The last traces of a flaming rose sunset flee from another Bluegrass summer day. The birds go silent. The bats dart and dip. Butter-yellow squares on dark blocks mark the welcoming windows of home and the neighbors’ houses; open windows seeking relief from the smothering warmth of the evening…open also to the sounds; anger and laughter from the flesh and blood within or on television (The Honeymooners perhaps). Windows open also to the sounds from without; the passing cars, porch conversations, sirens, and…
Two and a half pounds of steel gliding forty feet through the night air.
Two and a half pounds of steel slowly flipping once and once only, like a gymnast in slow-motion.
Two and half pounds of steel crashing into dust and sand, sliding to a violent rendezvous with a one inch steel stake firmly anchored in a cubic foot of concrete sunk far below the surface of the planet. Its cry of defiance of the dying of the day pierces the night.
THUD!
CLAN-G-G-G-g-g-g-g-g!
Let the Bluegrass humidity try and smother that!
And it’s no singular event.
No.
It’s repeated three more times.
Some neighbors’ windows close. Some expletives are un-deleted.
The twelve-year-old mind behind this performance trudges the forty feet to pick his horseshoes up and prepares to continue his metallic meditation in the other direction.
And make no mistake: a meditation it is.
Each shoe is banged against another to remove the dust gathered from the previous throw. Every bang rings like a mighty bell. This backyard, this horseshoe pit, is 500 miles from the nearest ocean, but ships at sea spring to emergency stations upon hearing these mad night bells from Central Kentucky.
Each ring of each shoe is a centering om-m-m-m-m to the soul of this nocturnal pitcher of steel.
Probably not so much for the neighbors.
Each earthward swing of the arm, each precise release of the shoe, each slow arc of the flight, each moment of mayhem when steel meets steel, is a mantra of serenity smashed by gravity.
I loved to pitch horseshoes.
My dad built the pit. He dug the hole and poured the concrete and angled the stake. He built the frame and filled the whole schmegegge with sand. Pretty soon the sand was mostly beaten away and dirt remained, but everything else endured my constant pitching.
I pitched for hours. The ring, the swing, the fling, the flight, the landing, the clang, the trudge, repeat ad infinitum.
I thought no great thoughts. I solved no personal problems.
I simply became one with the dust and the clang and the air and the motion and the gravity and the steel and the night and the summer…
…and then my mother framed in the yellow square of our back door;
“Roger Lee! It’s time to come in. You’ve bothered the neighbors enough tonight.”
We have a houseful every Halloween thanks to Janie.
Janie lives for Halloween. She likes me pretty well, and she adores Chloe, her pup, but she lives for Halloween.
The house is filthy with skeletons; human, rats, cats, and avian. Most of the bones twinkle, glow, and/or make noise. Any drawer, door, or toilet seat screams or plays Wagner (sometimes it’s hard to distinguish). The shower is defended by knife-wielding shadows. Books on shelves shuffle…by themselves. Doormats screech – witch’s hats flutter (be careful, they’ll putcher eye out).
It’s a feast of shrimp and sausage and potatoes and onions and eye of toad and hair of newt (whatever a newt is)…and a cornbread to die for (and you may – but hey, it’s Halloween)…and yes, a gluten-free-but-what’s-use-in-living version of cornbread which everyone tells me is wonderful and for which I will take their word…from a distance.
Janie’s treat box — go ahead, reach in
And then there’s the passing of Janie’s Treat Cat Box. You must reach into the razor-toothed mouth of the cat to get your treat – an unforgivable cruelty to inflict upon a guest assembly that has lived through Jaws and Banksy’s “Girl With a Balloon”. But it’s a foolish and brave group who’ve swilled more than a bit ‘o bourbon, and chardonnay, and prosecco, and cabernet; all of which are notorious courage-boosters.
And so the giant punch-balloons, and eyeball-rings, and head-syringes, and bloody saws, are deployed and depleted and, since thankfully no one requires a ride to the Emergency Room, we retire to the living room, de-activate the noise-makers and the stories begin.
Let me be frank about it. It’s not a group of spring chickens.
They’ve done a lot, been through a lot, seen a lot, and thought a lot about what they’ve done, seen, and been through. They’re verbal. They have vocabulary. They’ve had wine. The stories are unhurried and ever-changing, eminently interruptible for on-the-spot “improvement”. It’s a great time to live.
Chloe, the pup, is in heaven. She thinks everyone came to see her and every story is about her wonderfulness. She drifts from lap to lap. It’s a great time to live.
I could relate some of the tales…and get sued…or arrested. Rather, I am struck by how much theatre has been collected this evening within these walls. These non-theatre walls.
When and how often I have been enveloped by a concentration of theatre experience in a non-theatre space. How desperately magical some of those congregations have been. Then it occurs to me I’ve actually lived in such a place.
I had a college-ghetto room in a house on Linden Walk about 1971. It was an old house divided into rooms for rent – six or seven rooms that couldn’t even spell AC, sharing two bathrooms (tub-no shower, hook-and-eye on the door for imagined privacy – hey, it was hippie days, let the fantasies fly).
I recall my rent being about $1.25 per day. For real.
Guignol Theatre
It was a little over a block away from the Fine Arts Building on the UK campus, around which, in defiance of Copernicus, the universe revolved. Thus, it was unsurprising that, with one exception, every tenant of the house was connected to the Guignol Theatre. As far as I was concerned, this was Ground Zero for the future of American theatre…whatever Ground Zero meant in 1971.
Besides me, there were two fellow actors living together downstairs. One was gay and later became a monk (for real), one was Pan incarnate (at least to hear him tell it – O the glorious filter of memory!). It was a reality show in the making before we’d ever even heard of reality shows. The assistant costumer for the Theatre Department lived down the hall. Two actresses lived across the hall – their credits; Viola in Twelfth Night, Antigone in Anouilh’s Antigone, Mrs. Malaprop in Sheridan’s The Rivals. It was a theatre-infested house.
Except for one room.
She was demure. Lower-case letters can’t really serve adequately here.
Work with me… …she was demure………
She might’ve been attractive. Who could tell?
She would emerge from her room on Monday mornings, head down behind her books, and proceed with mission out of the house until late in the day. There was no “How d’ya do”.
Until Saturday night…
Demure
On Saturday nights someone would visit her in her room. I never saw him, or her, or… But I, along with the rest of the house heard…
It began as a plaintive sigh…
…and proceeded quickly to a; “whoop…whoop…Whoop…Whoop…WHOOP…WHOOP!…WHOOOP!!…WHOOOOPP!!!…WWWHHHOOOOOPPPP!!!!!”
It was stunning. It was athletic. It was humbling.
It was far more dramatic than anyone else in the house could produce.
I still don’t know who she was, but when I was 20, she was a God to me. She still is.
I visited my mom today. She’s 90 years old… …having trouble walking… …hearing might be even more problematical. But the equipment upstairs is still pretty good. So… …I just listened.
Mom’s neighborhood in Louisville has deteriorated in the years she’s lived there. As the passing of older neighbors has occurred, suspected drug transactions, police cars, exotically costumed ladies, Byzantine and multitudinous tattoos, have all appeared recently.
I’m not happy about it.
If you scramble the words in that last sentence, it spells; “I’m fairly terrified.”
But Mom is fierce and wants to live by herself in her house. After a life of hard work and devotion to her family, she sees that as her reward. Who am I and my sisters to say otherwise? All we can do is fret and hover.
Mom has a new neighbor. I met him last month.
Hassan and his family are from Somalia. They’re Muslim. Except for Hassan, their English is non-existent. Hassan is proud of and misses Somalia, but is very happy to be in America. He and I chatted as his little boy played with a football in the front yard. When I introduced myself, his first words were; “It’s hard here. People don’t go to each other’s houses and share food. They stay alone.”
I explained my concerns about Mom and the neighborhood and introduced him to Mom. I wasn’t sure how my Southern Baptist mom would react to her Muslim neighbor. The introduction was bewildering and brief due to poor hearing, a foreign accent, and a shrill interruption from Hassan’s hijab-wearing wife from the porch next door. Still, it was a start.
I followed up with an email to Hassan.
Since that initial contact, Hassan has called on my mom twice. Once to offer to pick up food for her since he was on his way to the grocery (American grocery stores – my friend Eric Johnson thinks they are a miracle unto themselves – I think he’s spot on), and once to bring a book for my mom to give to me. It was a modern translation of the QURAN.
Today, Mom gave me the book, commenting that she had read a bit of it and noticed a lot of names and stories she recognized.
May I repeat that?
Today, Mom gave me the book, commenting that she had read a bit of it and noticed a lot of names and stories she recognized.
She’s feelin’ pretty good about her neighbor.
This is the same woman with whom I could never discuss Mr. Trump’s outrages.
Grabbing ladies’ private parts, mocking the afflicted, pornography, colluding with Russia against America…the mere whisper of those topics when we were growing up would banish you, not from her family – never that, but from her approval and acceptance of you as a person worth knowing. Good lord…there’s an abyss to avoid.
Hassan and my Mom… …an America Mr. Trump never knew… …and his supporters and followers have forgotten.
The current US President striving to turn Twitter to Gibber in the White House…
An Attorney General re-opening long-decided investigations in people the current US President dislikes, and dismissing the trial-decided prison sentences of people the current US President likes.
Children in cages by order of the current US President…
People like the neighbors I grew up with, in various arenas screaming “Lock her up!” as the current US President looks on encouragingly…
Almost 100,000 have died in the US from Covid-19, an infection the current US President called a hoax. His response? He suggests medicines considered dangerous by scientists and doctors, and plays golf for two days, having worked hard and well.
The tsunami of nightly lies and gibber from the current US President…
The current US President…
A congress that supports the current US President…
My current US Senator that has voted with the current US President 97% of the time.
My current US Senator who recently got a lifetime appointment for a lawyer considered “unqualified” (by the American Bar Association) as a Federal Judge. His qualification? He’s Republican and young enough to be around for a while.
These make for a raw day.
Or…a good day to talk to the dog.
I’ve written about Chloe the Wonder Pup before (see “The Homeward Three-Step”). She‘s not a beauty, ‘cept to me. She’s shaggy. You see her and you wanna grab some shears and make a sweater. She usually has debris spackling her face. She is flotsam and jetsam and blind love incarnate. She can howl like a banshee at squirrels…they quake…with laughter.
She’s direct…no gibber here.
“Chlo, my girl, whaddaya think about this mess?”
“Fuggitaboutit! Is Chuck out in his yard?” (Chuck is our neighbor on the corner for whom Chloe has a totally inappropriate passion.)
“No, He’s at work. I’m serious here. The country seems to be tearing itself apart because of this current US President.”
“Is the current US President here? Is Joanna here? (Joanna is our mail carrier for whom Chloe has a totally inappropriate passion.)
“No, he’s not. He’s in Washington. And Joanna won’t be here for another hour or so.”
“Why are you worrying about someone who’s more than five blocks away? How far away is Joanna?”
“Closer, probably. Are you saying I should worry more about the people nearby?”
“Well, duh. You can’t do anything about the far-away guy. You could however, change that Senator. That sounds useful.”
It moans…
…parents of another language resort to non-verbal sounds of despair over their separated children housed in cages in the land of their dreams.
It keens…
…of past things loved and lost…times, mates, values (imagined and real)……whole species.
It shouts…
…for teams; “GO BIG BLUE!”…for charismatic leaders; “LOCK HER UP!”…for artificial seasonal landmarks; “HAPPY NEW YEAR!”
It laughs…
…at the happy foolishness of friends…and…at the misfortunes of strangers…dammit.
It whispers…
…words of love…and words of mere seduction.
It vows…
…”I do”…”I will uphold”… “I will defend”
My planet does all of these sound-producing things and more.
It also sings.
It sings of love and death and life and hate.
It sings of celebration and it sings of despair.
It sings of birth and marriage and graduation and waking up on a sunny morning.
It sings of forests and highways and deserts and oceans.
It sings of God and it sings of the Devil and it sings of the people caught between the two.
It sings of the planets and it sings of the girl next door.
It sings to inspire and it sings to console.
It sings.
It sings!
My friend Dr. Everett McCorvey has a sign in his studio. It reads;
“God likes me when I work.
He loves me when I sing.”
I cannot attest to the scientific accuracy of his sign, but of all the gods I’ve read about and studied, this rings 100% true. I believe every breath and every cell in my body is made better when I sing. What god worth his salt wouldn’t cherish that? And if that’s true for li’l ol’ me, how much truer is it for the whole planet? Every breath, every cell made better by singing.
Singing is the best thing my planet does.
I sing every day.
I sing everywhere and for no reason at all.
I sing to the dog and the cat – they are bewildered by it and react to it like most humans confronted by things they don’t understand: they hate it. But since I feed them, open rebellion has been avoided. Lord help me if the kibbles run out.
My wife, Janie, tolerates it with saint-like patience. I am aware that obscure Sondheim lyrics while loading the dishwasher and the noir growlings of Tom Waits while driving the car can be unnerving, but so far, she hasn’t applied for a concealed carry license…that I know of.
Thus, I add to the un-silence of my planet.
I invite you to do the same.
Throw your head back.
Cut it loose.
Wail!
Sing!!!
Thirty years ago tomorrow I did the rightest thing in my life.
I’ve been right and I’ve been wrong.
I’ve been smart and I’ve been stupid.
I’ve been strong/good/lucky and I’ve been weak/poor/unfortunate.
I’ve been right and I’ve been wrong…
…and sometimes had no idea which.
But thirty years ago I was so very right, and bright, and lucky.
I listened to a wise and beautiful woman and she was kind enough to let me marry her.
It was the rightest thing I’ve ever done…
…and I knew it even then…
…and I know it even more now.
Janie is spectacular.
And me?
I’m trainable.
Janie and I live under a four-to-seven-foot high hedge of trumpet vine on top of a six foot brick wall.
This would be a good moment for you to read the previous blog entry concerning the hedge; Life Under the Hedge.
The hedge is lush, green, and geographically greedy. The hedge is insidious, persistent, and smug. The hedge is reassuring, constant, and protective. The hedge has tendrils, flings seed wisps that fly like Saharan dust, and network well with the Earth. The hedge is sentient. The hedge is chatty.
“You did a helluva job on those Japanese beetles this afternoon.”
“Thanks. You see what they’re doing to our knockouts? They’re shredding the leaves!”
“They’re determined. They’re hungry. But you took care of ‘em. You looked like a gunslinger out there with your hose set on ‘JET’; bangin’ and splashin’ ‘em off the roses. It was impressive. You were like a Master Blaster Gardener. I didn’t know ya had it in ya.”
“Mock if you must, but it got rid of the bugs.”
“Granted. The filthy beetles vanished……and returned in ten minutes…still hungry…still determined…and somewhat less filthy for the shower you provided.”
“@#$!%&^*”
“Eloquently put. Might you have a Plan B?”
“I do, as matter of fact. I’ve got some spray coming that should take care of the problem. It’s an organic soapy insecticide spray.”
“An organic soapy insecticide spray… Doesn’t quite have the same terrifying ring to it as ‘Raid’ or ‘Agent Orange’. I’m imagining you in a Master Blaster Gardener baseball cap and a white Windex-type spray bottle screaming; ‘I love the smell of an organic soapy insecticide spray in the morning! It smells like victory!!’……feeble.”
“What does a hedge know about Apocalypse Now?”
“I have tendrils. The neighbors next door watched it on Netflix last week. I was diggin’ the Doors music, but Brando and Hopper jumped the shark for me. It’s a great film, but Conrad’s story is better.”
“Agreed. Hey, wait, what does a hedge know about ‘Heart of Darkness?’”
“You have it in your library.”
“…AND you have tendrils…”
Fingers crossed…
“I also have slim hopes for your organic soapy insecticide spray and fear for your self-esteem and the roses. Might you possibly have a Plan C?”
“Ya know, you could help. Isn’t this what a wall is supposed to do? Keep out unwanted foreigners?”
“No, no, no. First of all, I’m a hedge, not a wall. The wall has no tendrils. The wall doesn’t talk and a wall can’t stop hungry and determined. Stop listening to Trump. You were raised better than that.”
“Yes…yes, I was……”
“Let’s see how the organic soapy insecticide spray works. Maybe it’ll be sensational and we can brainstorm a different name for it.”
No, we’re not hobbits…though it’s a tempting notion.
No, we’re not delusional…I’m pretty sure.
No, we truly live under a hedge.
20 years ago, we built a brick wall behind our house. By design, it has missing bricks in a pattern that enables you see through it. It has a mighty trellis on top of it and an iron gate with a heron silhouette.
When it was completed, on the guidance of the wall’s designer (our friend, Sanford Pollack), we planted trumpet vine next to the wall. We didn’t quite follow Sandy’s guidance as faithfully as perhaps we should have. His suggestion to plant one vine was utterly disregarded. It looked so puny. So…we planted six.
As the vines grew and became one, we threaded it into the wall itself and eventually, into the trellis. We removed any trace of green below the trellis, but let the vine run amok above.
The result?
Today, under the trellis, the vines are two-to-five-inch-in-diameter woody snakes entwining the bricks. They resemble Hugh Lofting’s line drawings of trees in his “Dr. Doolittle” books or the various dancing trees in Fleischer cartoons. Those squiggly sequoias support the hedge above the trellis.
The hedge is about 30 feet long and ranges from four-to-seven feet high above the trellis, reaching a peak of about 13 feet above the ground, and is quite impenetrable. It is dense, green, and celebrates each summer with hundreds of clumps of butter-yellow and orange-red trumpet blossoms. I’m told it was Thomas Jefferson’s favorite garden plant. I share his opinion except when I’m combating the hedge’s myriad “volunteers” that insinuate themselves everywhere at the rate of several inches per day.
I love living under the hedge despite the constant battle with its efforts of expansion.
– It’s positioned on the weather side of the house and garden. Its mass offers at least the illusion of some natural defense against natural assaults.
– When cirrus-eyed poets from pre-drone days rhapsodize about “How many colors of blue make up the sky?” and speculate on eyes watching us “make love well” from above, I’m happier with the illusion of privacy the hedge offers.
– In winter when the vines are denuded of their foliage, I’m encouraged when the hedge becomes a chattering condo for tiny nesting birds, though the heron gate beneath suffers the indignity of the resulting guano rain.
Yes, I love living under the hedge, and weirdly enough, despite my determined eradication of its invasive offspring, I think the hedge patronizes me and thinks me to be of some interest.
“Thank you for your candor, Mr. Lay-zer.” the judge intoned, and with that I knew my fate had been determined.
It was around 2005 and I was in my 13th month of jury duty…for real! At that time, federal jury duty called for 10 days of actual service or one year of being “on call”. The clock, however, did not begin until you had actually been called and served the first day. I had, by the time this call was issued been “on call” for 13 months. It felt like a side hustle at an occasional $15 dollars a day and a lot of worry and schedule-shifting.
This jury call was unusual. I was accustomed to reporting to a jury pool of 25-30 people, but when I had surrendered my phone for the day and passed the metal detector, I entered a juror’s room packed with 80-100 bleary souls.
Not near enough coffee
There aren’t many comforts in a jury room, but there is coffee and I wonder about that. I mean, you’re pretty well limiting how long a court session can be when you immerse the jury pool (note the choice of words there) with java. Someone’s gonna have to pee or they’re gonna get pissed. Of course, it could increase the alacrity of the jury’s deliberations and save a little time there. Comme-çi comme-ça.
This was a big trial from out of town, moved to Lexington because of local notoriety in Northern Kentucky/Cincinnati. Thus, a large jury pool was summoned.
I gathered from the voir dire, the two defendants were accused of possessing a semi-truck full of marijuana (for real!!), intending to informally retail same. I learned after the trial, that one of the defendants, instead of making that “one phone call” to his lawyer, placed the call to his girlfriend who was just then firing up the grill for a celebratory cook-out at their apartment homestead. Being an adaptable, quick-thinking gal, she ran to freezer and removed several chunks of cold cash and surplus inventory from the semi and employed them to get the charcoal started. The police arrived soon enough to preserve some evidence but not soon enough to prevent an escape of intriguing fumes. I understand attitudes improved and vocabulary decayed in Cincinnati for about a week.
Uh…that last paragraph…
…if you scrambled all the words in it and subtracted every other letter and divided by two and had a beer and squinted real tight, it might spell; “urban legend”…or not……oh, wow!
Whatever.
Thank you for your candor, Mr. Lay-zer
In court, the judge began the day by wishing the jury a “good morning” and then turning to the attorneys and wishing them the same. The prosecuting attorney, a local fellow, returned those good wishes. The defense attorney did as well, adding that being from Cincinnati, he admired the quaintness of such civility as a “good morning” in a courtroom. I, having just interpreted his comment as being called a hick, made a mental note that if I ever was caught with a semi-truckload of marijuana and made to miss a real interesting cook-out, his would not be my first phone number to call, even if it was a cute number.
I glanced at the judge and thought I caught a flicker of “Well, bless your heart and fuck you and the quaintness you rode in on” in his visage.
I felt we were simpatico.
Actors are often foolish that way.
Voir dire began.
The judge, in order to expedite the process, decided to ask some basic winnowing questions to the group. Useful queries like;
Is anyone here not a US citizen?
Does anyone here not speak English?
Does anyone here not know how many fingers are on their left hand?
Does anyone here not have a pulse?
We handled those pretty well as a group.
Then he asked a hard one – I wanna be sure I get it right;
Specimen tree…or my raised arm
“Does anyone here think…let me say this right…uh…marijuana is illegal…should it…maybe it…well…uh…lemme just say it. Does anyone here think marijuana should be legal?”
I raised my arm, confident in the belief that it would be lost in the forest of other raised arms.
My arm was a specimen tree, alone in a sunny field, commanding the attention of every eye in the universe.
<< A side note, if I may. >>
“Don’t pick me” uniform
I had determined early on in the jury process that the best way to repel being selected for a panel was to look as much like a 2005 Republican as I could. I showed up every day dressed in gray slacks, blue blazer, light blue Oxford button-down shirt, double-Windsor-knotted tie (red, white, and blue foulard), short hair, and glasses…and flag pin. If I coulda found a place to slap on a flag decal, I woulda. I think it kept me out of a few juries, but it made me the foreman of almost all of the juries for which I was selected. Comme-çi comme-ça.
This side note is only important to truly depict what the judge saw when his eyes followed my specimen tree arm down to the rebellious source that raised it.
<< End of side note. >>
Where were we?
Oh yes.
My arm was a specimen tree, alone in a sunny field, commanding the attention of every eye in the universe.
The person in the seat next to mine subtly adjusted his seating choice by two to the right.
The judge gazed, open-mouthed, in my general direction. I suspect he was reconsidering the accuracy of his “good morning” greeting.
An exchange of information ensued.
“Your juror number, sir?”
“Juror number 73, your honor.”
“(Consulting his print-out) Mister……Lay-zer?”
“Close enough your honor.”
“Mr. Lay-zer, did you understand the question?”
“I think I did, your honor.”
“So…you are saying you believe that possessing, selling, and using marijuana should be legal?”
“I do, your honor. I have been in the alcohol retail business for over thirty years. It seems to me that it would be hypocritical for me to believe marijuana should not be legal.”
“I see…”
Charcoal starter
A longish pause before the judge continued; “Believing as you do, do you believe you could render an impartial verdict based on the facts to be presented at this trial?”
“I think I could, your honor. You are asking me to make a decision based on the law as it is, not as I think it should be. I think I’m capable of that.”
“Hm-m-m-m. Well, thank you for your candor, Mr. Lay-zer.”
I knew then I was about to get the rest of the day off.
I made another mental note. If I ever was caught with a semi-truckload of marijuana and made to miss a real interesting cook-out, I would not want this particular judge.
BUT, if I was the taxpayer lookin’ to keep juries fair and impartial…I might.
Unbeknownst to Lexington, a Clan assembles for an evening of mayhem.
The South is renowned and mostly disowned for its Klan. Dividing and judging people by the shades of their skin…foolishness. Politically and physically acting on that foolishness…shameful. We know better.
Dividing and judging people for what’s going on voluntarily in their bedrooms…foolishness.
Dividing and judging people……foolishness.
We have important and glorious things to do with our days and we need the talents of everyone to do them. Could we please keep our eye on the ball here?
But…
…this is not that kind of clan.
Instead of the KKK, one could call this group, the CCC (Classical Cinema Clan).
War Gods of Babylon
One could.
To avoid confusion, one should reveal that “Classical” refers to the age of the members rather than the quality of the films. This octet has amassed over 500 years on this planet. I can’t accurately speak to their whereabouts before then, though I harbor suspicions.
One would assume that in 500+ years, some wisdom would have also been amassed and perhaps it has, but that’s not what this assemblage is about. No, the CCC is probably about as foolish as the KKK, but much more benign. Their foolishness is much more centered on good pizza and happily bad movies than lynching and gerrymandering. Their rants tend to be more about the uselessness of ubiquitous standing ovations on the theatrical stages of Lexington rather than Hillary’s emails or Stormy’s career choices.
While I personally believe our country is diminished by the hi-jinks of the KKK, I can’t honestly assert that Lexington is in any way enhanced by the activities of the CCC. Who is made better by our devouring (inhaling?) of an “Ultimate Warrior” pizza from Puccini’s Smiling Teeth or a “Hudson” from Big City Pizza, followed by a double-feature of War Gods of Babylon and Carry on Cleo?
Classical, if not classy
Well…of course WE are…but the pleasures are ephemeral at best and the digestive dreams that ensue rival those of Dickens’ Scrooge.
Be that as it may, no damage is done by the CCC. No animals are harmed – in fact, Chloe the wonder pup and the only female in the group, scores big from “pizza bones” slipped to her clumsily and surreptitiously by the easily charmed clansmen.
We assemble in the kitchen, munching on beer cheese and chips, drinking wine, bourbon, beer, and herbal tea, filling the time until the pizza arrives with stirring accounts of various physical ailments (500+ years, remember?). That sounds deadly dull and it is but it doesn’t last long. The discussion morphs quickly into passionate descriptions of current projects of the clansmen. Here, I should point out this group is comprised of a painter, a director, an attorney, a writer, an actor, a teacher, a critic, and a junesboy. The members of the group always have something going on; a script, a play, a showing, a concert… And every one of this group has performed on stage. Thus, there is always much to discuss.
The Writer has just finished a new play and, not being averse to a little self-promotion, offers; “Richard III got a bum rap.”
The Lawyer; “So…you’re sayin’ Shakespeare was puttin’ out fake news?”
The Teacher; “Maybe he’s a victim of the Deep State.”
The Actor; “Oh yeah. I got yer Deep State right here.”
The Critic snorts and giggles ominously.
Ed Wood & Kreskin — not since Fred & Ginger has there been such a cinematic duo
The Director; “I remember one day in Montana I drove 836 miles to watch some Udder Pagans play baseball and do some unmentionable things to local cows. I remember thinkin’ that Montana was a Big State and perhaps an Odd State, but I never remember thinkin’ it was a Deep State…and I don’t think I ever met anyone named Dick there.”
This was met with a significant pause as we pondered all the images and possibilities sparked by that pronouncement.
Finally the painter summed it all up; “What kind of pizza did you order and what are we watchin’ tonight? Any pepperoni and pulchritude on deck?”
Junesboy answered; “I ordered copious pizza – the best kind. As for the flicks, I thought we’d start out with some old trailers, followed by an old local commercial featuring The Actor in our group talkin’ ‘bout a rubber ducky, and then move on to the Ed Wood rarity; Devil’s Night Orgy.”
Thirty years ago tomorrow I did the rightest thing in my life.
June's Boy 