Matt Got Older

Fair Enough

Last weekend I had the pleasure of accompanying my brother's family to the Oregon State Fair. This was a new experience for me in that it was much larger than the other fairs I'm used to attending. The paths were paved. The people were relatively clean. The familiar childhood fair scents of diesel gas from the rides mingled with the sweat of weathered carnies gave way to delicious aromas from the food booths and late summer wind.

Growing up, I would begin to feel the excited butterflies start to flutter around late June in anticipation of the third week in July when the quiet fairgrounds in Fowlerville would burst to life with vendors, rides, food booths, games, church lady bake sales, and animal exhibitions. It was important to remember to wear close-toed shoes and socks to avoid the cow bullets and poky sun-burnt hay that was strewn throughout the grounds. Carnies who bore a striking, disconcerting resemblance to One Day at a Time's Schneider milled about in search of their next beer, cigarette dangling precariously next their last well-worn tooth. Their broken grins couldn't shake my enthusiasm for the homemade potato chips and freshly squeezed lemonade I was determined to enjoy first thing. I'll always be grateful to Bill Carr for showing me that if you press your straw just right against the bottom of the cup and tilt it just so, you'll be sure to scoop up a lump of sugar that couldn't be convinced to dissolve with the rest of its kin.

Mom would give us our allowance for the day and find her position in the bingo tent where each game was a quarter, whether you played one card, or set up sixteen in the shape of an H below your four trolls (multiples of your cards were your best luck, you know) and two dachshund figurines that were sure to help the player rake in the bucks, provided one dachshund faced east and the other was on its hind legs to "reach for the stars." Mom relied on no charms of the sort, but did well through sheer perseverance. She would sit there for hours at a time while we tested gravity on the rides and dared the giant hogs to look us in the eyes. She would sit through slow calls of B8 and O72 to get her golden numbers that formed postage stamps or an X on her cards. Eventually the house had to give it up. She knew the odds and rather than goosing her luck with trinkets and superstitions, she wrestled her winnings using old-fashioned mathematics and time.

Armed with these experiences, I took a step back to a different time with my brother last weekend where we could be little kids sharing a sweet treat, but this time we also shared it with his little ones. The way their eyes lit up when a horse reared back, or when we took a gondola ride over the fair was well worth the admission.

Next time we go, I'll have to show them the lemonade trick. It's a doozy.

The Flower Anniversary

Four years ago today, I moved across country to the place I now call my hometown. It was a transitional time in my life made even more complicated by losing Dad just two weeks prior to the move. I had already planned on coming out before we lost him. In fact, the last Father's Day gift I ever gave him in person was a set of stationary and two books of stamps he could use to write me after I'd headed out west. He was no stranger to letters to and from Oregon, as his brother had lived in Salem over half his life, and both his sons had settled in the northwest in the '90s. So, to say goodbye to his youngest and see her off to a different life didn't carry with it any alien expectations.

He died two days prior to Father's Day. A rather nasty last practical joke, really. Now, every June I endure elated pitchmen screaming about the latest golf and hunting accoutrement that is "sure to bring a smile to Dad's face this year on his special day." I wouldn't be so sure there, Mr. Popeil. That tinny crap wouldn't have made him smile when he was alive, and your chances of bringing a grin to his face now have significantly lessened, I'm afraid.

So, it was with an angry, heavy heart that I set off in the Buick to a new home and a future that would be so happy there was no way at the time to have predicted it. My brother's family kindly opened their home and lives to me to help me get on my feet. I wasn't in any stable place to appreciate their sacrifices at the time, but distance and much healing work has sharpened my hindsight and brought some poor choices into focus. Most have been rectified, others were lessons hard learned, including an affair with a rather nasty individual who had the looks of a Playgirl centerfold and the proclivities of a snaggletoothed pimp in a C-grade Jack the Ripper movie. Ahh well, who would we be if we weren't the product of our more interesting mistakes?

And so it is, four years later and a complete turnaround of fortunes. Four jobs, two boyfriends, one husband, one stepdaughter, five music concerts, gallons of coffee, and countless new friends later, it's a good place to be. Not just Oregon, but the big HERE. Here is where I want to be, with the people I want to be with, doing what I want to do. And that's sure to bring a smile to Dad's face....

Cultured Feelings

For the last few weeks I've had several emotions bubbling close the surface, both positive and negative, but all of them jolting and powerful. Most of them stem from an identifiable event or conversation, but some of them don't have parent catalysts at all that I can easily identify. They're just there. Since I was little I've rarely been able to process my feelings without some link to popular culture. Sad, I know, but oh so true. Each time I've sat down to write, I'm overwhelmed by one of these emotionally charged creeping tentacles and just sit back in the chair overwhelmed, and eventually walk away from the computer and think "I'll deal with it later and then I'll be able to write." Well, that hasn't worked out so well, so I'm going to do some pop therapy and do the blogging equivalent of an interpretive dance of my feelings, silly as that may seem. Maybe this dam can be broken yet.




Grief: John Cleese delivers the eulogy for Graham Chapman





Faith: Charlene and Julia church it up






Empathy: Jackson Browne performs "For a Dancer" live in '76






Forgiveness: Gary Oldman's Beethoven showcases the conception of "Ode to Joy" from very unjoyful childhood circumstances in "Immortal Beloved"





Healing: Richard Farnsworth's last movie, "The Straight Story"






Elation: Wall-E and Eva's dance






Contentment: Navin R. Johnson finds his special purpose






Loved: Trent + Kirk + Spock = Magic (NSFW)

Newly Old Love

Recently with my own wedding safely tucked to bed, I looked back on a reading I wrote for the 2004 wedding of our friends Crystal and Ptahmb who have been integral to the joy of our ceremony and celebrations. At the time I wrote it, I was thinking of them and their lovely union, but upon the re-reading, it's nice to see where it applies in J and my lives, too.

Have a look and see if you recognize yourself and your relationships. This is a living piece and I would love to hear your own spin on it.

Here goes:

"David Sedaris refers to two types of love. There is new love, which many experience. And there is real love, for which there are only a chosen few.

New lovers look deeply into each other's eyes and savor every word that escapes their dear one's mouth.
Real lovers look deeply into each other's eyes and whisper "Could you shut up for maybe five minutes?"

New lovers notice when the other has taken out the candles or champagne for a night of bliss. Real lovers notice when the other has taken out the trash or the hair from the bathtub drain.

New lovers hold hands to enjoy the good times.
Real lovers hold hands to see each other through the rough times.

New lovers live for the next time they will see each other.
Real lovers live for the next time they will listen to each other.

Today we have come together to witness two Real lovers who have lived enough to know the difference between these two types and were smart enough to embrace a lifetime together."

That passage more accurately sums up how the wedding ceremony went far more than if I bored you with a description of my dress, or Jason's wedding hat, or the cake, or who said what to whom. Just rest assured that what was supposed to happen happened. And now we've joined hands to play, laugh, and work our way through this delightful marriage.

I'm Just Waiting On A Friend

"Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it." ~~Mark Twain


Rarely am I given the opportunity to truly atone for my own sins of the past (lo there are many to choose from), or witness as someone close to me does so, much as I would like to be there. But in the last two weeks that's exactly what's happened. A person who means a great deal to me and who has been a source of my lowest lows and privy to my loudest belly laughs seems to be coming out of a very dark place.

As I grieved for my dad, so did I grieve for this fellow. It seemed that he was always on the shaded side of the street, head down and dragging his feet. He'd lost faith in the world and in himself, which was a true shame because that's the only person he felt he could be around for any length of time. I wanted nothing more than to hug him and help him smile like he did before, but knew nothing could be more wrong than to follow that instinct. I knew I couldn't make him feel happiness or force him to engage. He had to want it. He needed help. And the help couldn't come from me or any of my kind. For us I thought there would be no chance of healing. Where I longed for kind encouragement or playful banter, there were only awkward stutters and angry exchanges. In place of smiling eyes and wide grins, I was met head on with gazes of pure despair and unfettered, wild grief.

Years passed. Years.

I grew hard.

I moved on.

I left him to fight his demons alone. I never expected him to win. But he is. He is winning.

He's found a great worth inside himself that has triggered him to see what most everyone around him has seen. He's had tools and help, and I wouldn't have it any other way. No one should be expected to deal with that kind of crushing sadness alone. I admire the tremendous amount of work he's done, and continues to do, to open up the branches a little for the light. Even if it's just a little, by God it's something.

Good Times Are Here Again...

In my never ending quest to see all of the major Oscar nominees prior to the Academy Awards telecast on February 22, I am woefully behind, I fear. Christopher Nolan wasn't the only person the Academy shafted on Thursday morning. I thought I had tied up at least two of the likely Best Picture nominees when I saw "The Dark Knight" and "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button", and possibly even three with my viewing of "Wall-E." But no. It was not meant to be. Currently I'm 1 for 5 in that category. After all of the nominations were made available, J and I determined the order of the rest of the BP nominees we'll head to see at the theater, as they are all still in wide release, and not yet available on DVD (thanks for THAT, Hollywood). Fortunately, we live in a town that still subscribes to the idea of movies as little pieces of celluloid magic, so all of the films are available to us at a theater nearby. We have about 27 movie houses in our close vicinity, most of which are independently owned, and we do not take that treasured state of affairs for granted, believe me. As sick as it might sound, I chose this apartment based on not only how close it was to my dear Polish friends, but also its proximity to the greatest indy video store in the nation, Movie Madness, where my favorite video tech looks exactly like a hot version of Mama Firefly and is endlessly helpful.

We commemorated Oscar Nomination Eve (ONE) on Wednesday with a 7:00 showing of "The Wrestler." As unpredictable as the Best Picture and Best Actress categories have a tendency to be, the Best Actor nominations are historically closely linked to the Golden Globe nominees for male in a dramatic leading role, so I was pretty confident we could count on a Mickey Rourke nod, if not win. I still haven't seen "The Visitor", "Milk", or "Frost/Nixon", so my apologies to Richard Jenkins, Sean Penn, and Frank Langella for such presumption. And Brad, well, Brad. As much as I love you in the deep loving bits of my heart, the movie wasn't about you, but more about the people around you reacting to your steadfast portrayal of an odd character, so I'm pretty sure this isn't your year just yet.

Heath Ledger's performance as The Joker (if you have not seen it yet, stop reading this and do so) has earned him the last nomination he will ever have. Alive or dead, his performance is striking and he's going to win--sentimentality aside, the guy's talent is hard to overlook (though the Academy managed to do so in 2005, much to their lame chagrin these days). Philip Seymour Hoffman is yet again pitted against Heath, and while I've not yet seen "Doubt", I would swear a blood oath that his performance is Oscar-worthy. I mean, let's face it. He's Philip Seymour Hoffman and he rules. He just does. But because he had the misfortune of being the guy who beat Heath in 2005, he will not win. Nor will Robert Downey, Jr.'s freakishly comedic turn in "Tropic Thunder," though I wouldn't cry in my bowl of Total if he did. Josh Brolin, whose bodily proportions never fail to remind me of an overgrown midget and give me pause every time I see him in a movie, has the only genuine shot at slicing through Heath's juggernaut of glory because he plays a psychotically homophobic killer and that makes the Academy ooooohhhh and aaaahhhh with squishy-panted delight.

Every year it seems the nominees serve up at least a dollop of misery in one or two overwrought dramas, and this year is no exception. "The Reader" is set with the backdrop of a WWII tragedy and a love story, because apparently nothing says "get it on" in Hollywood more than the tragedy of the Holocaust. Ralph Fiennes has dug out quite the niche for himself with this type of film by starring in not one, not two, not even three, but FOUR Holocaust pictures. Check my math: "The English Patient", "The End of the Affair", "The Reader" and of course his horrifying turn as Nazi Amon Goeth in "Schindler's List." While I abhor sitting through this kind of movie, I'll do it for Kate Winslet because she is the female answer to Philip Seymour Hoffman. She rules because she does. Circular or not, the logic sticks. She is a brilliant actress and can make even the most repulsive movie (suck it, "Little Children") watchable. Oh you'll feel it in the morning, but at the time you're watching it all you can focus on is how she spins disgusting story arcs straw into mesmerizing gold. For too long, six nominations to be exact, she has been snubbed, overlooked, and forsaken for the likes of Helen Hunt. That's right. I said it. Fucking Helen Hunt, who graduated summa cum laude from the Gwyneth Paltrow School For Wooden Expressionless "Acting" beat our beloved Kate. I say NO MORE will we stand for this kind of shenanigan voting practice on the part of the Academy.

So at this most sacred time of year in my warped little world, I make a nightly wish and throw it to the south where the majority of Academy voters reside to ask that you do your jobs, Voting Elite, and cast your ballot (for once) on the merits of the performance without the distraction of studio campaigns, sentimentality, insider politics, nepotism, or profiteering interests. Shhhhhhh. Just do it.