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It All Started With Fame...

...and went downhill from there.

Wanna feel old? Picture your favorite actor/actress from when you were 10 or so. Now, if your fave has gone from gracing the cover of Tiger Beat, to People, to Lifetime, to do commercials for vitamins, pain relievers or life insurance, congrats...you're over 40!

This all started because I saw this trailer at the drive in the other night before Harry Potter. There was some dancer and the words "It all starts with a dream..." This song was playing at the beginning and I knew the words and started singing along, but couldn't place WHY I knew the words:

Sometimes I wonder,
where I've been.
Who I am,
do I fit in.

I may not win,
but I can be strong
Out here
On my own

Then suddenly, before I can say "Oh, that's On My Own" and be mad that they cut a part from the lyrics, that haunting refrain from another WAY more popular song came in:

"Remember, remember, remember..."

And I DID.

"HOLY !@#, they're redoing FAME!" I screamed to Kevin. Man, I just about SOILED myself. Suddenly, I was mentally trasported back in time to middle school. My middle school was an independant private school called Crossroads in downtown St. Louis that was run almost mom and pop style by an amazing collection of hippies, professors, educators, outdoorsman, businessmen and EVERYONE'S parents. It's the only school where I had Sledding for gym, a field trip to watch the Cardinals World Series parade, had an econ class through school store and a host of other really cool experiences, most of which were just phenomenal in terms of real world learning. My dad even came in and did a ton of awesome computer programming stuff back when it was still something you wrote lines of text for.

Anyway, the creativity aspect is what made it a prime jumping off place for VAP, St. Louis's Visual and Performing Arts magnet school. Kids in my school were always hanging around writing their own plays and music and all this other neat artistic stuff...and then FAME came out and EVERYONE was a dancer or a singer. Heck, even I wanted to be Irene Cara and I wasn't allowed to see the MOVIE back then (rated R, so I just heard about it and watched the subsequent tv show). 4 different chicks did "On My Own" for the talent show!

So, after seeing that and singing the song for karaoke at tournament this year (which, if you've never seen improv comedians doing karaoke, I HIGHLY recommend...we had the ENTIRE dancing in the street scene going on the dance floor in front of me!), I came home and looked up the movie, only to find out that it came out in 1980.

1980, people!

Seriously, Fame is coming up on its THIRTIETH anniversary! I'll be 40 two days after the remake comes out and the movie will be 30 a few months later!

That's when I started looking at where they are now and what folks are doing and got that bolt of reality. Gene Anthony Ray (Leroy) is dead, as is Mr. Shorofsky (who was already older, but MAN!). That kinda stuff makes you look at all the other famous folks of the time, like Farrah & Michael and Lindsay Wagner...the Bionic Woman is doing SLEEP NUMBER beds! Robin Williams was on Letterman doing an entire monologue on HEART SURGERY.

And meanwhile, the Jonas Brothers and Miley Cyrus still live...

Where is the JUSTICE, people? Are these children DRAINING the lives from our faves and using it for media sustenance? Who among us is NEXT???

At any rate, now that the rose colored glasses are off, the movie itself looks...okay? I mean, I'm only going from the way the dancers are dancing and the remake of the theme song, but it seems kinda...slutty?

Again, I'm probably just getting old, 'cause when I go back and look at the tv show, whenever they break into spontaneous dancing (which is ALWAYS), there's a ton of pelvic thrusting and whatnot that I now see as a bit suggestive (watch about 2 minutes into this and see if you think Debbie Allen woulda kept her teaching license TODAY!). But the music seemed to be more heart pounding and exciting.

The new version...there's a lot of girls SLIDING into splits and arching bodies (wow, I sound like some old censor lady or something!). And the new beat doesn't make me want to jump up and spontaneously dance, unless there's a pole involved. Plus, look at this poster! Are we selling sex and Pepsi or something???

Age. I'm not scared of getting old, but I can remember when all music was fun and I couldn't imagine sleeping through Saturday morning cartoons. Suddenly, I'm not even TOUCHING the TV on Saturdays because of all this computer animated and video game crap (says the woman who actually watched THIS power hour on Saturdays) and listening to more and more JACK FM.

D.

Back from Canada & on to Wisconsin!

Well, we've just returned from our trip with the Quinns to Canada, where we boxed Parry Sound. This was a really nice little area that I'd never gotten to see much of. The Highlander's grandpa ran a campsite up in Pointe au Baril and before he passed, he sold most of it (which became Sturgeon Bay Provincial Park) but kept one cottage for the family. We had a good time, but didn't get to spend much of it together. So, Kevin and I will be heading back to spend our 10th wedding anniversary back up at Pointe au Baril. Apparently, there's a lobster dinner and dance going on at the community center up there AND Harry Potter is coming out, so dinner and a movie!

But, for now, I'm back on the road again in less than 48 hours. I'm gonna be playing for Buffalo in the ComedySportz World Championship games this Friday (wheee!). We play against Portland on Friday, and with any luck, we'll make it to the finals on Saturday. Can't wait to see how we do!

Anyway, I'm not sure if my computer will withstand the pressure of life in Milwaukee for a week, but if anyone reading this wants to see how ComedySportz Buffalo and I are doing, just follow CSzBuffalo on Twitter. I'm kinda the voice of CSz Buffalo for Twitter, but I only speak for the team, not myself. I'm also going to try and post on Facebook and Blogger from my phone...we'll see how well that goes!

If you're in Milwaukee, though, I'd LOVE to have you come to the games! The more bias in my favor, the better!

D.

Improvathon 2009 May 30-31

Just a reminder that the Improvathon starts today at the Riviera Theater in North Tonawanda! I'm playing 4-6pm and 10-midnight, then 2-4pm tomorrow and maybe the All Star show at 8pm. If you're reading this and you don't come...you better live in another state!!!

Random Clown Post

This was something I typed into the notes on my phone after one of those great goofy conversations with Kevin:

I think the only thing that would sound funnier than beatin' someone down with an accordion would be beatin' down one of those clowns with the squeaky shoes and the bike horn nose. Visually, beating the bejeesus outta a mascot is pretty appealing, but who can deny the joy you'd get in the discordant cacaphony of cheesy instruments, which should end with the quintessential El Kabong sound.

In fact, if I knew I had clown beatings to look forward to, I would actually carry around a supply of cheap ukeleles in the trunk of my car JUST for such an occasion. These would be next to my bag of throwing shoes for presidential visits and my multipurpose sack of vegetables.

Karbi

Not sure why I don't already have this posted, but since people still ask about it, here it is! It was originally written after a holiday party back in 2003.

Many people don't know this, but I am actually the African American ambassador to the nation. One of many, really, but I don't often seem to be in the same place at the same time with the other ambassadors. In fact, in most cases and many places here in upstate New York, I am the "only one" or "the other one" in many social gatherings. It is my job to be as diplomatic as possible in relations with those outside the African American race so that all future cross culture interactions go as smoothly as possible. It's a pretty stressful position, but one I have slowly learned to realize the importance (and sometimes depressing nature) of.

Just this past holiday, my husband and I were visiting friends for our yearly New Year's party. This party is truly the highlight of our year. It always includes a great many people, old and young, most of whom I hold in high regard as friends of my husband's and now, mine. I'm usually the only person of color in attendance, but this never bothers me, no matter where we are. As I mentioned, I'm frequently the "only one" or "the other one". Since these friends live more than an hour from us, we always make arrangements to stay the night just to enjoy their company without feeling the need to make it home before sleep or drunk drivers overtake us.

We were, in fact, just hitting the 3 o'clock hour and a possible bedtime when someone suggested we play a game called Balderdash. It's a great word game if you've never played; you have to try to convince people you know the meaning of a real, but very unusual word by writing a definition that sounds convincing…or at least, sounds funny enough to make the game fun. Usually, people become one of three types in this game: the funny definition writer, the simple definition writers or the complex definition writers. After a few minutes of game play, we already had established ourselves. We'd had quite a few of the goofy answers already, like "fungo--the green goo on the back of a turtle" and "bort--excess gas". For the record, however, I'm an amazing liar as well as a teacher, so I tend toward the creation of definitions too complex to be a lie, like "karbi--the sooty residue atop slate shingles after years of usage".

On that same round, however, another member of our party also came up with a definition. "Karbi--what a black guy says…dis kar bi mine."

Most of you hearing this did one of two things just now…snicker or laugh outright. I, on the other hand, was mortified and very trapped. Remember for a moment that I was the only black person at this table full of 10 other adults. Even my husband is white. The entire table swiveled to look at me while my husband gripped my hand with an intensity that was as powerful as my own at that moment. What was I supposed to say? What COULD I say?

A diplomatic quandary, though you may not recognize it. For I only have one true option in this situation and it is NOT the one I want. To do what I want means becoming indignant, demanding to know why this man, whom I only knew as a husband of a relative of a friend, would say something so insulting at this table with me right in plain view. How dare he say such things in my face, insinuating that a black man, such as my college-educated father or any of his friends, would talk this way? Jokes about people of any ethnic background are inevitably about their stupidity, which is why most people don't tell such jokes now. Sure, there are black actors, comedians, and regular folk who still use this humor to impress others, but maybe they haven't yet realized the dignity our people have lost while they get paid, or just don't care. Money can make a person that way, especially large amounts of it. I have even watched younger black children make these same jokes so that their friends will think they are funny, too, not realizing that they are being laughed at, not with, and I feel sick inside thinking of all this.

But in the eyes of my friends, I could see what was hoped for, even expected. Surely I would find this amusing! Why, only last week, Def Comedy Jam had a comedian using ebonics rather proudly and he'd been hilarious. And don't shows like "Martin" tout the same sort of ebonic pride? Surely I could be pleased that I would be part of such a broad tradition of humor! Besides, it was "just a joke"…why take it so seriously and ruin the entire party with a bunch of politically correct rhetoric? We can all laugh at ourselves here.

Many of you might be saying, "Nonsense! If I found something offensive, I'd speak right up and hang what others think of me!" But this is the catch .22 of being the diplomat. What others think of me is what others think of others like me they meet. Everything I say and do now reflects on everyone who looks like me later. This has become abundantly clear when children come up to me and want to know who my favorite rapper is, or why black people are so mean all the time, or when grown men and women still ask things like "Why are black people so loud?" or "Do you know Shanika? I used to work with her back in Dallas, and she's black, too…" Or even worse yet, when my own mother-in-law tells me that she cannot accept me because she was attacked by a mugger who was black.

And honestly, if this were the case, could anyone blame any black person for being irate with every white person THEY met? After all, one bad experience rules a great many white lives…why not mine? Why can't I take this one experience and hate or prejudge or, at the very least, have a real fear of any white person I meet? But what I usually hear in response to this is "Well, you just have to understand…"

Why? Why is it my job to be understanding and your job to speak out about what disturbs you without the irritation or disdain of others? Yet, just like the president, I cannot simply SAY how much I dislike something without global repercussions. I CERTAINLY can't ACT on my feelings, because my anger here proves that black people are a violent, or at the very least, an overly sensitive lot. But my silence or laughter only reinforces that it's okay to use this kind of humor and then nothing is learned at all. Never mind the fact that had this joke been about someone with a mental handicap, we would ALL have been indignant.

And so I sat for an uncomfortable second, with all this whirling in my head, my husband gripping my hand, because as a white person himself, he, too, wants to speak out and damn this man's actions…but I did what I had to at that moment.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I demanded. "Do you not see me sitting in the room here?"

But as I said it, I laughed.

And as I did, and the rest of our friends began to chuckle with me, a little piece of my dignity slipped away. My right to speak for myself was stolen by the adoring eyes of my friends who thought I was a great sport for laughing, even as I threw a notebook at the man's head and blinked back angry tears that no one but my husband saw.

On the way home (a trip which we decided to make 30 minutes later, despite our original plan to stay), both my husband and I ranted and raved about the "nerve of this guy" and how his leaving before us was probably to get home to restoke the ol' Christmas cross fire. But by the time our furor had died down, we were left feeling cheated. "I hate being reminded of my place," I told my husband wearily as I started to cry. He felt awful, of course, and tried to get me to understand that my place was not to be the brunt of someone's jokes. "No," I told him, "my place is to understand that he doesn't know any better and that he might NEVER know any better and just accept that. I am the ambassador. Welcome to my world."

As I sobbed, I realized in the back of my mind how hard this was for him. First, as a white male, he has never been denied his right to speak. He has even gone so far as to demand that shoplifters put things back when he sees them taking an item, so justice is his banner. As my husband, he has also never been denied his right to protect me. But once again, he was able to see how even his anger or irritation on my behalf would only have exacerbated the situation…and he felt just as helpless as I did, but certainly not as often as I have. In a way, that makes it harder, I suppose.

But he didn't leave it at that. The next day, my husband called our friends and told them why we left, explaining our feelings and our discomfort. I was against this at first, especially when I realized that NO one else at the table had thought twice about this. But not only were our friends understanding, they wanted to talk to me and thank me for telling them this, giving them food for thought and a new understanding. It helped to wipe away a little of the natural wariness that had arisen from this incident, so much so that I realized how many people really WANT to know when they've said or done something offensive and don't. Usually, the person they've offended leaves without saying a word or they, too are an ambassador and laugh off the incident, swallowing yet another distasteful public scene into their own discomfort. I was comforted to know that this is not always a thankless job. It's unfair and even painful, but not always thankless. SOMEone learned something from this…and perhaps in hearing it, you might, too.

I am actually one of the many African American ambassadors to the nation. I have diverted many a cross cultural mishap in my time, but please…don't thank me.

Understand me.

Speak for me when I cannot speak or am not heard.

And for God sake, don't just let me laugh…hand me a tissue.

Chasing Down Grief

Well, it finally happened. I sat watching the inauguration today and suddenly realized that my little brother, Eli, will not be watching this and giving some kind of running commentary. Tears that wouldn't come at a funeral not meant for me and in the days since finally flowed unbidden.

For those of you who don't know, Elijah Eatman, a close friend of Kevin's and mine, was found dead in his apartment by his mother after going home sick earlier in the week. From the moment I moved up here and began to hang out with all of Kevin's friends, I put them into my extended family. I've never been this far away from my regular family, so I needed some folks to turn to. They were all into sci-fi, fantasy and anime, so we all became fast friends that helped each other embrace our inner geek. The Quinns, along with my nieces and all my students and, became adopted children, taking the place of those we couldn't have. Maureen, Kathy, and then Brandy became the sisters I always wanted. Chris and Darrin became like those cousins you rarely see, but love hanging with when you get them back into your life. Tom (another friend of ours and Eli's that passed two years ago from complications stemming from his kidneys) became my eldest brother, the gruff but lovable one who lead the family with his foot in your ass and his heart devoted to your soul. Darryl became my dreamy eyed middle brother, the one who always wanted to see everyone happy and would never harm a soul. Dean became my twin, the one born a few minutes before me and capable of more bluster and pride in himself, but (if possible) twice as much bluster and pride on my behalf. Drew became a younger middle brother, picking up Eli's goofy slack and getting us all into trouble as he joined our group of gamers.

And Eli was the baby, the one I had to protect from jibes and push in the right direction. Tom's departure set his feet truly on the path to independence, but he himself pulled on the bootstraps and got himself where he wanted to be. In not hearing from him, I was actually comforted, because I knew it meant he was finally okay. Even when he WAS over here, he'd lost the need to impress or defend himself because he was fully comfortable with who he was, despite what anyone else thought.

It took a while to grieve. I felt robbed at the funeral, cheated of my chance to release in such strange settings. Eli was a Muslim, so the women sat in the back at his funeral and weren't allowed at the gravesite at ALL. The men couldn't even touch the women, so African American males shook hands with my husband, but apologized to me and passed on. Kevin said it was odd to be treated like a prince by a group of black men while his black wife was shunned like a member of the KKK. After that, Kevin needed time to adjust and grieve himself, so, like all people who care for each other, my thoughts about the whole event disappeared as I comforted him in his time of need. Later, when he was coming to terms, it just seemed silly to cry over something I felt I'd already gotten past.

I really believed that I was okay up until now.

I'm sorry he's gone. I can't believe I won't get to tell those guys to "leave that boy alone, he's not doing ANYTHING to you" anymore, as if he NEEDED a defender. I won't get to burst into hysterical laughter at his rapid fire chipmunk laugh, correct his spelling, or remind him that, no matter what his family says, finding a woman to be with is NOT a necessity if he's happy. I won't get to see him eventually find that spooky anime loving horror movie going chick with the smoky voice and a dominatrix outfit in her back closet, behind her Hot Topic wedding dress and her "Foamy" t-shirt (yeah, I guess I've thought this through a bit!).

Mostly, I'm just plain old sorry for me. I wish I had more stories to share than this. Kevin knew Eli from college in the Anime Club and our other friends grew up together. I moved so much as a child that I never spent more than 3 years in any school before college (and even then, I went to 3 different colleges before finishing up at UNT). I wish, as I always do, that I'd had a history with all of my friends beyond what I've got now. God knows I'm grateful for what I do have with all of you today, but man, I wish we'd all been neighborhood pals and everything and could talk for hours about all the fun we used to have. I don't know if that would make me miss Eli less, but it'd sure feel more tangible than what I've got right now.

For my sake, I would appreciate it if all my friends would wait at least a decade before deciding to check out on me. Two in three years is a little much.

D.