Mormon Boy
Joe and I went to San Diego to see his family. While we were there, Joe went to Comicon. I saw some friends and got a pedicure and did some light shopping, which is what I call it when I’m not shopping for anything in particular and there is no list that includes words like ‘lndry detrg’ or ‘deodrt’ or ‘tampns.’ While I sat in the cushy chair, which top portion where my back was being pummeled seemed to be disconnected from the bottom portion where my feet were being soaked, I had a perfect view of people passing by, walking from the Target into the large part of the mall. (This is the first mall I’ve ever seen where Target is one of the anchors. I’m used to seeing JC Penney and Sears.) My pedicure experience was just lovely and I’ll write a longer post specific to that another time. But right now, I want to tell you about Mormon Boy.
Steven Fales, one of my new heroes, puts on a one-man show entitled, ‘Confessions of a Mormon Boy.’ He was in San Diego, which I knew because I was alerted to a PBS radio show where Steven was talking about his show by my friend who lives in SD. She knows I’m a recovering Mormon and shot me over an email to let me know that I should be tuning in KPBS. Which I couldn’t do, since I was at work. But I did download the interview and listened to it later. I couldn’t wait to go.
On Sunday, I dragged Joe and Mike with me to go see what could possibly have turned a perfectly good Mormon boy into a gay one on his one-way path to hell.
From the minute you enter the theater, you know you have just left the Regular World and have entered some alternate universe where Donny and Marie rule supreme along with wholesome goodness, white shirts, scriptures and weird underwear. Before he even steps on the stage, Steven is piping in good ‘ol Mormon music, which incidentally I miss and get ravenous for on occasion, and by the time you sit down and get comfy in your seat, you’ve realized there is no turning back. He played a song from a Janeen Brady tape I knew very, very well growing up called I’m a Mormon. You can hear it here. Pay special attention to the lyrics which say something about being peculiar and if you want to study a Mormon, I’m a living specimen.
Steven’s performance was brilliant and compelling. I would say here that I laughed – I cried. But I did really laugh and cry and I don’t want it to sound trite. My heart nearly exploded a few times as my mind was flooded with memories and what it means to be so entrenched in Mormon life and fighting to get your head above water so you can just breathe, one single breathe, and not have it cut into your soul and your very fiber because you know that you don’t belong but you can’t figure out how to not be there yet. It’s inconceivable that there is any other type of life out there for you where you are allowed to be who you are AND still have God in your life. Somehow, being raised Mormon means one of two things: you are faithful and Mormon in every way and all your dreams come true -or- you fall away from the true church and live forever wailing, lamenting and gnashing your teeth in outer darkness. Forever. And Ever. Amen.
Watching Steven take his journey into every extreme and then finally finding his Center, take responsibility for himself and his actions, grow into his true self, was marvelous. I would highly recommend it for everyone except my mother, who would be offended by some of the more blatantly sexual parts.
Afterwards, I wanted to shake his hand and tell him how much I appreciated him sharing his story with me and the world. I had so much emotion in me that it was hard to even speak. How brave he is to just put it all out there. There are so many people who will benefit from his ability to share. If I was asked to do that, could I?
I shook his hand and told him I grew up in Utah. His face dropped the famous ‘Mormon Smile’ for a moment and he asked me, ‘Are you ok?’ I assured him I was and then imposed a hug on him, which isn’t really like me – to be all huggy and what not – but it just happened.
He is a genuinely nice person with a good heart and much to give. I wish him all the best as he continues on his journey of Truth.
I'm Lance – Let's Go Out!
Here is my totally unsolicted opinion about poor, poor Lance:
1. Lance may not be married because he hangs out with weird friends and is employed by people who would set up this website.
2. Maybe we should set up the website ‘EmployLance.com’ so he can have a chance at happiness. Case in point, ‘And he’s one of eight kids, and we think he wants a lot of kids, so you’d have to be down with the ‘big family’ thing.’ Yak.
3. And the answer is YES. If you are Mormon, approaching or arrived at 30 years of age and have not married and procreated at least 3 kids, this will happen to you. So hurry. It’s an emergency. Get the guy married STAT.
4. What if Lance is gay but just hasn’t come out yet? This ploy to get him happily married to a wonderful LDS woman would be very short lived.
5. What kind of female would be compelled to answer his company’s ad to date him? And if you were Lance, how would you know it was about you and not the publicity?
6. I love the way they cover all the bases just in case. “If you are already spoken for, but feel bad about the missed opportunity, why not share it with someone who can Date Lance” or you can apply for a job with his company, LogoWorks.
UPDATE: Dooce has a photo of the billboard on her site.
Swingy Grunge
I love Paul Anka.
I love Nirvana.
I love swing music.
I love grunge music.
Now I can get them all in one place.
This must be heaven: Paul Anka sings Smells Like Teen Spirit.
Martinis Are Good For Licking
In the spirit of fan-ness for Miss Mason, Miss Armstrong and their friends, I present to you Margot and Leah Licking Martinis:
T.U.T.
Actually, Leah, while I don’t mean to burst your bubble, it’s pretty much just you who thinks you’re awake right now. You see, we’re all still sitting on that little patch of grass, in utter paradise, under the ancient oak in your favorite meadow by the sea. And at the moment you’re practicing your new in-body-experience technique, as you doze in and out of trance on your silky, swaying, hummingbird-powered hammock.
You’re so cute.
The Universe
p.s. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, Leah, honest, but you were starting to sing that “choo, choo…” song again, intermingled with fits of laughter.
Thoughts become things… choose the good ones!®
© www.tut.com ®
Meth
I started using meth about the same time I moved out of the house and away from my marriage and kids. I felt like a failure. I wanted to never think about anything that meant anything. I wanted an escape. Meth did that for me. I started out snorting it and after a while, when that didn’t keep me as high anymore, I moved on to smoking it. And I could never get enough. And I couldn’t think about anything else besides when the next time I could get high would be. I knew even as it was happening that it felt out of my control and stupid and that I should make myself quit but I couldn’t. I would think, ‘This is so stupid. I’m being so dumb.’ and then light the pipe and inhale deeply.
I drove to Seattle after not sleeping and contemplating suicide for almost 2 weeks straight. My sister took me in. I tried to quit using but it went on for a few more weeks. It was so easy to find and people were practically giving it away to strangers. It’s not easy to say no when people are offering. Eventually, my self harming took care of all of it. I cut my leg so deep and long with a razor that I needed emergency attention and lots of stitches. I went from there to a mental institution where I started getting all the help I needed for so many things.
This guy couldn’t stop until he used a rifle to blow off his face.
Paul Ford
I’ve recently re-discovered Paul Ford and am in love all over again. i think it’s his dry wit coupled with raw self-deprecation while doing self-exploration that makes me want to give him a hug, hand him a lollypop and award him something – like a large trophy – while wearing a small smile and shaking my head in a way that everyone knows means, ‘That Paul.‘
Murhy's Law
I generally think of myself as an earth-friendly person. I don’t let my kids litter. I was a smoker for 13 years or so and never threw a cigarette butt out of the car window, although one was pulled from my fingers once and was gone before I could even blink. That was a sad day which I’m not sure I’ve fully recovered from.
I recycle. At one time I had 6 trashcans to accommodate 6 types of rubbish. I no longer have that many but I have enough. I compulsively follow up when my kids throw things away to make sure that no can or plastic bottle goes unnoticed and into the wrong bin. I even go so far as to pick up other people’s litter when I see it and it’s not too sticky, providing I have a pocket to put it in. I’m generally a good citizen. I vote. I stay current with what’s going on around me. I buy Girl Scout cookies and donate to those lying kids that sell magazine subscriptions to make money for college when I know they are really going to buy crack, but I can’t prove it, and what if they are telling the truth?
I don’t shop at behemoths like Wal-mart, unless absolutely necessary and feel guilty every second, and do shop at local stores to support our cities infrastructure. I buy meat and produce that is hormone and pesticide free and organically grown in the local area, thereby supporting our farmers. I eat protein powder in my home-made smoothies made with frozen organically grown bananas. I drink lots of water. I wear energy patches. I try to get enough sleep. I remind my kids to take their vitamins and brush their teeth. I believe in a Higher Power. I believe in Karma. And I believe we are all socially responsible for out planet.
And for years I drove a small, gas efficient, stick-shift car with broken tape deck, no CD player, a compulsion for blowing the front right tire and passed on the opportunity to own a new Hummer when they first were pushed into the forefront of vehicle manufacturing, even though it was yellow, because I care about our energy resources and the air we breathe. I also passed on the massive F150 with the red flames licking across the front even though I love flames and licking. And when the air conditioning broke for the third time in my too small and naturally evil Escort which was no longer under warranty, I just kept driving it anyway, knowing I was somehow doing something good for Mother Earth by not getting one of the dammed SUVs because I was waiting for the hybrid van. I didn’t care who would come out with one that actually worked well first – Ford or Toyota, I just wanted one. So I waited. And waited. And waited.
And then I got married. And it came to pass that there were six of us, two being quite large, and not all could fit at the same time. This became a source of many contentious moments and many, many, many trips made in two vehicles instead of one. And I figured I waited long enough.
Last Wednesday we bought a van. A huge, gas-guzzling, 50-dollars-to-fill-the-tank, black, 8-seater Chevy Astro. And we all fit with room to spare and no one touches or has to squirm. It has AIR CONDITIONING which allows me to drive without the windows rolled down in 100 degree heat, sweat rolling down my back in steady streams. It has a 6-changer CD player so I can listen to Bjork and Frou Frou without the background accompaniment of the wind. And now, five (5) days later, Ford announces you can order their new hybrid vehicle online. Right now. No waiting. Which makes me an energy-conscious, world-loving freak that drives around in a humungous, spectacular, earth killing vehicle. It’s a bit of a conundrum.
Digital Journalist
I look forward to the Digital Journalist.
In this issue:
*An interesting article about using images taken from camera phones in mainstream media, specifically after the London bombings.
*A photo spread from a new book, Hollywood Splash, by Veronique Vial which includes these two photos: Julie Delpy and William H. Macy.
Laundry Mat Show
We were sitting all together, the three of us in a row, me in the middle, watching the colors of the laundry go round and round: Devon not looking forward to folding the clothes that would inevitably be washed, dried and in the pile in front of him, me thinking about how my back was hurting a little from sitting on the ground for 3 hours last night waiting for fireworks, and Tony sitting quietly to my left.
Suddenly, Tony says in his TV announcer voice, ‘Welcome to the Clothing Show! Tonight’s episode = Sock Pair madly chase after evil Red Shirt!’
