Dear Mom, On a dark and stormy morning, I stormed into the world out of you, and you became a mom. For the second time. I’m writing this now because you are still around to read it. I clarify this because the last two times that I wrote about my parents, Claude and then Slanker, it was too late for both of them to read. This time, I wanted to make sure that didn't happen. So, Mom, I hope you get something out of this, even if it's wishing that I had waited until you weren't around to read it. Our story doesn’t start when you were a child because I wasn’t in the picture then, so we’ll start when I was three, when you moved out with Chris and me in tow, to start a new life. That's when you taught me something I would never forget, though I didn't know it then. In that moment, I learned that we would always come first for you and that we were your "why," your reason for being, even to the detriment of yourself. After moving out, you needed a job so you could support us. I remember you telling me how you begged Farm Bureau for a job, which you got and stayed there for your entire work career, always providing stability for our little family, which included Slanker starting when I was 5. Not to mention, you did all the cooking and most of the cleaning, even after working a full day. Looking back, I have no idea how you managed to be everything for everyone without just collapsing. I remember how you never missed anything that Chris and I performed in, and there were a lot. You, along with Slanker, were always there no matter if you were sick, had a bad day, or you had already seen it multiple times. When it came to your kids, whether it was playing outside after a long day at work, staying day and night throughout my many hospitalizations, simply listening to our stories for what had to feel like forever, or making sure that we never went to sleep without a hug and an "I love you," you always showed up. You were always there. No matter what. It’s a lesson I’ve never forgotten. You were also a fantastic force at all family functions, where you hosted and ran everything, even adding moments of hilarity when you would say things aloud that, perhaps, you meant to say in your “inside your head” voice. You also had to always put up with Chris and me doing or saying things that embarrassed you and the family. Remember that one Christmas where Chris mooned the camera and I walked around with a giant clown balloon that had a paper clip dangling from a place that was, well, rather suggestive? I kept calling it a "paper clip penis" because that's what it was. Chris’s full moon has been since taped over, but my clown and I remain, as well as you saying, “We did the best we could with him” after I left the crowded living room laughing about another brilliant paper clip penis joke I had just made. Just so you know, I’ve never for a moment doubted your love and dedication to us. Without you creating a safe, loving, and nurturing home life, Chris and I would’ve never turned out the way we did. Though, to be honest, I didn’t really appreciate or get it back then. I mean, Chris and I were perfectly adequate as kids. I was charming but rather annoying, while Chris . . . well, Chris had a mullet perm and acid-washed overall shorts, so there’s that. But you dedicated your life to two incredible goofballs. I didn’t understand until I had two incredible goofballs of my very own. Mom, I was blessed to have you as a mom growing up and to still have you now. Your retirement hasn’t gone the way I wanted it to for you because you, and Slanker, both deserved better than you got. I wanted you to take trips together, hang with your kids and grandkids, and have ridiculous arguments that I could watch. The part where you two do those things together can't happen anymore, but it still can for you, because you’re still here. And so are we. I know what you're thinking now, Mom. Can you wrap this up now because it's getting long, and I'm ready to watch my soaps? Or Lifetime. Or whatever ridiculous thing you’re watching. So okay, I’ll wrap it up with one final thought: I hope Chris and I have done you proud and that the sacrifices you made for us, which we will never forget, were worth it. Thank you for always loving and coming through for us, Mom. It's about time that we have our early morning coffee/chat time together again, which has always been one of my favorite things we did together. Love you.
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Dear Slanker,
Today would’ve been your birthday. You’ve would’ve been 69. I know, technically you are, but it’s not the same. See, this post was not supposed to come out today. It was not supposed to be some letter that you can’t even read. It was supposed to be a post about you. What a great person you are. What a great father. It was supposed to shine a little light on someone who lived their life gracefully in the shadows of others. And you were supposed to read it. I think you would’ve been excited to read it and probably a little fearful because we both know I love doing things that make my family uncomfortable. (Of note: Yes, I was tempted to make a joke about your age because I would have gotten that look from you, that look I got so many times when I did or said something that embarrassed the family. You’re welcome, by the way, for not doing that.) Anyway, this was supposed to be something for you that others could read if they wanted to. I needed it to be perfect though. So I pondered it. Wrote it and rewrote it. Because I thought I had time. Then in July, you told me you had lung cancer. Even then, there was supposed to be more than two months. There wasn’t. You’ll never know how much it meant to me that during those first two weeks of August when I was down in SC, that I was able to go with you as you started your radiation treatments. How awesome it was to stay up together watching Braves baseball way past my bedtime. I loved how you laughed when I kept calling the pillow I bought you your “anus pillow.” I also loved that you finally reached that point where you said “Can’t you stop saying the word anus?” because who really should have to say that to their adult son? I also treasured our hug goodbye, when I saw you cry for only the third time in my life. I’m sorry that I held back my tears. It wasn’t on purpose. I just refused to believe that it would be the last time we would see each other. Mom told me that you stopped eating the day after I left. I guess that’s when it became clearer. Do you remember our last talk on the phone? Somehow it managed to fill and break my heart at the same time because it felt . . . final. Turns out it was, because you died on Saturday. Anyway, I wasn’t a fan of your funeral. Well, the people were wonderful and it was awesome to see that the person I loved and respected was appreciated by many people. But the music at the funeral home was awful. I tried to get them to switch to some Frank, Tony, beach music, or even Denise Williams, but they only had CDs of more painfully terrible music. Honestly, I don’t think you would’ve minded that much, but it was easier for me to focus on something like that, rather than the fact that my dad was lying in a coffin. In terms of the service, it was nice – but, no lie, I was super annoyed that so much of the service was about God. I mean, at one point I assumed it was God who died instead of you. I get that God should be mentioned, but seriously, he or she is not lacking for attention. There’s like 80 billion versions of their book, plus they have entire religions. I think God’s good. Then the rest of the service seemed to really be about the mourners and heaven – which again, I get, but it still bothered me. I wanted it to be about you, and I wasn’t the only one. So that’s why I’m writing this now. This letter is all about you. Well, also kind of about me because I’m writing through the lens of knowledge and experience of you, Sleeve Slanker, my dad. Here are the things I’ll always remember. I admired the fact that you were like a 50-sport star in high school. I mean, seriously, there aren’t even really 50 sports, so how can you be good at all of them? I loved that you married my mom and became a dad for me and Chris. You filled a hole in our family that needed filling. You made us complete. It was awesome that you could truly rock a mustache (and that’s coming from someone who can’t even grow one). And when you went through your “beard years,” I mean, you kind of looked like a lumberjack accountant – but it was still pretty cool. It meant the world to me that you and mom never missed anything that Chris and I did. You two always showed up, and we never doubted that we were loved. I was amazed by how much you enjoyed practicing your handwriting. I remember the nights, as a kid, that I would go back into the den and you would be writing down all of our names, random words, or the entire roster of the Clemson football team. And your handwriting, Slanker, was impeccable. I appreciate the fact that when I told you you were the head coach of all my fantasy football teams and then regaled you with pointless stories about our victories or losses, you listened and even asked questions. I also thought it was cool that you found it funny that you walked the sidelines with a styrofoam coffee cup wearing a shower skirt. Ah, yes the shower skirt. The only person I’ve ever known to swear by the power of the shower skirt. It was the weirdest and coolest thing in the world. I still remember the look of glee in your eyes when you opened your Christmas present and saw a blue shower skirt with the name Slanker on it. Mom was probably happy because it meant you got rid of your ratty green one. Who are we kidding, you didn’t get rid of it because you never really got rid of anything. I’m glad that you didn’t get mad at me when I could not stop laughing when you were under the house fixing god knows what and Jack (our dog) trapped you under the house and started humping your head. I remember many years later, when life had taken its toll on Jack and we were having to put him to sleep, crying with you as we watched Jack’s eyes close for the last time. I had never seen you cry before and, in a lot of ways, you gave me permission to cry. Letting me know it wasn’t a sign of weakness but a sign of strength. Then there was that glorious time where I was playing video games in my room or staring at the wall (either or) and Mom was taking a bath and you started banging on one of the living room walls yelling “No! No! No!” Mom came rushing out of the shower in her bathrobe and yelling “What is it, Steve!?” You turned to her as you stood there in your ratty green shower skirt and said “Sammy was scratching the furniture!” (Sammy was a cat, by the way.) I love that you picked him up when you found him as a kitten hiding at the Direct gas station. Speaking of Mom in a bathroom, thanks for not kicking me out of the house when I rudely interrupted . . . well, you know, that one time. The locked screen door should have been a clue, but I probably chose to ignore it because I found it funny. Yet, somehow, you still loved me. I remember waking up in the hospital as a teenager after a serious surgery with you holding my hand with Mom standing behind you, her hands on your shoulders. I was scared but not as much after that because you were there. I remember, in college, when I was about to drop a class because I was failing and didn’t want to do a paper that I hadn’t started on and was due the next day, that you listened to me calmly and told me to do what I wanted. Then you told me that you were extremely disappointed in me because I was better than that. Even though we got off the phone at 9 that night, I started and finished that paper. Even ended up with a B+ in that class. And it was all because the thought of disappointing you was not something I could do. After I moved to Wisconsin, one of my favorite things was calling you on my way home from work or Target. Those conversations were the best even when they were seemingly about nothing. Thinking about the fact that I won't have those anymore is something avoid doing at all cost. I have a million other stories, and I bet if you were alive you would probably ask me “You don’t expect me to read all of this, do you?” so I’ll end with one more thing. I’m so thankful that I was blessed to have you as my father. You weren’t perfect (and I’m sure you would be thinking, “Yeah, no shit. Who is?”) – but you were our perfect. You taught me how to be a better person, the importance of trying your best to come through for those you care about, to put others first, and never to give up on those you love. I’m so sorry that you didn’t get the retirement that you deserved, and I’m really sorry that I didn’t get that one more time seeing my dad would eventually be one last time. I love you and I miss you. Thanks for letting me be your son and always loving me for who I was. Happy Birthday Dad. The genesis of the novel The Bottom of the Lake came from a simple conversation with one of my best friends, writer Alex Bledsoe, over coffee one day. (Note: This is not verbatim, but since you probably weren’t there, let’s just say that it is.) Me: What should I write next? Alex: A novel. Me: What? Alex: A novel. Me: I write plays. Alex: So base it on one of your plays. Me: Cool. And that was that. I instantly churned out a finished novel, as all great writers do . . . only I didn’t. It took several years and 523,456 revisions. Or something like that. But then it found a wonderful home with Orange Hat Publishing, which led to another 523,456 revisions. And now it’s out in the world. Do I want The Bottom of the Lake to be successful? Absolutely. But in a way, it’s already successful. Because it’s out in the world. But not because of me. I am fortunate that I’m surrounded by a bunch of amazing people who support me, encourage and push me, make me feel valued, and never say no when I ask for the billionth time, “Will you read this and make it better?” But I do want the outside world to read it, because I think it’s a good story. And I hope that when you read the last line and close the book, you’ll take something away from it: A connection. To own your life. So what is The Bottom of the Lake about? Here’s the write-up from the book: When Vanessa, Lindsey, and Claire sneak away from Camp Kimi for a night of junk food and ghost stories, they meet Dani, a strange and distant girl none of them have seen before. As each tells her own scary tale, they reveal personal truths they could never share directly. But the newcomer has a story of her own, and before they know it, the three friends find themselves an unwitting part of it-and there might be no escape. That’s what it’s about – but what is it really about? On the cover of the book, the tagline, written by one of the most amazing people I’ve known (Maggie Stack, not me), reads “Everything surfaces eventually.” You read that, and you might go “I know what happens!” And maybe you do. To give you a glimpse inside the book, without spoiling anything, I’m going to give you a glimpse inside me. (Note: I realize that sounds gross, but you know what? I don’t want you looking at my spleen or pancreas either. They’re both very personal.) Anyway, the last couple of years have been full of many dark and life-changing moments. For me, my family, my friends, many of the students that I have had the pleasure of working with. I’ve experienced and seen the struggle to present the version of ourselves that we think the world demands while keeping our battles, the fears of not being “right” or “okay,” the fears of never belonging anywhere, never being good enough, or simply the effort to get up everyday hidden. All of those things, including the hope that somehow everything will be okay, eventually surface. And that’s what The Bottom of the Lake is all about. The unspoken truths. Masked, of course, by the elements of horror, humor, teenage issues, film noir, urban legends, summer camp, and many other things including . . . ferns and squirrels. That’s right. Ferns and squirrels. The Bottom of the Lake, though aimed at teens, is really for everyone. It takes you on a journey that is fun, terrifying, heartbreaking, and touching – sometimes within the same moment. You know, like a typical day. I hope it’s a journey that you find worth taking, and that you’re willing to take the plunge. Sincerely, Steven The links below will take you to where you can buy the book. Just click on your choice and away you'll go. If you do get yourself a copy and read it, first . . . thank you. And afterwards, please feel free to leave a review. But no pressure. :-) Thanks! Amazon Barnes and Noble When I was in 1st grade, I remember seeing a girl crying in the cafeteria. I found out that she was crying because her dog had died that morning. Now I, being seven without fully developed empathy, did not understand her tears. In my very limited opinion, it was only a dog. It’s not like it was family.
I didn't fully get why she was crying that day until I was 18 and my dad and I were at the vet’s office with our family dog, Jack. He had been sick for a while, and the vet had told us that he was in pain and they would have to put him to sleep. We had gotten him as a puppy at the end of that same 1st grade year, and over the years he became my best friend. Jack got me through a lot of difficult times. And as I stood there holding him in the office, petting him gently, I understood why the girl was crying on that day so many years ago. And, with my dad crying in a chair in the corner, I watched Jack close his eyes for the final time. There were other pets, but there would never be another Jack. But there was a Pants: the most wonderful and quirky cat, who was perfect for our most wonderful quirky family. A few months ago, after a long and glorious life, Pants died. She was 18 by then, and she’d been sick for a while, but we always assumed she would get better. Because she always got better. She was just that stubborn. I mean, she beat kidney failure. What cat beats kidney failure? But one night as I held her, I noticed that she was little more than a mound of fluff and could barely open her eyes. I knew then that I wouldn’t hold her again. None of us would. She died early the next morning, and we were heartbroken because Pants was a freaking awesome cat. I meant to write this blog a week or so after her death, but nothing seemed right for a cat named Pants. She was the cat at the animal shelter that would never have been adopted if Maggie hadn’t come in when she first moved to Madison. Pants was loud, unattractive for a cat, and quite ornery. So of course, Maggie was instantly smitten with her and brought her home, and they lived as roommates for Maggie’s first year in Madison. Then we got married, I moved to Madison, and we began a life together. The three of us. Then along came Chloe and Zoe, and our family was complete. With the cat who redefined what it meant to be a family cat: Pants. There are so many things that I will remember about Pants, but I thought that here, I’d rather share some of the lessons she taught our family about life. And maybe, just maybe, you can learn something from Pants too.
Pants, you were our perfect thing. Thank you for everything you taught us. We’ll miss you forever. apple
Note: This was a monologue I wrote, based on an almost completely true story, that was performed recently by immensely talented actor Carter Coon at Forte Studios in Mt. Horeb, Wisconsin. It is a tragically beautiful tale of a love that was never meant to be. Between me and an apple. Have you ever loved an apple? I mean really loved an apple? Doesn’t even matter the variety because there are a lot. This is about loving an apple. A single solitary apple that had fallen into your hand, perhaps from divine intervention. Or perhaps . . . from a tree, an apple tree no less, because you two were meant to be together. Sounds beautiful, doesn’t it? It shouldn’t. Because it’s a fairy tale. A fairy tale without a happily ever after. You know how I know? Because I lived it just a few short months ago when an apple fell into my hands. A Gravenstein apple, my favorite. It brought back memories of my best childhood memory. Of eating a Gravenstein apple at an abandoned park when I was but a wee child. And now, even though it was winter and there shouldn’t be any apples in trees, I was holding one. It had to be a sign. A sign that I was to recreate that cherished childhood memory. I wrapped my apple in fresh linen and got into my car and drove to that park, the same abandoned park of that treasured memory so many years ago. The roads were snow, mud, and road salt covered. I parked my car on top of the hill, grabbed my apple, and headed down the hill to the park. Everything was going well as I walked, with a giddiness in my step. And perhaps it was that giddiness that made me slip a little on the ice. In my haste not to fall, I loosened the grip on my fresh linen sack containing my apple and it fell from my hands. The apple hit the ground and start rolling down the hill. I screamed out “No, apple! Stop rolling!” But it didn’t listen. Because apples don’t have the ability to hear. I watched it roll under a car. I thought all was lost then but it wasn’t. It cleared that car and continued rolling down the hill, bouncing up and down along the way. I thought of running after it but I didn’t want to be seen chasing an apple. Again. So, I walked casually, though there was nothing casual about the way I felt on the inside. I watched and walked as the apple rolled and rolled and rolled down the road, through the ice, salt, mud, and perhaps a small carcass of some animal, until it finally stopped right at the spot where I had that great apple eating experience as a wee child. I was elated. Fate had decided that nothing would stop me. I merrily skipped to the spot, reached down and picked up the apple and smiled. I thought of washing the apple off but I couldn’t. Because there was nothing to wash it off with. I gently rubbed it off on my pants with a smile so wide that it almost wrapped around my entire head. I sat down on the bench. It was cold. A side effect of being snow and ice covered. But it didn’t matter. Because my heart was warm. I looked the apple with a love that I hadn’t known for so many years and took a huge bite. One that if an old lady walked by she would “My laddie, what a huge bite.” I expected my mouth to be filled with the goodness of that Gravenstein but it wasn’t. Instead, it was filled with the taste of old apple, salt, mud, a little carcass perhaps, and other things that I couldn’t quite identify. I tried to chew through, hoping that the next bite would rectify everything. It didn’t because I bit into two giant pebbles. That’s when I knew it was over. I screamed out and threw the apple deep into the woods. I collapsed onto the ground, my tears forming a torrent stream that tried to carry my sadness away but my sadness was a boat that was too broken to sail. My mother found me the next morning, curled up in a fetal position, almost in the shape of a twice bitten dream crushing Gravenstein. She offered me a ham sandwich. There were three slices of ham, two slices of cheddar cheese, a little mustard on a delightfully toasted sourdough bread. It was good. It really was. My mom then picked me, threw me over her shoulder, and carried me home. She’s a really strong woman. I have enjoyed watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer ever since I was a kid. I remember sitting in front of my TV, Christmas cookies in hand, delighting in the wonderful adventures of that red-nosed little guy and his friends. I haven’t missed a year since. And today, as I eat a bowl of Christmas Crunch cereal, I’m watching it again . . . but this time, for a different reason. I am watching it today to pinpoint the moments that give me pause. The moments that cause me to question what life is really like in Christmas Town. Here, in no particular order other than order of importance, are 10 questions for which I have no answers: 10. Why does Fireball turn on Rudolph when he discovers that Rudolph has a red nose? Rudolph and Fireball are fast friends when they meet at the reindeer games. They laugh, play, and Fireball even encourages Rudolph to go talk to that bow-wearing vixen, Clarice. But later, when they’re playfully locking horns, Rudolph’s prosthetic nose (how did this nose even get made?) falls off. Fireball’s eyes go all crazy, and he turns on Rudolph like the others. Why? Because you think he’s a freak, Fireball? Have you considered the fact that you are the only reindeer with blond hair and freckles? 9. Who trained those in charge on how to work with their staff? Seriously, both the coach and the head elf are terrible leaders. Coach finds out that Rudolph has a red nose and then mocks him in front of his peers by sending him away and then saying “We’re not going to let Rudolph play in any reindeer games – right, guys?” What a jerk. And the head elf is no better. Hermie tells him that he doesn’t like to make toys. So what does the head elf do? Does he pull him aside, away from all the other elves, and explain to him the importance of what he does? The happiness that he brings to children everywhere? No, he doesn’t. He blasts him in front of everyone, openly mocking his life choices and then yelling out “Hermie doesn’t like to make toys!” This leads to all kinds of gossip right in front of Hermie, like an elf version of the telephone game. And now Hermie feels awful. I’m sure he’s really motivated to be a team player now. The actions of both the coach and the head elf lead to one very important question: Who trained them? Let’s go straight to the top. 8. Why is this Santa a bad CEO? Sure, he makes toys for all the good girl and boys (although the naughty list is never mentioned, perhaps because almost everyone in Christmas Town would be on it). But if you examine those in authority who report directly to Santa (see #9), their poor treatment of subordinates must be learned. And is. From the big man himself, who clearly cares only about the bottom line. When Rudolph returns after being gone for months and asks Santa where his family is, Santa says they went looking for him. No mention of a search party, or the fact that a child (Clarice) is missing too. All that Santa cares about is not having Donner to lead his sleigh. And his day-to-day interactions with his employees perfectly exemplify the type of CEO he is. A day after Christmas, A DAY, the elves are performing a song that the head elf just wrote. And sure, the choreography is dreadful, but the song is delightful. But Santa hates it and criticizes them – harshly. Mrs. Claus tries to defend the elves, but her feelings are dismissed (the way all the females’ feelings are in this special). Santa leaves in a huff, telling the elf choir that they better improve. Why? Their job is to make toys, not to entertain him. Especially the day after Christmas. I would imagine that they’ve been a little busy. MAKING TOYS. (As a side note, the head elf appears to have somewhat of a Sybil issue in this scene because he has two distinctly different voices.) 7. Why would anyone want Hermie as their dentist? Hermie learned everything he knows about dentistry from a book. No training except for his using a hammer on dolls’ teeth. A HAMMER. His only living client, Bumble, is treated by having all his teeth yanked out. So, two clients: one who gets hit with a hammer and the other who loses all his teeth. What? Not only are his techniques suspect – his schedule management is highly questionable too. Near the end, Hermie schedules an appointment for the head elf. For like two weeks later. I’m not sure why he can’t do it, I don’t know, like tomorrow. But I do know this: If I’m the head elf and the elf I made leave in shame wants to work on my mouth and I know what he considers “dentistry,” I think I’d stick with a mouth full of cavities. 6. Speaking of Hermie, why is he living in a snowbank? After Clarice finishes singing “There’s Always Tomorrow” and she’s yanked away by her father, who later shows zero concern for her whereabouts (there’s that treatment of female characters again), Rudolph falls into a snowbank. Hermie pops out, looks at Rudolph, and says “Oh, is this your snowbank?” Okay, A, why would it be anyone’s snowbank, Hermie? And B, was THIS your plan? To run away from Christmas Town to . . . live in a snowbank? That’s terrible. Then Rudolph and Hermie decide to be freaks together, and Rudolph says they can hang as long as Hermie doesn’t mind his red nose. And Hermie says “Well, as long as you don’t mind me being a dentist.” You’re not a dentist yet, Hermie but you were living in a snowbank. And if I were Rudolph, I’d be more concerned about that. 5. Why won’t Santa eat? Mrs. Claus makes it abundantly clear that, even though it’s not healthy, people want a fat Santa. Okay. So why doesn’t he eat? Has he became health conscious? Is he eating too much between meals? Is he being a stubborn petulant elf? No. The reason he won’t eat is clear. Ms. Claus feeds him what appears to be purple clay. It doesn’t even look like food. It looks more like the fork. And the plate. And the walls. The only people who would eat that are three-year-olds, and then only accidentally. Notice that when Mrs. C finally feeds Santa something real (soup, of all things), he gains 300 pounds instantly. So why doesn’t she do that at the beginning? Why the purple clay? 4. Is Ms. Claus happy in her relationship with Santa? This one I can answer: No. And why would she be? They clearly aren’t getting along, and Santa sees her more as a mother figure than a wife. Where’s the romance? Where are the moonlit dinners? Where’s the thank you? Nowhere – because this Santa clearly doesn’t value the others around him, especially not his wife. So Mrs. Claus stays in the shadow, feeling unappreciated, and doles out purple clay as if everything’s okay. But it’s clearly not. And I don’t think Ms. Claus can put up with this one-sided relationship for an eternity. If Santa doesn’t change his ways, his Christmas present may be an empty bed. 3. Why are there misfit toys? Seriously, think about it: Let’s say that Santa and his elves make all the toys. That would mean that they originally made these misfit toys. That some elf made a train with square wheels, a gun that shoots jam, a doll suffering from major depression, a cowboy riding an ostrich, an elephant that has spots but is completely adorable, and many others. Why would they be made if Santa knew that they would be unwanted in the first place? It seems rather cruel. And their only dream is to get back into Santa’s bag and be given out by the same person who made them misfits in the first place? How could this possibly be a good idea? Have you seen how misfits are treated in Christmas Town? And when Santa promises to find them a good home, why didn’t he do it the first time? Because the truth is . . . he doesn’t like things that are different. Misfits. 2. Why does losing all of his teeth make Bumble humble? He’s still huge. Still has giant claws. And he hated anything to do with Christmas. So why did losing all his teeth change this? Shouldn’t he be angrier? He’s a carnivore who’s now going to eat what? Snow? Ms. Claus’s purple clay? He shouldn’t be humble. He should have ripped them apart with his bare hands. (Note: I’m not saying that should have actually happened in the movie, I’m just saying that it would have been logical if he had.) Later, adding insult to injury, he lets Yukon pull him by a rope around the neck, so that he can brag to the good folks of Christmas about crushing his spirit. Making him “humble.” Then Bumble puts on the star on tree for a holiday that he doesn’t even celebrate. Why? Perhaps his teeth were like Samson’s hair. I don’t really have an answer. This one really bothered me as a kid too. 1. Why is Rudolph’s nose the thing that keeps Santa from canceling Christmas? It’s clearly a major storm. Christmas trees were damaged, shingles were ripped off buildings, and homes were completely buried in snow. So Santa quickly cancels Christmas until he finds he has a red flashlight to guide his way. What? It’s not even that bright. And how did you see all those other years in the dark without Rudolph’s nose? I thought the problem was the storm, you know, the snow and the gale-force winds, and a red nose doesn’t stop any of this. Or does it? When you watch the end, you see that there was no storm. Just a regular night. Which kind of negates Rudolph’s unique usefulness.
Even accepting all of the above, you’re still left with an absolutely charming Christmas special. Because in the end, Rudolph does the right thing. When Santa asks him “Won’t you guide my sleigh tonight?” logically, he should have said no. And walked away. But he doesn’t. He says yes. Perhaps he did it for the kids. Or to take his dad’s spot because his dad was clearly not part of this year’s team. Most likely, though, it was to show Santa that so-called misfits have a place too. Which is something I think we should all be grateful for. Or are you? Perhaps you are merely being judged by your outward appearance and your resting mean face. Maybe it’s not meanness at all. Maybe you are lashing out at a society and a people, our delightful yet not diverse Whos (except for one random human), who enjoy a life of excess in a beautiful mountain community full of wonderfully bizarre contraptions, while you spend your days in a cave with a dog? I love Christmas specials, and since I believe myself a writer of things, I have decided to evaluate those specials every year. This year, I’m taking a look at that Christmas classic How the Grinch Stole Christmas by Dr. Seuss. And, as always, after watching it, I have some questions. 1. Does the title actually work? Short answer? No. He did manage to steal everything during the transition between Christmas Eve to Christmas day but . . . (spoiler alert) Christmas still came, despite his efforts. So maybe How the Grinch Almost Stole Christmas would be more appropriate. Yes, I realize that title would give the ending away, but a) most people would likely assume that the Grinch doesn’t actually succeed in the stealing of Christmas because, well, it’s a Christmas special and b) if you don’t change the title, it’s a bald faced lie.
3. Is the reason for the Grinch’s not liking Christmas really because his heart is two sizes too small? After eliminating tight shoes and his head not being screwed on just right, we are told that the Grinch’s meanness is caused by his heart being physically two sizes too small. But if his heart is the size they want it to be, it won’t make him more loving. It will make him more dead. Severe cardiomegaly, anyone? Maybe the reason he’s mean is because you call him “The Grinch” and he has no other companionship besides a dog? Are there no other Grinches somewhere? Why is he the only one, like Tigger or Gonzo? What a lonely, depressing life he must lead. Perhaps, Whos, if you opened your heart and invited him to celebrate Christmas with you, he would like Christmas instead of wanting to destroy it. 4. Who names everything after themselves? The Whos, that’s who. The name of the town that the Whos live in is Whoville (try doing that in the real world), and pretty much everything else was named Who something or other. And what the heck exactly is a “rare Who Roast Beast?” Is it just their arrogance shining though, or are the Whos actually cannibals? I don’t know, but I do know that our narrator (Boris Karloff) can’t stand the rare Who Roast Beast “in the least.” I have no idea why he had to call it out, though. Well, he is really condescending to the Grinch so maybe it makes sense. Also, why are there like five servants serving Cindy Lou Whoman personally? Is it a strawberry? No. It’s a Whoberry. 5. The thing the Grinch hates the most should make it abundantly clear why he feels the way he does about Christmas. He complains that the Whos “Stand close together, hand in hand, and sing.” I have no idea why that would bother someone who spends all his time alone except for his pet who’s terrified of him. Oh, right. Because hedoesn’t have anyone to stand close together with, hand in hand with and sing. Empathy, Whos! 6. Why did it take him 53 years to come up with the plan to steal Christmas? Seriously, it seems pretty straightforward. If he hated it so much, shouldn’t he have come up with the plan like, say, I don’t know, at least 45 years ago? Why would “steal everything” take so long to come up with? 7. That song. Highly insulting and offers no specific reasons why he is so awful. Just opinions. And why should we value this narrator’s opinion? Because he can’t stand rare Who Roast Beast? Because he’s omniscient? Because he has a striking voice? Well, I for one don’t value his opinion. Give me facts, Boris, you elitist. 8. Why doesn’t Santa wear pants? So you create a coat, a hat, and even boots, yet . . . no pants for your Santa? Or even decorative underwear? Questionable. Also, there was no mention of Santa until now. The Whos had no “Santa” themed decorations, so why are you dressing up like Santa? Bringing in a character this late in the game seems more like a plot device. And if you’re going to play the Santa card, would Santa let the Grinch take everything? Doubtful. And where was Santa when the Grinch was robbing everything? Shouldn’t they have crossed paths at some point? 9. Who goes to sleep holding candy canes? 10. Who’s going to catch him? Cindy Lou Human, that’s who. Oh wait, the Grinch tells a terrible lie and Cindy falls for it. Man, humans ruin everything. 11. How in the world did that dog make it up the mountain with the complete contents of an entire town?That’s super impressive. There must be like a billion pounds of stuff and the dog who struggled going down the mountain (taking a route that, by the way, was completely illogical) valiantly makes the climb. That dog is a beast. 12. Despite having everything taken, Christmas still came. And the Whos sing. Okay this is beautiful and meaningful. Christmas isn’t about what you get, but before singing, shouldn’t someone call the police or something? The contents of every house have been stolen. That’s bad. And alarming. Shouldn’t someone in Whoville be the voice of logic and say “Guys, guys. Let’s just hold off on the singalong until the authorities get here.” I mean, you clearly know who did it and you even have an eyewitness. Shouldn’t take too long to wrap this case up and get back to the singing. 13. After seeing that Christmas is so much more, what happens? So many more questions. If his heart grew three sizes (not the two it needed), how will it fit in his chest? Does he need a new name? Is he now an accepted part of the community? Will he be arrested or at least forced to pay for damages? Will the Grinch and his dog work through their abusive relationship or go their separate ways? Will the Who Servants rise up and form a union? Will the Whos force the narrator to try rare Who Roast Beast again? Will the Grinch be allowed to carry on half- or full-on naked? Will the Whos put up a wall after what happened with the Grinch, or will they realize, after spending time with the Grinch, that they should be more open to all types of people and work to make sure that everyone feels like they belong? Will the Grinch and the Narrator work on a new theme song for him?
There you go. So as you sit and watch How the Grinch Stole (or didn’t steal) Christmas this year, ponder these questions and perhaps . . . create some of your own to ponder. Merry Christmas!!! My oldest daughter begins middle school this year. That’s right. She officially moves into that dreaded territory that I refer to as the “Jan Brady Years.” For those that don’t get the reference, Jan Brady was the middle child in the 70s TV show The Brady Bunch. She wasn’t the pretty and popular one – that was the oldest daughter, Marcia. She wasn’t the cute little one – that was the youngest daughter, Cindy. Jan was the awkward middle child. The one that no one wanted to be.
So, middle school is the “Jan Brady Years.” Very few people look back on their life and say, “Man, middle school was the best time of my life!” I certainly don’t. Which is one of the reasons that I wanted to teach middle schoolers: to help students do the best they can to survive and perhaps (at times) even enjoy these three years of their life. And when I harkened back recently to those often dark days to come up with some tips for C, I thought about the things that I wish I had known back then. Below is what I came up with. And yes, I am aware that middle school in my day, the 1600s, was vastly different than middle school now – but middle schoolers, in most ways, are still the same. So here are the things I wish I’d known in middle school: 1. No one is actually cool. Yes, some middle schoolers are cool compared to their middle school brethren, but that’s like being the best fish in a pond full of dogs. 2. Keep your friends close. What’s worse than being in middle school? Going through it alone. Find one or two people that you know you can play with, talk to, hang out with, and trust – and don’t let them go. Forgive them when they do something dumb. And if those real friends aren’t considered cool? See number 1. 3. Being clean and not smelling bad is a good thing. Bathe. With soap. Wash your hair. Wear deodorant. (Of note, cologne is not deodorant. Spraying forest scent over odor just creates a scent that’s akin to a forest where everything in the world dies, decomposes, and evacuates all of their waste.) 4. Know that you’re not alone. Every single one of your peers is struggling to get through these years, no matter what you see on the outside. Think of clowns here. 5. If you are lucky enough to have a supportive and loving family (like I was), embrace them. Talk to them. They are your shelter through rough times and your biggest fans in the good times. The instinct here is to shun your family and run to your friends. Fight that urge. Most friends come and go, while family (however you define it) is always there. 6. Be the friend you wish everyone would be. The whole “Do unto others” thing? Pretty spot on. 7. Avoid having braces in middle school if possible. Trust me on this one. It just adds another name for you to be called. 8. Learn to laugh at yourself and don’t be easily offended. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to practice both of these. 9. Stand up for yourself. And others. The only reason that bullies do what they do is because people let them. If everyone stopped standing silently by, there would be no bullies. 10. Don’t isolate yourself. Join groups, don’t hide in the library, talk to new people, make yourself uncomfortable, be a part of stuff. In the end, you’ll be happier that you did. 11. Know that middle school won’t be awful. Sure, there will be bad moments, even really bad ones. But there will also be good moments, even great ones. Yes, I wasn’t a fan of middle school overall, but some of the best times of my youth happened during those years. 12. No matter what, be you. Don’t let the world silence you or take away your joy, hope, passion, empathy, or fun. You define who you are and own it. When you’re an adult, your middle school years will be but a distant memory. You will recall some things about this time, good and bad, but those memories will not feel as important or as permanent as they will while you’re going through it. And you will get through it. And, who knows, you may actually enjoy it. If you don't enjoy it, keep this in mind: Even Jan Brady eventually made it out of the “Jan Brady Years.” I’ve never been a fan of curtain calls. I used to say that that it was because I wanted to “maintain the truth of the world we created onstage,” which sounded sort of cool in my head. But then I realized that I really just didn’t want to go back out there because I thought my smile would be weird.
Another thing that troubled me about curtain calls (besides my potentially weird smile) was that no matter how the performance went, we would always get applause. Sometimes we’d even get a standing ovation, whether or not the performance actually deserved one. Now I include a talk about curtain calls early on in all my acting classes. I tell my actors that no matter how good or bad the performance is, their audience (usually parents, relatives, or friends) will applaud for them. But then I tell them not to be satisfied with something they’re guaranteed to get. I want them to know that they deserve the curtain call. So after that talk, my job becomes putting them in a position to “deserve the applause” – while at the same time, taking the focus off the applause. So how do we accomplish this apparent contradiction? By stressing certain key points that I believe are vital for young actors. Or really, for any actors. Here’s a partial list, in no particular order.
A side note: To be able to do this, you must actually know what your character wants. That’s why we do character bios and spend a lot (perhaps too much) time talking about the characters. But in the end, the more you know about the character you’re playing, the easier you’ll find it to immerse yourself in the world of your character instead of your own. 4. Come through. Your fellow actors must be able to trust you, to know that you will do everything you can to come through for them, for yourself, and for the play. That means doing the work before rehearsals, doing the work while at rehearsals, and doing the work after rehearsals. It doesn’t mean never making a mistake. It means setting up yourself and your other actors to have the best chance of success. That’s the only way that you can truly take an audience on a journey through the world and events of your play. What people sometimes don’t realize at first is that the majority of that trust is developed offstage, even (especially) when you’re not at rehearsal. In class, in the hall, wherever you see each other, you are always creating either a community of trust or one of distrust. And only one of those creates success. 5. When you’re onstage, don’t act. It’s one of the worst things you can do. When I first tell my actors this, they often stare at me with confused looks and then one will say “But aren’t we actors?” Then I explain that sure, you’re actors. Off the stage. When you’re doing the work, learning the basic tools that will allow you to interact with the audience during the show. That’s the performance aspect. And if you develop those skills, they should be an afterthought during the show, because you will just automatically do those things – they should become as automatic as locking the door without actually remembering doing it. But onstage, you are your character and you must respond as such. You listen. You respond. You work for your character’s goals and wants. You forget what’s going to happen, because this is the first time any of this has happened. You can’t plan how you’re going to say something or how you’re going to respond or listen only for your cues, because the moment you do any of that, it becomes a performance and the truth of the moment, the show, evaporates. Maybe not for your audience, but for you and your character. Those are just a few of the things that my actors and I discuss. Are they difficult to accomplish? Absolutely. But my goal isn’t for them to actually accomplish them. If they do, awesome. But really, it’s all about being aware of them, working to accomplish them, and getting better at them each time. To me, it’s not about the end result. Or even the performance. It’s about the process. And if you focus on the process and work hard, the performance will always take care itself. And the actors will know that they deserve that curtain call. Another year has come and gone. I was thinking of writing about the passing of time, the hope each new year brings, and . . . actually, I wasn’t. I knew what post I wanted to write: I wanted to make a simple list that allows itself to be defined by the reader (you!) without imposing my own meaning on each item.
So this post, as you can see by the title, is about 33 things that I hope you will embrace this year. It’s merely my opinion, of course, and in no way should be seen as either factual or instructive. So please interpret and use these however you see fit, and I hope that the coming year is full of whatever you wish it to be. Well, as long as it makes you and the world better.
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