I’ve been doing really well with dealing w anxiety/depression over the past few wks. Exercise, etc. then I got a cold/allergies and my schedule got off course. Today is the hardest day I’ve had in a while. It’s amazing how things can snowball.
Little setbacks seem like mountains. My pulse feels like it’s pounding out of my veins. Upset stomach. Upset intestines. Not enough exercise and feeling awful. Slept 15 hours yesterday and all I can think about is the things I didn’t accomplish. Logically I know it’s ok. But...
Logical doesn’t really own real estate in my head. It’s usually just passing through. So I can see the physical signs and acknowledge them as such and know I will logically be just fine and things aren’t falling apart. But the signs still suck hard.
Yesterday I tried energy drinks comfort microwave popcorn and a ham and cheese sub and I made it until 2 before I had to collapse. I went home thinking I could sleep a bit and recover. I figured that a NyQuil nap of 12-15 hours would knock out the cold/respiratory bug.
And it kind of worked. I woke with less gunk in my airways. I got showered, dressed and to work at the goal time so I can leave when I need to today. I used a coupon and got a burrito for lunch at over half off. Deals and coupons increase the taste of any meal for me by at least a percentage equal to the discount.
I felt decent. But had a conversation or two that took my mind to places I'd rather not visit. Like when you're passing a dark alleyway at night so you cross the street or walk just a bit quicker than normal. These conversations had my mind stopping and looking down that dark passage. Giving corporeal form to every shadow. Making assumptions into facts. Negative thoughts into carved in stone laws of nature.
I ate my burrito. It was meh. Nothing tastes good when you can't breath or smell. I went up a level of obnoxious with a different style of energy drink. I tore into the emergency stash of Twizzlers and Rice Krispies - specifically chosen for their nostalgic properties as much as their sugar. I almost pulled the trigger on another 20 oz of Mountain Dew.
I hid in the bathroom, as much due to the anxiety than the upset intestines and poor diet. I tried to drown the cold or allergies or anxiety with copious pints of water. Which not surprisingly led to more hiding in the bathroom.
Then the phone rang and I learned that my dog had slipped her collar and was out on her own. I yelled into the speakerphone to get her to come to the phone. My blood pressure spiked and I threw up a bit in my mouth. The acidity burning the back of my throat and sparking a coughing fit. The dog is safe and home. Her adventure lasted just few minutes.
So I'm back at my desk. Trying to fend off the shakes. With a mental version of myself rocking and screaming while I try and keep the outside looking 2:31 PM on a Wednesday appropriate.
Knees bounce and I turn to the one thing I haven't tried yet today. Writing. Well I have tried. I'm at a word standstill on both a podcast script and a radio show script. I have an empty page judging me for not filling it with radio show description templates. I haven't touched any of my personal writing pieces in days.
Instead I started this. Free writing. Words. Emotional vomit on the screen. It feels good to do something. To accomplish something. Even if that is just some nonsense spewed out with little structure or purpose. The hope is that this will jump start my day. Or in the least serve as a emergency fail-safe parachute to slow my downward spiral. 1.5 hours and I'm out in the sun, navigating the bus, trains and teenagers. None of which are as easy as it seems.
For now, the pulse doesn't seem to be making my veins rise out of my arm. The water has helped soothed the acid scorched throat. The dog is home safe and happy for her adventure.
It's going to be ok. Probably. The parachute has popped and my descent has slowed. I should enjoy the view. Maybe it is time for popcorn.
#depression #anxiety #gettingthrough #justkeepswimming
Wednesday, June 12, 2019
Saturday, April 13, 2019
Hellboy (2019) Movie Review
On Thursday, I had the opportunity to attend the opening night of Hellboy (2019). I was a bit surprised there were showings as early as 7:30. It was a spur of the moment decision. I have joined the new AMC A-List program so for roughly $22 a month, I can go to three movies a week. So I went for it. What follows below is my review, I avoid most plot points but as it is a review...
SPOILER ALERT
I loved the earlier two films, Hellboy (2004) and Hellboy II The Golden Army (2008). Guillermo De Toro, Ron Perlman, Doug Jones, Selma Blair did an enjoyable and engaging job. It was classic superhero fare with action and comedy and evil villains. I saw both in the theater and owned them on DVD. Which is a thing we did back then.
They were my first introduction to the characters and prompted me to eventually dip my toe into the graphic novel collections of Mike Mignola. For years there were rumors that Del Toro had a third film in mind. Perlman was on board and so seemingly was the studio. The movie however never seemed to materialize. Though in my personal opinion I hazard to guess that Del Toro's original ideas and creative impulses for Hellboy 3 morphed over time to the The Shape of Water. Which felt like an Abe Sapien spin off Elseworlds love story to me. But I digress.
The two Perlman/Del Toro movies fared relatively well but one criticism that I heard from fans at the time was that they went too far making it a superhero movie and watered down some of the more horror like elements of the story. I mean we are dealing with Nazis, Devils and Demons here, so there is going to be some gory elements.
One thing that the 2019 version of Hellboy made sure to do was up the gore level for sure. Having seen both Hellboy and Shazam (review coming soon) on back to back days, you can certainly see the difference from PG-13 and R. As someone who still suffers from night terrors from movies I saw 30 years ago, had I realized the R rating, I might have skipped it. Most of the violence done by the "bad guys" was quite martial, limbs, heads, bodies ripped apart. Hellboy took some pretty graphic damage at times as well. Most of it was story related but there was one long segment near the climax that felt like it was a bit torture porn. The CGI folks definitely had some fun with the graphic nature of some moments.
Outside of the gore the two biggest differences between the 2019 version and the 2004 or 2008 versions of Hellboy related to the relationship between the titular character and his adopted father, Professor Broom. In the Del Toro versions, the character of Broom was supporting but not really truly a driver of the narrative. John Hurt, a Hollywood icon played Broom in the earlier incarnations and was his as always viable and engaging self. Broom was important for sure, but the story was more about Hellboy and his journey and finding himself, his place in the world. Perlman plays Hellboy as more stable and adult. He seems less a wild card and more a rogue. He might break the rules but he does so knowingly. Hellboy in this case may be troubled, he may break rules but he also seems more in control.
In the 2019 version, directed by Neil Marshall takes a different tone with the Hellboy/Broom relationship. As a viewer I should admit that I saw each of these versions of the Broom character at very different times in my life. First as soon to be minted father, then as a young, confused and failing father. In 2019, I saw Broom as the father of one teenager and one soon to be teenager. So those perceptions definitely color my review as well.
Ian Mcshane plays Broom in this newest version of Hellboy. And as ever brings a level of depth to a character that viewers were probably not expecting. The relationship between McShane's Broom and David Harbour's Hellboy is full of strife and conflict throughout the entire film. Where as Hurt and Perlman seemed to be occasionally annoyed. There is palatable distrust of Broom by Hellboy in this new version.
As the 2019 version of the film worked to create more gore in the action scenes, the script also seemed designed to show Hellboy's humanity. His doubts and ultimately set up the climax with more doubt than you expect from a super hero ending. Harbour does an exceptional job of showing Hellboy's emotional side, with more angst than arrogance. Perhaps it was all that time working with teenagers on Stranger Things but Harbour feels more Spiderman than Tony Stark. From Harbour's first appearance in the movie in an epic action scene in Tijuana to his first meeting and big brother/uncle relationship with Sasha Lane's Alice (who is thoroughly enjoyable as support and a lovely surprise as a character), there is humanity and a bit of chaos and a fumbling nature. Hellboy's interaction and reaction to the first death he causes sets the tone for the entire movie. This may be a being born of a demon but there is something human there as well.
McShane and Harbour's relationship drives the movie. But Jovonich's evil blood queen plays an excellent foil. As a lover of The Fifth Element it was unnerving to see the supreme being as a villain. However, instead of chewing the dialogue and going full evil witch, there is a gentleness and purity of belief in her actions and attitude. If you are a person who could understand Thanos' rantionale or could argue that the Rebels in Star Wars were simply terrorists, then you might also fall under her spell. She sets herself up as a counter point to McShane's Broom. And that is the crux of the internal battle for Harbour's Hellboy. And in the end it is the backbone of the movie and in my opinion, that, not the gore is what truly shines.
Daniel Dae Kim does an nice job of adding a bit more flavor to the conflict, even if his eventual "big decision" feels like overkill. By that point, the audience knows what side he is on and there is little tension in his actions, even though it is played as a big moment. The voice work of Stephen Graham was excellent and had me dying to figure out where I knew his voice from. I'll let it be a surprise for you as well. But after looking at his history, I had to slap myself for never putting two and two together when I saw him in two other very famous movies. I would love a career like his, part of so many fun moments and movies but you wouldn't recognize him in line at the bathroom. There is even an appearance from Thomas Haden Church, which took me way too long to recognize. It ranks up there with the geeky joy of realizing who was the voice of Noir Spiderman in Into the Spiderverse. Again, I'll save the surprise if you haven't seen it.
Hellboy 2019 to me was an enjoyable film. Though I do worry that by going for an R rating and adding in the gore they may have shot themselves in the foot. Harbour and Hellboy don't have the built-in fandom of Reynolds and Deadpool and I think that will hurt them in the box office. In the end that will be the true judge, how much money the film makes. However, in my eyes, the ability to create doubt, to give Harbour and McShane and Jonovich the space to create a possible moral and ethical quandary is the real success of the film.
I don't do stars but would watch again. Probably buy the DVD and try to talk about the interpersonal dynamics with my children in the fall.
Tuesday, March 26, 2019
It's not easy to admit you're not Batman.
It's been a week. A week of learning. A week of terror. A week of struggle. Frankly it doesn't make it any different from any other week.
Except. I decided to write about it. Which in and of itself is part of the problem.
I have no idea where it came from. I don't know the idea from whence it was born. It wasn't given to me explicitly by my parents or upbringing. It wasn't an expressed command from a higher power. It wasn't rules or laws magically burned into stone. It was just me. Growing up. In the era and time that I did.
I honestly think I'm Batman.
And if not him, then I am meant to be a hero. To save others. To protect.
What I ever really understood is that no one needs my protection. No one expects me to be a hero. There is no one to save.
Except me.
Yeah. Yeah. Hero save thyself. How trite. How quaint.
I wrote the above several years ago and never posted it. I felt it was whiny. It was not that introspective or original. But recently I have been thinking about Batman again. Zack Snyder, the once herald of DC Comic movies and their tone said that "Batman kills, Superman kills, Get over it" I was interested in Snyder's vision for DC's universe at first. But this just once again shows that he wasn't the right man for the job. He wanted to tear down the ideals of Batman and Superman, make them "modern". And while that might work for 300 or even some elements of Marvel or The Umbrella Academy, Runaways and other fringe comic related properties, it doesn't work for icons. Snyder wanted to watch the comic world burn and missed the point that his audience didn't.
His tone and cinematic style are enjoyable to watch. He would have been the perfect director for a Moon Night or Lobo movie. Play fast and lose with the rules, break walls, break convention. But he took that tactic to the wrong properties. Batman turned 80 today. You can't fight that much history. It's like remaking the Babe and having George Human Ruth be a vegan who is into Crossfit. You simply took it a bridge or continent too far.
I feel that Snyder is an amazing director. But DC was so desperate to separate themselves from Marvel, they lost the plot. The pendulum swung so far that they couldn't hold it from swinging out of control. It happens in sports and business all the time. We fired this leader so we need to find someone the polar opposite. They go too far and then they find another opposite for the next job. Look at what happened when they replaced Snyder. They went to JJ Abrams, proven hit maker and subtle boat rocker.
Today is Batman's 80th birthday. In a sense. More often than not over the past 80 years the one thing that seperated batman from his villians was murder. He broke the law over and over again. Breaking and entering. Stealing evidence. Assault on a daily basis. Not to mention how he could use his wealth and prividlege to consistently evade consequences. From assault charges, to speeding, to using drones without proper FAA clearance.
He broke a lot of rules. But one of the things that made him different from his foes was murder. Yeah he would beat you up and then tie you up but it was never with a limb or a lung missing. When Zach Snyder casually says Batman kills people. He proves that his Batman was never based on the history.
Snyder wrote an Elseworlds story. A What if? He was brought in to do that very thing, challenge the status quo. And DC is in a bad place overall because of it. They have taken their two most marketable icons, Batman and Superman and have tarnished them. Meanwhile, Aquaman and Wonder Woman have thrived. Flash on TV is good and Flash in the movie is a blatant rip off of the Spiderman/Iran Man Marvel dynamic.
But here is were DC's troubled comic history can actually make all this work. Admit your TV heroes are more loved than your movie heroes. And then drop the ultimate reset that is already cannon.
Crisis on Infinity Earths.
Bring it all together. The CW version of Arrow, Supergirl, Flash and others. But keep your broken movie versions as well. Epic battle after battle. Let Ezra Miller's Flash try to bet the TV version. Let both versions of the Suicide Squad face off. Make Supergirl from TV shame the movie version of her cousin for being a 90s emo kid.
The possibilities are endless. In the comics when DC realized it had gone way too far and needed a purge, the crisis was the answer.
DC remember your history, take all of these disparete parts and reset. Don't reboot and pretend this time you have it figured out, own your mess cinematic and TV recent history or hell even bring back past versions of all. Do you really think Michelle Pffiefer as Catwoman vs Halle Berry vs the young Selina from Gotham wouldn't be worth the price of admission? Or a Luthor face off of Hackman, Jesse Eisenbern and Michael Rosenbaum wouldn't be interesting?
DC you have massively failed this version. But look to your history and bring all of the infinite versions together. Make it epic and take back the icons.
Snyder wanted to let them all kill and die. Your true power and your most unique story can be your inspiration, let all the versions live, at once and then sort them out.
Just don't bring back Jason Todd and let us vote...
The Story in the Lacing
The beer has a quarter inch of head. It is cloudy and mysterious. The foamy bubbles slowly pop and end their existence. There is a calmness to the beer as it sits and waits for consumption. It settles. It is stable and yet full of possibility. The head begins to dissipate. I do not love ice cold beer. It feels rushed, hurried. Full of over eager moments. I like to let the beer settle into the glass, to absorb the spirit of the room. As the coverage of foam begins to fade, and the color of the beer shows through, I know it’s almost time for the first sip.
I lift the glass and the coaster comes too. A pet peeve but also just science in action, right? I try again but add a pinky as a blocker to keep the coaster from coming along. It leaves my hand with a pinky out perception. And my anxious mind begins to wonder if the coaster lifting or the pinky out is a worse event.
I lift the glass to my lips and the melancholy slightly warm nature of the glass presses against my lips. The hazy nectar flows against my taste buds. Tart at first, then sweet. Chilling but not shocking my mouth. As the glass returns to its protective station, the lacing on the glass begins to form. Bubbles, unique as snowflakes cluster against the glass. The music from the jukebox flows seemingly in time with the lacing as it takes residence on the side of the glass.
It is in this moment where you can begin to feel like a child laying on a hill, staring at the clouds. Images and shapes and imagination becoming apparent, things that once are seen can’t me unseen. A baseball diamond. A constellation of stars. A honeycomb shape which makes the mind think of colony collapse. Something that is not as easily understood as it seems.
The glass waits for round two. The color and haziness never fading. I lift the glass again and the impetuous coaster follows along. The pinky defense succeeds again this time with my chaos than class. Again the hazy liquid crosses the lips and tames the taste buds as it continues down the gullet. Another layer of imagination inducing lacing appears on the glass. Is that a ship? Florida? Or the ghostly face of a hammerhead shark?
The second sip leads to a third and then a forth. Helps to fend off the image of a ghostly hammerhead shark. As the drink begins to absorb into the system, the desire to see the imagination in the lacing fades. Maybe it was the shark. More likely it was the end goal all along. Each sip is savored. Yet the lacing begins to go unnoticed. The imagination and dreaming left behind.
Eventually there is a burp, a gastronomic moment that belies any inspiration or purpose. And then as I cover my mouth in shame. I glance at the glass. The lacing catches my eye. Is that a deer? A giraffe? A friendly llama - as if there is another kind. And for a moment again the imagination, the wonder is present again.
I turn the glass, examining the lacing again for mysteries and symbols. On the back side I see an aqueduct leading to a sea monster, it’s long arms lashing at the ancient waterway. Above it, birds of prey, trydactles or some other kind of scavenger wait to pounce and enjoy the impending buffet. As I turn the glass, it appears that there is a beam or a vein of energy or even lightening flowing toward the sea monster. I follow the stream back to its end, in the shape of a bat or perhaps when taking perspective into account, a dragon. Here on the other side of the glass is an aqueduct under attack from a sea monster with long limbs and his scavenger pals in tow that is being protected by a dragon spouting fire. What could be a more natural battle, water against fire.
The music distracts from the story being told in the lacing of the glass. I look away. And then instinctively take another sip. The scene changes. Gone are the sea monster and the dragon, the aqueduct has vanished. In its place a skeletal structure reminds. The bones of the dragon? Of the monster of the sea? I will never know. My inattention and haste took a portion of the story from me. And from you.
I lift the glass and the liquid catches the light from above. Still hazy, still blocking truly seeing through but weaker, damaged, at a level of distraction. Something makes me uneasy - either that I missed the next part of the story or that I destroyed it with my thirst.
The glass is empty. The lacing a scattered history of the story and of the waste left behind.
I tell myself that it doesn’t matter. But deep down I will always wonder.
Was the wreckage the sea monster or the dragon? And did I cause it all?
I lift the glass and the coaster comes too. A pet peeve but also just science in action, right? I try again but add a pinky as a blocker to keep the coaster from coming along. It leaves my hand with a pinky out perception. And my anxious mind begins to wonder if the coaster lifting or the pinky out is a worse event.
I lift the glass to my lips and the melancholy slightly warm nature of the glass presses against my lips. The hazy nectar flows against my taste buds. Tart at first, then sweet. Chilling but not shocking my mouth. As the glass returns to its protective station, the lacing on the glass begins to form. Bubbles, unique as snowflakes cluster against the glass. The music from the jukebox flows seemingly in time with the lacing as it takes residence on the side of the glass.
It is in this moment where you can begin to feel like a child laying on a hill, staring at the clouds. Images and shapes and imagination becoming apparent, things that once are seen can’t me unseen. A baseball diamond. A constellation of stars. A honeycomb shape which makes the mind think of colony collapse. Something that is not as easily understood as it seems.
The glass waits for round two. The color and haziness never fading. I lift the glass again and the impetuous coaster follows along. The pinky defense succeeds again this time with my chaos than class. Again the hazy liquid crosses the lips and tames the taste buds as it continues down the gullet. Another layer of imagination inducing lacing appears on the glass. Is that a ship? Florida? Or the ghostly face of a hammerhead shark?
The second sip leads to a third and then a forth. Helps to fend off the image of a ghostly hammerhead shark. As the drink begins to absorb into the system, the desire to see the imagination in the lacing fades. Maybe it was the shark. More likely it was the end goal all along. Each sip is savored. Yet the lacing begins to go unnoticed. The imagination and dreaming left behind.
Eventually there is a burp, a gastronomic moment that belies any inspiration or purpose. And then as I cover my mouth in shame. I glance at the glass. The lacing catches my eye. Is that a deer? A giraffe? A friendly llama - as if there is another kind. And for a moment again the imagination, the wonder is present again.
I turn the glass, examining the lacing again for mysteries and symbols. On the back side I see an aqueduct leading to a sea monster, it’s long arms lashing at the ancient waterway. Above it, birds of prey, trydactles or some other kind of scavenger wait to pounce and enjoy the impending buffet. As I turn the glass, it appears that there is a beam or a vein of energy or even lightening flowing toward the sea monster. I follow the stream back to its end, in the shape of a bat or perhaps when taking perspective into account, a dragon. Here on the other side of the glass is an aqueduct under attack from a sea monster with long limbs and his scavenger pals in tow that is being protected by a dragon spouting fire. What could be a more natural battle, water against fire.
The music distracts from the story being told in the lacing of the glass. I look away. And then instinctively take another sip. The scene changes. Gone are the sea monster and the dragon, the aqueduct has vanished. In its place a skeletal structure reminds. The bones of the dragon? Of the monster of the sea? I will never know. My inattention and haste took a portion of the story from me. And from you.
I lift the glass and the liquid catches the light from above. Still hazy, still blocking truly seeing through but weaker, damaged, at a level of distraction. Something makes me uneasy - either that I missed the next part of the story or that I destroyed it with my thirst.
The glass is empty. The lacing a scattered history of the story and of the waste left behind.
I tell myself that it doesn’t matter. But deep down I will always wonder.
Was the wreckage the sea monster or the dragon? And did I cause it all?
Wednesday, August 2, 2017
Theater, Baggage and Love
Theater has always been a window for me. To something new. Something exciting and usually something inside. Something about the manic chaos and attempts to just make it through high school fit so well with Albert Peterson in Bye Bye Birdie. Emerging from the chrysalis of high school and evolving into college paired well with Kafka’s Metamorphosis. Showing up in a strange land looking to figure out what the hell was going on in Twelfth Night matched my move to Boston and transition into adulthood. There has always been a touchstone or connection between my real life and the show I was in. I could find it. Sometimes it took longer than others. But it was always there. It helps me process. Which is why theater has at times been my drug and my therapy.
In Brigadoon, love is the major theme. How love can make miracles happen. Especially the jmoy and intoxication of new love. Of that puppy love. It’s got a Romeo and Juliet vibe. There are at least three scenes I consider Romeo/Benvolio inspired. Not to mention the Love can conquer all vibe. But the thing is, my heart and my reviews on love have a lot of scar tissue built up. If theater before has been therapy, this has been more like rehab. Or physical therapy. Breaking down the scar tissue and the atrophy. Letting the body and soul relearn or recapture what it had before.
Love and theater has always been linked for me. Every time I’ve truly fallen in love it started on a stage. Ten years ago I walked away from theater and acting when lots of my life was falling apart. It was a self-defense mechanism. I was feeling so much. Too much. So I had to shut part of me down. I knew that acting opened me up and I felt it might be too much of a Pandora’s Box to try again.
I hate a love/hate relationship with love. I mean my favorite song as a 7 year old was U2’s “With or Without You”, so I committed to angst early. I loved watching The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis on Nic at Night which was basically the story of romantic and social failure for 30 min every episode. I know every word of “The Power of Love” by Huey Lewis. I listen to Hozier’s Somebody New probably once a week. The first three real roles I got in a musical, I sang “L-O-V-E” by Nat King Cole as my audition. So yeah Love has been a thing. As it is.
I took the chance to open myself to theater again two years ago because of my daughter. I saw her love for the stage, her joy in performing and the cracks in my hardened heart began to grow. Luckily the first role I played was a villainous man-child who wanted the fancy flying car. Greed and childishness is pretty easy for me to access. And it was fun. I got to play again. I saw the joy on my daughters face. Theater was therapy again. It was good again.
This summer has been different. I don’t get to access the easy emotions this time. I have to unlock and unpack some things that have been hidden for a long time. Locked away. Ignored. Neglected. In a way it’s fitting. It took me time to find the connection between my real life and this show. But I finally did.
It’s the 10 year anniversary of the biggest change and chaos of my life. The 10th anniversary of me taking a part of me and hiding it away. Of deciding that I couldn’t let myself truly feel. Of deciding that it was too dangerous to act. It’s probably past time to unpack that baggage.
I don’t need to fall in love. I just have to believe such a thing is possible. Possible for two people in less than one day in a magical Scottish town to make a life changing choice while attending a wedding and funeral.
Ironically, that seems more likely than me unpacking my baggage.
But I’ve been working on it. It’s opened up some memories and feelings that I haven’t processed in the past 10 years, 7 years, 3 minutes etc. It’s not always been a pleasure cruise. Yet, just as seeing my daughter’s love for theater started the cracks, trying and working and processing has helped them widen. I wouldn’t say you can process or work through 10 years of repression and emotional neglect in six weeks. But I’ve made progress.
I’ve made it to the point where I can admit that I believe there is someone for everyone. There might even be someone out there for me. I’m not quite ready to believe I’ll ever find them. But I can believe it for my friends. (At least I stopped skipping weddings years ago). I can believe it for others. I can believe it for Tommy and Fiona and some magical Scottish town that vanishes every night.
If it can make a 36 year old, jaded divorced man child with a checked relationship history and an extremely stubborn nature begin to unpack some of his baggage and deal with his emotions like an adult – maybe Love can do anything, even miracles just like Mr Lundie says.
Rosetown Playhouse Presents: Brigadoon!
Performances: August 3-5 & 10-13
Time: All performances at 7 p.m., except August 13 at 1 p.m.
Location: Como Dockside
Ticket Prices: $15/adults; $12/Seniors (62+); $10/Students 6+; $7/Children 5 and under
Buy Tickets - https://rosetownplayhouse.org/shows/brigadoon
In Brigadoon, love is the major theme. How love can make miracles happen. Especially the jmoy and intoxication of new love. Of that puppy love. It’s got a Romeo and Juliet vibe. There are at least three scenes I consider Romeo/Benvolio inspired. Not to mention the Love can conquer all vibe. But the thing is, my heart and my reviews on love have a lot of scar tissue built up. If theater before has been therapy, this has been more like rehab. Or physical therapy. Breaking down the scar tissue and the atrophy. Letting the body and soul relearn or recapture what it had before.
Love and theater has always been linked for me. Every time I’ve truly fallen in love it started on a stage. Ten years ago I walked away from theater and acting when lots of my life was falling apart. It was a self-defense mechanism. I was feeling so much. Too much. So I had to shut part of me down. I knew that acting opened me up and I felt it might be too much of a Pandora’s Box to try again.
I hate a love/hate relationship with love. I mean my favorite song as a 7 year old was U2’s “With or Without You”, so I committed to angst early. I loved watching The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis on Nic at Night which was basically the story of romantic and social failure for 30 min every episode. I know every word of “The Power of Love” by Huey Lewis. I listen to Hozier’s Somebody New probably once a week. The first three real roles I got in a musical, I sang “L-O-V-E” by Nat King Cole as my audition. So yeah Love has been a thing. As it is.
I took the chance to open myself to theater again two years ago because of my daughter. I saw her love for the stage, her joy in performing and the cracks in my hardened heart began to grow. Luckily the first role I played was a villainous man-child who wanted the fancy flying car. Greed and childishness is pretty easy for me to access. And it was fun. I got to play again. I saw the joy on my daughters face. Theater was therapy again. It was good again.
This summer has been different. I don’t get to access the easy emotions this time. I have to unlock and unpack some things that have been hidden for a long time. Locked away. Ignored. Neglected. In a way it’s fitting. It took me time to find the connection between my real life and this show. But I finally did.
It’s the 10 year anniversary of the biggest change and chaos of my life. The 10th anniversary of me taking a part of me and hiding it away. Of deciding that I couldn’t let myself truly feel. Of deciding that it was too dangerous to act. It’s probably past time to unpack that baggage.
I don’t need to fall in love. I just have to believe such a thing is possible. Possible for two people in less than one day in a magical Scottish town to make a life changing choice while attending a wedding and funeral.
Ironically, that seems more likely than me unpacking my baggage.
But I’ve been working on it. It’s opened up some memories and feelings that I haven’t processed in the past 10 years, 7 years, 3 minutes etc. It’s not always been a pleasure cruise. Yet, just as seeing my daughter’s love for theater started the cracks, trying and working and processing has helped them widen. I wouldn’t say you can process or work through 10 years of repression and emotional neglect in six weeks. But I’ve made progress.
I’ve made it to the point where I can admit that I believe there is someone for everyone. There might even be someone out there for me. I’m not quite ready to believe I’ll ever find them. But I can believe it for my friends. (At least I stopped skipping weddings years ago). I can believe it for others. I can believe it for Tommy and Fiona and some magical Scottish town that vanishes every night.
If it can make a 36 year old, jaded divorced man child with a checked relationship history and an extremely stubborn nature begin to unpack some of his baggage and deal with his emotions like an adult – maybe Love can do anything, even miracles just like Mr Lundie says.
Rosetown Playhouse Presents: Brigadoon!
Performances: August 3-5 & 10-13
Time: All performances at 7 p.m., except August 13 at 1 p.m.
Location: Como Dockside
Ticket Prices: $15/adults; $12/Seniors (62+); $10/Students 6+; $7/Children 5 and under
Buy Tickets - https://rosetownplayhouse.org/shows/brigadoon
Monday, July 24, 2017
I Took a Walk
Last night, I took a walk. Like many things in life, it wasn't planned. It just sort of happened.
Like cancer.
I had an amazing weekend. I laughed. I loved. I spent time with my kids, my friends and my family. As Sunday drew to a close, I started to head home. I was simply going to walk to Dale and catch a bus home. I said my goodbyes and left with that plan in mind.
As I walked the streets and alleys of downtown St Paul, with the memories of the awesome weekend washing over me. I got lost in my head. Birthday parties and bowling and laser tag. Saturday morning donuts. Smiles and laughter at Culver's after rehearsal. The look on the gentleman's face when I gave him the literal shirt off my back because he hadn't gotten the free Saints jersey. My daughter's smile in the picture she sent me from the wig store.
Reality has a way of crashing in when we least expect it. Somewhere just past University and Rice, my mood shifted. I had an awesome weekend. So many good memories. So much concrete and concentrated joy. But just ahead was the unknown. Tomorrow.
My mother starts chemotherapy today. The cancer has been removed. The prognosis is good.
But they are injecting literal poison into her body today. It's terrifying even as it's logical and necessary and as safe as they can make it.
It was late. It was dark. My phone was dead and I was alone. None of that scared me nearly as much as the unknown of tomorrow. I found myself still walking. Soaking in the sights of Rice St after dark. The street which feels like it was a bustling center of commerce at one time and could be again. Over the bridge above the railroad tracks. Past a library I once visited with the kids. Up and down as the road made it's way to the suburbs.
I couldn't control tomorrow. But I could walk. And in that moment, I needed the tiny victory.
Memories came flooding in. I pass a car dealer and think of the time my mother took me to practice driving in the parking of the very same Middle School that tomorrow I will rehearse in with my children. How she stopped herself two steps on the soccer field when I got undercut when going for a header and landed on my face. The look on her face as she was torn from rushing to me and giving me the space I needed; all of Parenthood in one facial expression.
How at the two scariest moments of my life, when each of my children came into the world dramatically and premature - she flew to me. From Minnesota to Massachusetts. From Colorado to Kentucky. How in the very moment I was about to be come a parent, she asked me what she could do, and I said "I just need my mom"
We don't do a good enough job of telling the people we love that we love them.
So I kept walking. Right around Arlington and the softball fields and batting cages I haven't frequented since high school, the tears came in. It must have been a sight. A grown man, walking at night, tears running down his checks as a smile crept onto his face.
So much. So many memories. So many fears. So many steps.
It was a much longer walk than I meant it to be.
I crossed over Larpenteur and passed the building that used to house Simick's. We'd go to pick up meatballs for a party and they'd always have samples. It never feels like a party without meatballs.
Pass the bus barn that is now in the spot of the old minigolf and batting cages. Over Roselawn and toward the Cub where on Thanksgiving we saw a flock of turkeys hanging out in the parking lot like they were at a wake.
I stopped and got some water and a drink at McCarron's. Mostly to sit and play a game of Ms. Pac-Man but also to rest my feet. It felt a bit silly that it had taken me so long to walk that far. But I had done it. It was a process but it was almost complete.
I know that is where we are with this cancer thing. It's a process. It's almost complete. This poison is the next step.
Prognosis is good. But I'm still scared. Because as I walked last night, as I thought last night - It is as true now as it ever has been:
I just need my mom.
Like cancer.
I had an amazing weekend. I laughed. I loved. I spent time with my kids, my friends and my family. As Sunday drew to a close, I started to head home. I was simply going to walk to Dale and catch a bus home. I said my goodbyes and left with that plan in mind.
As I walked the streets and alleys of downtown St Paul, with the memories of the awesome weekend washing over me. I got lost in my head. Birthday parties and bowling and laser tag. Saturday morning donuts. Smiles and laughter at Culver's after rehearsal. The look on the gentleman's face when I gave him the literal shirt off my back because he hadn't gotten the free Saints jersey. My daughter's smile in the picture she sent me from the wig store.
Reality has a way of crashing in when we least expect it. Somewhere just past University and Rice, my mood shifted. I had an awesome weekend. So many good memories. So much concrete and concentrated joy. But just ahead was the unknown. Tomorrow.
My mother starts chemotherapy today. The cancer has been removed. The prognosis is good.
But they are injecting literal poison into her body today. It's terrifying even as it's logical and necessary and as safe as they can make it.
It was late. It was dark. My phone was dead and I was alone. None of that scared me nearly as much as the unknown of tomorrow. I found myself still walking. Soaking in the sights of Rice St after dark. The street which feels like it was a bustling center of commerce at one time and could be again. Over the bridge above the railroad tracks. Past a library I once visited with the kids. Up and down as the road made it's way to the suburbs.
I couldn't control tomorrow. But I could walk. And in that moment, I needed the tiny victory.
Memories came flooding in. I pass a car dealer and think of the time my mother took me to practice driving in the parking of the very same Middle School that tomorrow I will rehearse in with my children. How she stopped herself two steps on the soccer field when I got undercut when going for a header and landed on my face. The look on her face as she was torn from rushing to me and giving me the space I needed; all of Parenthood in one facial expression.
How at the two scariest moments of my life, when each of my children came into the world dramatically and premature - she flew to me. From Minnesota to Massachusetts. From Colorado to Kentucky. How in the very moment I was about to be come a parent, she asked me what she could do, and I said "I just need my mom"
We don't do a good enough job of telling the people we love that we love them.
So I kept walking. Right around Arlington and the softball fields and batting cages I haven't frequented since high school, the tears came in. It must have been a sight. A grown man, walking at night, tears running down his checks as a smile crept onto his face.
So much. So many memories. So many fears. So many steps.
It was a much longer walk than I meant it to be.
I crossed over Larpenteur and passed the building that used to house Simick's. We'd go to pick up meatballs for a party and they'd always have samples. It never feels like a party without meatballs.
Pass the bus barn that is now in the spot of the old minigolf and batting cages. Over Roselawn and toward the Cub where on Thanksgiving we saw a flock of turkeys hanging out in the parking lot like they were at a wake.
I stopped and got some water and a drink at McCarron's. Mostly to sit and play a game of Ms. Pac-Man but also to rest my feet. It felt a bit silly that it had taken me so long to walk that far. But I had done it. It was a process but it was almost complete.
I know that is where we are with this cancer thing. It's a process. It's almost complete. This poison is the next step.
Prognosis is good. But I'm still scared. Because as I walked last night, as I thought last night - It is as true now as it ever has been:
I just need my mom.
Tuesday, November 1, 2016
Independance Day Dependence.
The original Independence Day movie was a huge part of my childhood. Epic. Created a movie star from a favorite sitcom star. Forced me to think about religions other than my own. As the world as a common point.
I still think the only thing that really unite humans is a common enemy. And quiet frankly we are overdue for the figure it out our problems are petty invasion.
Independence Day was triumphant. Heroic. But it was also something else for adolescent Adam. It informed, changed my view, perception or event understanding of something as simple as a hug.
I was 14 going on 15 and blind to so much of the world. Then I spent a week or two (memory is fussy on the details) on a service project at a camp. We probably built fences or something. Or cleaned. Quite frankly as a 14 year old boy, I wasn't that interested. In the work. But my lord, the girls, was I interested in the girls.
I was 14. To me romance was still Back to the Future and maybe a couple episodes of Friends or the ill fated WB sitcom Platypus Man staring Richard Jeni. I knew nothing.
But for this magical period of time, I had a cabin I shared with my friends, work to do, meals all together in the mess hall and members of the opposite sex who I find intoxicating. I was my own real life version of Hey Dude.
It was in this week, I met someone, spend hours talking with them, lay on the merry go round and watched the stars. It was a crash course not in romance but in intimacy or at least opening up to it.
The mission project ended and we all went our separate ways. We promised to write and actually managed to do so for a while. One of the first letters I wrote was after I had returned home and gone to Independence Day with my friends. In my innocence, I wrote something that was oddly profound to me even today. To be fair I only have the letter I received in response. There is no electronic backup for long distance letters of the mid 90s. But my memory and the details of her response uphold the narrative I am about to share.
I was no Romeo or Byron. I wrote little that would inspire Bards to weep and wail. I'm sure I wrote paragraphs about my trip home, things I had done etc. But what I remember and what her response supports is that I went to see Independence Day with my friends. And the triumphant end, with it's reunions of couples and uplifting we are one humanity theme hit me. But what hit me most was how much seeing people hug each other made me miss her. Because we had hugged. We had that connection. And I missed that.
As is my theme eventually we grew apart. School started and I didn't respond to a letter or two. Through my inaction and being 15 we stopped communicating. Years later, probably a decade we connected on Facebook awkwardly, as is the fashion. Barely communicate, as is the fashion. But she was from Chicago, a suburb called Elgin, and is probably likely the reason I am pulling for the Cubs this year.
It's easy to say that innocence made me think I missed the hug. That it was some pre-adult desire. But I will be honest. I miss hugs even today. I miss the way Independence Day made me feel. Missing connection. Wanting that vein of total humanity.
So of course, on Halloween, my least favorite of holidays and with the Vikings creating a new nightmare, I decided to watch a movie. I was already beaten down by the fooseball, so I picked something that I thought would uplift.
Independence Day 2.
Ha. I loved the first movie because I still believed and rooted for good v evil stories. I thought the world was black and white. History was read left to right and set in stone. The original was us against the others.
Maybe I have read too many novels. Maybe I am gullible. But I totally believe in extraterrestrial life. But I'll admit that this past few years have made me doubt it exists.
Not because of aliens or experience. No. Because if there was a superior force waiting to invade, they really couldn't have a better time than now.
We have nuclear weapons all over the globe. We fight against each other in every country in either politics or culture. We beat each other down.
I watched Independence Day 2 and marveled that if there is intelligent live out there...they are totally missing their window.
We are divided. We are fractured. Boy, do we dislike each other.
We don't hug as much as we should.
I expected to watch Independence Day 2 and lament about loss innocence and youth. What I truly lament is that as I watched the movie tonight, people working together felt to much further away. And as a single 35 year old, a hug felt like an enigma. But that connect, that hug, that common bond was still what intrigued and held me.
I pray there is an alien force dumb enough to invade. Because that is the one thing we as a humanity can probably fight together. Not amongst ourselves about creed, or religion or word choice or shape or god or no god. But against a common enemy. My biggest fear is that the superior force, the aliens, learned that we are more a danger to ourselves than they could ever be. So they are just waiting for us to wear the opposition down.
Elections suck. Bad people suck. But the aliens might just be waiting for us to kill each other off. Because they know they can't beat us united. Which will always be our greatest and more powerful skill.
I still think the only thing that really unite humans is a common enemy. And quiet frankly we are overdue for the figure it out our problems are petty invasion.
Independence Day was triumphant. Heroic. But it was also something else for adolescent Adam. It informed, changed my view, perception or event understanding of something as simple as a hug.
I was 14 going on 15 and blind to so much of the world. Then I spent a week or two (memory is fussy on the details) on a service project at a camp. We probably built fences or something. Or cleaned. Quite frankly as a 14 year old boy, I wasn't that interested. In the work. But my lord, the girls, was I interested in the girls.
I was 14. To me romance was still Back to the Future and maybe a couple episodes of Friends or the ill fated WB sitcom Platypus Man staring Richard Jeni. I knew nothing.
But for this magical period of time, I had a cabin I shared with my friends, work to do, meals all together in the mess hall and members of the opposite sex who I find intoxicating. I was my own real life version of Hey Dude.
It was in this week, I met someone, spend hours talking with them, lay on the merry go round and watched the stars. It was a crash course not in romance but in intimacy or at least opening up to it.
The mission project ended and we all went our separate ways. We promised to write and actually managed to do so for a while. One of the first letters I wrote was after I had returned home and gone to Independence Day with my friends. In my innocence, I wrote something that was oddly profound to me even today. To be fair I only have the letter I received in response. There is no electronic backup for long distance letters of the mid 90s. But my memory and the details of her response uphold the narrative I am about to share.
I was no Romeo or Byron. I wrote little that would inspire Bards to weep and wail. I'm sure I wrote paragraphs about my trip home, things I had done etc. But what I remember and what her response supports is that I went to see Independence Day with my friends. And the triumphant end, with it's reunions of couples and uplifting we are one humanity theme hit me. But what hit me most was how much seeing people hug each other made me miss her. Because we had hugged. We had that connection. And I missed that.
As is my theme eventually we grew apart. School started and I didn't respond to a letter or two. Through my inaction and being 15 we stopped communicating. Years later, probably a decade we connected on Facebook awkwardly, as is the fashion. Barely communicate, as is the fashion. But she was from Chicago, a suburb called Elgin, and is probably likely the reason I am pulling for the Cubs this year.
It's easy to say that innocence made me think I missed the hug. That it was some pre-adult desire. But I will be honest. I miss hugs even today. I miss the way Independence Day made me feel. Missing connection. Wanting that vein of total humanity.
So of course, on Halloween, my least favorite of holidays and with the Vikings creating a new nightmare, I decided to watch a movie. I was already beaten down by the fooseball, so I picked something that I thought would uplift.
Independence Day 2.
Ha. I loved the first movie because I still believed and rooted for good v evil stories. I thought the world was black and white. History was read left to right and set in stone. The original was us against the others.
Maybe I have read too many novels. Maybe I am gullible. But I totally believe in extraterrestrial life. But I'll admit that this past few years have made me doubt it exists.
Not because of aliens or experience. No. Because if there was a superior force waiting to invade, they really couldn't have a better time than now.
We have nuclear weapons all over the globe. We fight against each other in every country in either politics or culture. We beat each other down.
I watched Independence Day 2 and marveled that if there is intelligent live out there...they are totally missing their window.
We are divided. We are fractured. Boy, do we dislike each other.
We don't hug as much as we should.
I expected to watch Independence Day 2 and lament about loss innocence and youth. What I truly lament is that as I watched the movie tonight, people working together felt to much further away. And as a single 35 year old, a hug felt like an enigma. But that connect, that hug, that common bond was still what intrigued and held me.
I pray there is an alien force dumb enough to invade. Because that is the one thing we as a humanity can probably fight together. Not amongst ourselves about creed, or religion or word choice or shape or god or no god. But against a common enemy. My biggest fear is that the superior force, the aliens, learned that we are more a danger to ourselves than they could ever be. So they are just waiting for us to wear the opposition down.
Elections suck. Bad people suck. But the aliens might just be waiting for us to kill each other off. Because they know they can't beat us united. Which will always be our greatest and more powerful skill.
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