A name seems to be a random thing. I can’t remember even a fraction of the names of people I meet. What was his name again? Dick? Bart? I forget. But there are a couple of names which I have learned to be wary of.
Andrew isn’t a good one; it reminds me of of a few bug-eyed goofs and my boarding school days at St. Andrew’s College, where I learned the misery of life.
But the worst name, by far, would have to be Tony. I’ve had the misfortune of knowing a litany of Tonys, none of them decent.I knew Tony when he was a student teacher, never doing what he said, sneaking out to smoke in his car at recess. I remember Tony the teacher, smiling thinly, never saying what he believed, acquiescing to further his career. I remember Tony the foreman, acting crazy, never listening, yelling and spreading vitriol to suit his ends. And I remember Tony just before he retired, never reflecting on anything, lashing out, as he went alone to nowhere: “Stop trying to walk me around the pond!” I still don’t know what that means.
The band has been around for over 30 years and, despite never cracking into a major market, has maintained a loyal following known for their chant of the faithful, “GBV!” The show is made up of some 65-80 songs – 10-14 songs in the encores alone, almost all of which – like the above Alex and the Omegas – are barely 2 minutes in length, all replete with power chords, chants and leg kicks.They are not a traditional band, although oddly enough that is exactly what they seem, a case of beer on stage, bottles of Jack Daniels and plenty of smokes to go around…yes, even today. They have split up and got back together numerous times. The last CD – Motivational Jumpsuit – was to be the last, but now there’s another coming in a month – Cool Planet. This, their final reunion tour, is returning to New York this summer and will play The Stone Pony, which according to the Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame is “one of the greatest rock clubs of all time.” An intriguing combination to be sure.
Excess is best. Or at least excess is great while it lasts. So is the message of Martin Scorsese’s The Wolf of Wall Street(2013) and Sophia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette(2006).While Coppola’s film does attempt to present the Queen of France’s point of view, placing her debauchery in the context of her heritage and youth, the film depends almost solely on a litany of gluttonous imagery. Scorsese makes no such effort, starting and ending with scenes meant to shock – dwarf tossing through orgies to drugs on top of drugs – that becomes tedious and, rather than offer a point to reflect, childishly glorify the experience. There might be a moral buried somewhere in these films – after all our heroes meet bad ends – but that isn’t the theme of either. Instead we are made witness to tributes to consumption, all of it beyond our wildest dreams – palaces and helicopters – and how marvelous that really is. It is an interesting comparison of time periods – the French Revolution and Wall Street America – exposing two societies which hid behind claims of freedom, knowledge and tolerance to maintain the excesses of the few who continued to grind the species towards extinction.
As true and fine this arc of life may appear, there is no avoiding the suffering and isolation in the end. The world is rotten. That’s our curse to bear.I think of when I was young and didn’t know like I know now, but still had that sense, the darkness looming, that what was coming was a dreadful thing, sudden and terrible. Life was a burning house, everything eventually consumed, down to the last timber.
Maybe that’s why I like to hide in the bathroom downstairs.
We know what to expect from a Walt Disney film, everything from the adorable creatures to the clear delineation between good and evil. The latest Magic Kingdom offering, Saving Mr. Banks is no exception, giving a Disneyfied version of the media giant’s acquisition of P.L. Travers’ Mary Poppins.Walt is a simple man – so the story goes – who has promised his daughters to get Mary Poppinson the screen, while Travers is cast as a lonely, psychologically damaged spinster who only gets in the way.Travers’ intense dislike of musicals and cartoons is the challenge to be overcome, and while they failed to convince her in real life – Travers so furious with the butchering of her work that she refused to work with Disney ever again – a different story is told in the film, Travers tearful in her epiphany of the Wonderful World of Disney in the end. As banal as some might see this change, we need to remember that the pixie dust from this manicured perception is in fact ashes of the dead.
I am not a writer. I am not a teacher. These are my chosen disguises. I walk down the hall, sure-footed, professionally dressed, and see my reflection in the fish tank, dark with purple-black rocks, and wonder who that might actually be. He vanishes like a wave and I listen to my steps down the next hall. I think of being something else, a truck driver, a goaltender, an emperor, a porn star. I think of myself in these modes where I might not hold my thoughts so tight, not be so worried about others laughing at my stupidity. I wonder about choosing again, being another me. I look at those around – these nincompoops in nincompoop hats – and cringe. I forge on, alone, less of anything, but less a marionette, a sitcom bit player, stumbling in for my laugh. I have to be happy with that. And tell myself that again and again.
It is impossible to define what makes beauty. We tend to think it is in the face. The nose can’t be too big, nor the ears, eyes, teeth, lips; the skin cannot have a scar, a mark of any kind.Most important of all is in the jaw, the line from neck to chin, defined, curved, a strength of line upon which all else sits.
The look must be full and indifferent, demanding, subsumed, terrified, trapped, raw, all at the same time, a performer desperately nervous for her debut.
Master Nate sat, his slouched dark form against the orange plastic, in the front pew of Pinkberry and pretended to read. He would look up and smile, as if suddenly noticing a girl from school, when he had been tracking her every move, and get her into conversation, hoping she would sit. That was his schtick.
Lauren was a Junior with medium length auburn hair, long lashes and a high forehead. She flushed when we told her our plan. “How bad will it be for him?”
“He’ll be fired, maybe jail.”
She sat down with him and asked if he wanted to come to a party. He said he couldn’t until she said it was just her. He walked at her side, just behind, letting his hand bump into hers. We went ahead and waited on the balcony of Kristie’s parent’s place. He came into the apartment like a burglar, looking for cameras, and moved cautiously into the living room, ready to flee. He stood at the window, looking out past the cedar hedge and our heads in behind.
“You want some tequila?” She said it too quickly and offered the bottle like it was a bomb, and it looked like he would go, until she sat on the edge of the couch and stretched out her legs.
“I’m more of a tea drinker.”
She smiled. “Oh, I like tea.”
“That’s my girl.” He stepped toward her and leaned on the back of the couch.
“You don’t drink at all?”
“Just my tea.’ He reached out like he was waving away a spiderweb and then had his hand on her hair.
She looked up, waiting, and he suddenly plunged, grabbing her chin with his other hand, bending her face up into his. He kissed her terribly, like he was eating at the trough.We recorded everything.
“Master Nate.” My voice sounded like it was coming out the back of my head.
He looked up, frozen like a cardboard cut-out, his eyes wide, his arms dangling in disrepair. “What’s that?”
Kristie had already dialed, walking straight past him and stood in front of the door. “I’d like to report a rape.”
“What?” Master Nate’s face collapsed, the weight of it pushing out his pink-grey lower lip. “Rape? No.”
She glared back at him, the judgement already in. “Yes, he’s right here.”