The Meaning of Life, By Way of Sally Field and Movies About Terrorists...And Something About My Over-Idealization of Men, Too

It has just occurred to me, just now, not a minute ago, how important, definitive and utterly crucial Sally Field's career has been to my life. Let me tell you how I arrived at that thought, because the process in and of itself is, at least to me, illuminating.

I decided to write a column called "I Am What Hate Looks Like." There was no particular reason for that other than I'm in a foul mood and felt like writing about people and things I don't like. That made me think of Steel Magnolias due to it's unfortunately accurate portrayal of southern women as relentlessly catty. We are, no matter how much I try to deny it. Get my friend Mindy and I together and just wait for the eyebrows and "bless her hearts" to start flying.

But then I got stuck. I didn't know what else I wanted to say about the pettiness of hating someone for having a cute little bag draped over the arm that's holding her glass of chilled Chardonnay (ladies, you know who you are...go away). So I took a break and went to rogerebert.com to catch up on some reviews.

I make no apologies for enjoying Ebert. I don't always agree with him, but I always like the way he approaches film. While visiting his site I found that he has the single best review of United 93 I've come across, a film completely misunderstood by everyone who hasn't seen it. After reading the review I watched the trailer for United 93, which then made me want to watch the trailer for Paradise Now, my favorite film from last year. Watching that trailer, I was once again sucked into the tragic beauty of the friendship between the two would-be terrorists in the film and their archetypal bond. I always find myself leaning in at films that focus on that kind of relationship, straining to discern the unspoken communication that flows between men who know each other so well. It's my fascination with that mystery that lead me to write this column and title it the way I did in the first place.

I know that films like that should leave me thinking about the larger world of ideas -- power, conflict, victimization, justice, progress -- and they do. But inevitably, I am far more intrigued by the interior landscape, the imperceptible notes that move us to dramatic gestures that make no sense from the outside. I can call a terrorist a monster not a human because I wasn't there the first time I blade of grass tickled his ankle...he can call me an infidel because he wasn't there the first time I realized that you could see the curve of the sky on a clear day.

So I was waching a trailer about terrorists and thinking about the bond between men that I can never fully be a part of, no matter what I name my column. That, naturally, lead me to think of the creme de la creme of male bonding films, Hooper. Am I ready to write about Hooper? Am I ready to drag all of that out? Am I ready to talk about how Burt Reynolds never has to say why he does this to himself, how we know implicitely that it isn't really about the money, how frustrated Sally Field must be...

Wait...holy shit...that's right. Sally Field was in that movie.

Steel Magnolias, the classic female-bonding movie and Hooper, the classic male-bonding movie. She's in BOTH.

What's more, I indentify with her in both. Do you know how rare that is? I almost never identify with women. But in Hooper she's so sweet and loving and sexy and funny and understanding-to-a-point but then lays it all on the line because she can't watch another man she loves destroy himself...she's the best that any woman can be given the tools she has in the world. (Now, don't write me and call me a sexist. I never said I wasn't and for the record I have a full time job and constantly work my ass off so suck it, sister, I'm not Gloria Effing Steinem.)

But then, in Steel Magnolias, she's like the female version of Harvey Keitel's character "The Wolf" in Pulp Fiction. She's a rock. She does what has to be done. She's the emotional go-to crisis manager. Then when her idiot daughter dies (forgive me if I don't think having a kid is more important than living...get mad about that assertion, America) she takes care of business, and then -- only then, after her daughter is in the ground and the service is over and everyone's ready to eat pasta salad -- she explodes in this torrent of existential feminine rage that every girl everywhere memorized and tatooed to her soul.

Truthfully, she could have been yelling about anything. The defining point seemed to have been this: I know I can handle this pain, but why do I have to? Why am I the one who has to be so goddamn capable?

Every woman who has done a month or two with a bad therapist has been told the same thing: "Oh, you just spend all your time taking care of other people, maybe you need to spend some time taking care of yourself." Sometimes that's true, not always. But we all think it's true. We're all martyrs in our own way because we know we're going to die. And since we can't enjoy the pity after we're dead, we want it now.

I was telling a friend of mine about United 93 and why I think it's a film that has an artistic, human statement that goes well beyond the facts of the event it depicts. In a sense, this whole planet is a crashing plane. None of us will get out of it alive. And we'll be suspicious of each other and accuse each other of disrupting our progress and hating life, freedom and faith. We'll find ways of making ourselves feel whole and alive and not on a one-way trip to oblivion, and maybe we'll find a way to pick up our friends and share that feeling with them, too. We'll find strength in the struggle for life itself rather than sitting back and waiting for everything we know to end.

But we'll never really grasp all of those moments that made each of us who we are. We can't know it all, so we look for easily recognizable similarities. I see more in men, and therefore mistrust women. But in truth, I'm the Salieri of gender identification...I have the desire, but not the tools. I'm a woman, I will never know what these men are really thinking.

But that doesn't mean I won't try. Like Sally Field, I will surround myself with them, embrace them and try to understand, with occasional bouts of rage and jealousy. In films I watch them jump out of planes, ride horses down steep cliffs, and make difficult, seemingly inexplicable decisions, but I can't look away. There's some clue I think I'm going to pick up, something that will close the gap.

And that's just it. I choose to make the people I don't understand a mystery worth solving, a mystery that can be solved even if all logic and intuition dictates that it can't. The tragedy of life is life itself, and it's the only joke worth laughing at. We are all Don Quixote and we have to own up to it, maybe then we'd actually find some common ground.

Seriously, guys, I don't even know what this article was about anymore. But Sally Field, man...she's awesome.

How to Attend a Comedy Show

When I was a senior in high school my A.P. English teacher stopped our lesson plan cold during the first semester in order to give us a two week remedial course in cursive handwriting. Now, while that was an exercise in retarded futility, there is something to be said for taking a step back and relearning some things we should have already mastered.

As a professional comedy show audience member, I feel I am well-suited to shed some light on the mystery that is appropriate comedy show behavior. Thus, I have developed the following primer for those who are considering attending their first comedy show, those who just need a little refresher on the finer points, and those who don't realize they need it but actually need it more than the former two types of audience member. So let's get started, shall we?


Before the Show

1. Don't be that guy or girl
If a friend says to you, "Hey, you wanna go to a comedy show with me?" do not immediately respond, "Oh I HATE going to comedy shows, they ALWAYS say something to me!" No, they don't. You're narcisstic and you don't like comedy, so be honest. (If you still think comics always single you out, see #5). Also, comics and comedy clubs vary wildly. Some comics don't even recognize that the audience is there, some base their whole set on crowd work. Some venues cater to the "Hey, where are you guys from" style of comedy and others to the "What would you mix with powdered water " comedy. Which leads us to the next point...

2. Know where you're going
If you're going to Caroline's you're going to spend at least $40 on the cover and two drink minimum, more depending on the popularity of the performer. You're also going to need to make a reservation, check in when you get there and wait in line to be ushered in. If you're going to an "alternative" comedy show at a dive bar, you may pay nothing and drink PBR but still wait in line, only this time amongst the equally "alternative" comedy audience. You could also be the only person in the audience who isn't performing on the show depending on how far down the rabbit hole you want to crawl. In that case, be prepared to either A) pretend you're on the show if you don't want to be addressed or B) accept that all jokes will be delivered directly to you and that the comics will eat it or not based on your one laugh. Taste that? That's called power. Sweet, uncomfortable power.

3. Don't be afraid to try something new
One of the biggest hurdles unestablished comics face is getting good stage time. That's why so many comics attempt to start their own shows. However, there are only a handful of really established and consistently attended alternative venues: Rififi, Mo Pitkins, the UCB Theater are a few. New comedy shows live or die based on their ability to attract an audience and supply the venue with drinkers. Unfortunately, people don't seem to enjoy going places they haven't already been and venues don't always want to give a show time to build audience slowly. So if you hear that Judah Friedlander is doing a set one night at a place you've never heard of and another night at Gotham, don't be so quick to rule out going to that new place. You'll probably have a great time and feel like you discovered something while simultaneously supporting the same entrepreneurial spirit that helped build shows like Eating It and Invite Them Up.


During the Show

4. Arrive on time but not for the reason you think
Comedy shows tend to get going anywhere from 10 minutes to a half hour or more after the publicized start time. However, this creates a problematic cycle: the show starts late because the producers are waiting for a bigger audience, the audience knows the show starts late so they arrive late, the show starts even later, so the audience starts arriving even later...you see the problem. So even if you know a show won't start until 8:30, if at all possible go ahead and arrive at the official 8:00 start time. You'll be saving the host some stress, have time to get a drink and get a better seat.

5. Don't be that guy or girl, part 2
If you find that you are always getting singled out at comedy shows, guess what, there's something you're doing to attract attention. Maybe you have a dumb laugh or an ugly date, maybe you're talking too loudly to your companions, maybe you're sitting quietly with a sour look on your face. What you have to understand is that when a comic is on stage he or she is working. The comic isn't particularly interested in anything about you except hearing you laugh, unless of course crowd work is part of his or her act, but you would still have to make yourself noticed in order for the comic to single you out. One exception to the rule is pretty girls. If you are a pretty girl and you don't want the comic to say anything to you, don't sit front row center.

6. You aren't helping
This is so basic it seems like it shouldn't have to be said, but sadly it does. Heckling is not part of the show. You aren't working with the comedian when you yell something out at him or her. If you need to talk at a comedy show go to an open mic and get on the list, don't work on your lame material when someone is on stage. (Note: I officially apologize for the one and only time I heckled a comic...I was drunk, it was 1:30, a friend was on stage and he claimed to have just recently taken part in a threesome...seriously, what would you have done? Still, sorry, John.)

7. For the love of God, laugh you douche bags
Why would you go to a comedy show if you think you're so above laughing? Wouldn't moody aloofness be more appropriate for some other activity, like the indie rock shows you've already ruined with your vapid, blank stares. Stand-up isn't a battle of wits between you -- the well-read, bespectacled, Vann-wearing audience member -- and the talking monkey trying to entertain you. Here's a news flash: you aren't any cooler than the person on stage, so get the fuck over yourself, loosen up and have fun. That's what you're supposed to be there for, moron.


After the show

8. Have another drink
Again, if it's a small show at a bar or lounge it's always good to hang out and have another drink. It certainly helps put the comic in good sted with venue, plus you might have an opportunity for #9.

9. Do show your appreciation, don't be a weirdo
One of the fun things about comedy shows in the city is that it's usually very easy to talk to the comics afterword. And comics like positive attention, so there's no reason to be afraid to say something. However, don't be creepy. If the comic you want to talk to is busy or already involved in a conversation, don't walk up and stand next to him or her until you're noticed. And please for the love of god, don't seize the opportunity to show him or her how funny you think you are. Be complimentary, be nice, ask a question but don't be starstruck and don't think you're cool. Finally, as stated, comics love attention so if you simply tried to strike up a pleasant conversation at an appropriate moment and he or she acted annoyed or superior, that comic is an asshole.

10. Go tell it on the mountain
If you saw a good show, tell people about it. Go back and take people with you. Comedians work their asses off for very little money in the hopes that more and more people will see them and they can build a following that magically translates into a career. So if you really love comedy, support it. Trust me, the comics will thank you.

I hope you found this helpful. I think we're all ready to venture back out into the night and laugh ourselves silly. Might a suggest this coming Monday's Drink at Work.com Presents... at Siberia? It features some of the funniest and most attractive comics in the city, including: Craig Baldo, Becky Donohue, Shayna Ferm, Jack Kukoda and Sean Crespo. Plus, our musical guest is the insanely wonderful Billy McCarthy of Pela (one of DAW's favorite bands). So come out and put today's lesson to the test. I'll be grading you on clarity, poise and dexterity with Irish Car Bombs. See you then!

Death, Kissing and Summer

I'm pretty sure my seventh grade boyfriend was an albino. He had almost white blonde hair, really pale skin and pale blue eyes. He wore a tux t-shirt to the 8th grade banquet (instead of a real tux rented from Mr. Burch or Tant & Tant) and he died in a car accident with his grandfather when we were in 10th grade. I hadn't spoken to him in a couple of years. We weren't friendly after the break-up and he was a strange dude besides. He was sweet and attractive but seemed unusually tortured for a 13-year-old.

His cousin Travis on the otherhand was incredibly hot and had this blinking facial tick that was more adorable than disturbing. He would blink his eyes very slowly and intensely and he would look at you while doing this, as though he were trying to really see you for the first time, then he would smile nervously. The summer between 7th and 8th grade, my best friend Heather was "going with" Travis and I was going with Kevin (the possible albino who is definitely dead). Our favorite thing to do was sit in my downstairs den with the lights off (there were no windows so it was pitch black) and kiss. At one point during the summer, Heather and I realized that we were more interested in the others' boyfriend, so one day we casually suggested we swap...and it was so.

Travis was one of those boys you don't forget. He was the first guy I knew who could accurately be described as a good kisser. He wasn't in a rush or distracted or going for more than I was interested in giving. He was completely content and absorbed with kissing, without an ounce of the thrill-of-the-conquest bravado that defined most teenage boys I knew. Ironically, his pale cousin was a much darker soul. Every kiss from him felt like a quiet acknowledgement that someday I would break his heart. He kissed intensely, but begrudgingly and without trust. Plus, his mouth was cold...which I hated. Heather didn't seem to mind. She preferred Kevin's anger and humiliation to Travis' selflessness and whimsy. Kevin's favorite song was "Love Bites" by Def Leppard, Travis' was "The Gambler."

Kevin I broke up at the beginning of 8th grade and Heather and Travis broke up a short while later. Kevin hated me and claimed that I was a cold bitch who never loved him, so none of us spoke to each other again. My only regret was that because they were so close I couldn't see Travis anymore. I wouldn't be kissed like that again until I was nursing a broken heart myself in Panama City at age 17 (his name was Adam, he was from Murfreesboro, he had green eyes, drank Pepe Lopez tequila and kissed like the tide would never come in).

Later during our 8th grade year, I overheard in the lunchroom a classmate talking about how Travis had just saved someone's life. Apparently, they were playing basketball and the other student had been chewing gum and got it lodged in his throat. No one in the immediate vicinity knew how to perform the Heimlich Maneuver, so Travis just put his hand down the guy's throat and yanked the gum out. I think that was the first moment I felt like I understood what a man was supposed to be. A man is prepared to do what has to be done, even if he doesn't know the right way to do it.

The problem is that so many of us think there's no time to figure out the right way to do what has to be done. That's why we so often mistake any action for decisive action. But this boy Travis knew the difference. When he was in a situation where a friend could be dead within a few minutes if he didn't do something, anything, he acted as best he could...and he got lucky. When he was with a girl, in a dark room in the middle of the summer with nothing to do but kiss her, he took his time and did it right.

The last time I saw Travis, Kevin had just died. He no longer blinked the way he used to, he'd grown out of it. His eyes were heavy and sad and on the verge of tears. He was sitting on the bumper of a car wearing an army jacket, and since I didn't know what to say to him, I quietly wondered whether it was his dad's jacket or his uncle's. I never asked. I felt his breath on my neck when I hugged him goodbye. It had just rained, it was summer, and I could smell the grass at the edge of the parking lot as it mixed with the faint aroma of Camel regulars on the inside of his collar.

And I felt guilty for breaking Kevin's heart.