Whenever I watch a movie and observe actors at work, I am always tuned into the little moments of a performance. In my opinion, 99.9% of the time the key to a decent performance lies in the subtlety and restraint an actor brings to a role. Walking the line between the genuinely powerful and the ridiculously melodramatic can be a tricky one; indeed, it's a line that even the most gifted of actors cross at least once.
Yet there are exceptions to the "nuance = great acting" theory. There are some roles that require an over-the-top portrayal in order to present the extreme realities and natures of the character and/or the story being told. Watching an actor totally devour the scenery and catapult through the roof, when it's done right, can be a damn entertaining experience.
Here are my picks for The Five Best Over-the-Top Performances. These choices are by no means bad performances (four out of the five were nominated for Oscars). They are human explosives detonating before our eyes to best serve their characters and the films in which those characters play. And they're also a hell of a lot of fun.
5. Peter Finch, "Network" (1976). Peter Finch was one of the greatest actors who ever lived (if you doubt me, rent "Sunday Bloody Sunday"). But it is his role as the slowly-crumbling newscaster Howard Beale in "Network" that will forever be his trademark performance. Finch, who won a posthumous Best Actor Oscar for his work here, has so many terrific scenes; his Howard is a whacked-out time-bomb lamenting corporate greed, American ignorance, and the soulless crap factory called television. It's an important performance that Finch fuels with a frightening bravado. He's mad as hell and isn't going to take it anymore -- but, thankfully, he takes us along for this wild ride to bedlam...and, in many ways, to truth.
4. Robert DeNiro, "Cape Fear" (1991). When it comes to nut-job psychopaths, no one can compete with Robert DeNiro's Max Cady. Just released from prison, Cady exacts a sadistic, menacing, and gory revenge on the lawyer (and the family of the lawyer) whom he felt was responsible for his imprisonment. It's such a riveting over-the-top performance, perfectly in keeping with Cady's psychotic gravitas, that it's next to impossible to take your eyes off him. It's not easy to be the standout in a luminous cast of acting heavyweights -- DeNiro shares the screen with Nick Nolte, Jessica Lange, and Juliette Lewis -- but his overboard (and I mean that quite literally) Max Cady is a crap-in-your-pants bogeyman that often had me saying, "Oh, there are other actors in this movie?".
3. Faye Dunaway, "Mommie Dearest" (1981). Let's face it: the only reason "Mommie Dearest" remains so memorable and such an important pillar of popular culture is because of Faye Dunaway's iconic performance as Joan Crawford. What's so unsettling and entertaining about this portrayal is that it's more than likely pretty close to how the real Joan behaved (at least if daughter Christina is to be believed). Even today, it's easy to laugh at Dunaway's extremes in this role, and it's hard to tell whether or not she approached the character with this campy intent. Legend has it that before the film was released, the buzz was that Dunaway had given a powerful and serious dramatic performance. The end result, regardless of it's original intent, was nothing serious or dramatic, but it sure as hell was powerful. Dunaway chews the scenery with such ferocity that it's amazing there were any sets still standing on the studio lot after filming wrapped. And where, I ask you, where we would we be without lines like: "NO. WIRE. HANGERS!"; "Tina! Bring me the ax!"; and, my personal favorite, "I am not one of your FANS!"? Hell, the drag queens alone owe a huge debt to Faye Dunaway's brilliantly insane performance. Note: the clip below is a "best-of" collection of Faye/Joan's crazier moments. Look for another of my favorite Christina lines: "Jesus Christ". Classic.
2. Diane Ladd, "Wild at Heart" (1990). Filmmaker David Lynch has given the world a variety of over-the-top performances by a variety of actors. You might even say that an over-the-top performance is a prerequisite for any actor in a David Lynch film. Among the best, Grace Zabriskie in "Inland Empire", Dennis Hopper in "Blue Velvet", and Catherine E. Coulson (in a fantastically hammy performance as the well-remembered Log Lady) in "Twin Peaks". But towering above all of them is Diane Ladd and her stellar grenade of a performance in "Wild at Heart". Ladd plays Marietta Fortune, an obsessed and unbalanced mother doing everything she can to get her beloved daughter (played by Ladd's real-life daughter Laura Dern) back from the likes of smarmy Nicholas Cage (and really, who can blame her?). This performance is absolutely delicious: Ladd's choices for her character are by turns strange, terrifying, brave, disturbing, perverse -- and consistently effective. She doesn't so much chew the scenery as she does swallow it whole and throw it all back up (see clip below). Oh, and she likes lipstick. A lot.
1. Gloria Swanson, "Sunset Blvd." (1950). Norma Desmond could easily rank as one of the greatest characters in the history of film. And that is only so because of Gloria Swanson's unforgettable performance. Desmond, once a superstar of silent film, has grown weird and reclusive in her Hollywood mansion, with just her dead chimp and an ex-husband-turned-personal-servant for companionship. But when struggling writer Joe Gillis (the awesome William Holden) enters her life, Desmond's entire existence is transformed into something that is simultaneously hopeful and tragic. It bears mentioning that Swanson herself was a bit of a waning star in those days, which just adds to the bravery and intensity of her performance. Her work here is about as far from realism as one can get: Swanson's Norma is all singsong voice, buggy eyes, and grand sweeping gestures. But this is precisely what makes the performance so flawless. Silent film actors had to do everything big and exaggerated in order to successfully pull off a role, and Norma Desmond, so lost and delusional, is still trapped in that soundless era of her youthful fame.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Sunday, June 22, 2008
The Anchoring Absurdity of Art
Recently, my friend Leanne wrote a terrific blog post illustrating the craziness and interpretations of art. In high school, she painted a picture of a mushroom and turned it in to her art teacher. The teacher was blown away by the image on the canvas: an adolescent's compelling, disturbing commentary on nuclear warfare. The painting was entered into a contest and won a prize. But all along, Leanne thought she had just painted a mushroom sitting on her kitchen table.
This reminded me of another story, about a friend of mine who, as a child, was being tested to see if he needed to be in the "special" class. Sitting at his desk, big chunky crayons in hand, he was told to draw a picture. Any picture. So he drew the bloody crucifixion of Jesus, complete with a crown of thorns, spears in the side, and nails driven into flesh. The teacher was aghast and immediately called his parents. "Are you an overly religious family?" she asked concernedly, imagining, I'm sure, all sorts of religious indoctrination and ritual abuse. His mother replied honestly, "No. Not at all." Later, when he was home from school, his mom asked him why in the world he would draw something like Christ's gory crucifixion. He answered, "I thought I was supposed to draw something IMPORTANT!". A week later the letter from the school came: he had been chosen as the newest member of the "special" class.
Alas, this is the story of all art. It's nothing new. It's been happening since the beginning of time. For instance, John Singer Sargent's 1884 painting "Portrait of Madame X" scandalized Paris because of it's suggestions of aggressive sexuality and unabashed I-want-to-fuck-you-like-an-animal eroticism. The refined, respected socialite who posed for the painting was nearly ruined by her portrait's shocking reception. She would forever after be viewed as a big ol' French ho.
Looking at the painting today, it's difficult to find even a hint of the pornography seen by Parisian society circa 1884. It's a breathtaking work of art, but c'mon: it makes Sesame Street look like a gay bondage film.
As Leanne brilliantly observed, "Art is absurd, so enjoy it." All art is subjective, thereby opening it to criticisms and interpretations of the wildest ideas, thereby assigning we silly humans to the role of judge, jury, and executioner. And we all know that as a rule, people are pretty absurd. So perhaps it would be more accurate to say, "The people who view art are absurd, so enjoy it." Sargent's "Madame X" wasn't controversial or anarchic or inspiring back-alley blow jobs when it was sitting on the easel to dry. We're the ones who slapped it with scandal.
This line of thinking can be applied to any art form. Take my frequent criticisms of movies and books. As much as I'd like to think that I am the ultimate authority in such things, and therefore deserve a crown and scepter, I begrudgingly acknowledge that my movie and book reviews are just my opinions. I'd venture to guess that your opinions would be quite different than my own. There are works of art you may like that I don't. For example, I know a lot of people who enjoyed that dirty toilet bowl of a movie called "Troy". I know people who snatch up Danielle Steel books faster than Winona Ryder at Barney's. I even know some people who don't particularly care for Meryl Streep. Though those in the latter category deserve to be beaten with a blunt object, I'm pretty much OK with each of us harboring differing opinions. Our own absurdities give art its power.
But it must be said that art, no matter how absurd we make it, is vital. Not to mention that for many of us, art is something more: a reason to get up in the morning, an escape, a catharsis, an anchor that keeps our feet planted in this world but our imaginations in the ether. People need art and everything that goes along with it. It is only through art, and all its attendant absurdities, that we are able to digest our own experiences and find meaning in them.
So is art absurd? Of course it is. We make it so, for the simple reason that we are absurd.
Is art meant to be enjoyed? Absolutely. Enjoyed, analyzed, criticized, and inspected as a mirror of our own realities, existing to show us what we cannot otherwise readily see.
The absurdities of art are the main thoroughfares through which we discover ourselves and the world. They reveal all the insanities of life that we are meant to unearth. It requires great devotion, and for so many of us, it commands each moment of our lives. To quote Jean Cocteau, "Art is not a pastime, but a priesthood."
This reminded me of another story, about a friend of mine who, as a child, was being tested to see if he needed to be in the "special" class. Sitting at his desk, big chunky crayons in hand, he was told to draw a picture. Any picture. So he drew the bloody crucifixion of Jesus, complete with a crown of thorns, spears in the side, and nails driven into flesh. The teacher was aghast and immediately called his parents. "Are you an overly religious family?" she asked concernedly, imagining, I'm sure, all sorts of religious indoctrination and ritual abuse. His mother replied honestly, "No. Not at all." Later, when he was home from school, his mom asked him why in the world he would draw something like Christ's gory crucifixion. He answered, "I thought I was supposed to draw something IMPORTANT!". A week later the letter from the school came: he had been chosen as the newest member of the "special" class.
Alas, this is the story of all art. It's nothing new. It's been happening since the beginning of time. For instance, John Singer Sargent's 1884 painting "Portrait of Madame X" scandalized Paris because of it's suggestions of aggressive sexuality and unabashed I-want-to-fuck-you-like-an-animal eroticism. The refined, respected socialite who posed for the painting was nearly ruined by her portrait's shocking reception. She would forever after be viewed as a big ol' French ho.
Looking at the painting today, it's difficult to find even a hint of the pornography seen by Parisian society circa 1884. It's a breathtaking work of art, but c'mon: it makes Sesame Street look like a gay bondage film.
As Leanne brilliantly observed, "Art is absurd, so enjoy it." All art is subjective, thereby opening it to criticisms and interpretations of the wildest ideas, thereby assigning we silly humans to the role of judge, jury, and executioner. And we all know that as a rule, people are pretty absurd. So perhaps it would be more accurate to say, "The people who view art are absurd, so enjoy it." Sargent's "Madame X" wasn't controversial or anarchic or inspiring back-alley blow jobs when it was sitting on the easel to dry. We're the ones who slapped it with scandal.
This line of thinking can be applied to any art form. Take my frequent criticisms of movies and books. As much as I'd like to think that I am the ultimate authority in such things, and therefore deserve a crown and scepter, I begrudgingly acknowledge that my movie and book reviews are just my opinions. I'd venture to guess that your opinions would be quite different than my own. There are works of art you may like that I don't. For example, I know a lot of people who enjoyed that dirty toilet bowl of a movie called "Troy". I know people who snatch up Danielle Steel books faster than Winona Ryder at Barney's. I even know some people who don't particularly care for Meryl Streep. Though those in the latter category deserve to be beaten with a blunt object, I'm pretty much OK with each of us harboring differing opinions. Our own absurdities give art its power.
But it must be said that art, no matter how absurd we make it, is vital. Not to mention that for many of us, art is something more: a reason to get up in the morning, an escape, a catharsis, an anchor that keeps our feet planted in this world but our imaginations in the ether. People need art and everything that goes along with it. It is only through art, and all its attendant absurdities, that we are able to digest our own experiences and find meaning in them.
So is art absurd? Of course it is. We make it so, for the simple reason that we are absurd.
Is art meant to be enjoyed? Absolutely. Enjoyed, analyzed, criticized, and inspected as a mirror of our own realities, existing to show us what we cannot otherwise readily see.
The absurdities of art are the main thoroughfares through which we discover ourselves and the world. They reveal all the insanities of life that we are meant to unearth. It requires great devotion, and for so many of us, it commands each moment of our lives. To quote Jean Cocteau, "Art is not a pastime, but a priesthood."
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Communion (Or, Confessions of a Theater Queen)
"When you come into the theater, you have to be willing to say, 'We're all here to undergo a communion, to find out what the hell is going on in this world.' If you're not willing to say that, what you get is entertainment instead of art, and poor entertainment at that." -David Mamet
Damn Judi Dench!
This is all her fault.
Several days ago, I posted a YouTube clip of Dame Judi's phenomenal interpretation of "Send in the Clowns" from the musical "A Little Night Music". If you haven't watched this yet, do so now and I promise I won't hurt you. Watching this flawless performance will give you a better idea of the fever that has gripped me since posting the clip.
Most people know that I'm a bit of a theater queen. I own this title unabashedly, as live theater is a vital nutrient to my own happiness and sanity. I've always wanted to be an actor, for as long as I can remember. I went to acting school after high school, I "pounded the pavement" in L.A. for a few years thereafter, then I promptly abandoned those dreams for a more "sensible" life. Interpretation: I handed in my lifelong dreams of the stage in order to sell my oh-so-valuable "customer service skills" and how fast I type and how good I am at Excel. Old dreams do indeed die hard. And for me, they don't die at all.
They live somewhere just below the surface. Even now, writing is my passion, but I still regard myself as an actor who likes to write. I view my world through the lens of a performer, which, I think, is similar to that of a writer -- yet they are not the same animal. I am fortunate, I suppose, that I can digest the universe as both, but the actor in me often feels slightly more authentic than the writer. It's as if I could get up on a stage in the warm blinding arm of a spotlight and perform this blog entry for you in an infinitely more effective way than I can write it here. It's tricky. I love acting and I love writing. And the sad fact is, it's nearly impossible to make a living doing either.
After falling in love with Dench's "Clowns", I happened upon an old forgotten CD: the soundtrack to the musical version of "Sunset Blvd". I was lucky enough to see this show in its pre-Broadway days, with Glenn Close as Norma Desmond. It was one of those performances that defies words (once again, you can hear the actor in me trying to play the writer). Close was electrifying, in a way I've never seen before or since. How else can you explain the magnitude of a performer who gets a standing ovation before she even gets on stage? When you encounter a stage presence that majestic, it's an experience that sticks with you...and I, being so young at the time, was shaped by it. "Sunset Blvd" was a musical plagued with inner drama, lawsuits, and mixed reviews. But it will always be my favorite musical: for the memorable songs, the lush and sweeping orchestrations, the gothic, behemoth sets, the extraordinary performances...and for it's complete claim on my impressionable young heart.
So while I was sucked back into 1950 Hollywood and Norma Desmond's turbulent turban, it was not hard for me to remember the starry-eyed kid I was at the time I saw it. I was so full of youthful vigor, surprising balls, and theatrical dreams. At that time, I never thought it was a question of If. I thought it was a question of When.
Enter the Tony Awards. Sunday night, a gay man's dream: the best and brightest of Broadway getting a rare television spotlight. For the first time ever, I watched the entire show (I never used to sit through all the musical numbers). I was transfixed. I was that kid again, albeit older, with less hair, dark circles under the eyes, and massive credit card debt. I was startled that that kid even still existed. I thought he was bludgeoned to death years ago by one too many office jobs or serving gigs. At best, I thought he was probably forever trapped in a four-sided cubicle, with an inbox full of emails outlining how he has violated company policy by asking questions of the wrong people.
Imagine my surprise. He's still alive. And he was fed -- there's no other word for it -- by the magic of the theater.
Patti LuPone, arguably the greatest musical theater actress of our time, and one of my favorites, sang a song from "Gypsy", in the role she eventually won a Tony for later in the evening (her second, after winning for "Evita" 29 years ago). The song, "Everything's Coming Up Roses", and "Gypsy" itself, are of course classics of the genre. But I've always viewed them as a bit tired, over-produced, and consistently revived (the show was revived just a couple of years ago with Bernadette Peters) despite a decades-old expiration date. Well, I should've known better. LuPone does nothing half-assed, and it is impossible for her not to pour her heart into everything she does. She TORE UP "Everything's Coming Up Roses" and brought the house down. The audience thundered to it's feet: the only full-house standing ovation of the evening. She breathed new life, a complex emotional terrain, and a fevered desperation to her impeccable performance. My heart swelled as I watched: this is the power of the theater. This is the power of a great performer. This is LIFE. This...this is what it's all about.
Now, if you may permit me, I have a personal connection with Patti LuPone. I've always been a big fan. Hell, when I was a kid, I played the cassette of her "Patti LuPone Live" so many times the tape wore away to smithereens. I saw her on Broadway about ten years ago in the play "Master Class", where she played the great opera diva Maria Callas. Her performance as Callas was of course amazing -- but "Master Class" is a play. Not a musical. She did not sing. Flash forward to 2005, just before I moved to Boston. Patti came to Minneapolis for a concert, her one-woman show for her album "Matters of the Heart". My mom and I went, and somehow we managed to get front row center seats. Patti was just steps away from me. I was mesmerized, in absolute awe the entire time. Remember that LuPone is first and foremost a musical theater actress. She's used to singing her songs to someone else on the stage. Being this was a solo show, just Patti, her piano accompanist, and a string quartet, there were no other performers onstage with which to connect. And so, she chose me. It was obvious. I was sitting right there in front of her, and she sang nearly every song to me. Our gazes locked, our passions united, I was lucky enough to become a part of Patti's performance. During her final number, she gave me roses. What's also interesting to note is that during her bows, when she came out to receive the roaring standing ovation we had given her, she was weeping with gratitude. I don't mean a little tear. I mean she was sobbing with thanks and appreciation. It was the most honest, authentic response I've ever seen a performer give to an audience's reaction. She felt it. She felt us. She winked at me. If an audience is a mirror for the person onstage, Patti certainly felt our respect and adoration...and returned it back to us tenfold. Patti LuPone's generosity as an entertainer is like nothing I've ever witnessed.
This is precisely the reason I cannot so easily abandon my own dreams of the stage. When everything falls into place, and the stars are aligned just so, the relationship between an actor and his/her audience can transcend all parties involved to a place that can only be called magical. It's not about where you're sitting, or what the set looks like, or even if you like what's being performed. It's about a connection: a group of people, varied and diverse and never again to be assembled together, sharing the same air and space in order to experience life at its fullest. It doesn't happen every time. But oh, when it does happen....
On Tuesday, John and I went with our friend Elizabeth to see the great Broadway singer Brian Stokes Mitchell in concert at Boston Symphony Hall. Mitchell is a true Broadway leading man (The New York Times christened him "Broadway's Last Leading Man"). Not only does he ooze class and grace, but he's got this big beautiful bass voice that shakes you to your very soul. It's a voice I just want to curl up in and go to sleep. Though we were perched in the third balcony cheap seats, I could not have had a better experience had I been sitting up there beside him. With all these theater dreams sprung anew, I embraced every minute of his performance. And then, near the end of the show, something totally unexpected happened. Mitchell did a song that I've since learned (thanks, Google!) is an old Bruce Hornsby song from the 80s. It's called "Hooray for Tom", and it's performed from the viewpoint of a little boy. I didn't see this coming...but I started crying during this song like I haven't cried in ages. In fact, I was still crying yesterday. Unfortunately, Mitchell's version of "Hooray for Tom" is not available online, but you can hear Bruce Hornsby's original version by going here. This song struck really deep within me, and I feel like something has forever changed. What it might be I haven't entirely figured out yet. All I know is that I can't go back to how I was before. I need to reevaluate my own life and my own dreams. I need to give further thought and respect to all those plans I had when I was a kid.
And who knows? Maybe someday they'll say hooray for me.
Damn Judi Dench!
This is all her fault.
Several days ago, I posted a YouTube clip of Dame Judi's phenomenal interpretation of "Send in the Clowns" from the musical "A Little Night Music". If you haven't watched this yet, do so now and I promise I won't hurt you. Watching this flawless performance will give you a better idea of the fever that has gripped me since posting the clip.
Most people know that I'm a bit of a theater queen. I own this title unabashedly, as live theater is a vital nutrient to my own happiness and sanity. I've always wanted to be an actor, for as long as I can remember. I went to acting school after high school, I "pounded the pavement" in L.A. for a few years thereafter, then I promptly abandoned those dreams for a more "sensible" life. Interpretation: I handed in my lifelong dreams of the stage in order to sell my oh-so-valuable "customer service skills" and how fast I type and how good I am at Excel. Old dreams do indeed die hard. And for me, they don't die at all.
They live somewhere just below the surface. Even now, writing is my passion, but I still regard myself as an actor who likes to write. I view my world through the lens of a performer, which, I think, is similar to that of a writer -- yet they are not the same animal. I am fortunate, I suppose, that I can digest the universe as both, but the actor in me often feels slightly more authentic than the writer. It's as if I could get up on a stage in the warm blinding arm of a spotlight and perform this blog entry for you in an infinitely more effective way than I can write it here. It's tricky. I love acting and I love writing. And the sad fact is, it's nearly impossible to make a living doing either.
After falling in love with Dench's "Clowns", I happened upon an old forgotten CD: the soundtrack to the musical version of "Sunset Blvd". I was lucky enough to see this show in its pre-Broadway days, with Glenn Close as Norma Desmond. It was one of those performances that defies words (once again, you can hear the actor in me trying to play the writer). Close was electrifying, in a way I've never seen before or since. How else can you explain the magnitude of a performer who gets a standing ovation before she even gets on stage? When you encounter a stage presence that majestic, it's an experience that sticks with you...and I, being so young at the time, was shaped by it. "Sunset Blvd" was a musical plagued with inner drama, lawsuits, and mixed reviews. But it will always be my favorite musical: for the memorable songs, the lush and sweeping orchestrations, the gothic, behemoth sets, the extraordinary performances...and for it's complete claim on my impressionable young heart.
So while I was sucked back into 1950 Hollywood and Norma Desmond's turbulent turban, it was not hard for me to remember the starry-eyed kid I was at the time I saw it. I was so full of youthful vigor, surprising balls, and theatrical dreams. At that time, I never thought it was a question of If. I thought it was a question of When.
Enter the Tony Awards. Sunday night, a gay man's dream: the best and brightest of Broadway getting a rare television spotlight. For the first time ever, I watched the entire show (I never used to sit through all the musical numbers). I was transfixed. I was that kid again, albeit older, with less hair, dark circles under the eyes, and massive credit card debt. I was startled that that kid even still existed. I thought he was bludgeoned to death years ago by one too many office jobs or serving gigs. At best, I thought he was probably forever trapped in a four-sided cubicle, with an inbox full of emails outlining how he has violated company policy by asking questions of the wrong people.
Imagine my surprise. He's still alive. And he was fed -- there's no other word for it -- by the magic of the theater.
Patti LuPone, arguably the greatest musical theater actress of our time, and one of my favorites, sang a song from "Gypsy", in the role she eventually won a Tony for later in the evening (her second, after winning for "Evita" 29 years ago). The song, "Everything's Coming Up Roses", and "Gypsy" itself, are of course classics of the genre. But I've always viewed them as a bit tired, over-produced, and consistently revived (the show was revived just a couple of years ago with Bernadette Peters) despite a decades-old expiration date. Well, I should've known better. LuPone does nothing half-assed, and it is impossible for her not to pour her heart into everything she does. She TORE UP "Everything's Coming Up Roses" and brought the house down. The audience thundered to it's feet: the only full-house standing ovation of the evening. She breathed new life, a complex emotional terrain, and a fevered desperation to her impeccable performance. My heart swelled as I watched: this is the power of the theater. This is the power of a great performer. This is LIFE. This...this is what it's all about.
Now, if you may permit me, I have a personal connection with Patti LuPone. I've always been a big fan. Hell, when I was a kid, I played the cassette of her "Patti LuPone Live" so many times the tape wore away to smithereens. I saw her on Broadway about ten years ago in the play "Master Class", where she played the great opera diva Maria Callas. Her performance as Callas was of course amazing -- but "Master Class" is a play. Not a musical. She did not sing. Flash forward to 2005, just before I moved to Boston. Patti came to Minneapolis for a concert, her one-woman show for her album "Matters of the Heart". My mom and I went, and somehow we managed to get front row center seats. Patti was just steps away from me. I was mesmerized, in absolute awe the entire time. Remember that LuPone is first and foremost a musical theater actress. She's used to singing her songs to someone else on the stage. Being this was a solo show, just Patti, her piano accompanist, and a string quartet, there were no other performers onstage with which to connect. And so, she chose me. It was obvious. I was sitting right there in front of her, and she sang nearly every song to me. Our gazes locked, our passions united, I was lucky enough to become a part of Patti's performance. During her final number, she gave me roses. What's also interesting to note is that during her bows, when she came out to receive the roaring standing ovation we had given her, she was weeping with gratitude. I don't mean a little tear. I mean she was sobbing with thanks and appreciation. It was the most honest, authentic response I've ever seen a performer give to an audience's reaction. She felt it. She felt us. She winked at me. If an audience is a mirror for the person onstage, Patti certainly felt our respect and adoration...and returned it back to us tenfold. Patti LuPone's generosity as an entertainer is like nothing I've ever witnessed.
This is precisely the reason I cannot so easily abandon my own dreams of the stage. When everything falls into place, and the stars are aligned just so, the relationship between an actor and his/her audience can transcend all parties involved to a place that can only be called magical. It's not about where you're sitting, or what the set looks like, or even if you like what's being performed. It's about a connection: a group of people, varied and diverse and never again to be assembled together, sharing the same air and space in order to experience life at its fullest. It doesn't happen every time. But oh, when it does happen....
On Tuesday, John and I went with our friend Elizabeth to see the great Broadway singer Brian Stokes Mitchell in concert at Boston Symphony Hall. Mitchell is a true Broadway leading man (The New York Times christened him "Broadway's Last Leading Man"). Not only does he ooze class and grace, but he's got this big beautiful bass voice that shakes you to your very soul. It's a voice I just want to curl up in and go to sleep. Though we were perched in the third balcony cheap seats, I could not have had a better experience had I been sitting up there beside him. With all these theater dreams sprung anew, I embraced every minute of his performance. And then, near the end of the show, something totally unexpected happened. Mitchell did a song that I've since learned (thanks, Google!) is an old Bruce Hornsby song from the 80s. It's called "Hooray for Tom", and it's performed from the viewpoint of a little boy. I didn't see this coming...but I started crying during this song like I haven't cried in ages. In fact, I was still crying yesterday. Unfortunately, Mitchell's version of "Hooray for Tom" is not available online, but you can hear Bruce Hornsby's original version by going here. This song struck really deep within me, and I feel like something has forever changed. What it might be I haven't entirely figured out yet. All I know is that I can't go back to how I was before. I need to reevaluate my own life and my own dreams. I need to give further thought and respect to all those plans I had when I was a kid.
And who knows? Maybe someday they'll say hooray for me.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Augusten and the Wolf: A Review of "A Wolf at the Table" by Augusten Burroughs
Wherever Augusten Burroughs wants to take me, I am willing to go.
I am a die-hard fan of the 42-year-old writer, best known for his raucous, endearing memoir "Running With Scissors". "Scissors" examined, with great sensitivity and acerbic wit, his adolescence spent in the bizarre home of his mother's psychiatrist, where she pretty much abandoned him as a teenager. The book was terrifically successful, inspired a feature film of the same name, and put Burroughs on the literary map. And though I certainly enjoyed "Scissors", it was his next book, 2003's "Dry", that really knocked me on my keister. Employing his usual humor and depth of feeling, "Dry" is a recounting of Burroughs's chemical dependence and recovery and is one of the few books I've ever read that almost identically mirrors my personal experiences (we even went to the same rehab!). "Dry" could have easily been my own autobiography.
It is for these reasons that I trust Augusten Burroughs implicitly. If I had a literary kindred spirit, he'd probably be it. The places he needs to go, I've discovered, are also the places I need to go. Though the great majority of our life experiences couldn't be more different, Burroughs's brave examination of the few we do share is enough to give me the courage to look at my own life. It is a process. It is often slow. And it's comforting to know that when we undertake such a process, we may be lucky enough to have a fearless writer who has tread the path before us. The great poet Theodore Roethke wrote, "This shaking keeps me steady. I should know./What falls away is always. And is near./I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow./I learn by going where I have to go."
Yet even after all of this, I was not prepared for where Augusten Burroughs took me in his latest book, "A Wolf at the Table: A Memoir of My Father". Forgoing his trademark quirky humor and uncanny knack for making the downright weird completely entertaining, Burroughs undertakes a harrowing, heartbreaking dissection of his inaccessible father and the impact such a figure had on a young, impressionable boy.
Now, anyone who knows me realizes that I have a bit of a flirtation with the dark side. I enjoy a lot of books, movies, and music that some might label "depressing". I'm not afraid of human emotion, or, more specifically, bleak human emotion. But I have to admit that "A Wolf at the Table" is probably the saddest book I've ever read. My chest constricted, my stomach in knots, a lump lodged in my throat, my heart simply cracked more and more with each turn of the page.
But none of this -- not one word -- is written for shock value or sensationalist entertainment. While Burroughs is courageously retelling the story of his childhood, he is simultaneously (and equally courageously) piecing together what it all means. What it did both for and to him. How it shaped, defined, and destroyed various aspects of his being. You'll find no psychobabble or Freudian theory here. What you will find is a very human story. And what may at first seem devastating and crushing ultimately ends up surprisingly inspiring: the truth, which we all know is oftentimes a painful path to forge, really can set us free. This book is an important one, even for those of us who had good dads (and I have a great one), if for no other reason than to make us appreciate what we were lucky enough to have. Some weren't so fortunate.
"A Wolf at the Table" takes place in the pre-"Running With Scissors" years, when Augusten was a young boy living with his parents and peculiarly-absent older brother. His father, a bitter, violent alcoholic who often spilled over into the realm of the sociopathic, was a dark presence of immeasurable terror to the whole family. Yet he was consistently moreso to Augusten, who he really never had time for. From the boy dressing up like the family dog (whom his father always had time for) in order to get his dad's attention, to trying to decipher exactly what his dad is doing hovering over his bed in the dark, to attempting to find a father figure amongst a group of construction workers who come to work on their house, it's amazing that the young Burroughs even survived such a sad and terrorized upbringing. And it gets far worse before it gets better. After his father kills his beloved guinea pig (the scene where Augusten discovers this is one I will never, ever forget), the boy effectively turns on his dad, and so begins an explosive, enraged, emotional tug-of-war between the two. Tragically, even on his father's deathbed, it still rages.
While "A Wolf at the Table" is a departure from the typical Burroughs wit, it is also a mature, terrifying, and totally haunting story. If you're expecting "Running With Scissors II", you've come to the wrong place. But if you're interested in going where you need to go, then there is no better guide than Augusten Burroughs.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
There Is a Way to Be Good Again: Examining the Book & Film Versions of "The Kite Runner"
Whenever a book (or movie, or TV show, or play, or musical act) manages to capture the hearts and minds of the popular consciousness, I tend to run screaming in the opposite direction. This is more than likely because I don't really like people all that much (don't worry: you're fine; it's the others I don't care for); therefore, I do not trust their opinions. I mean, come on. Great taste-challenged hoards of people buy Britney Spears CDs, drool over "American Idol", and flock to see Adam Sandler movies. In this perspective, I hope it's easier to see why I refuse to participate in anything the general public makes "popular".
However, there was one book for which I broke my anti-mainstream rule: "The Kite Runner", Khaled Hosseini's wildly successful 2003 novel about two boys growing up in war-torn Afghanistan, and the brutal act of violence that divides them forever. I was drawn to the book for a couple of reasons. One, and I know this is sorta lame, was the cover. The beautifully dark and earthy illustration piqued my curiosity about the story contained between the covers. Another reason I was intrigued was the fact that several people (fellow book-lovers), for whom I have a great deal of respect, recommended the book to me as a great story with exceptional writing. The final, and probably most profound, influence to read it was the subject matter. The entire region of the Middle East has always been a political hotbed of controversy and strife, now more so than ever. I was impressed, and more than a little surprised, that so many people took to this book, since we all know that the American public is easily misled (see: George W. Bush's "war on terror"). I was shocked that the book-buying masses were able to set aside the political propaganda and make a story about the Middle East so massively successful. These reasons, I figured, were strong enough for me to pick up "The Kite Runner".
And I'm so glad I did. I absolutely loved the book. It affected me in ways I never could have imagined, even going so far as to tap into my own buried memories of pain and violence. At one point in the book, I even became physically sick; it's also one of the few books I've read in which I wept openly. That's how much I identified with these characters. They were so completely real, so totally compelling, that I saw the story of these two Afghan boys through the lens of my own experience. It is a great book that can do this.
"The Kite Runner" is the story of Amir and Hassan, childhood friends and constant companions (Hassan is the son of Amir's household servant/right-hand man). After a devastating act of terror, Amir, so guilty that he did not help his friend in his time of distress, turns his back on Hassan. This sets in motion a chain of tragic events that carries the boys through to adulthood, amidst the ever-growing, ever-terrifying societal unrest of Afghanistan. The story is heartbreaking, but in the end there is such a sense of redemption, of forgiveness, that it's nearly impossible not to view this dark tale with anything less than an unshakable sense of hope. Amir's journey to authenticity is one to which many of us can relate, and, sadly, so too is Hassan's brutalization.
Given the acclaim of the book, I wasn't surprised when I heard it was being adapted into a motion picture. Being an eternal fatalist -- and also realizing what Hollywood has done to oh-so-many great novels -- I was skeptical. How, I wondered, could even the greatest filmmaker successfully translate the themes of this psychologically intense and layered book to the panorama of the big screen? And, of course, I immediately imagined them casting the entire thing with white actors running around the desert speaking American English. Yup, I was sure the Hollywoodization of this incredible story would be an utter fiasco.
I was wrong. The film version of "The Kite Runner" is not only (for the most part) fully dedicated to the story of the novel, but it's cast with Middle Eastern actors actually speaking Persian! Director Marc Forester and screenwriter David Benioff breathe eloquent life into Hosseini's emotionally-complex tale. There are no "big name" Hollywood actors, the majority of the film is in subtitles, and the story is often tremendously disturbing. But these are precisely why the film works so well and is on par with the quality of the book on which it is based.
For me, the most impressive aspect of the movie version was the performance of the adorable Ahmad Khan Mahmoodzada as young Hassan. In his film debut, this kid is nothing short of masterful. He can convey more with his eyes and cherubic face than most actors can with their entire bodies. He is a revelation. His work here is nuanced, intelligent, and absolutely heartbreaking.
There are many morals to the story of Amir and Hassan, but none so powerful as the line spoken to Amir by Hassan's father: "There is a way to be good again." "The Kite Runner" shows us that even in our bleakest hours there are opportunities for salvation, and that it's never too late to right the wrongs of the past.
However, there was one book for which I broke my anti-mainstream rule: "The Kite Runner", Khaled Hosseini's wildly successful 2003 novel about two boys growing up in war-torn Afghanistan, and the brutal act of violence that divides them forever. I was drawn to the book for a couple of reasons. One, and I know this is sorta lame, was the cover. The beautifully dark and earthy illustration piqued my curiosity about the story contained between the covers. Another reason I was intrigued was the fact that several people (fellow book-lovers), for whom I have a great deal of respect, recommended the book to me as a great story with exceptional writing. The final, and probably most profound, influence to read it was the subject matter. The entire region of the Middle East has always been a political hotbed of controversy and strife, now more so than ever. I was impressed, and more than a little surprised, that so many people took to this book, since we all know that the American public is easily misled (see: George W. Bush's "war on terror"). I was shocked that the book-buying masses were able to set aside the political propaganda and make a story about the Middle East so massively successful. These reasons, I figured, were strong enough for me to pick up "The Kite Runner".
And I'm so glad I did. I absolutely loved the book. It affected me in ways I never could have imagined, even going so far as to tap into my own buried memories of pain and violence. At one point in the book, I even became physically sick; it's also one of the few books I've read in which I wept openly. That's how much I identified with these characters. They were so completely real, so totally compelling, that I saw the story of these two Afghan boys through the lens of my own experience. It is a great book that can do this.
"The Kite Runner" is the story of Amir and Hassan, childhood friends and constant companions (Hassan is the son of Amir's household servant/right-hand man). After a devastating act of terror, Amir, so guilty that he did not help his friend in his time of distress, turns his back on Hassan. This sets in motion a chain of tragic events that carries the boys through to adulthood, amidst the ever-growing, ever-terrifying societal unrest of Afghanistan. The story is heartbreaking, but in the end there is such a sense of redemption, of forgiveness, that it's nearly impossible not to view this dark tale with anything less than an unshakable sense of hope. Amir's journey to authenticity is one to which many of us can relate, and, sadly, so too is Hassan's brutalization.
Given the acclaim of the book, I wasn't surprised when I heard it was being adapted into a motion picture. Being an eternal fatalist -- and also realizing what Hollywood has done to oh-so-many great novels -- I was skeptical. How, I wondered, could even the greatest filmmaker successfully translate the themes of this psychologically intense and layered book to the panorama of the big screen? And, of course, I immediately imagined them casting the entire thing with white actors running around the desert speaking American English. Yup, I was sure the Hollywoodization of this incredible story would be an utter fiasco.
I was wrong. The film version of "The Kite Runner" is not only (for the most part) fully dedicated to the story of the novel, but it's cast with Middle Eastern actors actually speaking Persian! Director Marc Forester and screenwriter David Benioff breathe eloquent life into Hosseini's emotionally-complex tale. There are no "big name" Hollywood actors, the majority of the film is in subtitles, and the story is often tremendously disturbing. But these are precisely why the film works so well and is on par with the quality of the book on which it is based.
For me, the most impressive aspect of the movie version was the performance of the adorable Ahmad Khan Mahmoodzada as young Hassan. In his film debut, this kid is nothing short of masterful. He can convey more with his eyes and cherubic face than most actors can with their entire bodies. He is a revelation. His work here is nuanced, intelligent, and absolutely heartbreaking.
There are many morals to the story of Amir and Hassan, but none so powerful as the line spoken to Amir by Hassan's father: "There is a way to be good again." "The Kite Runner" shows us that even in our bleakest hours there are opportunities for salvation, and that it's never too late to right the wrongs of the past.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Clowning Around
In an old episode of "The Golden Girls", Blanche's brother comes for a visit and reveals to Rose that he's gay. Rose, unable to keep the secret, tells Dorothy, who in turn refuses to tell Sophia. Sophia, however, is convinced she can figure the secret out. After asking Blanche's brother a few nonsensical questions, she tells Dorothy that she's cracked the secret: Blanche's brother is gay. Dorothy asks how she figured it out, and Sophia responds, "I heard him singing in the shower. He's the only man I ever knew who knew all the words to 'Send in the Clowns'."
This is a fitting introduction to this post. "Send in the Clowns" (a Stephen Sondheim song from his 1973 musical "A Little Night Music") is one of those tunes that has somehow managed to endear itself to the gay community. Along with "Over the Rainbow", and pretty much anything by Streisand and Midler, "Send in the Clowns" is a powerful torch song almost always performed by a diva.
And pretty much every diva has covered it at some point. Streisand, Judy Collins, Grace Jones, Elizabeth Taylor, Angela Lansbury, Glenn Close, Glynis Johns have all recorded "Send in the Clowns".
I've always liked the song; indeed, it's the only song I still remember how to play on the piano. The lyrics speak beautifully of love lost, opportunities squandered, and last chances at happiness. It is divinely sad.
But after hearing Dame Judi Dench's version, my like for "Send in the Clowns" escalated to love. And I also realized that, despite the long list of impressive talents who have covered the tune, none of them got it right, or at least as spot-on, as Dench did in the 1996 West End revival of "A Little Night Music". While the other divas follow the obvious route of belting the song and exaggerating its melodramatic splendor, Dench presents it as it was meant to be performed: subtle, raw, emotionally devastating, and undeniably quiet in its sheer power.
"Send in the Clowns" is not a song meant for a singer. It's a song meant for an actress. And they don't get much better than Judi Dench.
Before her rendition, the first minute and a half of the clip below is an interview with Dame Judi. It's important to watch this to understand the backstory of the song -- clearly something the other cover artists didn't comprehend.
Grab the Kleenex and enjoy.
This is a fitting introduction to this post. "Send in the Clowns" (a Stephen Sondheim song from his 1973 musical "A Little Night Music") is one of those tunes that has somehow managed to endear itself to the gay community. Along with "Over the Rainbow", and pretty much anything by Streisand and Midler, "Send in the Clowns" is a powerful torch song almost always performed by a diva.
And pretty much every diva has covered it at some point. Streisand, Judy Collins, Grace Jones, Elizabeth Taylor, Angela Lansbury, Glenn Close, Glynis Johns have all recorded "Send in the Clowns".
I've always liked the song; indeed, it's the only song I still remember how to play on the piano. The lyrics speak beautifully of love lost, opportunities squandered, and last chances at happiness. It is divinely sad.
But after hearing Dame Judi Dench's version, my like for "Send in the Clowns" escalated to love. And I also realized that, despite the long list of impressive talents who have covered the tune, none of them got it right, or at least as spot-on, as Dench did in the 1996 West End revival of "A Little Night Music". While the other divas follow the obvious route of belting the song and exaggerating its melodramatic splendor, Dench presents it as it was meant to be performed: subtle, raw, emotionally devastating, and undeniably quiet in its sheer power.
"Send in the Clowns" is not a song meant for a singer. It's a song meant for an actress. And they don't get much better than Judi Dench.
Before her rendition, the first minute and a half of the clip below is an interview with Dame Judi. It's important to watch this to understand the backstory of the song -- clearly something the other cover artists didn't comprehend.
Grab the Kleenex and enjoy.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Eureka!: Rediscovering Class
I've often lamented in these pages the long, painful, regrettable death of Class. We as a people have forgotten how to be classy. How to open the door for people and how to say thank you when the waitress brings the food and how to give up your seat on the train to Gigantor the Pregnant Lady. How to smile at the angry 7/11 cashier even though you know (and likely understand) that he won't smile back and how to give an extra dollar to the tollbooth attendant so the next car that goes through your lane won't have to pay today and how to get down the suitcase from the overhead compartment so it doesn't decimate the little old lady who can't maneuver its great bulk. We've forgotten these things, somewhere in the giant web of our instant gratification-ADD-MeMeMe! society.
But just when I think all hope is lost, and we will never regain our Class, I read a quote from Barack Obama. And once again, Obama proves that he is a modern prophet of Class, and more than likely our last chance to restore our collective Class. As a nation. As world citizens. As human beings.
I withdrew my support for Hillary a few months ago, but I've never stopped admiring and respecting her. Just because she resorted to some typically political courses of action doesn't mean for a second that my adoration for Mrs. Clinton has waned. I desperately want to see her continue her good work, and I even more desperately want to see her as Vice President.
Barack on Hillary:
"We've certainly had our differences over the last sixteen months. But as someone who's shared a stage with her many times, I can tell you that what gets Hillary Clinton up in the morning - even in the face of tough odds - is exactly what sent her and Bill Clinton to sign up for their first campaign in Texas all those years ago; what sent her to work at the Children's Defense Fund and made her fight for health care as First Lady; what led her to the United States Senate and fueled her barrier-breaking campaign for the presidency - an unyielding desire to improve the lives of ordinary Americans, no matter how difficult the fight may be. And you can rest assured that when we finally win the battle for universal health care in this country, she will be central to that victory. When we transform our energy policy and lift our children out of poverty, it will be because she worked to help make it happen. Our party and our country are better off because of her, and I am a better candidate for having had the honor to compete with Hillary Rodham Clinton."
It couldn't have been better-stated. You are a class act, Mr. Obama.
But just when I think all hope is lost, and we will never regain our Class, I read a quote from Barack Obama. And once again, Obama proves that he is a modern prophet of Class, and more than likely our last chance to restore our collective Class. As a nation. As world citizens. As human beings.
I withdrew my support for Hillary a few months ago, but I've never stopped admiring and respecting her. Just because she resorted to some typically political courses of action doesn't mean for a second that my adoration for Mrs. Clinton has waned. I desperately want to see her continue her good work, and I even more desperately want to see her as Vice President.
Barack on Hillary:
"We've certainly had our differences over the last sixteen months. But as someone who's shared a stage with her many times, I can tell you that what gets Hillary Clinton up in the morning - even in the face of tough odds - is exactly what sent her and Bill Clinton to sign up for their first campaign in Texas all those years ago; what sent her to work at the Children's Defense Fund and made her fight for health care as First Lady; what led her to the United States Senate and fueled her barrier-breaking campaign for the presidency - an unyielding desire to improve the lives of ordinary Americans, no matter how difficult the fight may be. And you can rest assured that when we finally win the battle for universal health care in this country, she will be central to that victory. When we transform our energy policy and lift our children out of poverty, it will be because she worked to help make it happen. Our party and our country are better off because of her, and I am a better candidate for having had the honor to compete with Hillary Rodham Clinton."
It couldn't have been better-stated. You are a class act, Mr. Obama.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
The Secret Lives of Cats
I think my cats are hiding something from me.
OK, in all actuality, I think they're hiding a lot of somethings from me.
It's already been established that, while I love my cats, I am at heart a dog person. My domestic animal experience extends to that of the canine variety, and I've come to know the personalities of pooches pretty well. It's not like it's that hard. Reading a dog's face is infinitely easier than reading a cat's. When you look at a dog, it doesn't take Hercule Poirot to figure out what the dog is thinking. They wear their emotions on their fur. There's no mystery, no pretense. Dogs are unashamedly honest.
Not so with felines. Cats' faces are considerably more inscrutable. It's perfectly feasible to have a cat for years and assume that the cat likes you. Then one day, seemingly out of the blue, the cat tires of the charade and tries to maul your bald head in your sleep. And yes, this happened to me. A while back, I was in a deep, unshakable sleep -- dreaming of, I'm sure, either car accidents or my teeth falling out (I dream of these two things all the time) -- and when I woke up, I felt something sticky on my head. I rubbed my hand across my scalp, only to pull back back a blood-smeared palm. Then I saw my pillow, and it too was covered in drying blood. I had no idea what could've happened -- I hadn't even woken up!
And that's when I spotted Claire, sitting in the corner, leveling me with her maniacal stare, and meticulously cleaning, what I can only assume, was my blood from her chubby paws. Yes, ladies and gentleman, my cat tried to murder me in my sleep.
I don't know why I was so surprised, really. Claire has always preferred John, and she's made no effort to prove otherwise. She'll allow me to pet her, for about two seconds, before she flees the room in terror. John, however, can massage her saggy belly, scratch her head and ears, and soothingly brush away the copious amounts of loose hair she wears like a midget woolly mammoth.
But I never thought she was homicidal. Sure, she's sort of a spazz, but I've always been drawn to spazzes, and the ones I've known had never tried to maim me. It was clear to me after that night that Claire wanted one thing and one thing only from me: my death.
Since the evening of the attempted murder, she and I have made a truce. I forgave her for trying to scalp me, and she agreed to give the vegan cat food a shot and not eat anymore rubber bands. It was a fair trade. Over time, she's even allowed me to pet her. Once for an entire ten seconds, a record for us.
Yet I can't shake the feeling that both Claire and Fergus (who genuinely does like me and doesn't try to bump me off) have some secrets behind those unreadable whiskered grins.
Let's take Fergus first. He has several nicknames in our house, but the ones we most often use are Gus and Squeak. The latter name comes from the fact that Fergus can't meow. Try as he might, and oftentimes he seems to be trying quite earnestly, all that comes out is a slight, high-pitched squeak. He is very squeakative in the mornings, and becomes less so as the day goes on. Since all his squeaks sound the same, it's hard to deduce what exactly he's trying to communicate. He comes across with a great sense of urgency, especially considering that he only squeaks when he's looking right at you. He rarely squeaks from the other room; it's usually when he's right in front you, eyes locked with yours, that he lets out an urgent squeak. I've been trying to translate said squeaks in an effort to respond to his concerns, and I can narrow it down to the following:
1. "I enjoy sitting in the living room window and looking into that big tree. But those fucking birds drive me crazy. Will you kindly shoot them?"
2. "My sister is a sociopath. Your attempted murder is only the beginning of her wicked plans. Please give me the phone so I can call juvy."
3. "I need bus fare to Washington, D.C. I have been named a United Nations Goodwill Ambassador and must be there to accept my plaque. Then I'm off to the Congo with Angelina Jolie!"
Of all of these, number 2 sounds the most plausible. Though, being Fergus is my little orange angel, I cannot entirely rule out number 3.
But Claire has an agenda of her own. Firstly, I suspect she enjoys Internet chat rooms. Somehow she has learned how to turn John's computer on, which in my mind can mean only one thing: Claire is sick of living in a houseful of disinterested men (two gay and another who has lost his sexual organs) and wants to meet a nice heterosexual bachelor with working genitalia. Who can blame her?
Secondly, I think she's a closet Buddhist. Claire rarely gets into things (that's more Fergus's domain), but one thing she consistently pushes over and rolls to the center of the room is a small jade Buddha figurine my mom gave to me. Claire is fascinated by it, and even when I scold her about the situation, she refuses to budge. Her dedication to the dharma is just that strong. However, if I allow this theory, then it would be highly unlikely she is a serial killer-in-training.
There is so much going on in their brains that I may never figure it out. Cats are an unsolvable mystery, and I think they like it that way. Why give up all your secrets, when the magical reality you create by not doing so is endlessly interesting? In that, cats are selfless.
OK, in all actuality, I think they're hiding a lot of somethings from me.
It's already been established that, while I love my cats, I am at heart a dog person. My domestic animal experience extends to that of the canine variety, and I've come to know the personalities of pooches pretty well. It's not like it's that hard. Reading a dog's face is infinitely easier than reading a cat's. When you look at a dog, it doesn't take Hercule Poirot to figure out what the dog is thinking. They wear their emotions on their fur. There's no mystery, no pretense. Dogs are unashamedly honest.
Not so with felines. Cats' faces are considerably more inscrutable. It's perfectly feasible to have a cat for years and assume that the cat likes you. Then one day, seemingly out of the blue, the cat tires of the charade and tries to maul your bald head in your sleep. And yes, this happened to me. A while back, I was in a deep, unshakable sleep -- dreaming of, I'm sure, either car accidents or my teeth falling out (I dream of these two things all the time) -- and when I woke up, I felt something sticky on my head. I rubbed my hand across my scalp, only to pull back back a blood-smeared palm. Then I saw my pillow, and it too was covered in drying blood. I had no idea what could've happened -- I hadn't even woken up!
And that's when I spotted Claire, sitting in the corner, leveling me with her maniacal stare, and meticulously cleaning, what I can only assume, was my blood from her chubby paws. Yes, ladies and gentleman, my cat tried to murder me in my sleep.
I don't know why I was so surprised, really. Claire has always preferred John, and she's made no effort to prove otherwise. She'll allow me to pet her, for about two seconds, before she flees the room in terror. John, however, can massage her saggy belly, scratch her head and ears, and soothingly brush away the copious amounts of loose hair she wears like a midget woolly mammoth.
But I never thought she was homicidal. Sure, she's sort of a spazz, but I've always been drawn to spazzes, and the ones I've known had never tried to maim me. It was clear to me after that night that Claire wanted one thing and one thing only from me: my death.
Since the evening of the attempted murder, she and I have made a truce. I forgave her for trying to scalp me, and she agreed to give the vegan cat food a shot and not eat anymore rubber bands. It was a fair trade. Over time, she's even allowed me to pet her. Once for an entire ten seconds, a record for us.
Yet I can't shake the feeling that both Claire and Fergus (who genuinely does like me and doesn't try to bump me off) have some secrets behind those unreadable whiskered grins.
Let's take Fergus first. He has several nicknames in our house, but the ones we most often use are Gus and Squeak. The latter name comes from the fact that Fergus can't meow. Try as he might, and oftentimes he seems to be trying quite earnestly, all that comes out is a slight, high-pitched squeak. He is very squeakative in the mornings, and becomes less so as the day goes on. Since all his squeaks sound the same, it's hard to deduce what exactly he's trying to communicate. He comes across with a great sense of urgency, especially considering that he only squeaks when he's looking right at you. He rarely squeaks from the other room; it's usually when he's right in front you, eyes locked with yours, that he lets out an urgent squeak. I've been trying to translate said squeaks in an effort to respond to his concerns, and I can narrow it down to the following:
1. "I enjoy sitting in the living room window and looking into that big tree. But those fucking birds drive me crazy. Will you kindly shoot them?"
2. "My sister is a sociopath. Your attempted murder is only the beginning of her wicked plans. Please give me the phone so I can call juvy."
3. "I need bus fare to Washington, D.C. I have been named a United Nations Goodwill Ambassador and must be there to accept my plaque. Then I'm off to the Congo with Angelina Jolie!"
Of all of these, number 2 sounds the most plausible. Though, being Fergus is my little orange angel, I cannot entirely rule out number 3.
But Claire has an agenda of her own. Firstly, I suspect she enjoys Internet chat rooms. Somehow she has learned how to turn John's computer on, which in my mind can mean only one thing: Claire is sick of living in a houseful of disinterested men (two gay and another who has lost his sexual organs) and wants to meet a nice heterosexual bachelor with working genitalia. Who can blame her?
Secondly, I think she's a closet Buddhist. Claire rarely gets into things (that's more Fergus's domain), but one thing she consistently pushes over and rolls to the center of the room is a small jade Buddha figurine my mom gave to me. Claire is fascinated by it, and even when I scold her about the situation, she refuses to budge. Her dedication to the dharma is just that strong. However, if I allow this theory, then it would be highly unlikely she is a serial killer-in-training.
There is so much going on in their brains that I may never figure it out. Cats are an unsolvable mystery, and I think they like it that way. Why give up all your secrets, when the magical reality you create by not doing so is endlessly interesting? In that, cats are selfless.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
The Bitch is Back
Hey Peeps,
Sorry for my week-long disappearance. Have made some major life changes and am working on whipping my health back into shape. Writing this blog is definitely a necessity to get me feeling better, so I will be posting again regularly.
Thank you to my loyal readers -- both of you hot bitches -- who wondered at my absence.
Peace & Ponies,
Donn
Sorry for my week-long disappearance. Have made some major life changes and am working on whipping my health back into shape. Writing this blog is definitely a necessity to get me feeling better, so I will be posting again regularly.
Thank you to my loyal readers -- both of you hot bitches -- who wondered at my absence.
Peace & Ponies,
Donn
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