Tuesday, May 6, 2008
The Audacity of Hope
Despite the title, this post is not a meditation on Barack Obama, or his campaign for the presidency. While I thank Mr. Obama for coining such a catchy title for his book, it is also an appropriate title for this entry. So, in the hopes that I have his blessing for my harmless "borrowing", I will now examine Hope (with a capital H), and all the audacity therein.
I do think of Hope as an audacious thing. To be hopeful in our society is a bold, brazen act: a revolutionary response to a desperate, depressed world. There are inherent risks in Hope, the biggest one being that one may set one's Hopes so high, that any chance of meeting them is unrealistic. This can be a crushing letdown.
So it was with great trepidation that I hold in trembling hands a small glint of Hope. I admit, I am leery of it, doubtful even. The reason for my skepticism can best be explained by a scene in the Bette Midler movie "For the Boys". In it, Midler plays Dixie Leonard, a woman whose son is killed in Vietnam. Dixie is also a world-renowned entertainer, having triumphantly toured the world for 40 years with her show biz partner Eddie Sparks (James Caan). In a pivotal scene near the end of the film, Dixie and Eddie, now old and withered (thanks to some truly bad makeup), are reunited after a lengthy separation. Dixie explains to Eddie that she had a dream the previous night that she talked to God, and she was told before meeting the Big Kahuna that she could ask him only one question. So she asked him why he had to take her son. His response? That he had taken her son because it was the price: the price she had to pay for all her success, her career, her wealth, the good times.
I know this rationale is spiritually flawed, but I can't help but kinda believe it. Despite my best efforts, I do hold to this theory that bad things happen as a price for all the good things. A sort of cosmic balancing act, a great price-tagged leveling of all the positive and all the negative in the world. When something really terrific happens for me, I always have, in the back of my mind, the idea that at any moment, the cash register is going to cha-ching and demand payment. And they don't take American Express.
My Buddhist training has told me that this is a gift, this notion of impermanence, and I should appreciate the good that much more when it's happening. It will pass, enjoy it now. And then when the shoe drops, I should respect that as well, and once again take solace in the fact that this also will pass.
Now, my spiritual self gets this. My intellectual self does not. I could land a million-dollar book deal, be elated and dance a jig of glee, and still somewhere in the furthest climes of my brain believe that now something really, really bad is inevitable. Like I lose the rest of my hair, or "Golden Girls" reruns are yanked from the airwaves. I begrudgingly confess that I subscribe to the Dixie Leonard Theory.
This is why Hope makes me nervous. If I Hope for something wonderful, and it comes to be, what will I soon lose? Is it better to not Hope at all, in the name of self-protection and -preservation? It can safely be said that I am Hope-challenged.
Enter Edith. Edith is a longtime friend from back home, someone I love deeply and respect greatly. If I was the type to have a guru, she would be it. She is my friend, my mentor, and my teacher. Edith was visiting Massachusetts and stayed with John and I this weekend, before flying home on Monday. We met up with her at a Buddhist retreat center in central Mass, where we were all part of a beautiful dedication ceremony for the center's new library. It was great hearing some of my favorite and esteemed teachers give talks. There were also Buddhist monks in attendance who blessed the new construction and did some gorgeous, soul-shaking chanting. But the highlight was being with Edith, who, despite my adherence to the Dixie Leonard Theory, always brings along Hope in bucketfuls.
Edith suffered from a nearly-identical, equally-frustrating illness as the one in whose grip I currently find myself. Chronic exhaustion, fatigue, anxiety, depression, cloudiness, lack of energy, focus, and concentration. After seeing doctors and healers the world over, she finally found her cure at a clinic in Illinois. This clinic treats "the undiagnosable" by treating biochemical imbalances with nutrient therapy. Rigorous tests of all varieties are performed, a definitive diagnosis given, and a treatment plan is drawn up. The treatment involves massive amounts of vitamins, nutrients, and supplements, which seek to balance the imbalance. In a matter of days, Edith felt markedly better. Now, six months out, she is a new person, full of energy and vitality.
And this has given me Hope. Especially after my visit to the doctor last week, where I was told that if my current combo of medications doesn't help, I will be put on Ritalin. Ritalin will keep me awake and energized, and while being awake and energized is highly appealing, I'm just not willing to go on Ritalin. Ritalin fucks people up. I don't even think the people who need Ritalin should be on it. It's dangerous, and I refuse to take it.
So this option of nutrient therapy couldn't have come at a better time. Edith is a walking example of its success, and I desperately want to try it. I am hopeful...but.
But.
Can I hold fast to the promise of a cure, of feeling better? Can I believe in that? Can I look forward to it? Am I capable? Can it be that the whole "wherever you go there you are" idea is a bunch of caca? Can it be that just maybe I really have long ago put my "issues" to rest and this is something chemical, unreachable by antidepressants and all the free association in the world? Am I able to cradle this Hope in my quivering palms without worrying about The Price? Can I even remember and recognize what Hope has done in the past, for me, my loved ones, my world? Can I embrace this bird without crushing it?
Can I?
Friday, May 2, 2008
Biopic Picks: My 10 Favorite Biographical Movies
For Tony
According to Webster's dictionary, a biopic is simply defined as "a biographical movie". The term biopic first became en vogue back in the early 90s: a clever little word-welding that encompasses the genre of film devoted to telling the true (or true-ish) story of a particular person or group. What exactly constitutes a true biopic is a point of debate. Is a portrait of a real person/group at one point in their lives a biopic? Or is a biopic a movie that captures the entire life of a real person/group? I believe a biopic can fall into either category, especially since most "portraits" contain at least a small amount of backstory on the character(s) examined.
I am writing this post for my dear friend Tony. Tony dislikes biopics. Though I of course respect the fact that we can peaceably have differing opinions, I have noticed that a lot of movies that I really enjoy can easily be called biopics. And Tony would miss them. And that makes baby Jesus cry.
OK, not really, but I was inspired to put together an in-depth listing of my favorite biopics. Tony has a great eye for art, and I think he would like these movies, so I felt it necessary to give these ten films a chance to present their cases.
10. La Vie En Rose (2007). Marion Cotillard as Edith Piaf: one of the greatest performances ever captured on celluloid. Stephen Holden of The New York Times said, "The most astonishing immersion of one performer into the body and soul of another ever encountered in a film." I can't top that summation, and I won't even try. But what often gets ignored in the (rightful) celebration of Cotillard's work here is the fact that this is just a damn fine movie. Director/co-writer Olivier Dahan uses an unconventional twist on the old life-told-in-flashback framework. Despite weaving back and forth to various points in Piaf's life, Dahan manages to create a fluid, entertaining, and moving portrait of a legendary artist. He even saves some key secrets for the last few minutes of the film, thus delivering an unexpected emotional wallop just before the final curtain. This technique works to great effect, as it challenges us to remember and restructure all that we've learned of Piaf in the last two hours. It's also a cunningly successful way to keep Piaf in our heads, thinking of her long after the final credit has rolled.
9. I Shot Andy Warhol (1996). This is the first entry on my list that could conceivably be called more "portrait" than "biopic", as it tends to focus mainly on one period of time in its subject's life. But the great work done here is so thorough and affecting, it inevitably leaves us with a very clear idea of what life has been like for Valerie Solanas (Lili Taylor). The whole film is driven by Taylor's fiery performance, ably supported by a crackerjack supporting cast (namely Stephen Dorff as transsexual Warhol muse Candy Darling) and an awesome script. Director Mary Harron's vision is unique and informative, and she makes some refreshingly bold choices in presenting her bizarre subject to the world. The film revolves around the events leading up to -- and the eventual -- (non-fatal) shooting of Andy Warhol in 1968. Militant feminist Solanas makes fruitless attempts to gain Warhol's attention and favor; finding herself snubbed, and armed with both a gun and her just-written SCUM (Society for the Cutting Up of Men) Manifesto, she shoots him. It's a thrilling, haunting, and highly original ride.
8. Boys Don't Cry (1999). Hilary Swank gives a groundbreaking, flawless performance as Brandon Teena, the transgendered teen that tragically insinuated himself into the fabric of a small Nebraska town, and Chloe Sevigny is equally astounding as Brandon's girlfriend Lana. These two young actresses succeed beautifully in inhabiting the complexities and turmoil of both their characters and the lowbrow society of which they are a part. Fearlessly written and directed by Kimberly Peirce, this film is dark, disturbing...and, most upsetting of all, true.
7. Gods and Monsters (1998). The final days of "Frankenstein" director James Whale make for fascinating film terrain in this much-lauded biopic by Bill Condon. Examining the finer points of Whale's relationships with his housekeeper (the ever-enjoyable Lynn Redgrave) and hunky gardener (Brendan Fraser), the whole production is dominated by the powerful work of Sir Ian McKellan as Whale. His performance is classic, thoughtful, and restrained in its commendable ability to make Whale into something more than a bitter old queen or an incorrigible letch. A lesser actor would've easily fallen into these traps, but McKellan transcends them with ease, thereby making his character -- as well as the movie of which he is the central figure -- a breathtaking lesson in grace.
6. Gandhi (1982). Richard Attenborough recreates the life of the Mahatma on an epic scale. Although this film is "big" and follows a pretty standard biopic formula, it is also devoted to the nuances, details, and yes, even the fallibilities, of its subject. Ben Kingsley shines in the title role, fleshing out his character with an uncanny accuracy; it's more a channeling than a mere performance. And c'mon, of course it's an epic. An epic man deserves no less.
5. Pollack (2000). Also adhering to typical biopic routine, "Pollack" works so amazingly well because of its two central actors. Ed Harris (who also directed) gives the performance of his career as the famed troubled artist, but it is Marcia Gay Harden, as Pollack's wife Lee Krasner, who walks away with the film. Also notable is Amy Madigan, playing the oddball, slightly icky art collector Peggy Guggenheim ("I have just climbed up and down five flights of stairs! I'M PEGGY GUGGENHEIM!"). The film is not without its flaws, though. For instance, I had problems with the rather abrupt ending and felt cheated out of what would've surely been a dynamite scene showing Lee Krasner learning of Pollack's death. But the problems are forgivable, because when you're watching actors doing what they love with such consummate ardor and skill, any slight can be overlooked.
4. Before Night Falls (2000). It's more than appropriate that a film showcasing the life of a poet should be poetry in and of itself. Director Julian Schnabel wraps his biography of Cuban poet/novelist Reinaldo Arenas in beautiful layers of art and metaphor, all the while allowing the soft baritone of Javier Bardem to float seductively throughout each and every emotion-laden moment. Bardem is incredible here and commands the screen with a masterful ease, breathing sparkling life into a truly fascinating character that the world largely, regrettably, ignored. This is both Arenas's swan song and enduring legacy, and the lyrical work of "Before Night Falls" is a testament to a life lived honestly, bravely, and, above all, passionately.
3. Out of Africa (1985). This is one of those rare movies I can watch over and over again and never get tired of. Yes, it's a big splashy Hollywood flick, complete with sweeping panoramic shots of the African landscape and two bona fide movie stars (my Meryl and Robert Redford). Yet "Out of Africa" is, at the same time, a thorough, intensive character study of a revolutionary woman and the men she loved. It does not for one second set out to make Streep's Isak Dinesen a saint, or Redford's Denys Finch-Hatton a romantic hero. It presents these figures in all their glorious, damaged light. And forever in my dreams, I will always hear Streep's Danish-tinged voice-over, "I had a farrrrrummmm in Ahhhfreeeekaaah, at zah foot of zah Ngong Hillllllllllz...."
2. Backbeat (1994). Though it chronicles the early days of The Beatles and their "lost member" Stuart Sutcliffe, "Backbeat" is a rollicking, fierce testament to the intricacies and complexities of romantic love. The music is, of course, wonderful, but it's the love triangle at the center of the film, between Sutcliffe (another tour-de-force by the yummy Stephen Dorff), Astrid (the luminous Sheryl Lee), and John Lennon (the utterly fantastic Ian Hart) that holds the sustaining power of the film. The movie spends a great deal of time erecting a meticulous house of cards, and then effectively knocks them down in one brutal, beautiful scene between Sutcliffe and Lennon. It's hard not to fall in love with "Backbeat" and Stuart Sutcliffe. In one scene, Astrid tells Lennon, "I love him." Lennon replies, "Don't we all?". I know I do.
1. Hilary & Jackie (1998). This is one of those rare movies where everything manages to come together with absolute perfection. The marriage of stunning performances, innovative direction, interesting subject matter, and crisp writing makes "Hilary & Jackie" my favorite biopic. It's the story of cellist Jacqueline duPre, and the complicated relationship she has with her sister Hilary. Emily Watson is dynamic and devastating as Jackie, and Rachel Griffiths is extraordinary as Hilary; their chemistry and connection is palpable in every scene (and their final scenes together are truly heartbreaking). What's worth noting is that while Watson clearly had the "showier" role, it's Griffiths who is ultimately the one who carries the emotional weight of the film with a quiet dignity. It's a tale of love, family, music, jealousy, devotion, and letting your sister fuck your husband...but you have to see the movie to understand how this last item comes to pass. This film is so brilliant to me because it presents an altogether new framework for presenting its true story. Instead of buying into biopic formula, or conceiving abstract approaches to story and characterization, director Anand Tucker does something entirely new. He devotes the first half of the film to Hilary and tells it from her point of view. Then, halfway through, he goes back to the beginning and tells the exact same story from Jackie's point of view. It's a risky method that succeeds astonishingly on all levels. There isn't a weak link anywhere in this entire movie. Hell, it's worth seeing just to hear duPre's now-classic version of Elgar's Cello Concerto.
Incidentally, all these movies are available on DVD. With that said, Hey Tone, when are we gonna pop some corn and settle in for a biopic-a-thon?
According to Webster's dictionary, a biopic is simply defined as "a biographical movie". The term biopic first became en vogue back in the early 90s: a clever little word-welding that encompasses the genre of film devoted to telling the true (or true-ish) story of a particular person or group. What exactly constitutes a true biopic is a point of debate. Is a portrait of a real person/group at one point in their lives a biopic? Or is a biopic a movie that captures the entire life of a real person/group? I believe a biopic can fall into either category, especially since most "portraits" contain at least a small amount of backstory on the character(s) examined.
I am writing this post for my dear friend Tony. Tony dislikes biopics. Though I of course respect the fact that we can peaceably have differing opinions, I have noticed that a lot of movies that I really enjoy can easily be called biopics. And Tony would miss them. And that makes baby Jesus cry.
OK, not really, but I was inspired to put together an in-depth listing of my favorite biopics. Tony has a great eye for art, and I think he would like these movies, so I felt it necessary to give these ten films a chance to present their cases.
10. La Vie En Rose (2007). Marion Cotillard as Edith Piaf: one of the greatest performances ever captured on celluloid. Stephen Holden of The New York Times said, "The most astonishing immersion of one performer into the body and soul of another ever encountered in a film." I can't top that summation, and I won't even try. But what often gets ignored in the (rightful) celebration of Cotillard's work here is the fact that this is just a damn fine movie. Director/co-writer Olivier Dahan uses an unconventional twist on the old life-told-in-flashback framework. Despite weaving back and forth to various points in Piaf's life, Dahan manages to create a fluid, entertaining, and moving portrait of a legendary artist. He even saves some key secrets for the last few minutes of the film, thus delivering an unexpected emotional wallop just before the final curtain. This technique works to great effect, as it challenges us to remember and restructure all that we've learned of Piaf in the last two hours. It's also a cunningly successful way to keep Piaf in our heads, thinking of her long after the final credit has rolled.
9. I Shot Andy Warhol (1996). This is the first entry on my list that could conceivably be called more "portrait" than "biopic", as it tends to focus mainly on one period of time in its subject's life. But the great work done here is so thorough and affecting, it inevitably leaves us with a very clear idea of what life has been like for Valerie Solanas (Lili Taylor). The whole film is driven by Taylor's fiery performance, ably supported by a crackerjack supporting cast (namely Stephen Dorff as transsexual Warhol muse Candy Darling) and an awesome script. Director Mary Harron's vision is unique and informative, and she makes some refreshingly bold choices in presenting her bizarre subject to the world. The film revolves around the events leading up to -- and the eventual -- (non-fatal) shooting of Andy Warhol in 1968. Militant feminist Solanas makes fruitless attempts to gain Warhol's attention and favor; finding herself snubbed, and armed with both a gun and her just-written SCUM (Society for the Cutting Up of Men) Manifesto, she shoots him. It's a thrilling, haunting, and highly original ride.
8. Boys Don't Cry (1999). Hilary Swank gives a groundbreaking, flawless performance as Brandon Teena, the transgendered teen that tragically insinuated himself into the fabric of a small Nebraska town, and Chloe Sevigny is equally astounding as Brandon's girlfriend Lana. These two young actresses succeed beautifully in inhabiting the complexities and turmoil of both their characters and the lowbrow society of which they are a part. Fearlessly written and directed by Kimberly Peirce, this film is dark, disturbing...and, most upsetting of all, true.
7. Gods and Monsters (1998). The final days of "Frankenstein" director James Whale make for fascinating film terrain in this much-lauded biopic by Bill Condon. Examining the finer points of Whale's relationships with his housekeeper (the ever-enjoyable Lynn Redgrave) and hunky gardener (Brendan Fraser), the whole production is dominated by the powerful work of Sir Ian McKellan as Whale. His performance is classic, thoughtful, and restrained in its commendable ability to make Whale into something more than a bitter old queen or an incorrigible letch. A lesser actor would've easily fallen into these traps, but McKellan transcends them with ease, thereby making his character -- as well as the movie of which he is the central figure -- a breathtaking lesson in grace.
6. Gandhi (1982). Richard Attenborough recreates the life of the Mahatma on an epic scale. Although this film is "big" and follows a pretty standard biopic formula, it is also devoted to the nuances, details, and yes, even the fallibilities, of its subject. Ben Kingsley shines in the title role, fleshing out his character with an uncanny accuracy; it's more a channeling than a mere performance. And c'mon, of course it's an epic. An epic man deserves no less.
5. Pollack (2000). Also adhering to typical biopic routine, "Pollack" works so amazingly well because of its two central actors. Ed Harris (who also directed) gives the performance of his career as the famed troubled artist, but it is Marcia Gay Harden, as Pollack's wife Lee Krasner, who walks away with the film. Also notable is Amy Madigan, playing the oddball, slightly icky art collector Peggy Guggenheim ("I have just climbed up and down five flights of stairs! I'M PEGGY GUGGENHEIM!"). The film is not without its flaws, though. For instance, I had problems with the rather abrupt ending and felt cheated out of what would've surely been a dynamite scene showing Lee Krasner learning of Pollack's death. But the problems are forgivable, because when you're watching actors doing what they love with such consummate ardor and skill, any slight can be overlooked.
4. Before Night Falls (2000). It's more than appropriate that a film showcasing the life of a poet should be poetry in and of itself. Director Julian Schnabel wraps his biography of Cuban poet/novelist Reinaldo Arenas in beautiful layers of art and metaphor, all the while allowing the soft baritone of Javier Bardem to float seductively throughout each and every emotion-laden moment. Bardem is incredible here and commands the screen with a masterful ease, breathing sparkling life into a truly fascinating character that the world largely, regrettably, ignored. This is both Arenas's swan song and enduring legacy, and the lyrical work of "Before Night Falls" is a testament to a life lived honestly, bravely, and, above all, passionately.
3. Out of Africa (1985). This is one of those rare movies I can watch over and over again and never get tired of. Yes, it's a big splashy Hollywood flick, complete with sweeping panoramic shots of the African landscape and two bona fide movie stars (my Meryl and Robert Redford). Yet "Out of Africa" is, at the same time, a thorough, intensive character study of a revolutionary woman and the men she loved. It does not for one second set out to make Streep's Isak Dinesen a saint, or Redford's Denys Finch-Hatton a romantic hero. It presents these figures in all their glorious, damaged light. And forever in my dreams, I will always hear Streep's Danish-tinged voice-over, "I had a farrrrrummmm in Ahhhfreeeekaaah, at zah foot of zah Ngong Hillllllllllz...."
2. Backbeat (1994). Though it chronicles the early days of The Beatles and their "lost member" Stuart Sutcliffe, "Backbeat" is a rollicking, fierce testament to the intricacies and complexities of romantic love. The music is, of course, wonderful, but it's the love triangle at the center of the film, between Sutcliffe (another tour-de-force by the yummy Stephen Dorff), Astrid (the luminous Sheryl Lee), and John Lennon (the utterly fantastic Ian Hart) that holds the sustaining power of the film. The movie spends a great deal of time erecting a meticulous house of cards, and then effectively knocks them down in one brutal, beautiful scene between Sutcliffe and Lennon. It's hard not to fall in love with "Backbeat" and Stuart Sutcliffe. In one scene, Astrid tells Lennon, "I love him." Lennon replies, "Don't we all?". I know I do.
1. Hilary & Jackie (1998). This is one of those rare movies where everything manages to come together with absolute perfection. The marriage of stunning performances, innovative direction, interesting subject matter, and crisp writing makes "Hilary & Jackie" my favorite biopic. It's the story of cellist Jacqueline duPre, and the complicated relationship she has with her sister Hilary. Emily Watson is dynamic and devastating as Jackie, and Rachel Griffiths is extraordinary as Hilary; their chemistry and connection is palpable in every scene (and their final scenes together are truly heartbreaking). What's worth noting is that while Watson clearly had the "showier" role, it's Griffiths who is ultimately the one who carries the emotional weight of the film with a quiet dignity. It's a tale of love, family, music, jealousy, devotion, and letting your sister fuck your husband...but you have to see the movie to understand how this last item comes to pass. This film is so brilliant to me because it presents an altogether new framework for presenting its true story. Instead of buying into biopic formula, or conceiving abstract approaches to story and characterization, director Anand Tucker does something entirely new. He devotes the first half of the film to Hilary and tells it from her point of view. Then, halfway through, he goes back to the beginning and tells the exact same story from Jackie's point of view. It's a risky method that succeeds astonishingly on all levels. There isn't a weak link anywhere in this entire movie. Hell, it's worth seeing just to hear duPre's now-classic version of Elgar's Cello Concerto.
Incidentally, all these movies are available on DVD. With that said, Hey Tone, when are we gonna pop some corn and settle in for a biopic-a-thon?
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Ridin' the Batshit Bus: Conversations With Crazy People
Crazy people love me. This is a fact. There must be something in the innate assemblage of my cellular structure that beacons the crazies of the world. It flashes like a blinking hot-pink fluorescent sign promising "All You Can Eat Methadone!" or "2 for 1 Lobotomies". Either that, or they sense my own well-concealed craziness and are convinced they've found a kindred soul.
Whatever the reason, crazy people have loved me my entire life, and they typically have no problem singling me out in a crowd and regaling me with stories of their nutjob lives. Sometimes this is infuriating, like when it happens at work and I get stuck on the phone with one of the worst kinds of crazies: The Chatty Cathy Crazy. At other times, though, conversing with crazy people can be a form of lowbrow entertainment. And since my life has been a freefall of melancholy lately, engaging a crazy or two in conversation seemed a decent idea to cheer myself up. If for no other reason than to tell myself, "Well at least I'm not THAT crazy."
I believe there are two main types of Crazy in the world, both of which have numerous subtypes (The Chatty Cathy Crazy, for example, would fall into the second type). I am an expert at spotting crazies. You're talking to someone who's been though rehab, psych wards, AA meetings, 15 years of Sunday School, 4 years of Hollywood, and every single film version of all Tennessee Williams' major plays. I know crazy.
First, there are the Everyday Crazies, like me. I can brush my teeth without eating the delicious toothbrush; I can dress myself without even considering putting on black socks and flip-flops; I can even eat at a restaurant without believing that my food has been poisoned, spit/vomited on, or made from chinchilla testicles.
But then there is another type of Crazy entirely, who simply cannot do things like I've just mentioned. These people fall into the category of Kah-ray-zees (that's spelled with a capital "K" and a backwards "Z"). And these are the ones that love me.
Take today, for instance. I had an appointment to see my psychiatrist, and in order to get to his office, I have to take a shuttle bus between the main hospital to the mental health building across town. I've affectionately christened this big white Chevy Suburban "The Batshit Bus". In all fairness, its passengers are typically (at least whenever I've been onboard) hospital employees being carted between buildings. However, the bus is also intended for patient use, hence my own presence on it, as well as the presence of other patients, each of us in varying degrees of crazy.
On the ride back to the main hospital after my session, I sat next to a gaunt, wild-eyed old fellow that faintly resembled Father Time -- if Father Time had done a lot of smack and just had electroshock treatment. I could feel him sizing me up before he spoke, trying to deduce my own degree of crazy and whether or not I would be a good candidate to engage in a little crazy talk. I must've passed whatever sizing-up he gave me, because he soon started his monologue. Oh, and incidentally, most "conversations" with Kah-ray-zee people are not the average give-and-take discussion. They're more one-sided monologues where the Kah-ray-zee goes on and on, and the other party can only agree, disagree, or maybe throw in a question here or there.
The guy on the Batshit Bus today got started with a question.
"Are you headed to Harvard Square?" he asked.
"No, Kendall Square," I replied, hoping against hope that he didn't want to tag along with me. Both types of Crazies can be needy, so one must speak carefully so as not to acquire a new houseguest.
"Kendall Square, Kendall Squ---OH! YES! That's by MIT, right?"
"Yes," I said, inwardly sighing and bitch-slapping myself for opening the possibility of a tagalong.
Luckily, this man didn't want to come with me. Now, it's always fun to see how a Kah-ray-zee will open his/her monologue. Sometimes it's quite normal and innocent; other times it's from left-field and totally random. This guy falls into the latter style.
"I applied to MIT once," he went on, staring straight ahead. "I wanted to go to their film school."
I thought it unwise to tell him that MIT does not have a film school, so I let him continue. I was depressed and stuck on the Batshit Bus for at least another ten minutes, so I figured a little entertainment was in order.
"I met with some guy and showed him my resumรจ. He told me how impressed he was with me, and then he said to come back next year. Next year! So I enrolled in Orson Welles's film school instead."
"Are you a director or an actor?" I asked, shamelessly baiting the crazy hook.
"Oh, I'm a director. I used to direct 8mm films. I don't know anything about video. I even taught an Adult Education class on filmmaking. But I did take a class where they gave us each a digital camera and told us to take pictures. I took a lot of pictures of my girlfriend, an Oriental named Geo."
At this point, it took all my willpower not to interrupt and tell him that I used to drive a Geo. The car, not the lady.
It was also at this point that I noticed the in-patient hospital band around his wrist. Did they know that he was riding the shuttle? Was he supposed to be in a rubber room somewhere? Was I aiding and abetting an escaped mental patient?
"Then one day I took the camera to one of my favorite places, the methadone clinic. I took a few pictures, and some 250-lb. black guy got mad. He grabbed my camera and ran off with it. Bastard."
He shook his head in one of those what-is-the-world-coming-to movements.
"I live in Roslindale. I live with my friend and her boyfriend, and we all have to leave the apartment at six a.m. because she's a librarian."
I wasn't really following his logic, but I continued to be a good listener.
"I'm getting my own place in Hyde Park, though. I can't wait."
I turned away for a brief second then, and when I looked back, Father Time was dead asleep and drooling, which is the way he remained for the rest of the trip. I suppose I should have been considerate and woke him up once the Batshit Bus reached its destination, but I really didn't want to risk him following me home.
So I jumped out and ran down the street: just another crazy on his way home.
Whatever the reason, crazy people have loved me my entire life, and they typically have no problem singling me out in a crowd and regaling me with stories of their nutjob lives. Sometimes this is infuriating, like when it happens at work and I get stuck on the phone with one of the worst kinds of crazies: The Chatty Cathy Crazy. At other times, though, conversing with crazy people can be a form of lowbrow entertainment. And since my life has been a freefall of melancholy lately, engaging a crazy or two in conversation seemed a decent idea to cheer myself up. If for no other reason than to tell myself, "Well at least I'm not THAT crazy."
I believe there are two main types of Crazy in the world, both of which have numerous subtypes (The Chatty Cathy Crazy, for example, would fall into the second type). I am an expert at spotting crazies. You're talking to someone who's been though rehab, psych wards, AA meetings, 15 years of Sunday School, 4 years of Hollywood, and every single film version of all Tennessee Williams' major plays. I know crazy.
First, there are the Everyday Crazies, like me. I can brush my teeth without eating the delicious toothbrush; I can dress myself without even considering putting on black socks and flip-flops; I can even eat at a restaurant without believing that my food has been poisoned, spit/vomited on, or made from chinchilla testicles.
But then there is another type of Crazy entirely, who simply cannot do things like I've just mentioned. These people fall into the category of Kah-ray-zees (that's spelled with a capital "K" and a backwards "Z"). And these are the ones that love me.
Take today, for instance. I had an appointment to see my psychiatrist, and in order to get to his office, I have to take a shuttle bus between the main hospital to the mental health building across town. I've affectionately christened this big white Chevy Suburban "The Batshit Bus". In all fairness, its passengers are typically (at least whenever I've been onboard) hospital employees being carted between buildings. However, the bus is also intended for patient use, hence my own presence on it, as well as the presence of other patients, each of us in varying degrees of crazy.
On the ride back to the main hospital after my session, I sat next to a gaunt, wild-eyed old fellow that faintly resembled Father Time -- if Father Time had done a lot of smack and just had electroshock treatment. I could feel him sizing me up before he spoke, trying to deduce my own degree of crazy and whether or not I would be a good candidate to engage in a little crazy talk. I must've passed whatever sizing-up he gave me, because he soon started his monologue. Oh, and incidentally, most "conversations" with Kah-ray-zee people are not the average give-and-take discussion. They're more one-sided monologues where the Kah-ray-zee goes on and on, and the other party can only agree, disagree, or maybe throw in a question here or there.
The guy on the Batshit Bus today got started with a question.
"Are you headed to Harvard Square?" he asked.
"No, Kendall Square," I replied, hoping against hope that he didn't want to tag along with me. Both types of Crazies can be needy, so one must speak carefully so as not to acquire a new houseguest.
"Kendall Square, Kendall Squ---OH! YES! That's by MIT, right?"
"Yes," I said, inwardly sighing and bitch-slapping myself for opening the possibility of a tagalong.
Luckily, this man didn't want to come with me. Now, it's always fun to see how a Kah-ray-zee will open his/her monologue. Sometimes it's quite normal and innocent; other times it's from left-field and totally random. This guy falls into the latter style.
"I applied to MIT once," he went on, staring straight ahead. "I wanted to go to their film school."
I thought it unwise to tell him that MIT does not have a film school, so I let him continue. I was depressed and stuck on the Batshit Bus for at least another ten minutes, so I figured a little entertainment was in order.
"I met with some guy and showed him my resumรจ. He told me how impressed he was with me, and then he said to come back next year. Next year! So I enrolled in Orson Welles's film school instead."
"Are you a director or an actor?" I asked, shamelessly baiting the crazy hook.
"Oh, I'm a director. I used to direct 8mm films. I don't know anything about video. I even taught an Adult Education class on filmmaking. But I did take a class where they gave us each a digital camera and told us to take pictures. I took a lot of pictures of my girlfriend, an Oriental named Geo."
At this point, it took all my willpower not to interrupt and tell him that I used to drive a Geo. The car, not the lady.
It was also at this point that I noticed the in-patient hospital band around his wrist. Did they know that he was riding the shuttle? Was he supposed to be in a rubber room somewhere? Was I aiding and abetting an escaped mental patient?
"Then one day I took the camera to one of my favorite places, the methadone clinic. I took a few pictures, and some 250-lb. black guy got mad. He grabbed my camera and ran off with it. Bastard."
He shook his head in one of those what-is-the-world-coming-to movements.
"I live in Roslindale. I live with my friend and her boyfriend, and we all have to leave the apartment at six a.m. because she's a librarian."
I wasn't really following his logic, but I continued to be a good listener.
"I'm getting my own place in Hyde Park, though. I can't wait."
I turned away for a brief second then, and when I looked back, Father Time was dead asleep and drooling, which is the way he remained for the rest of the trip. I suppose I should have been considerate and woke him up once the Batshit Bus reached its destination, but I really didn't want to risk him following me home.
So I jumped out and ran down the street: just another crazy on his way home.
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