Surely, you'd rather just let the minutes tick off one by one for the next two hours, but instead, you get treated to a cavalcade of Candide-like exploits by a man with a box full of chocolates and homespun "mama-isms". I have spent my time in cities where the average traveller is at the mercy of transportation timetables that didn't necessarily have that Mussolini touch. But never was I in a delay in which I had enough time to hear the rhapsodic waxings of a man who could have purchased private cars for everyone who shared that bench with him. Thank-God those people weren't sharing a bench with someone whose autobiography was in volume form. I can sometimes imagine Hell as one of those situations where you're forced to listen to someone else go through the mind-numbing details of their every day despite your own desire to just go home, put on the Aretha, and enjoy your wine spritzer.
5.) ALL OF LIFE CAN BE SUMMARIZED BY A F&!*ING FEATHER!
You've just seen your only son taken off to school by the chain-smoking bus driver and you see this pristine little blessing from heaven float down and land at your feet. You've had a fascinating life that is no where near over, and here you see this little metaphor for your whole existence dancing in the breeze as if to remind you of your own insignificance. I'm all for symbols, but really? A feather? Was a rainbow too much? Was there not enough in the budget for a whole bird? Do we really need to see this plumage to realize the cycle of life? Apparently, no matter how many great and wonderful things you are able to accomplish (whether it's saving the lives of friends, fighting for your country, meeting star athletes, celebrities, and presidents, and the countless other incredible feats that befell our idiot savant) you are no more important than the molted feather of some mysteriously white bird. How poetic. How just.
As I draw this inaugural post to a conclusion, I find it necessary to point out that while life may be likened to a package of candy, or stupid both is and does, I think that the world around us is full with many opportunities to engage our minds, quicken our heartbeats, and let our spirits soar. Avoid getting in fights during the middle of Black Panther rallies. Seats not offered will only lead you to the people who will change your life. And if God could make you into a bird to fly far away, would you really want him to?
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