Camping with Jesus

This past Monday at the first Drink at Work.com Presents... I read aloud the virginity pledge I signed at church camp when I was 13. That got me to thinking about the week I spent at this camp every summer from age 6 to 18; how hot it was, how I would always try to win first or second place in every single sports competition...even skimming stones which I didn't consider a sport, how I would invariably find a new boyfriend each time, how the pool would fill with tiny tree frogs during nightswimming. I scoff at it now, but at the time I loved it. I even loved the nightly devotionals, the daily discussion groups, and the cabin cleaning competitions that determined what order you went in for meals. I don't even recall sweating that much and this was July in Alabama...and God was watching.

So, I did a little research on the world wide web and found, much to my excitement that my dear church camp does have it's own Web site. The camp itself is called Maywood, but the week I attended was called Central Alabama Christian Youth Camp (or CACY Camp...which sounds more fun and less like interrogations and gassings will take place).

The first thing I noticed at Maywood's Web site, was the logo:

Maywood Christian Camp: The Center of God's Universe

Wow. That's pretty bold. Especially considering that this is a camp only for Church of Christ youth, it's not like Baptists and Methodists are invited, too. The center of God's universe is very small indeed...but they do serve hotdogs there.

Next, I came across the cabin I stayed in most of the year's I went to camp:

You know there's something to be said for dumping a bunch of kids in the woods in 101° weather and having them sleep on rickety bunk beds in a cement floored, mosquito-infested shack with no air conditioning. It taught me self-reliance, resilience...and that there is no God.

This is the discussion table where I and all the other preteen girls in my group signed our virginity pledges:

You see, the problem with signing a virginity pledge at that age is you haven't even been felt up yet (well, back then we hadn't...these kids today...disgraceful). Anyway, you don't know what you're promising. You're basically saying, "hey, in three or four years I'd love it if I could pile a little extra guilt and self-loathing on top of all the awkwardness and raging hormones that will become the focus of my daily life." Now, take a 17-year-old girl who has just gotten a really good finger bang from the sensitive and smart yet masculine captain of the debate team and get her to sign a virginity pledge, then you've got a promise that means something.

This picture I actually like, simply because it's such a stark contrast to those scary mega-church/death stars that you always see on TV.

This is the pavilion where we would have all of our morning and evening devotionals, as well as the closing night talent show. And the best part was, it was right next to the basketball court, so as soon as the final "amen" was uttered, kids would haul ass down the steps to the court. "I've got Jesus in me...watch me hit this three-pointer."

Finally, we come to the most important feature of church camp...the swimming pool baptism.

I won't go into the validity of giving yourself to Christ when you're probably delirious from the heat, mildly anemic from all the blood-sucking pests and you haven't seen television in a week. I hated them specifically because at my first summer at camp — the only time my whole family (aside from my dad) went — my brothers were baptised in this way...together. Which means that through some kind of biblical loophole, their souls are now tied together on the heavenly plain as well as earthly. Great. The fuckers ditched me again.

I myself would not be baptized for a few years later, at a time when I could fully comprehend the nature of God, Jesus and their role in my life. You know, at around age 9. And knowing my luck, there was probably some waterbug trapped in my pocket and now my soul's knitted to it for all eternity. Still, good times...

That's What She Said

While I was trying to figure out what to do for today's column I came across this Word doc on my computer called "dialogue." It's apparently something I jotted down a few years ago for a screenplay I wanted to write. There are three snippets of conversations between two unidentified characters, although one is clearly based on me and the other is clearly wise to the "me" character's bullshit. Here it is, in its entirety:

---

Who cares...he’s dead.

It’s not your fault.

I wish it was. I wish it was that clear.

You have to stop that.

No. All I have to do is accept it. I hated him. I even wished him dead. I just never had the guts to do anything, not even to leave. I waited for him to die. He made a choice and followed through with it. Not me. I did nothing. That’s sick. I’m sick.

You’re not…

I’m worse than sick…I’m a coward.

No, you aren’t a coward. You’re a self-pitying obsessive.

Oh…[laughs] Maybe that’s why dad avoids me.

You’re ridiculous. Should I come back when you’re ready to get over yourself?

When do you think that’s gonna happen?

[he laughs]

---

Every time I try to do something, I think of everything else I should be doing and I get frustrated…so I don’t do anything. I had an idea for this funny story about a girl who is so afraid of dying that she kills herself.

That’s not funny.

That was the problem.

You used to be funny.

Oh…well, I’ve moved on to being disappointing.

Suits you.

---

Maybe we should have a fight. A big bar brawl. And someone could be thrown onto the bar and slid down the whole length of it – smashing into beer mugs and stuff – like in a Burt Reynolds movie.

You know something, this whole thing you do…the cute thing, the knowing thing, the saying things you don’t expect girls to say thing...I understand. I know “why” you do it. It used to be funny. But it’s not anymore. You’re kind of annoying now. And not in an interesting way.

And my breath stinks.

Yes, it does. Stop with the Jack and Coke.

So why do you still talk to me?

I’m not going to reassure you right now, sorry.

---

You know, I don't think the best scripts come out of 86 pages of one person having a conversation with herself, so I'm kind of glad I never went any further with that. Still, it's interesting — or is it depressing? — to realize that I've been spinning my wheels on the same ground for several years now. Maybe there is a good screenplay in there somewhere but it needs at least two giant steps back from the solipsism.

On a separate note, here's something that happened to me at a bar last night. I was with two friends and I was low on cash so I gave the bartender my card to open a tab. I ordered three Smithwick's, using the correct pronunciation "Smitticks." My two friends drank their beers slightly faster than me and they ordered their next round. Then the bartender looks at me and says, "Can I get anything for you, Princess?"

Princess.

What the fuck about me made him say that?

I went to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. Ok, fine, there's the blonde hair, but it's not like I had tiny purse slung over my arm or a DKNY bedazzled blouse or anything else particularly prissy. I'm just some person. So why princess?

It then occurred to me that, for the most part, I see myself from the waist down and other people see me from the waist up. I look down when I walk so I see my camouflage Converse or my decaying black thrift store boots and the muddy, worn cuffs of my jeans and think, "Stay the course, girlfriend, you're edgy yet plain." But other people see the blonde hair, blue eyes and benevolent grin and never realize that it's all masking a sincere desire to start a fight club at that very moment. I was in a bar once a long time ago and this guy who had been hitting on me for a while says, "You know, I'm really attracted to innocence."

Ok, let's just let that sink in for a second.

"I'm really attracted to innocence."

Let's set aside the 5,337 other things that are wrong with that sentence and focus on the fact that he said that to me and he meant it about me. I responded with the first thing that popped in my mind: "Yeah, well, you can't fuck innocence in the ass, can you?"

I guess the point of all of this is that I tend to feel like I'm a tough person or a bad person, but never a nice or sweet person, yet somehow I'm almost always given credit for being more like the latter than the former. I'm like Dave Foley's "bad doctor" character from The Kids in the Hall: "I mean, how far can you coast on charm? Well, pretty far, actually."

So from now on when you're talking to me, do me a favor and keep this one idea in your head: at some point during our conversation I've thought about what would happen if I stabbed something in your eye, and I've tried to remember what Lee Marvin looked like before his hair turned white. This should help avoid any confusion about who the fuck you're talking to.

A Few Random Thoughts On the Subject of Death

When I first understood what death was and that it was inevitibly going to happen to me, I became very angry at my parents. "You mean, you knew this is what would happen and you brought me here anyway? How dare you people?"

My favorite stuffed animal was a small Pink Panther I received for Christmas when I was five. He was plagued by self-loathing and ennui and routinely attempted suicide by flinging himself off the top of my chest-of-drawers. Numerous surgeries, extended hospital stays and painful physical therapy always restored him, but he would inevitibly try it again.

The first boy I kissed was a friend of my brother's and he did it on a dare. He later went on to become valedictorian of his class as well as a wildly successful drug runner around the greater Tarrant, AL area. Until, of course, he was gunned down outside of a crack house in Inglenook. He kissed me in my family's van on the way home from Six Flags.

Watership Down was, and still is, my favorite movie. The violence and dark symbolism was deliciously disturbing, but the ending where Hazel quietly lies down and passes away after a long, happy life was the most frightening thing I had ever seen. It introduced me to thought that I will probably never feel that I have had enough of life.

The last thing I said to my grandmother over the phone before she died was, "It's going to be ok." She responded, "I don't think it is."

My friend Ari told me that I am the kind of person who will be freaked out by turbulence because I don't know whether or not it means the plane is going down. However, if it turned out that, yes, the plane is going down I would probably relax...because at least I'd know what was going to happen. I am inclined to agree with this, but I don't want to test it out.

Ever since I was a kid, I have occasionally had panic attacks while lying in bed thinking about dying. I imagine that it's like going to sleep, only you have no dreams, can't move, and there's just this tiny grain of awareness that you're dead. I would obsess over that thought until I'd jump up and run across the room to get away from it, and then go back and go to sleep. A few years ago, I duped myself into being comforted by one baseless, abstract philosophical point — if death was like going to sleep, at some point you must wake up — and for about three months it stopped the panic attacks. Boom...I'm a genius.

Sometimes I find that my mind wanders without my noticing, and before long I've spent 30 minutes thinking about some movie I saw in the 80s. I'm pretty sure that when I die, my last thought will be of Brewster's Millions. "It's not an asset anymore, he's mailed it!"

Yesterday I was on the subway next to a guy from California who has been in New York for a week. He hates the subway, hates walking, hates the cold, hates the crowds, feels constantly lost and misses his car. He explained that he never minded being stuck in traffic because at least in a car you can turn the heat up. I responded that on the subway you get to know your fellow man, an idea he immediately dismissed. This morning I shared the train with a class of 12-year-olds on a field trip with their teacher and chaperones. They were going to some kind of debate about politics and they were divided into three groups: justices, the government and the press. The teacher instructed them to discuss their strategies for the days' events, which they did with gusto. Eventually, a member of the government group, a little bespectacled boy named Orlando, sat down next to me. He was reading the dictionary and had it opened to a page that ended with the word myriad. This made me think of the film Heathers and how J.D. and Veronica used the word myriad in Heather Chandler's suicide note, "as a symbol of her failings at school." Sitting next to Orlando, all of my feelings of jealousy over his youth disappeared and I just wanted to hug him because he was quiet and smart and riding the subway like a champ.

When I die, I want to wake up in New York in October and drink coffee while walking over the Brooklyn Bridge with Spalding Gray and Marlon Brando. It can even be the fat Marlon, I'm not picky.

The Business of Comedy is None of My Business

In a slight break from form, I want to write this week about something other than me and my endless fascination with all things male. We'll get back to adventures in penis envy next week.

As a devoted comedy fan, I spend an awful lot of time going to shows, upwards of four to five a week at this point. Up until the last few months, I pretty much made the same rounds: Rififi, UCB, The PIT, Moonwork. But recently I've been branching out and hitting a more diverse array of rooms including open mics, lotteries and other spaces where comedians who haven't quite made it into the lower east side alterna-clique sweat it out every night of the week.

You quickly develop a new appreciation for the art and work of stand-up comedy once you get a peak behind the curtain. These people do five or six shows a week, often in rooms that -- if they're lucky -- have one non-performing audience member. The rest of the time they perform for tourists with no sense of humor who've been dragged in by a barker, who also happens to be a stand-up comedian and is working the club for the privilege of doing 5 minutes at 2:00 in the morning. Occasionally, they'll book one of the good rooms -- a Shark Show, an Invite Them Up, a Sweet! -- and everything will hang on whether or not that seven minute set kills. If it does, they might get the chance to book another good show. If it doesn't, it'll probably be another six months before they get the opportunity again. It's demoralizing, disheartening, humiliating and sad.

Unfortunately, it's also necessary...to an extent. Everyone certainly has to pay their dues, that's how they get better. But I'm beginning to wonder if the alternative comedy scene hasn't become too far removed from it's communal roots, making it yet another barrier to struggling comics rather than a resource. Generally speaking, you see the same 10-15 comedians at all of the good shows. And yes, for the most part, these are great comics. But there are so many talented comedians in New York one has to ask why you don't see more getting booked in the good rooms. Is it because the DIY spirit of the alternative comedy scene is basically do-it-yourself FOR YOURSELF and that's it? Once you create a show and find an audience, does your commitment to the rest of the comedy scene fall by the wayside? Perhaps I simply misinterpreted the comedy scene in New York a long time ago. Maybe comics, like the rest of us, are really only focused on their work as a means to an end. Maybe most don't look at comedy as an art form and community that needs to be nurtured.

But I find that idea so depressing. Being a stand-up comic is such a niche career choice it only makes sense that comics should support each other. But instead, it's as if the comedy community has gone the way of the art scene in the 80s -- tons of backbiting and undermining, all for the sake of competing for a small number of venues where you can get your work seen, waiting for some rich benefactor to call you up and give you your own show. One of my favorite games lately is trying to figure out who are the Andy Warhols, Julian Schnabels and Jean-Michel Basquiats of New York comedy.

But I digress. I don't want to take the creators of some of the best comedy rooms in the country to task. I'm not a comedian so I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about. That's why I want to take the audience to task. We've gotten lazy. We don't seek out new shows and new performers. We don't want to go to rooms we haven't been to before or sit through a few bad comics in order to see someone great who is just starting out. We HATE open mics and we never go into shows that have someone handing out fliers just outside the door. We're so above all that. We know where the good comedy is and that's all we need to know, right? We're such douche bags.

I guess my point is that I think stand-up comedy is an art form and should be an end in itself. I like comics like Ashley Strand, who hosts the open mic Banned to Siberia, who challenges the audience and has the skill to win them and lose them and win them back again. Audiences should appreciate that kind of dynamic relationship with a performer who won't allow them to be lazy. The best comedy creates an experience, it doesn't just traffic in gags.

In conclusion, let me leave you with a short list of shows I've gone to recently that gave me the opportunity to see some new people and have radically different comedic experiences:

Banned to Siberia, open mic hosted by Ashley Strand
Tuesdays, 7:00pm, Siberia (40th St / 9th Ave)
You know what New York needs, an open mic that doesn't make comedians want to open their wrists. I think Banned to Siberia has the potential to get there, mostly because of the mordant grace of host Ashley Strand. He's smart, he's biting, he tells great stories, and most importantly, he gives comics the room to work on material. The sets here aren't five minute cattle calls, they adapt to what the performer needs to accomplish. Plus, this show is at Siberia, which is one of the coolest big-time dives in the city.

Suddenly Stand-Up at the Duplex, hosted by Poppi Kramer
Wednesdays, 7:00pm, The Duplex (Christopher St / 7th Ave)
This is a fun show because the room is usually full, a lot of acts go up, and most of the comedians do it so often that a lot of the time you catch them trying out new material. It's a wildly uneven show, but it's one of the few I can think of that really feels like you're experiencing a day in the life of comedy. Plus, it's a room that is genuinely full of love, support and dedication to the work of stand-up, and that always leaves me with a good feeling.

Satire for Sanity, hosted by Barry Weintraub
Tuesdays, 8:00pm, Rocky Sullivan's
I would call this a work out room for entirely different reasons than the previous two: in it's current form, this is a room where comics can learn how to die on stage. Billed as a left-leaning political show, legend has it used to be amazing but has since fallen on hard times. It would be nice to see it revived, but as it is, I recommend it simply because it's the most fucked up show I've ever been to. The central problem is the ever-present, ever-drinking, ever-hollering regulars in the back of the bar. They take pretty much everyone apart once they've got enough hooch in them. Truthfully, this show makes for more interesting sociological observation than comedy, but for that alone it's worth going at least once.

Tell Your Friends, produced by Liam McEneaney
Mondays, 8:00pm, Lolita Bar (Allen St. / Broome St.)
This is the most successful show on the list, but I mention it because it has an entirely different vibe than most comedy shows. Each night starts with a few songs by resident house band A Brief View of the Hudson, plus, there's another musical guest later. Punctuating the comedy with music gives the basement performance space a laid-back, experimental feel and there's usually a nice mix of established comics and up-and-comers. Host Baron Vaughn and producer Liam McEneaney are also incredibly charming, if you like that kind of thing.

Sweet Paprika, hosted by Allison Castillo and Ophira Eisenberg
Mondays, 9:00pm. D-Lounge (101 E. 15th St., basement)
I've only seen this show once, but the ladies who run it are very funny and the cabaret space is beautiful (if you can find it). There was not much of an audience there the night I went out, and that was criminal. A show run by women that's not a "chick show" is a rare, precious thing. This should be an institution.

I Bet Mr. Browning Never Cried Either

My dad has an impressive collection of guns stored in the downstairs guest bedroom closet. When mildly coaxed, he’s happy to escort you down there and take each piece out one by one, show it to you and explain what year it’s from and what the significance behind it is. Mostly, he collects rifles and shotguns but he also has a small handgun collection in the nearby chest-of-drawers. His favorites are the old west pieces, but he also has a modern day sniper rifle and a Luger, so it’s a fairly varied collection.

Now, my dad isn’t a hunter. In fact, as far as I know, he’s never even shot a gun. It’s the history and iconography of firearms he enjoys. The best part about getting him to show you his collection is the way he talks about each piece. He’ll slide an old Browning out of its case and say, “Now I thought this was a real pretty gun.” He might as well be talking about a car or a credenza. But in his eyes you can see him slip away into this other place. He looks down the barrel of a Winchester Model 1887 and imagines himself the sheriff of some dusty town with a tumultuous past and uneasy future.

In reality, he was the mayor of my hometown of Tarrant, AL. But there his duties pretty much consisted of balancing the budget, keeping fireworks sales outside the city lines and removing a huge box of glass from a constituent’s curb when the garbage men refused to pick it up. Rarely, if ever, was he awoken in the middle of the night to confront the ne’er-do-wells who had just burned down the local saloon that for years had been owned and operated by the sweetest, most truehearted call girl this side of the Mississippi. Still, to this day, whenever he walks into the Tarrant High School football stadium on a Friday night to catch the game (even though he moved to a golf community on the other side of Birmingham when his term ended) there’s an air of respect that follows him, even without the hat, horse and firearm.

On a few occasions, I’ve asked him when he plans to get some kind of rack or display case for his guns and his answer is never specific, “Ehhhh…I don’t know. I don’t even know if I’m gonna keep all of these.” I used to think that my dad’s reticence to share his thoughts on his own interests meant that he either didn’t put a lot of thought into them or he just didn’t feel like opening up to me. I’ve since come to the conclusion that my dad and I are just too much alike.

In one sense, we’re both ashamed of our obsessions and fear that they are signs of weakness, or at the very least, that they create an opportunity for others to laugh at us. I learned a valuable lesson when I wallpapered my entire room with pictures of Corey Haim at age 13. Two older brothers and an older sister don’t let that kind of thing go by uncommented. If my dad lovingly displays those guns where anyone can see them, who’s to stop his friends and family from constantly cracking wise about what he really plans to do with his retirement, and in the same breath, reminding him that he’s 65, it’s 2006 and he lives in a gated community with no villains or houses of ill-repute anywhere to be found.

But on a more subconscious level, I think my dad and I also fancy ourselves secret superheroes who simply haven’t been called to duty yet. And as such, we can’t let the outside world know too much about what our hearts and minds truly hold dear, for fear that it could one day be used against us.

Unfortunately, I’m not as strong or as internal as my dad. Plenty of people have seen me cry, and each time it happens it’s as though another chain of kryptonite has been dropped around my neck. However, I’ve never seen my dad cry — not even when his father passed away — and up until recently, I had never even heard of him crying.

That is, until my brother Chris disappeared for about 12 hours a couple of years ago. The last time anyone had seen him was at about midnight at a bar in Tarrant following the high school football game. He’d had a couple of beers with friends but didn’t feel well so he drove home. His wife was already in Athens, GA for the Auburn/Georgia football game the following day and he was supposed to meet up with my dad early the next morning to head to the game as well. He never showed up or called.

Now, you have to understand, my family is extremely wired. Everyone has a cell phone and they’re constantly on them: “I’m headed your way, I’ll be there in five minutes...” “What did you have for lunch? How was that? Oh, I had Wendy’s. No, the one on Southside…” etc. My brother can always be found via his cell or his Blackberry, so it was very unusual for him to be out of contact. My entire family was mobilized within a couple of hours trying to find him: they called hospitals, called all of his friends, retraced his steps, but nothing. The later it got, the more panicked everyone became. My dad was holding it all together, always thinking of the next thing they could do to try to find him. But by noon it was clear that something was seriously wrong. My dad drove along the main highway route that connected Tarrant to Crestwood where my brother lived, looking along the side of the road for his car, or something else.

Finally, at around 1:30, Chris called. Apparently, by the time he got home the previous night he was doubling over with stomach pains. He didn’t want to call anyone due to the late hour, and instead of going to a hospital, he simply drove himself to the diagnostic clinic downtown where he was the administrator and knew there would be a small medical staff on duty. They gave him some medication that knocked him out until the next day, when he awoke to a flurry of messages, each more desperate than the last. Slightly annoyed, he called our brother Chuck and asked why everyone was freaking out. Chuck tried to explain, but finally gave up and just put my dad on the phone. As soon as he heard Chris’ voice, my dad started crying. No other explanation was needed. My dad had believed for a short time that his son might actually be dead, and that was it.

I was in New York by this time so I didn’t hear this story until I went home for Thanksgiving the next month. When Chris described it, he said that hearing my dad cry was one of the worst moments of his life. And to be honest, just hearing about it made it one of the worst of mine. It's still disturbing now. It's like being Lois Lane in Superman 2, watching the newly powerless Superman get beaten up by hillbillies in a greasy spoon. Superheroes aren't super simply because they can and do save people, it's because their mere presence is calming and makes you feel safe. My dad's role in my family is to be inpenetrable and unaffected. He's "The Wolf." He handles things. If he's shaken, anything can happen.

Is there more dignity in withholding your feelings and storing your passions away in the closet of a room where no one ever sleeps? Maybe not. But I would still trade my myriad indiscriminate tears for my dad’s specific, shattering ones. Because when you really look at it, who reveals more: the girl who cries twelve times a month over a variety of things, or the man who cries once in his life over something that could have destroyed him? In the end, I know I’ll never be as Clint Eastwood as my dad. Hell, I don't even like guns. But I am man enough to tip my hat to him and say, “It’s ok that we don’t really talk. I hear you.”