Thursday, June 2, 2011
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
We lay down and wept
I am not good at loss. I don't know anyone who is. But I have a particularly hard time, especially when loss is layered on loss.
It becomes so overwhelming that I can't feel the impact of it until many years later.
Who died first? I think it was Ken, who was not a close friend but a loyal and true member of my church. He sat behind me in choir, sang bass, was one of the support beams and part of the underlying structure of our choir (which at that point was very good). He was always the first to arrive at the church to take care of the myriad tasks to prepare for worship, and the last one to leave.
Then I got a call from the minister's wife in the morning before church. She told me he was dead.
He was driving his truck, pulled over, got out, and hit the ground.
Ken was only about three days older than me. The funeral was huge. I was disoriented, in a teary daze that no one else seemed to share: this should be a celebration of his life, after all! Funerals now have the air of festivity of a carnival, with hand-clapping, rousing gospel hymns and much laughter as friends share the departed person's foibles.
Who went next? Maybe it was Glen. Glen Allen was someone I'd never met. We had corresponded in the old-fashioned way, pen on paper, for fully ten years, as he moved from one newspaper to another. An award-winning journalist, he struggled with alcoholism and mental illness for his whole life. People warmed to Glen, they loved him, for he had a compassion I'd never encountered before, a deep empathy for the down-and-out.
Then someone found him frozen to death by the railroad tracks in Toronto. He had taken a bottle of pills and wandered out of the psychiatric ward in the freezing cold, and at some point passed out. He died like one of the homeless people he loved so well.
Glen was dead.
Gerry went next, I think: or no, maybe it was just my awareness of Gerry, for I had lost touch with one of my dearest friends and didn't know if he was alive or dead. Gerry had cancer, and his passing was not entirely unexpected, but he had been one of my closest church friends for fifteen years or so. Well, he lived into his seventies, so we can't exactly cry at his funeral, can we? Let's put our hands together and celebrate!
I had to keep running to the washroom to cry. Alone.
And Peter, this - . This thing about Peter. I can't talk much about Peter, though I will post a photo of him. In 2005, he helped me through what was without doubt the most harrowing time of my life. When I look back at all those deaths, I wonder why I didn't see it. I thought I had dropped the ball. I thought it was -
I can't talk about Peter much, because he died. I didn't find out about it until very recently, though I suspected it. He has been gone for three years. I suddenly realized I still had all our emails, though I thought I lost them years ago.
I'm not good at death, and particularly not good at the hand-clapping and yee-haws of contemporary memorial services. I don't think we need to dress in black and sit there grimly, but do we have to pretend we don't really mind that the person is gone? Do we have to sit there holding back floods of tears, in isolated pain, a pain which can become badly infected and spread throughout the body and mind?
Oh no: if we feel such inappropriate things, we need "therapy". We need to see a "professional", because we are obviously too antisocial and fucked-up to get with it, to get on-board. So we pony up the $125 per session or whatever it is, and try to "heal", while our friends chatter and gossip and forget all about the departed. For after all, we must "move on".
So the therapist slots us neatly into the "stages of grief", asking us weekly, "OK, which stage are you in today? Denial? Anger?" "Ummmmm. . . how about total despair?" "But that's not a stage of grief. Besides, I think you might have missed one, the one that comes after bargaining. So you're going to have to back up a little."
But I don't know about the right order, because I don't know which person to grieve first. Four is a lot, you see. You fellows had better get in line.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
It's the Anthony Perkins Action Figure!
Goddamn it, I don't know how to get one of these, but finding a picture of one was ecstatic enough. It even looks a bit like him.
Too bad they didn't make a Norman Bates, complete with wig and a little tiny knife.
Gay? Okay.
What is it about a certain kind of man, a certain kind of gay man, a certain kind of closeted gay man, a certain kind of famous closeted gay man, a certain kind of feyly-beautiful-as-a-youth-but-ageing-into-skin-the-texture-of-chipped-beef famous closeted gay man, that - oh, shit, let's skip this and get into Anthony Perkins again.
Older women devoured him, as seen in the above shot with the frighteningly carnivorous actress Melina Mercouri. It's not often a person other than a dentist gets to see someone's entire upper teeth. There is no record of his response. He did live with older women, but completely nonsexually. He was in the closet, eh? Do you see the look on his face in most of these pictures? Was that closet the size of Hollywood, or the size of the entire world?
Hey, I liked him anyway, but it's too bad he couldn't just be, that he had to try to be respectable so he could have kids and a home. He thought he couldn't have kids and a home with the men he loved, so picked a slightly butch woman who came from money. Fortunately she willingly revolved around him as if he were a particularly strange, remote planet with a strong gravitational pull.
I like that coat with the stripes, I like it a lot, but he looks to be on the verge of hysterics. In most of these shots, he hasn't even played Master Bates yet (master of his domain, perhaps even Master of the Universe). That last one, well, I had to throw that in to demonstrate the fact that he was not only a famous closeted gay man with, etc. etc. , but that he had quite possibly the longest neck in human history. In later years, he wore a concrete brace with little, what-do-you-call-those-things, epaulets or something, to keep his head from falling off. It was only partially successful. His head had a habit of rolling down the Hollywood hills all the way to the East coast and landing in Stephen Sondheim's garbage pail.
Do you know the weirdest fact about Tony Perkins? During his five seconds as an action hero in Disney's limp space epic, The Black Hole, there was an Anthony Perkins doll which would probably go for thousands on eBay if you could ever find one. But I'll bet Melina Mercouri ate every last one.
Amazon
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001K7NGDA
Thistledown Press
Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book
It took me years to write, will you take a look
Order The Glass Character from:
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Tinker, tailor, part 2
Yesterday I wrote about a strange connection I discovered when researching Irish gypsy/traveller culture: people referred to these often-reviled people as "tinkers", and I remembered that my Irish great-grandfather was a tinker/tinsmith.
It seemed unlikely he had anything to do with a culture that was looked down upon, until I remembered the greyhound cookie cutter he made, not a practical thing because the legs of the cookies always broke off. Then I found out in my research that these Irish "travellers" (tinkers?) traditionally raised and raced greyhounds.
The hair on my neck stood up. It was the weirdest feeling. Even weirder was the feeling when I googled "greyhound cookie cutters", expecting exactly nothing, and got at least a dozen images. Most showed the dog safely standing up, with only two legs (front and back fused together). This one came closest to my great-grandfather's tin artwork. Who knows what connection he may have had to greyhounds. Could it be that he was a "traveller", too?
Monday, May 30, 2011
Tinker, tailor, bridesmaid . . . aieeeeeee!!
Please bear with me if all this is a little disjointed: I'm working from fragmentary information cobbled together from a "documentary" (read: TV sideshow) on TLC called My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding.
I don't watch bridal shows as a rule, mainly because they bore the piss out of me. (My own wedding was minimal, but lo and behold, we just celebrated 38 years together.) But here is a culture which seems to live for weddings and first communions, the recipients of these rituals so swathed in foamy tulle and caked-on makeup that they are barely recognizable as themselves.
This is all about "gypsy" culture, mainly of Irish descent, living in various parts of Britain in communities that resemble a typical North American trailer park. Strictly speaking, since they aren't Romany (the East European itinerant culture that has existed for centuries), they aren't really gypsies at all. Such a moniker is almost like using the n-word for black people.
They prefer to call themselves "travellers", though I didn't see much travelling going on in these first two hour-long episodes. Mostly I saw little girls in skimpy, trashy outfits gyrating and wagging their butts suggestively, brides so immobilized in grotesque, tacky gowns that they had to be carried, and matter-of-fact descriptions of a culture that oppresses women so completely that no one even thinks of violating their rigid, sexist rules.
I did a bit of digging (but only a bit: I was sent reeling backwards by these bizarre extremes, and several times was nearly convinced it was a TLC-perpetrated parody), and found out that, ye gods, me own Irish ancestors, bless their shabby little souls, might have been lumped in with these people. It seems odd to me that they're sometimes called tinkers, a term used in the most derogatory manner possible. Tinkers were tinsmiths who mended things like pots and pans (back in the day when everything wasn't just chucked out and replaced). They also made various kinds of practical, useful kitchen implements.
How do I know? At my grandma's house, my grandma on my mother's side, there were two blackened old cookie cutters made of ancient tin. One was a pig and the other was a dog, a lean stretched-out dog like a greyhound. I eventually found out from my mother that these had been made by my great-grandfather before the family emigrated to Canada (perhaps to escape the potato famine: I'm still not sure about that). Which means that my great-grandfather, a tinsmith by trade, was probably called a tinker.
It's strange, because my mother never mentioned any sort of prejudice against the family and talked about her grandfather as a good honest working man with a solid trade. Did he have an old wagon with pots hanging off it and banging together, and a "tinker bell" (yes, there really was something called a tinker bell, though I can't find a definition of it anywhere) letting people know that he was coming?
And what's so awful about that, I ask you?
I think in those days, and in these days too, people get lumped together. To say that "gypsies" or travellers or whatever-you-call-them were completely innocent of some of society's charges would be simply inaccurate. Though the first couple of episodes of this alarmingly extreme program were vague about it all, a little digging brought out the fact that many of these travellers are squatters, setting up their "caravan" communities on land that does not belong to them.
Wait a minute, isn't that. . . theft? But we can't say that about gypsies!
I have a few more problems with this program. OK, a lot more. Those hideous nuclear-explosion gowns and the black leather dominatrix outfits commonly worn at receptions are all custom-made and must be extravagantly expensive. So far we've been told that the girls, who marry at around age 16, must stick to housework and raising children. But what do the men do? How do they raise enough money from, well, probably not being lawyers or stockbrokers, to pay for all this superficial, ostentatous, ludicrous-looking shit?
My research on the careers of travellers seems to be a couple of hundred years out of date, stating that traveller cultures usually breed greyhouds or Gypsy Vanner horses, which is pretty hard to do if you're itinerant and don't own any land. I don't see how they can raise those big old draft horses in a trailer park (particularly if it isn't theirs). I'm looking forward to seeing how the show gets around all that (if in fact it does), as it has already decided to be completely sympathetic to these (probable) squatters who are refusing to pay rent, yet spending thousands on these eyesplitting explosions of tulle (some laced with flashing LED lights) that will never be worn again.
Though this is the kind of show you watch between your fingers, it may just shed a little light on a subculture which has seemingly been reviled since time began. I would be fascinated to see a program about real gypsies, the Romany people of Europe, and whether or not they insert their six-year-old daughters into stiff, scratchy gowns that cripple them and leave angry red welts on their bodies.
I don't understand all this superficial display, this flaunting of - what?, and the jaw-dropping bad taste that just keeps escalating until we catch sight of the mother of the bride, so caked with makeup that her face is brown, wearing elbow-length black leather lace-up armbands to her daughter's great moment: her bizarre funhouse-mirror Disney-princess moment that signals the end of girlhood and the beginning of a lifetime of oppression and servitude.
(Just had one of those creepy moments. Real creepy. I never wondered about the pig cookie cutter; the drunk lolling in the gutter with a pig for a companion was an awful Irish stereotype. But the greyhound? I can't imagine a stranger subject for a cookie cutter, with all those long slim legs breaking off. Didn't Wikipedia mention the travellers raising greyhounds? Is there something I'm missing here?)
Amazon
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001K7NGDA
Thistledown Press
Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book
It took me years to write, will you take a look
Order The Glass Character from:
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001K7NGDA
Barnes & Noble
Thistledown Press
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Grandma's little bunheads
Erica and Lauren (who don't usually wear a pound of mascara) had their triumphant debut as ballerinas in today's matinee performance of Get Up and Dance! Three more to go. . . on with the show!
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Ad-ison Avenue: now and then
http://www.vintageadbrowser.com/
Do not adjust your set! If you enter this site, you may never get out again. ("We control the horizontal. We control the verical." Oops, wrong program.)
This may be the best internet site I have ever encountered: more than 100,000 print ads and posters from the 1840s to the present day, culled and collected from God knows where and lovingly scanned for public consumption. You even get to choose from two different sizes.
These ads cover food, fashion, medicine, pets, even space-age inventions like the computer, which in the 1940s filled a room. Each ad is a sociological treatise in capsule form. Some are extravagantly beautiful, some stylish, some stark. Obsolete products like "brain salt" mystify, and one ad from the 1890s recommends tapeworms to cure a weight problem. A baby glugs from a 7Up bottle, beer is recommended for nursing Moms (hey, even I remember that one - I got a lot of mileage out of it), and smoking is something that soothes the throat, eases asthma and keeps a girl slim.
I may never get out of here, though I am beginning to think I should stop saving images and just leave them where they belong. This site is simple and extremely easy to use, without any of the annoying bells and whistles and things popping up and squirming around in the corners that drive me mad. There is no long wait for downloading: in fact, no waiting at all!
It's a time machine, one that I will jump back into (like the Time Tunnel!) over and over again. Try it. It's a trip.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
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